Chapter VIII: Part III (3)

"And as he is who dreams of his own harm.
Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,
So that he craves what is, as if it were not;
Such I became, not having power to speak,
For to excuse myself I wished, and still
Excused myself, and did not think I did it.
'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'
The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;
Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,
And make account that I am aye beside thee,
If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee
Where there are people in a like dispute;
For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"

_Longfellow._

"As a man that dreams of harm
Befallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,
And that which is, desires as if it were not;
Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,
Wished to excuse myself, and all the while
Excused me, though unweeting that I did.
'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'
My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore cast
All sorrow from thy soul; and if again
Chance bring thee where like conference is held,
Think I am ever at thy side. To hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"

_Cary._

The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly difficult, but strikingly beautiful.

"Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,
Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,
E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamava
Tenendo gli occhi con fatica fisi
A me che tutto chin con loro andava.
Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,
L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arte
Ch'_alluminare_ è chiamata in Parisi?
Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carte
Che pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:
L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.
Ben non sare'io stato sì cortese
Mentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disio
Dell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.
Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:
Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosse
Che, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.
Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,
Com' poco verde in su la cima dura
Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!
Credette Cimabue nella pintura
Tenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,
Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.
Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro Guido
La gloria della lingua; e forse è nato
Chi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.
Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiato
Di vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,
E muta nome perchè muta lato.
Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindi
Da te la carne, che se fossi morto
Innanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,
Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più corto
Spazio all' eterno ch'un muover di ciglia
Al cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.
Colui che del cammin sì poco piglia
Diranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,
Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,
Ond'era sire, quando fu distrutta
La rabbia Fiorentina, che superba
Fu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.
La vostra nominanza è color d'erba
Che viene e va, e quei la discolora
Per cui ell'esce della terra acerba."

_Purgatorio_, XI. 74-117.

"And one of them, not this one who was speaking,
Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,
Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed
On me, who all bowed down was going with them.
'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,
Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art
Which is in Paris called illuminating?'
'Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves
Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;
All his the honor now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteous
While I was living, for the great desire
Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:
And yet I should not be here, were it not
That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,
How little green upon thy summit lingers,
If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that he
Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,
So that the other's fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other taken
The glory of our tongue, and he perchance
Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath
Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,
And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off
From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead
Before thou left the _pappo_ and the _dindi_,
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter
Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye
Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the road
In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;
And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrown
The Florentine delirium, that superb
Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the color of grass
Which comes and goes, and that discolors it
By which it issues green from out the earth.'"

_Longfellow._

"Listening I bent my visage down: and one
(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight
That urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;
Holding his eyes with difficulty fixed
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,
'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thou
Agobbio's glory, glory of that art
Which they of Paris call the limner's skill?'
'Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,
Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honor now; my light obscured.
In truth, I had not been thus courteous to him
The while I lived, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.
Nor were I even here, if, able still
To sin, I had not turned me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipped
E'en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not. Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting's field; and now
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatched
The lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh
Part shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst died
Before the coral and the pap were left,
Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and that
Is, to eternity compared, a space
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye
To the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treads
So leisurely before me, far and wide
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now
Is in Sienna scarce with whispers named:
There was he sovereign, when destruction caught
The maddening rage of Florence, in that day
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth.'"--_Cary._

For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!

"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stava
Per avvisar da presso un'altra storia
Che diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.
Quivi era storiata l'alta gloria
Del roman prence lo cui gran valore
Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:
I' dico di Trajano imperadore;
Ed una vedovella gli era al freno
Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
Di cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oro
Sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.
La miserella intra tutti costoro
Parea dicer: signor, fammi vendetta
Del mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;
Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspetta
Tanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio
(Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)
Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,
La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui bene
A te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?
Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che conviene
Ch'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:
Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.
Colui che mai non vide cosa nuova
Produsse esto visibile parlare,
Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova."

_Purgatorio_, X. 70-96.

"I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these
Seemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'
And he to answer her: 'Now wait until
I shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like one
In whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou not
Return?' And he: 'Who shall be where I am
Will give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?
Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves me
That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'
He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found."

_Longfellow._

"To behold the tablet next,
Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,
I moved me. There was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'--'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'--'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'--'Now comfort thee,'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be performed, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth."--_Cary._

How different is the character of the following description, which fills the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a rapid succession of pictures!

"Io m'era mosso e seguia volentieri
Del mio maestro i passi, ed amendue
Già mostravam com'eravam leggieri,
Quando mi disse: Volgi gli occhi in giue;
Buon ti sarà per alleggiar la via
Veder lo letto delle piante tue.
Come, perchè di lor memoria fia,
Sovr'a'sepolti le tombe terragne
Portan segnato quel ch'elli eran pria;
Onde li molte volte si ripiagne
Per la puntura della rimembranza
Che solo a'pii dà delle calcagne:
Si vid'io li, ma di miglior sembianza,
Secondo l'artificio, figurato
Quanto per via di fuor del monte avanza.
Vedea colui che fu nobil creato
Più d'altra creatura giù dal cielo
Folgoreggiando scendere da un lato.
Vedeva Briareo fitto dal teio
Celestial giacer dall'altra parte,
Grave alia terra per lo mortal gelo
Vedea Timbreo, vedea Pallade e Marte
Armati ancora intorno al padre loro
Mirar le membra de'giganti sparte.
Vedea Nembrotto appiè del gran lavoro
Quasi smarrito riguardar le genti
Che'n Sennaar con lui insieme foro.
O Niobe, con che occhi dolenti
Vedev'io te segnata in su la strada
Tra sette e sette tuoi figliuoli spenti!
O Saul, come'n su la propria spada
Quivi parevi morto in Gelboè
Che poi non sentì pioggia nè rugiada!
O folle Aragne, si vedea io te
Già mezza ragna, trista in su gli stracci
Dell opera che mal per te si fe'.
O Roboam, già non par che minnacci
Quivi il tuo segno, ma pien di spavento
Nel porta un carro prima ch' altri'l cacci.
Mostrava ancora il duro pavimento
Come Almeone a sua madre fe'caro
Parer lo sventurato adornamento.
Mostrava come i figli si gittaro
Sovra Sennacherib dentro dal tempio,
E come morto lui quivi lasciaro.
Mostrava la ruina e'l crudo scempio
Che fe'Tamiri quando disse a Ciro
Sangue sitisti, ed io di sangue t'empio.
Mostrava come in rotta si fuggiro
Gli Assiri poi che fu morto Oloferne,
Ed anche le reliquie del martiro.
Vedeva Troja in cenere e in caverne:
O Ilion, come te basso e vile
Mostrava il segno che lì si discerne!
Qual di pennel fu maestro o di stile,
Che ritraesse l'ombre e gli atti ch'ivi
Mirar farieno uno'ngegno sottile?
Morti li morti, e i vivi parean vivi.
Non vide me'di me chi vide'l vero,
Quant'io calcai fin che chinato givi."

_Purgatorio_, XII. 10-69

"I had moved on, and followed willingly
The footsteps of my Master, and we both
Already showed how light of foot we were,
When unto me he said: 'Cast down thine eyes;
'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,
To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.'
As, that some memory may exist of them,
Above the buried dead their tombs in earth
Bear sculptured on them what they were before;
Whence often there we weep for them afresh,
From pricking of remembrance, which alone
To the compassionate doth set its spur;
So saw I there, but of a better semblance
In point of artifice, with figures covered
Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects.
I saw that one who was created noble
More than all other creatures, down from heaven
Flaming with lightnings fall upon one side.
I saw Briareus smitten by the dart
Celestial, lying on the other side,
Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.
I saw Thymbræus, Pallas saw, and Mars,
Still clad in armor round about their father,
Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.
I saw, at foot of his great labor, Nimrod,
As if bewildered, looking at the people
Who had been proud with him in Sennaar.
O Niobe! with what afflicted eyes
Thee I beheld upon the pathway traced,
Between thy seven and seven children slain!
O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword
Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,
That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne! so I thee beheld
E'en then half spider, sad upon the shreds
Of fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!
O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten
Thine image there; but full of consternation
A chariot bears it off, when none pursues!
Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement
How unto his own mother made Alcmæon
Costly appear the luckless ornament;
Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves
Upon Sennacherib within the temple,
And how, he being dead, they left him there;
Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage
That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said,
'Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!'
Displayed how routed fled the Assyrians
After that Holofernes had been slain,
And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.
I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns;
O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased,
Displayed the image that is there discerned!
Who e'er of pencil master was or stile,
That could portray the shades and traits which there
Would cause each subtile genius to admire?
Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive;
Better than I saw not who saw the truth,
All that I trod upon while bowed I went."

_Longfellow._

"I now my leader's track not loath pursued;
And each had shown how light we fared along,
When thus he warned me: 'Bend thine eyesight down:
For thou, to ease the way, shalt find it good
To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.'
As, in memorial of the buried, drawn
Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptured form
Of what was once, appears, (at sight whereof
Tears often stream forth, by remembrance waked,
Whose sacred stings the piteous often feel,)
So saw I there, but with more curious skill
Of portraiture o'erwrought, whate'er of space
From forth the mountain stretches. On one part
Him I beheld, above all creatures erst
Created noblest, lightening fall from heaven:
On the other side, with bolt celestial pierced,
Briareus; cumbering earth he lay, through dint
Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbræan god,
With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,
Armed still, and gazing on the giants' limbs
Strewn o'er the ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:
At foot of the stupendous work he stood,
As if bewildered, looking on the crowd
Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar's plain.
O Niobe! in what a trance of woe
Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,
Seven sons on either side thee slain. O Saul!
How ghastly didst thou look, on thine own sword
Expiring, in Gilboa, from that hour
Ne'er visited with rain from heaven, or dew.
O fond Arachne! thee I also saw,
Half spider now, in anguish, crawling up
The unfinished web thou weavedst to thy bane.
O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem
Lowering no more defiance; but fear-smote,
With none to chase him, in his chariot whirled.
Was shown beside upon the solid floor,
How dear Alcmæon forced his mother rate
That ornament, in evil hour received:
How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fell
His sons, and how a corpse they left him there.
Was shown the scath, and cruel mangling made
By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried,
'Blood thou didst thirst for: take thy fill of blood.'
Was shown how routed in the battle fled
The Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en
The relics of the carnage. Troy I marked,
In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fallen,
How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!
What master of the pencil or the style
Had traced the shades and lines, that might have made
The subtlest workman wonder? Dead, the dead;
The living seemed alive: with clearer view
His eye beheld not who beheld the truth,
Than mine what I did tread on, while I went
Low bending."--_Cary._

The following is distinguished from all that we have cited thus far by softness and delicacy of touch.

"Vago già di cercar dentro e d'intorno
La divina foresta spessa e viva
Ch'agli occhi temperava il nuovo giorno,
Senza più aspettar lasciai la riva
Prendendo la campagna lento lento
Su per lo suol che d'ogni parte oliva.
Un'aura dolce senza mutamento
Avere in se, mi feria per la fronte,
Non di più colpo che soave vento:
Per cui le fronde tremolando pronte
Tutte quante piegavano alla parte
U'la prim' ombra gitta il santo monte;
Non però dal loro esser dritto sparte
Tanto, che gli augelletti per le cime
Lasciasser d'operare ogni lor arte;
Ma con piena letizia l'ore prime
Cantando ricevieno intra le foglie
Che tenevan bordone alle sue rime,
Tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie
Per la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi,
Quand'Eolo scirocco fuor discioglie.
Gia m'avean trasportato i lenti passi
Dentro all'antica selva tanto, ch'io
Non potea rivedere ond'io m'entrassi;
Ed ecco il più andar mi tolse un rio
Che'nver sinistra con sue picciol'onde
Piegava l'erba che'n sua ripa uscio.
Tutte l'acque che son di qua più monde
Parrieno avere in se mistura alcuna
Verso di quella che nulla nasconde,
Avvegna che si muova bruna bruna
Sotto l'ombra perpetua, che mai
Raggiar non lascia sole ivi nè luna.
Co' piè ristetti e con gli occhi passai
Di là dal fiumicel per ammirare
La gran variazion de'freschi mai;
E là m'apparve, si com'egli appare
Subitamente cosa che disvia
Per maraviglia tutt'altro pensare,
Una donna soletta che si gia
Cantando ed iscegliendo fior da fiore
Ond' era pinta tutta la sua via."

_Purgatorio_, XXVIII. 1-42.

"Eager already to search in and round
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green,
Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day,
Withouten more delay I left the bank,
Taking the level country slowly, slowly
Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance.
A softly-breathing air, that no mutation
Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me
No heavier blow than of a gentle wind,
Whereat the branches, lightly tremulous,
Did all of them bow downward toward that side
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;
Yet not from their upright direction swayed,
So that the little birds upon their tops
Should leave the practice of each art of theirs;
But with full ravishment the hours of prime,
Singing, received they in the midst of leaves,
That ever bore a burden to their rhymes,
Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on
Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,
When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.
Already my slow steps had carried me
Into the ancient wood so far, that I
Could not perceive where I had entered it.
And lo! my further course a stream cut off,
Which tow'rd the left hand with its little waves
Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang.
All waters that on earth most limpid are
Would seem to have within themselves some mixture
Compared with that which nothing doth conceal,
Although it moves on with a brown, brown current
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.
With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed
Beyond the rivulet, to look upon
The great variety of the fresh may.
And there appeared to me (even as appears
Suddenly something that doth turn aside
Through very wonder every other thought)
A lady all alone, who went along
Singing and culling floweret after floweret,
With which her pathway was all painted over."

_Longfellow._

"Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade
With lively greenness the new-springing day
Attempered, eager now to roam, and search
Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank;
Along the champaign leisurely my way
Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides
Delicious odor breathed. A pleasant air,
That intermitted never, never veered,
Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind
Of softest influence: at which the sprays,
Obedient all, leaned trembling to that part
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
Yet were not so disordered, but that still
Upon their top the feathered quiristers
Applied their wonted art, and with full joy
Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill
Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays
Kept tenor; even as from branch to branch,
Along the piny forests on the shore
Of Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody.
When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
The dripping south. Already had my steps,
Though slow, so far into that ancient wood
Transported me, I could not ken the place
Where I had entered; when, behold! my path
Was bounded by a rill, which, to the left,
With little rippling waters bent the grass
That issued from its brink. On earth no wave
How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have
Some mixture in itself, compared with this,
Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolled
Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er
Admits or sun or moonlight there to shine.
My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyes
Passed onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey
The tender May-bloom, flushed through many a hue,
In prodigal variety: and there,
As object, rising suddenly to view,
That from our bosom every thought beside
With the rare marvel chases, I beheld
A lady all alone, who, singing, went,
And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way
Was all o'er painted."--_Cary._

We give a characteristic passage from the Paradiso.

"Fiorenza dentro dalla cerchia antica,
Ond'ella toglie ancora e terza e nona,
Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.
Non avea catenella, non corona,
Non donne contigiate, non cintura
Che fosse a veder più che la persona.
Non faceva nascendo ancor paura
La figlia al padre, che il tempo e la dote
Non fuggian quinci e quindi la misura.
Non avea case di famiglia vote;
Non v'era giunto ancor Sardanapalo
A mostrar ciò ch'in camera si puote.
Non era vinto ancora Montemalo
Dal vostro Uccellatoio, che com'è vinto
Nel montar su, così sarà nel calo.
Bellincion Berti vid'io andar cinto
Di cuojo e d'osso, e venir dallo specchio
La donna sua senza'l viso dipinto:
E vidi quel di Nerli e quel del Vecchio
Esser contenti alla pelle scoverta,
E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio:
Oh fortunate! e ciascuna era certa
Della sua sepoltura, ed ancor nulla
Era per Francia nel letto deserta.
L'una vegghiava a studio della culla,
E consolando usava l'idioma
Che pria li padri e le madri trastulla:
L'altra traendo alla rocca la chioma
Favoleggiava con la sua famiglia
De'Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.
Saria tenuta allor tal maraviglia
Una Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,
Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.
A così riposato, a così bello
Viver di cittadini, a così fida
Cittadinanza, a così dolce ostello,
Maria mi diè, chiamata in alte grida;
E nell'antico vostro Batisteo
Insieme fui Cristiano e Cacciaguida."

_Paradiso_, XV. 97-135.

"Florence, within the ancient boundary
From which she taketh still her tierce and nones,
Abode in quiet, temperate and chaste.
No golden chain she had, nor coronal,
Nor ladies shod with sandal shoon, nor girdle
That caught the eye more than the person did.
Not yet the daughter at her birth struck fear
Into the father, for the time and dower
Did not o'errun this side or that the measure.
No houses had she void of families,
Not yet had thither come Sardanapalus
To show what in a chamber can be done;
Not yet surpassed had Montemalo been
By your Uccellatojo, which surpassed
Shall in its downfall be as in its rise.
Bellincion Berti saw I go begirt
With leather and with bone, and from the mirror
His dame depart without a painted face;
And him of Nerli saw, and him of Vecchio,
Contented with their simple suits of buff,
And with the spindle and the flax their dames.
O fortunate women! and each one was certain
Of her own burial-place, and none as yet
For sake of France was in her bed deserted.
One o'er the cradle kept her studious watch,
And in her lullaby the language used
That first delights the fathers and the mothers;
Another, drawing tresses from her distaff,
Told o'er among her family the tales
Of Trojans and of Fesole and Rome.
As great a marvel then would have been held
A Lapo Salterello, a Cianghella,
As Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.
To such a quiet, such a beautiful
Life of the citizen, to such a safe
Community, and to so sweet an inn,
Did Mary give me, with loud cries invoked,
And in your ancient Baptistery at once
Christian and Cacciaguida I became."

_Longfellow_

"Florence, within her ancient limit-mark,
Which calls her still to matin prayers and noon,
Was chaste and sober, and abode in peace,
She had no armlets and no head-tires then;
No purfled dames; no zone, that caught the eye
More than the person did. Time was not yet,
When at his daughter's birth the sire grew pale,
For fear the age and dowry should exceed,
On each side, just proportion. House was none
Void of its family: nor yet had come
Sardanapalus, to exhibit feats
Of chamber prowess. Montemalo yet
O'er our suburban turret rose; as much
To be surpassed in fall, as in its rising.
I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroad
In leathern girdle, and a clasp of bone;
And, with no artful coloring on her cheeks,
His lady leave the glass. The sons I saw
Of Nerli, and of Vecchio, well content
With unrobed jerkin; and their good dames handling
The spindle and the flax: O happy they!
Each sure of burial in her native land,
And none left desolate abed for France.
One waked to tend the cradle, hushing it
With sounds that lulled the parent's infancy:
Another, with her maidens, drawing off
The tresses from the distaff, lectured them
Old tales of Troy, and Fesole, and Rome.
A Salterello and Cianghella we
Had held as strange a marvel, as ye would
A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.
In such composed and seemly fellowship,
Such faithful and such fair equality,
In so sweet household, Mary at my birth
Bestowed me, called on with loud cries; and there,
In your old baptistery, I was made
Christian at once and Cacciaguida."--_Cary._

It would be easy to extend our quotations; but we have given enough of Mr. Longfellow's translation to show with what conceptions of duty to the original he came to his task, and how perfectly that duty has been performed. According to his theory, then, as we gather it from these volumes, translation is not paraphrase, is not interpretation, is not imitation, but is the rigorous rendering of word for word, so far as the original difference of idioms permits. Its basis is truth to the form as well as to the thought, to the letter as well as to the spirit, of the text. The translator is like the messengers of the Bible and Homer, who repeat word for word the message that has been confided to them. He, too, if he would be true to his office, must give the message as it has been given to him, repeat the story in the words in which it was told him. Every deviation from the letter of the original is a deviation from the truth. Every epithet that is either added or taken away is a falsification of the text. The addition or the omission may sometimes be an improvement, but it is an improvement which you have no authority to make. It is not to learn what you think Homer or Dante might have said that the reader comes to your translation, but to see what they really said. When Cesarotti undertook to show how Homer would have written in the eighteenth century, he recast the Iliad and called it "The Death of Hector," and in this he dealt more honestly with his readers than Pope; for, although he failed to make a good poem, he did not attempt to pass it for Homer.

The greatest difficulty of the translator arises from his personality. He cannot forget himself, cannot guard, as he ought, against those subtle insinuations of self-esteem which are constantly leading him to improve upon his author. His own habits of thought would have suggested a different turn to the verse, a different coloring to the image. He finds it as hard to forget his own style, as to forget his identity. It demands a vigorous imagination, combined with deep poetic sympathies, to go out of yourself and enter for a time wholly into the heart and mind, the thoughts and feelings, of another; and it is not to all that such an imagination and such sympathies are given. There is scarcely a great failure in poetical translation, which may not be traced to the want of this power.

It may seem like the grave enunciation of a truism to say that another indispensable qualification of the translator is perfect familiarity with the language from which he translates, and a full command of his own. It is not by mere reading that such a familiarity can be acquired. You must have learnt to think in a language, and made it the spontaneous expression of your wants and feelings, if you would find in it the true interpretation of the wants and feelings of others. Its words and idioms must awaken in you the same sensations which the words and idioms of your own language awaken; giving pleasure as music, or a picture, or a statue, or a fine building gives pleasure, not by an act of reflection under the control of the will, but by an intuitive perception under the inspiration of a sense of the beautiful. The enjoyment of a thought is partly an intellectual enjoyment; you may even reason yourself into it; but the enjoyment of style and language is purely an æsthetic enjoyment, susceptible, indeed, of culture, but springing from an inborn sense of harmony. To extend this enjoyment to a foreign language, you must bring that language close to you, and form with it those intimate relations between thought and word which you have formed in your own. The word must not only suggest the thought, but become a part of it, as the painting becomes a part of the canvas. It must strike your ear with a familiar sound, awakening pleasant memories of actual life and real scenes. Idioms are often interpreters of national life, giving you sudden glimpses, and even deep revelations, of manners and customs, and the circumstances whence they sprang. They are often, too, brief formulas, condensing thought into its briefest expression, with a force and energy which the full expression could not give. To mistake them, is to mistake the whole passage. Not to feel them, is not to feel the most characteristic form of thought.

The preposition _da_ is one of the most versatile words in Italian. Its literal meaning is _from_; it is daily used to express _to_. _Da me_ may mean _from me_: it may also mean _to me_. _Fit_ or _deserving to be done_ is a common meaning of it; and it is in this sense that Dante uses it in the following passage from the fourth canto of Paradiso, fifty-fifth line:--

"Con intenzion _da_ non esser derisa,"--
With intention not (_deserving to be_) to be derided.

Cary, though a good Italian scholar, translates it _to shun derision_; and, giving it this sense, quotes Stillingfleet to illustrate the thought which, for want of practical familiarity with the language, he attributes to Dante.

We believe, then, that the qualifications of a translator may be briefly summed up under the following heads:--

He must be conscientiously truthful, studiously following his text, word by word and line by line.

He must possess a thorough mastery over both languages, feeling as well as understanding the words and idioms of his original.

He must possess the power of forgetting himself in his author.

And, lastly, he must be not merely a skilful artificer of verses, or a man of poetic sensibility, but a poet in the highest and truest sense of the word.

We would gladly enlarge upon this interesting subject, which not only explains the shortcomings of the past, but opens enticing vistas into the future. We cannot doubt that Mr. Longfellow's example will be followed, and that from time to time other great poets will arise, who; not content with enriching literature with original productions, will acknowledge it as a part of what they owe the world, to do for Homer and Virgil and Æschylus and Sophocles what he has done for Dante. It is pleasant to think that our children will sit at the feet of these great masters, and, listening to them in English worthy of the tongues in which they first spake, be led to enter more fully into the spirit of the abundant Greek and the majestic Latin. It is cheering to the lovers of sound study to feel that every faithful version of a great poet extends the influence of his works, and awakens a stronger desire for the original. We never yet looked upon an engraving of Morghen without a new longing for the painting which it translated.

We have not left ourselves room for what we had intended to say about the notes, which form half of each of these three volumes. Those who know what conscientious zeal Mr. Longfellow brings to all his duties need not be told that they bear abundant testimony to his learning, industry, and good taste. They not only leave nothing to be asked for in the explanation of real difficulties, but, as answers to a wide range of philosophical, biographical, and historical questions, form in themselves a delightful miscellany. Dante has been overladen by commentators. In Mr. Longfellow he has found an interpreter.

It is not to Mr. Longfellow's reputation only that these volumes will add, but to that of American literature. It is no little thing to be able to say, that, in a field in which some of England's great poets have signally failed, an American poet has signally succeeded; that what the scholars of the Old World asserted to be impossible, a scholar of the New World has accomplished; and that the first to tread in this new path has impressed his footprints so deeply therein, that, however numerous his followers may be, they will all unite in hailing him, with Dante's own words,--

"Tu Duca, tu Signore e tu Maestro,"--
Thou Leader and thou Lord and Master thou.

THE OLD STORY.

The waiting-women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading down to the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp a-light.
Under and over, the gray mist lops,
And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves,
The slow rain drops and drops and drops.

Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;
And the waiting-women that weep around
Have taken the combs from her golden hair,
And it slideth over her face to the ground.
They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes;
And down from the eaves where the mosses grow
The rain is dripping, so slow, so slow,
And the night-wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring,
They have brought the linen her shroud to make;
O, the lark she was never so loath to sing,
And the morn she was never so loath to awake!
And at their sewing they hear the rain,--
Drip-drop, drip-drop, over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore-leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.

The mourning train to the grave have gone,
And the waiting-women are here and are there,
With birds at the windows and gleams of the sun
Making the chamber of death to be fair.
And under and over the mist unlaps,
And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray,
And driest bushes grow green with spray,
And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.

The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave,
And the mourners put off the mourning shows,
And over the pathway down to the grave
The long grass blows and blows and blows.
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,
And love in the heart of the young man springs,
And the hands of the maidens shine with rings,
As if all life were a festival hour.

A WEEK'S RIDING.

"My dear grandfather, why did Mr. Erle start so this evening when he saw my picture?" I said.

He laughed softly as he answered: "He will tell you himself to-morrow, if you care to ask him. It is no secret, but you will like the story best as he tells it. A very pretty story,--a very pretty story," he went on, as he kissed me good-night, "and one my little girl will relish as much as a novel."

My grandfather was such a fine, white-haired old gentleman, and looked so handsome in his handsome house! It was one of the old, square houses which are fading from the land in country as well as in town, ample and generous in every way, with broad, carved stairways, and great, wide hearths for andirons,--a house to make the heart glad, and incline it to all sweet hospitalities. The warm, low rooms were full of furniture, softened and made comfortable by unsparing use; the walls were hung with good paintings and engravings, some of them real masterpieces. But the glory of the house was its bronzes, gathered by three generations of rarely cultured men, from my great-great-grandfather, whose rougher purchases were put in more hidden corners every year, to the grandson now in possession, whose pure taste chose the latest gems of French art, and placed them where our eyes might best enjoy their beauty. The library was crimson, and the dining-room beyond two exquisite shades of brown and gold, a curtained doorway between. In these two rooms I spent most of my time when I was with my grandfather, reading with him, and singing to him, and listening to his cynical, witty talk. At dusk we gathered round the fire, he and I and the two tawny setters, three of us on the rug, and he in his long, low chair, and talked of the old family, whose sons were all dead, and of the gay years when we had been in our glory. I thought we were very well off in worldly possessions as it was, but my dear old hero put such content to speedy flight with his tales of the days that were gone, when, to put implicit trust in him, a regal hospitality had filled the house with great and distinguished guests, glad to be with the family which always had a son leading the right in state and in church, in army and in navy.

I listened with glowing heart, and looked proudly at our men as I walked by their portraits in the halls on my way to bed. Perhaps my faith in their great deeds is not so childlike now; but it was pure and unlimited then, and those library stories can never fade from my memory.

I had been with my grandfather a week when the conversation with which my tale opens occurred, and I was to return to my parents in three days, under the protection of the very gentleman who was the subject of it. The two old friends were very intimate, and Mr. Erle spent every evening at the house; so I knew him well, and had no fear in asking him any question I chose, and I looked forward to the next evening as to a grand festival.

When we came in from dinner, I drew the window-shade, and saw that it was snowing fiercely.

"Perhaps he will not come," I said, turning to my grandfather disconsolately.

"Never fear that," he answered. "Mr. Erle is a man who is not kept at home by the weather, or anything else."

I came to the hearth. The last words had been added in the dry tone which always meant something, coming from his lips.

"Has Mr. Erle children?" I asked.

"Yes; the youngest boy is only sixteen."

"And he never spends an evening at home?"

"I've not known him to do so for twenty years. Sing the 'Health to King Charles,' dear."

I sat down at the piano, and sang as I was bid.

We were stanch loyalists from tradition, and my list of Stuart songs was so long that I had sung scarcely half of it when the clock struck nine, and rapid wheels came over the pavements. Opposite our door the horse slipped, and we heard the instantaneous lash singing in the night air and descending unmercifully on the poor animal. An immense stamping and rearing ensued. "That is Erle, sure enough," my grandfather said, going to the window. I followed him, and lifted the shade in time to see Mr. Erle standing in the trampled snow at the horse's head, patting him as gently as a woman could have done. In a moment he nodded to his servant, and watched him drive round the corner before turning to our door.

He came in quickly, exquisitely dressed, and courteous, with the beautiful old manner they cannot teach us now. After the first words, my grandfather said, with a superb affectation of seriousness, "The merciful man is merciful to his beast."

Mr. Erle looked up, with a bright laugh. "So you heard our little dispute? The old fellow bears me no malice, you may be sure; he knows that I never sulk."

"Perhaps he would like it a little better if you did," I said.

"Not at all. He respects me for my quick ways with him."

I shook my head doubtingly, and then, as if in defence of his theory, he said: "Did I ever tell you of Lillie Burton? Her animals did not mind a little discipline."

My grandfather laughed. "Oddly enough, we had laid a plot to make you tell that charming history this very evening," he said.

"Don't laugh about it," Mr. Erle answered. "I cannot tell you how vividly the sight of Miss Thesta's picture brought back the old time to me."

"I beg your pardon," the other said, bowing.

At that moment a servant came in with wine, placing the Japanese waiter with the old gilded bottle and glasses at my grandfather's elbow on the table. He poured out three glasses, and said, very simply: "We will have our own old way to-night, Erle, while you tell your old story, and drink as our fathers did, not vile alcohols, but the good fruit of the vine. Remember, Thesta, I leave you all my wine, on condition that you drink it, and never let a drop of whiskey come into your house."

"I promise," I said, and sat down at his feet.

"Perhaps you have heard of Lillie Burton?" Mr. Erle began.

I had a confused idea that the name of his wife was Lillie; but it was so confused that I answered, frankly, "No, I never heard of her at all."

"She is not Lillie Burton now," he went on with a sigh; "but I must begin at the beginning. It is a real horse story, which will tell in its favor with you, I am sure."

"Yes, indeed," I answered, with enthusiasm, and then he began anew.

"I was a gay, happy man of twenty-four, living in London with my dear friend, now dead, Richard Satterlee. We imagined ourselves very tired of town gayeties, and were languidly looking round for some country-place where we could be alone and quiet for a week or so, when the little incident occurred which led to my acquaintance with Lillie Burton. I must tell you that Satterlee and I were used up in more ways than one,--we had been unfortunate at the races that year, and so were well out of pocket, and I had not escaped heart-free from the season's balls, as Dick had, who, bless his honest soul, was as unmoved as a rock among the fairest women of the land. Not that they were indifferent to him, though. His broad shoulders and downcast eyes made sad havoc among them, Miss Thesta,--so beware of those attractions among the men you meet: there are none more deadly. Well, they loved Dick, and I loved Miss Ferrers. She was not very handsome, but more fascinating to me than any other woman, and as thorough a flirt as ever made a man miserable. Never mind the how and why, but, believe me, I was very hard hit indeed, and sincerely thought myself the most wretched man in all London when I heard that she had gone to Spain with her brother-in-law, Lord West, and his wife. She had treated me shamefully; but I loved her all the more for it, and was quite desperate, in short. You may not think it of me, but I could neither sleep nor eat. In this state of mind I was walking home one afternoon, determined to tell Satterlee that I should leave him, and go back to my people in America, when I saw a small crowd ahead, and heard them cheer before they broke up and walked away. I should have passed by without a second glance, had I not been struck by the appearance of one of the three men who remained on the spot,--a strong-limbed fellow of thirty, evidently of purest Saxon blood. His whole face was handsome, but his hair was simply superb, and this it was that attracted me. Imagine long yellow locks of brightest gold, not exactly curling, but waving in short, determined waves back from a low forehead. Ah, I cannot describe to you that wonderful hair, how it shone on me through the gloaming, and drew me irresistibly to the man himself! I stopped, and asked one of the others what the row had been about.

"'O, he pitched into a feller that was kicking a dog, and came near getting kicked hisself,' was the only answer I got, as he walked off with his companion. I turned to my hero, and, as our eyes met, a pleasant smile lighted up his face. 'Can you tell me the nearest place where I can buy a hat?' he said; 'there's not much use in picking up that thing,' pointing to a mashed heap in the gutter.

"'I should think not,' I said. 'There is no shop near, but if you will come round the corner to my rooms, I can provide you with a covering of some kind.'

"'Thank you,' he answered, and we walked away together. There was not time for much talk, and he had said nothing of himself when we opened the door. Satterlee was standing with his back to the fire, and no sooner did he see my companion than he sprang forward, in eager welcome. 'Burton of Darrow, by all the gods!' he cried. 'Where's your hat, good friend?'

"He of the golden locks burst into a merry laugh,--what white teeth he had! 'It is gone forever. Do let me know your friend, who has been so kind to me about it.'

"We were introduced to each other in due form, and Burton sat down at our hearth like an old friend, chatting merrily, and warming his great fists at the blaze. 'I ought not to have stayed so long,' he said presently, 'my father will have waited for me. Can the hats be marshalled, Mr. Erle?'

"I brought out all my store, and Satterlee's too, and, amid much laughter, Burton managed to hide some of his mane under a soft felt, and bade us good night. 'I must have you both at Darrow,' he said, his hand on the latch; 'remember that, and expect a note in the morning to tell you when to come.'

"As the door closed I laid my hands on Dick's shoulders. '_Who_ is he?' was all I said.

"'Why, Gerald, you're waking up,' he answered. 'If the male Burton can do this, what will not Lillie do?'

"'But who is he?' I repeated.

"'He's the oldest son of John Burton of Darrow, in ----shire. They are farmers, and they might be gentlemen, but they are queer, and won't. For generations untold they have cultivated their own land, and are mighty men at the plough and in the saddle. So are the women of the family, for that matter. But you will see when we go down. They are one of the few great yeoman families left in the land. We shall have a jolly time.'

"'And who is Lillie?' I asked.

"'This man's sister. If you want to see a woman ride, see her,--it's absolute perfection,--hereditary too: they all ride till they marry.'

"'And not afterwards?' I said, very much amused.

"'Never for mere pleasure, I believe. They have family traditions about all sorts of things, this among others. It is some notion about taking care of their homes and children, if I remember rightly. Miss Lillie will tell you all about it. How lucky that you met Jack this afternoon.'

"This was all I could get out of Satterlee; but, dull as you may think it, I was really interested, and waited impatiently for the coming invitation.

"The next morning arrived a note from Mr. Burton, asking us, in his father's name, to spend the next week at Darrow, and saying that the farmers' races were to take place then, and would be our only amusement. Before the day for starting came, I had lost half the enthusiasm which the sight of valiant Jack Burton's hair had kindled, and tried hard to get off from going; but Satterlee was bent on a week's riding, as he always called our visit, and we started early one Wednesday morning, and at dusk on Friday found ourselves entering the broad valley which formed the Darrow estate. Satterlee was familiar with the ground, and discoursed eloquently of its beauty and fertility as we drove along; but he failed to interest me, for, to tell the truth, I was sunk in melancholy, and thought only of Miss Ferrers and of that which had passed between us. Why had I come all these miles to see people who were total strangers to me, and would almost certainly prove dull, or even vulgar? Dick was an enthusiast, and not to be believed,--we might turn back even then.