While the more northern nations of modern Europe began to cultivate a
national and peculiar literature in their vernacular tongues, instead of
using Latin as the only vehicle of written thought, it was some time
before the popular language of Italy received that attention which might
have been expected from the prevalence of free institutions, and the
constant intercourse between neighbouring states speaking in similar
dialects. At last the example of other countries prevailed, and a native
poetry sprung up in Italy. If it be allowable to compare the progress of
the national mind to the stages of life, the Italian Muse may be said to
have been born in Sicily with Ciullo d’Alcamo in 1190; to have reached
childhood in Lombardy with Guido Guinicelli, about 1220; and to have
attained youth in Tuscany with Guido Cavalcanti, about 1280. But she
suddenly started into perfect maturity when Dante appeared, surpassing
all his predecessors in lyrical composition, and astounding the world
with that mighty monument of Christian poetry, which after five
centuries of progressive civilization still stands sublime as one of the
most magnificent productions of genius.
Dante Alighieri, the true founder of Italian literature, was born at
Florence A.D. 1265, of a family of some note. The name of Dante, by
which he is generally known, often mistaken for that of his family, is a
mere contraction of his Christian name Durante. Yet an infant when his
father died, that heavy loss was lightened by the judicious solicitude
with which his mother superintended his education. She intrusted him to
the care of Brunetto Latini, a man of great repute as a poet as well as
a philosopher; and he soon made so rapid a progress, both in science and
literature, as might justify the most sanguine hopes of his future
eminence.
Early as he developed the extraordinary powers of his understanding, he
was not less precocious in evincing that susceptibility to deep and
tender impressions, to which he afterwards owed his sublimest
inspirations. But his passion was of a very mysterious character. It
arose in his boyhood, for a girl “still in her infancy,” and it never
ceased, or lost its intensity, though she died in the flower of her age,
and he survived her more than thirty years. Whether he was enamoured of
a human being, or of a creature of his own imagination,—one of those
phantoms of heavenly beauty and virtue so common to the dreams and
reveries of youth,—it is extremely difficult to ascertain. Some of his
biographers are of opinion that the lady whom he has celebrated in his
works under the name of Bice, or Beatrice, was the daughter of Folco
Portinari, a noble Florentine; while others contend that she is merely a
personification of wisdom or moral philosophy. But Dante’s own account
of his love is given in terms often so enigmatical and apparently
contradictory, that it is almost impossible to make them agree perfectly
with either of these suppositions.
Whatever its object, his affection seems to have been most chaste and
spiritual in its nature. Instead of alienating him from literary
pursuits, it increased his thirst after knowledge, and ennobled and
purified his feelings. With the aid of this powerful incentive, he soon
distinguished himself above the youth of his native city, not only by
his acquirements, but also by elegance of manners, and amenity of
temper. Thus occupied by his studies, refined and exalted by his love,
and cherished by his countrymen, the morning of his life was sunned by
the unclouded smiles of fortune, as if to render darker by the contrast
the long and gloomy evening which awaited him.
His pilgrimage on earth was cast in one of the most stormy periods
recorded in history. The Church and the Empire had been long engaged in
a scandalous contest, and had often involved a great part of Europe in
their quarrels. Italy was especially distracted by two contending
parties, the Guelfs, who adhered to the Pope, and the Ghibelines, who
espoused the cause of the Emperor. In the year 1266, after a long
alternation of ruinous reverses and ferocious triumphs, the Guelfs of
Florence drove the Ghibelines out of their city, and at last permanently
established themselves in power. The family of Dante belonged to the
victorious party; and while he remained in Florence, it would have been
dangerous, perhaps impossible, to avoid mingling in these civil broils.
He accordingly went out against the Ghibelines of Arezzo in 1289; and in
the following year against those of Pisa. In the former campaign he took
part in the battle of Campaldino, in which, after a long and doubtful
conflict, the Aretines were completely defeated. On that memorable day
he fought valiantly in the front line of the Guelf cavalry, manifesting
the same energy in warfare, which he had displayed in his studies and in
his love.
But soon after the tumults of the camp had interfered with the calm of
his private and meditative life, his adored Beatrice, whether an earthly
mistress, or an abstraction of his moral and literary studies, was torn
from him. This loss, which in his writings he never ceases to lament,
reduced him to extreme despondency. Nevertheless in 1291, but a few
months after it, he married a lady of the noble family of the Donati, by
whom he had numerous offspring; a circumstance which would indicate a
strange inconsistency of character, had his heart been really
preoccupied by another love. This connexion with one of the first
families of the republic may have smoothed his way to civic eminence;
but if Boccaccio, usually a slanderer of the fair sex, be credited, the
lady’s temper proved unfavourable to domestic comfort.
He now entirely devoted himself to the business of government, and
attained such reputation as a statesman, that hardly any transaction of
importance took place without his advice. It has even been asserted that
he was employed in no less than fourteen embassies to foreign courts.
There may be some exaggeration in this statement; but it is certain that
in 1300, at the early age of five and thirty, he was elected one of the
Priors, or chief magistrates of the republic; a mark of popular favour
which ended in his total ruin.
About this time, the Guelfs of Florence split into two new divisions
called Bianchi and Neri (whites and blacks), from the denominations of
two factions which had originated at Pistoja, in consequence of a
dispute between two branches of the Cancellieri family. The Bianchi were
chiefly citizens recently risen to importance, who, having received no
personal injury from the Ghibelines, were disposed to treat them with
moderation; while the Neri consisted almost entirely of ancient nobles,
who, having formerly been the leaders of the Guelfs, still retained a
furious animosity against the Ghibelines. All endeavours to bring them
to a reconciliation proved useless: they soon passed from rancour to
contumely, and from contumely to open violence. The city was now in the
utmost confusion, and was very near being turned into a scene of war and
carnage, when the Priors, hardly knowing what course to pursue, invoked
the advice of Dante. His situation was most perplexing and critical. The
relations of his wife were at the head of the Neri; while Guido
Cavalcante, his dearest friend on earth, was one of the foremost leaders
of the Bianchi. Nevertheless, silencing all the claims of private
affection for the good of his country, he proposed to banish the
principal agitators of both parties. By the adoption of this measure,
public tranquillity was for a time restored. But Pope Boniface VIII.
could not suffer independent citizens to govern the republic. He sent
Charles de Valois to Florence under colour of pacifying the contending
parties, but in truth to re-establish in power the men most blindly
devoted to his own interests. The French prince, after having made the
most solemn promises to the Florentine government, that he would act
with rigorous impartiality and adopt only conciliatory measures,
obtained admission into the city, at the beginning of November, 1301.
Making no account of the engagements he had entered into, he now
permitted the Neri to perpetrate the most atrocious outrages on the
families of their opponents, and to close this scene of horror by
pronouncing sentence of exile and confiscation upon six hundred of the
most illustrious citizens. Dante was among the victims. He had made
himself obnoxious, both to the Neri, whom he had caused to be banished,
and to Charles de Valois, whose intrusion in the internal affairs of the
commonwealth he had firmly opposed in council. Accordingly, his house
was pillaged and razed, his property confiscated, and his life saved
only by his absence at Rome, whither he had been sent for the purpose of
propitiating the Pope. Highly disgusted at the treacherous conduct of
Boniface, who had been deluding him all the while with vain hopes and
honeyed words, he suddenly left Rome, and hastened to Siena. On his
arrival he heard that he had been charged with embezzling the public
money, and condemned to be burned, if he should fall into the hands of
his enemies. His indignation now reached its height; and in despair of
ever being restored to his native city except by arms, he repaired to
Arezzo, and united his exertions to those of the other Bianchi, who,
making common cause with the Ghibelines, formed themselves into an army
with the object of entering Florence by force. But their hopes were
disappointed; and after four years of abortive attempts they dispersed,
each in pursuit of his own fortune.
The noble, opulent citizen, the statesman and minister, the profound
philosopher, accustomed in all and each of these characters to the
respectful homage of his countrymen, was now, to use his own words,
“driven about 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.” But the change from affluence to
want was not the worst evil that awaited the high-minded patriot in
banishment. For this he found compensation in the consciousness of
having done his duty to his country. But he suffered much more from
being mixed, and sometimes even confounded, with other exiles, whose
perverse actions tended to disgrace the cause for which he had
sacrificed all his private affections and interests. His misery was
carried to the utmost by a continual struggle between his nice sense of
honour and the pressure of want; by an excessive fear that his
intentions might be misunderstood, and a constant readiness to mistake
those of others. This morbid feeling he has pathetically expressed in
several passages, which can scarce be read without profound emotion.
In this mental torture he wandered throughout Italy, from town to town,
and from the palace of one of his benefactors to that of another,
without ever finding a resting place for his wounded spirit. He stooped
in vain to address letters of supplication to the Florentines; the
rancour of his enemies was not to be softened by prayers. Meanwhile the
hopes of the Ghibelines were again raised, when Henry VII., who had been
elected Emperor in 1308, entered Italy to regain the rights of
sovereignty which his predecessors had lost. Elated by the better
prospects which appeared to open, Dante became a strenuous advocate of
the imperial cause. He composed a treatise on monarchy, in which he
asserted the rights of the empire against the encroachments of the Court
of Rome: he wrote a circular both to the Kings and Princes of Italy, and
to the Senators of Rome, admonishing them to give an honourable
reception to their Sovereign; and he sent a hortatory epistle to the
Emperor himself, urging him to turn his arms against Florence, and to
visit that refractory city with severe punishment. Henry did accordingly
lay siege to Florence in September, 1312, but without success; and the
hopes of the Ghibelines were finally extinguished in the following
August, by his death, under strong suspicion of poison. Thus Dante, in
consequence of his recent conduct, saw himself farther than ever from
restoration to his beloved Florence. The unfortunate exile, now reduced
to despair, resumed his wanderings, often returning to Verona, where the
Scaligeri family always received him at their court with peculiar
kindness. It has been asserted that his thirst for knowledge led him to
Paris and Oxford. His journey to England is still involved in doubt; but
it appears certain, that he visited Paris, where he is said to have
acquired great fame, by holding public disputations on several questions
of theology.
On his return to Italy, he at length found a permanent refuge at
Ravenna, at the court of Guido da Polenta, the father of that ill-fated
Francesca da Rimini, for whom the celebrated episode of Dante has
engaged the sympathy of succeeding ages. The reception which he
experienced from this Prince, who was a patron of learning and a poet,
was marked by the reverence due to his character, no less than by the
kindness excited by his misfortunes. In order to employ his diplomatic
talents, and give him the pleasing consciousness of being useful to his
host, Guido sent him as ambassador, to negotiate a peace with Venice.
Dante, happy at having an opportunity of evincing his gratitude to his
benefactor, proceeded on his mission with sanguine expectation of
success. But being unable to obtain a public audience from the
Venetians, he returned to Ravenna, so overwhelmed with fatigue and
mortification, that he died shortly afterwards, in the fifty-seventh
year of his age, A. D. 1321, receiving splendid obsequies from his
disconsolate patron, who himself assumed the office of pronouncing a
funeral oration on the dead body.
The portrait of Dante has been handed down to posterity, both by history
and the arts. He is represented as a man of middle stature, with a
pensive and melancholy expression of countenance. His face was long, his
nose aquiline, his eyes rather prominent, but full of fire, his cheek
bones large, and his under lip projecting beyond the upper one; his
complexion was dark, his hair and beard thick and curled. These features
were so marked, that all his likenesses, whether on medals, or marble,
or canvas, bear a striking resemblance to each other. Boccaccio
describes him as grave and sedate in his manners, courteous and civil in
his address, and extremely temperate in his way of living; whilst
Villani asserts, that he was harsh, reserved, and disdainful in his
deportment. But the latter writer must have painted Dante such as he was
in his exile, when the bitter cup of sorrow had changed the gravity of
his temper into austerity. He spoke seldom, but displayed a remarkable
subtleness in his answers. The consciousness of worth had inspired him
with a noble pride which spurned vice in all its aspects, and disdained
condescending to any thing like flattery or dissimulation. Earnest in
study, and attached to solitude, he was at times liable to fits of
absence. The testimony of his contemporaries, and the still better
evidence of his own works, prove that his hours of seclusion were
heedfully employed. He was intimately conversant with several languages;
extensively read in classical literature, and deeply versed in the
staple learning of the age, scholastic theology, and the Aristotelian
philosophy. He had acquired a considerable knowledge of geography,
astronomy, and mathematics; had made himself thoroughly acquainted with
mythology and history, both sacred and profane; nor had he neglected to
adorn his mind with the more elegant accomplishments of the fine arts.
The mass of Dante’s writings, considering the unfavourable circumstances
under which he laboured, is almost as wonderful as the extent of his
attainments. The treatise ‘De Monarchia,’ which he composed on the
arrival of Henry VII. in Italy, is one of the most ingenious productions
that ever appeared, in refutation of the temporal pretensions of the
Court of Rome. It was hailed with triumphant joy by the Ghibelines, and
loaded with vituperation by the Guelfs. The succeeding emperor, Lewis of
Bavaria, laid great stress on its arguments as supporting his claims
against John XXII.; and on that account, the Pope had it burnt publicly
by the Cardinal du Pujet, his legate in Lombardy, who would even have
disinterred and burnt Dante’s body, and scattered his ashes to the wind,
if some influential citizens had not interposed. Another Latin work, ‘De
Vulgari Eloquentia,’ treats of the origin, history, and use of the
genuine Italian tongue. It is full of interesting and curious research,
and is still classed among the most judicious and philosophical works
that Italy possesses on the subject. He meant to have comprised it in
four books, but unfortunately only lived to complete two.
Of his Italian productions, the earliest was, perhaps, the ‘Vita Nuova,’
a mixture of mysterious poetry and prose, in which he gives a detailed
account of his love for Beatrice. It is pervaded by a spirit of soft
melancholy extremely touching; and it contains several passages having
all the distinctness and individuality of truth; but, on the other hand,
it is interspersed with visions and dreams, and metaphysical conceits,
from which it receives all the appearance of an allegorical invention.
He also composed about thirty sonnets, and nearly as many ‘Canzoni,’ or
songs, both on love and morality. The sonnets, though not destitute of
grace and ingenuity, are not distinguished by any particular excellence.
The songs display a vigour of style, a sublimity of thought, a depth of
feeling, and a richness of imagery not known before: they betoken the
poet and the philosopher. On fourteen of these, he attempted in his old
age to write a minute commentary, to which he gave the title of
‘Convito,’ or Banquet, as being intended “to administer the food of
wisdom to the ignorant;” but he could only extend it to three. Thus he
produced the first specimen of severe Italian prose; and if he indulged
rather too much in fanciful allegories and scholastic subtleties, these
blemishes are amply counterbalanced by a store of erudition, an
elevation of sentiment, and a matchless eloquence, which it is difficult
not to admire.
These works, omitting several others of inferior value, would have been
more than sufficient to place Dante above all his contemporaries; yet,
they stand at an immeasurable distance from the ‘Divina Commedia,’ the
great poem by which he has recommended his name to the veneration of the
remotest posterity. The Divine Comedy is the narrative of a mysterious
journey through hell, purgatory, and paradise, which he supposes himself
to have performed in the year 1300, during the passion week, having
Virgil as his guide through the two regions of woe, and Beatrice through
that of happiness. No creation of the human mind ever excelled this
mighty vision in originality and vastness of design; nor did any one
ever choose a more appropriate subject for the expression of all his
thoughts and feelings. The mechanical construction of his spiritual
world allowed him room for developing his geographical and astronomical
knowledge: the punishments and rewards allotted to the characters
introduced, gave him an excellent opportunity for a display of his
theological and philosophical learning: the continual succession of
innumerable spirits of different ages, nations, and conditions, enabled
him to expatiate in the fields of ancient and modern history, and to
expose thoroughly the degradation of Italian society in his own times;
while the whole afforded him ample scope for a full exertion of his
poetical endowments, and for the illustration of the moral lesson,
which, whatever his real meaning may have been, is ostensibly the object
of his poem. Neither were his powers of execution inferior to those of
conception. Rising from the deepest abyss of torture and despair,
through every degree of suffering and hope, up to the sublimest
beatitude, he imparts the most vivid and intense dramatic interest to a
wonderful variety of scenes which he brings before the reader. Awful,
vehement, and terrific in hell, in proportion as he advances through
purgatory and paradise, he contrives to modify his style in such a
manner as to become more pleasing in his images, more easy in his
expressions, more delicate in his sentiments, and more regular in his
versification. His characters live and move; the objects which he
depicts are clear and palpable; his similes are generally new and just;
his reflections evince throughout the highest tone of morality; his
energetic language makes a deep and vigorous impression both on the
reason and the imagination; and the graphic force with which, by a few
bold strokes, he throws before the eye of his reader a perfect and
living picture, is wholly unequalled.
It is true, however, that his constant solicitude for conciseness and
effect led him, sometimes, into a harsh and barbarous phraseology, and
into the most unrestrained innovations; but considering the rudeness of
his age, and the unformed state of his language, he seems hardly open to
the censure of a candid critic on this account. On the other hand, it is
impossible not to wonder how, in spite of such obstacles, he could so
happily express all the wild conceptions of his fancy, the most abstract
theories of philosophy, and the most profound mysteries of religion. The
occasional obscurity and coldness of the Divine Comedy proceeds much
less from defects of style, than from didactic disquisitions and
historical allusions which become every day less intelligible and less
interesting. To be understood and appreciated as a whole, and in its
parts, it requires a store of antiquated knowledge which is now of
little use. Even at the period of its publication, when its geography
and astronomy were not yet exploded, its philosophy and theology still
current, and many of its incidents and personages still fresh in the
memory of thousands, it was considered rather as a treasure of moral
wisdom, than as a book of amusement. The city of Florence, and several
other towns of Italy, soon established professorships for the express
purpose of explaining it to the public. Two sons of Dante wrote
commentaries for its illustration: Boccaccio, Benvenuto da Imola, and
many others followed the example in rapid succession; and even a few
years since Foscolo and Rossetti excited fresh curiosity and interest by
the novelty of their views. Notwithstanding the learning and ingenuity
of all its expositors, the hidden meaning of the ‘Divina Commedia’ is
not yet perfectly made out, though Rossetti, in his ‘Spirito
Antipapale,’ lately published, seems to have shown, that under the
exterior of moral precepts, it contains a most bitter satire against the
court of Rome. But whether time shall remove these obscurities, or
thicken the mist which hangs around this extraordinary production, it
will be ever memorable as the mighty work which gave being and form to
the beautiful language of Italy, impressed a new character on the poetry
of modern Europe, and inspired the genius of Michael Angelo and of
Milton.
There is no life of Dante which can be recommended as decidedly superior
to the rest. The earliest is that of Boccaccio; but it evidently cannot
be relied on for the facts of his life. There are others by Lionardo,
Aretino, Fabroni, Pelli, Tiraboschi, &c. The English reader will find a
fuller account prefixed to Mr. Carey’s translation of the ‘Divina
Commedia,’ and in Mr. Stebbing’s Lives of the Italian Poets.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
_Engraved by E. Scriven._