Part I. Report on the Brachiopoda, 2_s._ 6_d._

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[Transcriber's Note: Spelling and punctuation have been retained as

they appear in the original, but obvious printer errors have been

corrected without note. Printer errors in Italian passages from _The

Divine Comedy_ have been corrected using the Italian-English Princeton

University Press edition (trans. Charles S. Singleton, 1973).

A Table of Contents has been added for the reader's convenience. The

original contains a separate Contents of De Monarchia at the end of De

Monarchia.]

DANTE

AND

DE MONARCHIA.

[Illustration]

DANTE.

_An Essay._

BY

R. W. CHURCH, M.A., D.C.L.

DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, AND HONORARY FELLOW OF ORIEL COLLEGE, OXFORD.

_To which is added_

A TRANSLATION OF

DE MONARCHIA.

BY F. J. CHURCH.

_London:_

MACMILLAN AND CO.

1879.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,

CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

CONTENTS

NOTICE

DANTE

DE MONARCHIA

CONTENTS OF DE MONARCHIA

PUBLISHER'S CATALOGUE

NOTICE.

The following Essay first appeared in the "Christian Remembrancer" of

January, 1850, and it was reprinted in a volume of "Essays and

Reviews," published in 1854.

It was written before the appearance in Germany and England of the

abundant recent literature on the subject. With the exception of a few

trifling corrections, it is republished without change.

By the desire of Mr. Macmillan, a translation of the _De Monarchia_ is

subjoined. I am indebted for it to my son, Mr. F.J. Church, late

Scholar of New College. It is made from the text of Witte's second

edition of the _De Monarchia_, 1874. The _De Monarchia_ has been more

than once translated into Italian and German, in earlier or later

times. But I do not know that any English translation has yet

appeared. It is analysed in the fifteenth chapter of Mr. Bryce's "Holy

Roman Empire."

Witte, with much probability, I think, places the composition of the

work in the first part of Dante's life, before his exile in 1301,

while the pretensions and arguments of Boniface VIII. (1294-1303) were

being discussed by Guelf and Ghibelline partisans, but before they

were formally embodied in the famous Bull _Unam Sanctam_, 1302. The

character of the composition, for the most part, formal, general, and

scholastic, sanguine in tone and with little personal allusion, is in

strong contrast with the passionate and despairing language of

resentment and disappointment which marks his later writings. As an

example of the political speculation of the time, it should be

compared with the "_De Regimine Principum_," ascribed to Thomas

Aquinas. The whole subject of the mediæval idea of the Empire is

admirably discussed in Mr. Bryce's book referred to above.

R.W.C.

ST. PAUL'S,

_November_, 1878.

DANTE.[1]

[JAN. 1850.]

[Footnote 1: _Dante's Divine Comedy, the Inferno; a literal Prose

Translation, with the Text of the Original._ By J.A. CARLYLE, M.D.,

London: 1849. I have never quite forgiven myself for not having said

more of the unpretending but honest and most useful volume which stood

at the head of this essay when it first appeared as an article. It was

placed there, according to what was then a custom of article writers,

as a peg to hang remarks upon which might or might not be criticisms

of the particular book so noticed. It did not offer itself specially

to my use, and my attention was busy with my own work. But this was no

excuse for availing myself of a good book, and not giving it the

notice which it deserved. To an English student beginning Dante, and

wishing to study him in a scholarly manner, it is really more useful

than a verse translation can be; and I have always greatly regretted

that the plan of translating the whole work was dropped for want of

the appreciation which the first instalment ought to have had.

(1878.)]

The _Divina Commedia_ is one of the landmarks of history. More than a

magnificent poem, more than the beginning of a language and the

opening of a national literature, more than the inspirer of art, and

the glory of a great people, it is one of those rare and solemn

monuments of the mind's power, which measure and test what it can

reach to, which rise up ineffaceably and for ever as time goes on,

marking out its advance by grander divisions than its centuries, and

adopted as epochs by the consent of all who come after. It stands with

the _Iliad_ and Shakspere's Plays, with the writings of Aristotle and

Plato, with the _Novum Organon_ and the _Principia_, with Justinian's

_Code_, with the Parthenon and S. Peter's. It is the first Christian

poem; and it opens European literature, as the _Iliad_ did that of

Greece and Rome. And, like the _Iliad_, it has never become out of

date; it accompanies in undiminished freshness the literature which it

began.

We approach the history of such works, in which genius seems to have

pushed its achievements to a new limit, with a kind of awe. The

beginnings of all things, their bursting out from nothing, and gradual

evolution into substance and shape, cast on the mind a solemn

influence. They come too near the fount of being to be followed up

without our feeling the shadows which surround it. We cannot but fear,

cannot but feel ourselves cut off from this visible and familiar

world--as we enter into the cloud. And as with the processes of

nature, so it is with those offsprings of man's mind, by which he has

added permanently one more great feature to the world, and created a

new power which is to act on mankind to the end. The mystery of the

inventive and creative faculty, the subtle and incalculable

combinations by which it was led to its work, and carried through it,

are out of the reach of investigating thought. Often the idea recurs

of the precariousness of the result; by how little the world might

have lost one of its ornaments--by one sharp pang, or one chance

meeting, or any other among the countless accidents among which man

runs his course. And then the solemn recollection supervenes, that

powers were formed, and life preserved, and circumstances arranged,

and actions controlled, that thus it should be: and the work which man

has brooded over, and at last created, is the foster-child too of that

"Wisdom which reaches from end to end, strongly and sweetly disposing

all things."

It does not abate these feelings, that we can follow in some cases and

to a certain extent, the progress of a work. Indeed, the sight of the

particular accidents among which it was developed--which belong

perhaps to a heterogeneous and widely discordant order of things,

which are out of proportion and out of harmony with it, which do not

explain it, which have, as it may seem to us, no natural right to be

connected with it, to bear on its character, or contribute to its

accomplishment, to which we feel, as it were, ashamed to owe what we

can least spare, yet on which its forming mind and purpose were

dependent, and with which they had to conspire--affects the

imagination even more than cases where we see nothing. We are tempted

less to musing and wonder by the _Iliad_, a work without a history,

cut off from its past, the sole relic and vestige of its age,

unexplained in its origin and perfection, than by the _Divina

Commedia_, destined for the highest ends and most universal sympathy,

yet the reflection of a personal history, and issuing seemingly from

its chance incidents.

The _Divina Commedia_ is singular among the great works with which it

ranks, for its strong stamp of personal character and history. In

general we associate little more than the name--not the life--of a

great poet with his works; personal interest belongs more usually to

greatness in its active than its creative forms. But the whole idea

and purpose of the _Commedia_, as well as its filling up and

colouring, are determined by Dante's peculiar history. The loftiest,

perhaps, in its aim and flight of all poems, it is also the most

individual; the writer's own life is chronicled in it, as well as the

issues and upshot of all things. It is at once the mirror to all time

of the sins and perfections of men, of the judgments and grace of God,

and the record, often the only one, of the transient names, and local

factions, and obscure ambitions, and forgotten crimes, of the poet's

own day; and in that awful company to which he leads us, in the most

unearthly of his scenes, we never lose sight of himself. And when this

peculiarity sends us to history, it seems as if the poem which was to

hold such a place in Christian literature hung upon and grew out of

chance events, rather than the deliberate design of its author.

History indeed here, as generally, is but a feeble exponent of the

course of growth in a great mind and great ideas. It shows us early a

bent and purpose--the man conscious of power and intending to use

it--and then the accidents among which he worked: but how that current

of purpose threaded its way among them, how it was thrown back,

deflected, deepened, by them, we cannot learn from history. It

presents but a broken and mysterious picture. A boy of quick and

enthusiastic temper grows up into youth in a dream of love. The lady

of his mystic passion dies early. He dreams of her still, not as a

wonder of earth, but as a Saint in Paradise, and relieves his heart in

an autobiography, a strange and perplexing work of fiction--quaint and

subtle enough for a metaphysical conceit; but, on the other hand, with

far too much of genuine and deep feeling. It is a first essay; he

closes it abruptly as if dissatisfied with his work, but with the

resolution of raising at a future day a worthy monument to the memory

of her whom he has lost. It is the promise and purpose of a great

work. But a prosaic change seems to come over this half-ideal

character. The lover becomes the student--the student of the 13th

century--struggling painfully against difficulties, eager and hot

after knowledge, wasting eyesight and stinting sleep, subtle,

inquisitive, active-minded and sanguine, but omnivorous, overflowing

with dialectical forms, loose in premiss and ostentatiously rigid in

syllogism, fettered by the refinements of half-awakened taste, and the

mannerisms of the Provençals. Boethius and Cicero, and the mass of

mixed learning within his reach, are accepted as the consolation of

his human griefs: he is filled with the passion of universal

knowledge, and the desire to communicate it. Philosophy has become the

lady of his soul--to write allegorical poems in her honour, and to

comment on them with all the apparatus of his learning in prose, his

mode of celebrating her. Further, he marries; it is said, not happily.

The antiquaries, too, have disturbed romance by discovering that

Beatrice also was married some years before her death. He appears, as

time goes on, as a burgher of Florence, the father of a family, a

politician, an envoy, a magistrate, a partisan, taking his full share

in the quarrels of the day. At length we see him, at once an exile,

and the poet of the _Commedia_. Beatrice reappears--shadowy, melting

at times into symbol and figure--but far too living and real,

addressed with too intense and natural feeling to be the mere

personification of anything. The lady of the philosophical Canzoni

has vanished. The student's dream has been broken, as the boy's had

been; and the earnestness of the man, enlightened by sorrow,

overleaping the student's formalities and abstractions, reverted in

sympathy to the earnestness of the boy, and brooded once more on that

Saint in Paradise, whose presence and memory had once been so

soothing, and who now seemed a real link between him and that stable

country, "where the angels are in peace." Round her image, the

reflection of purity, and truth, and forbearing love, was grouped that

confused scene of trouble and effort, of failure and success, which

the poet saw round him; round her image it arranged itself in awful

order--and that image, not a metaphysical abstraction, but the living

memory, freshened by sorrow, and seen through the softening and

hallowing vista of years, of Beatrice Portinari--no figment of

imagination, but God's creature and servant. A childish love,

dissipated by study and business, and revived in memory by heavy

sorrow--a boyish resolution, made in a moment of feeling, interrupted,

though it would be hazardous to say in Dante's case, laid aside, for

apparently more manly studies, gave the idea and suggested the form of

the "Sacred poem of earth and heaven."

And the occasion of this startling unfolding of the poetic gift, of

this passage of a soft and dreamy boy, into the keenest, boldest,

sternest of poets, the free and mighty leader of European song, was,

what is not ordinarily held to be a source of poetical inspiration,--the

political life. The boy had sensibility, high aspirations, and a

versatile and passionate nature; the student added to this energy,

various learning, gifts of language, and noble ideas on the capacities

and ends of man. But it was the factions of Florence which made Dante

a great poet. But for them, he might have been a modern critic and

essayist born before his time, and have held a high place among the

writers of fugitive verses; in Italy, a graceful but trifling and idle

tribe, often casting a deep and beautiful thought into a mould of

expressive diction, but oftener toying with a foolish and glittering

conceit, and whose languid genius was exhausted by a sonnet. He might

have thrown into the shade the Guidos and Cinos of his day, to be

eclipsed by Petrarch. But he learned in the bitter feuds of Italy not

to trifle; they opened to his view, and he had an eye to see, the true

springs and abysses of this mortal life--motives and passions stronger

than lovers' sentiments, evils beyond the consolations of Boethius and

Cicero; and from that fiery trial which without searing his heart,

annealed his strength and purpose, he drew that great gift and power,

by which he stands pre-eminent even among his high compeers, the gift

of being real. And the idea of the _Commedia_ took shape, and expanded

into its endless forms of terror and beauty, not under the roof-tree

of the literary citizen, but when the exile had been driven out to the

highways of the world, to study nature on the sea or by the river or

on the mountain track, and to study men in the courts of Verona and

Ravenna, and in the schools of Bologna and Paris--perhaps of Oxford.

The connexion of these feuds with Dante's poem has given to the middle

age history of Italy an interest of which it is not undeserving in

itself, full as it is of curious exhibitions of character and

contrivance, but to which politically it cannot lay claim, amid the

social phenomena, so far grander in scale and purpose and more

felicitous in issue, of the other western nations. It is remarkable

for keeping up an antique phase, which, in spite of modern

arrangements, it has not yet lost. It is a history of cities. In

ancient history all that is most memorable and instructive gathers

round cities; civilisation and empire were concentrated within walls;

and it baffled the ancient mind to conceive how power should be

possessed and wielded, by numbers larger than might be collected in a

single market-place. The Roman Empire indeed aimed at being one in its

administration and law; but it was not a nation, nor were its

provinces nations. Yet everywhere but in Italy, it prepared them for

becoming nations. And while everywhere else parts were uniting and

union was becoming organisation--and neither geographical remoteness,

nor unwieldiness of numbers, nor local interests and differences, were

untractable obstacles to that spirit of fusion which was at once the

ambition of the few and the instinct of the many; and cities, even

where most powerful, had become the centres of the attracting and

joining forces, knots in the political network--while this was going

on more or less happily throughout the rest of Europe, in Italy the

ancient classic idea lingered in its simplicity, its narrowness and

jealousy, wherever there was any political activity. The history of

Southern Italy indeed is mainly a foreign one, the history of modern

Rome merges in that of the Papacy; but Northern Italy has a history of

its own, and that is a history of separate and independent

cities--points of reciprocal and indestructible repulsion, and within,

theatres of action where the blind tendencies and traditions of

classes and parties weighed little on the freedom of individual

character, and citizens could watch and measure and study one another

with the minuteness of private life.

Two cities were the centres of ancient history in its most interesting

time. And two cities of modern Italy represent, with entirely

undesigned but curiously exact coincidence, the parts of Athens and

Rome. Venice, superficially so unlike, is yet in many of its

accidental features, and still more in its spirit, the counterpart of

Rome, in its obscure and mixed origin, in its steady growth, in its

quick sense of order and early settlement of its polity, in its grand

and serious public spirit, in its subordination of the individual to

the family, and the family to the state, in its combination of remote

dominion with the liberty of a solitary and sovereign city. And though

the associations and the scale of the two were so different--though

Rome had its hills and its legions, and Venice its lagunes and

galleys--the long empire of Venice, the heir of Carthage and

predecessor of England on the seas, the great aristocratic republic of

1000 years, is the only empire that has yet matched Rome in length and

steadiness of tenure. Brennus and Hannibal were not resisted with

greater constancy than Doria and Louis XII.; and that great

aristocracy, long so proud, so high-spirited, so intelligent, so

practical, who combined the enterprise and wealth of merchants, the

self-devotion of soldiers and gravity of senators, with the uniformity

and obedience of a religious order, may compare without shame its

Giustiniani, and Zenos, and Morosini, with Roman Fabii and Claudii.

And Rome could not be more contrasted with Athens than Venice with

Italian and contemporary Florence--stability with fitfulness,

independence impregnable and secure, with a short-lived and troubled

liberty, empire meditated and achieved, with a course of barren

intrigues and quarrels. Florence, gay, capricious, turbulent, the city

of party, the head and busy patroness of democracy in the cities round

her--Florence, where popular government was inaugurated with its

utmost exclusiveness and most pompous ceremonial; waging her little

summer wars against Ghibelline tyrants, revolted democracies, and her

own exiles; and further, so rich in intellectual gifts, in variety of

individual character, in poets, artists, wits, historians--Florence in

its brilliant days recalled the image of ancient Athens, and did not

depart from its prototype in the beauty of its natural site, in its

noble public buildings, in the size and nature of its territory. And

the course of its history is similar and the result of similar

causes--a traditional spirit of freedom, with its accesses of fitful

energy, its periods of grand display and moments of glorious

achievement, but producing nothing politically great or durable, and

sinking at length into a resigned servitude. It had its Peisistratidæ

more successful than those of Athens; it had, too, its Harmodius and

Aristogeiton; it had its great orator of liberty, as potent and as

unfortunate as the antagonist of Philip. And finally, like Athens, it

became content with the remembrance of its former glory, with being

the fashionable and acknowledged seat of refinement and taste, with

being a favoured dependency on the modern heir of the Cæsars. But if

to Venice belongs a grander public history, Florentine names and

works, like Athenian, will be living among men, when the Brenta shall

have been left unchecked to turn the Lagunes into ploughland, and when

Rome herself may no longer be the seat of the Popes.

The year of Dante's birth was a memorable one in the annals of

Florence, of Italy, and of Christendom.[2] The year 1265 was the year

of that great victory of Benevento, where Charles of Anjou overthrew

Manfred of Naples, and destroyed at one blow the power of the house of

Swabia. From that time till the time of Charles V., the emperors had

no footing in Italy. Further, that victory set up the French influence

in Italy, which, transient in itself, produced such strange and

momentous consequences, by the intimate connexion to which it led

between the French kings and the Popes. The protection of France was

dearly bought by the captivity of Avignon, the great western schism,

and the consequent secularisation of the Papacy, which lasted on

uninterrupted till the Council of Trent. Nearly three centuries of

degradation and scandal, unrelieved by one heroic effort among the

successors of Gregory VII., connected the Reformation with the triumph

of Charles and the Pope at Benevento. Finally, by it the Guelf party

was restored for good in Florence; the Guelf democracy, which had been

trampled down by the Uberti and Manfred's chivalry at Monteaperti,

once more raised its head; and fortune, which had long wavered between

the rival lilies, finally turned against the white one, till the name

of Ghibelline became a proscribed one in Florence, as Jacobite was

once in Scotland, or Papist in England, or Royalist in France.

[Footnote 2: May, 1265. (Pelli.) Benevento: Feb. 26, 1265/6. The

Florentine year began March 25.]

The names of Guelf and Ghibelline were the inheritance of a contest

which, in its original meaning, had been long over. The old struggle

between the priesthood and the empire was still kept up traditionally,

but its ideas and interests were changed: they were still great and

important ones, but not those of Gregory VII. It had passed over from

the mixed region of the spiritual and temporal into the purely

political. The cause of the popes was that of the independence of

Italy--the freedom and alliance of the great cities of the north, and

the dependence of the centre and south on the Roman See. To keep the

Emperor out of Italy--to create a barrier of powerful cities against

him south of the Alps--to form behind themselves a compact territory,

rich, removed from the first burst of invasion, and maintaining a

strong body of interested feudatories, had now become the great object

of the popes. It may have been a wise policy on their part, for the

maintenance of their spiritual influence, to attempt to connect their

own independence with the political freedom of the Italian

communities; but certain it is that the ideas and the characters which

gave a religious interest and grandeur to the earlier part of the

contest, appear but sparingly, if at all, in its later forms.

The two parties did not care to keep in view principles which their

chiefs had lost sight of. The Emperor and the Pope were both real

powers, able to protect and assist; and they divided between them

those who required protection and assistance. Geographical position,

the rivalry of neighbourhood, family tradition, private feuds, and

above all private interest, were the main causes which assigned

cities, families, and individuals to the Ghibelline or Guelf party.

One party called themselves the Emperor's liegemen, and their

watchword was authority and law; the other side were the liegemen of

Holy Church, and their cry was liberty; and the distinction as a broad

one is true. But a democracy would become Ghibelline, without scruple,

if its neighbour town was Guelf; and among the Guelf liegemen of the

Church and liberty the pride of blood and love of power were not a

whit inferior to that of their opponents. Yet, though the original

principle of the contest was lost, and the political distinctions of

parties were often interfered with by interest or accident, it is not

impossible to trace in the two factions differences of temper, of

moral and political inclinations, which though visible only on a large

scale and in the mass, were quite sufficient to give meaning and

reality to their mutual opposition. These differences had come down,

greatly altered of course, from the quarrel in which the parties took

their rise. The Ghibellines as a body reflected the worldliness, the

licence, the irreligion, the reckless selfishness, the daring

insolence, and at the same time the gaiety and pomp, the princely

magnificence and generosity and largeness of mind of the house of

Swabia; they were the men of the court and camp, imperious and haughty

from ancient lineage or the Imperial cause, yet not wanting in the

frankness and courtesy of nobility; careless of public opinion and

public rights, but not dead to the grandeur of public objects and

public services. Among them were found, or to them inclined, all who,

whether from a base or a lofty ambition, desired to place their will

above law[3]--the lord of the feudal castle, the robber-knight of the

Apennine pass, the magnificent but terrible tyrants of the cities, the

pride and shame of Italy, the Visconti and Scaligers. That renowned

Ghibelline chief, whom the poet finds in the fiery sepulchres of the

unbelievers with the great Ghibelline emperor and the princely

Ghibelline cardinal--the disdainful and bitter but lofty spirit of

Farinata degli Uberti, the conqueror, and then singly and at his own

risk, the saviour of his country which had wronged him, represents the

good as well as the bad side of his party.

[Footnote 3: "Maghinardo da Susinana (_il Demonio_, Purg. 14) fu uno

grande e savio tiranno ... gran castellano, e con molti fedeli: savio

fu di guerra e bene avventuroso in più battaglie, e al suo tempo fece

gran cose. Ghibellino era di sua nazione e in sue opere; ma co'

Fiorentini era Guelfo e nimico di tutti i loro nimici, o Guelfi o

Ghibellini che fossono."--G. Vill. vii. 149. A Ghibelline by birth and

disposition; yet, from circumstances, a close ally of the Guelfs of

Florence.]

The Guelfs, on the other hand, were the party of the middle classes;

they rose out of and held to the people; they were strong by their

compactness, their organisation in cities, their commercial relations

and interests, their command of money. Further, they were professedly

the party of strictness and religion, a profession which fettered them

as little as their opponents were fettered by the respect they claimed

for imperial law. But though by personal unscrupulousness and

selfishness, and in instances of public vengeance, they sinned as

deeply as the Ghibellines, they stood far more committed as a party to

a public meaning and purpose--to improvement in law and the condition

of the poor, to a protest against the insolence of the strong, to the

encouragement of industry. The genuine Guelf spirit was austere,

frugal, independent, earnest, religious, fond of its home and Church,

and of those celebrations which bound together Church and home; but

withal very proud, very intolerant; in its higher form intolerant of

evil, but intolerant always to whatever displeased it. Yet there was a

grave and noble manliness about it which long kept it alive in

Florence. It had not as yet turned itself against the practical

corruptions of the Church, which was its ally; but this also it was to

do, when the popes had forsaken the cause of liberty, and leagued

themselves with the brilliant tyranny of the Medici. Then Savonarola

invoked, and not in vain, the stern old Guelf spirit of resistance, of

domestic purity and severity, and of domestic religion, against

unbelief and licentiousness even in the Church; and the Guelf

"_Piagnoni_" presented, in a more simple and generous shape, a

resemblance to our own Puritans, as the Ghibellines often recall the

coarser and worse features of our own Cavaliers.

In Florence, these distinctions had become mere nominal ones, confined

to the great families who carried on their private feuds under the old

party names, when Frederick II. once more gave them their meaning.

"Although the accursed Guelf and Ghibelline factions lasted amongst

the nobles of Florence, and they often waged war among themselves out

of private grudges, and took sides for the said factions, and held one

with another, and those who called themselves Guelfs desired the

establishment of the Pope and Holy Church, and those who called

themselves Ghibellines favoured the Emperor and his adherents, yet

withal the people and commonalty of Florence maintained itself in

unity, to the well-being and honour and establishment of the

commonwealth."[4] But the appearance on the scene of an emperor of

such talent and bold designs revived the languid contest, and gave to

party a cause, and to individual passions and ambition an impulse and

pretext. The division between Guelf and Ghibelline again became

serious, involved all Florence, armed house against house, and

neighbourhood against neighbourhood, issued in merciless and

vindictive warfare, grew on into a hopeless and deadly breach, and

finally lost to Florence, without remedy or repair, half her noble

houses and the love of the greatest of her sons. The old badge of

their common country became to the two factions the sign of their

implacable hatred; the white lily of Florence, borne by the

Ghibellines, was turned to red by the Guelfs, and the flower of two

colours marked a civil strife as cruel and as fatal, if on a smaller

scale, as that of the English roses.[5]

[Footnote 4: G. Villani, vi. 33.]

[Footnote 5: G. Villani, vi. 33, 43; _Parad._ 19.]

It was waged with the peculiar characteristics of Italian civil war.

There the city itself was the scene of battle. A thirteenth century

city in Italy bore on its face the evidence that it was built and

arranged for such emergencies. Its crowded and narrow streets were a

collection of rival castles, whose tall towers, rising thick and close

over its roofs, or hanging perilously over its close courts, attested

the emulous pride and the insecurity of Italian civic life. There,

within a separate precinct, flanked and faced by jealous friends or

deadly enemies, were clustered together the dwellings of the various

members of each great house--their common home and the monument of

their magnificence and pride, and capable of being, as was so often

necessary, their common refuge. In these fortresses of the leading

families, scattered about the city, were the various points of onset

and recovery in civic battle; in the streets barricades were raised,

mangonels and crossbows were plied from the towers, a series of

separate combats raged through the city, till chance at length

connected the attacks of one side, or some panic paralysed the

resistance of the other, or a conflagration interposed itself between

the combatants, burning out at once Guelf and Ghibelline, and laying

half Florence in ashes. Each party had their turn of victory; each,

when vanquished, went into exile, and carried on the war outside the

walls; each had their opportunity of remodelling the orders and

framework of government, and each did so relentlessly at the cost of

their opponents. They excluded classes, they proscribed families, they

confiscated property, they sacked and burned warehouses, they levelled

the palaces, and outraged the pride of their antagonists. To destroy

was not enough, without adding to it the keenest and newest refinement

of insult. Two buildings in Florence were peculiarly dear--among their

"_cari luoghi_"--to the popular feeling and the Guelf party: the

Baptistery of St. John, "il mio bel S. Giovanni," "to which all the

good people resorted on Sundays,"[6] where they had all received

baptism, where they had been married, where families were solemnly

reconciled; and a tall and beautiful tower close by it, called the

"Torre del Guardamorto," where the bodies of the "good people," who of

old were all buried at S. Giovanni, rested on their way to the grave.

The victorious Ghibellines, when they levelled the Guelf towers,

overthrew this one, and endeavoured to make it crush in its fall the

sacred church, "which," says the old chronicler, "was prevented by a

miracle." The Guelfs, when their day came, built the walls of Florence

with the stones of Ghibelline palaces.[7] One great family stands out

pre-eminent in this fierce conflict as the victim and monument of

party war. The head of the Ghibellines was the proud and powerful

house of the Uberti, who shared with another great Ghibelline family,

the Pazzi, the valley of the upper Arno. They lighted up the war in

the Emperor's cause. They supported its weight and guided it. In time

of peace they were foremost and unrestrained in defiance of law and in

scorn of the people--in war, the people's fiercest and most active

enemies. Heavy sufferers, in their property, and by the sword and axe,

yet untamed and incorrigible, they led the van in that battle, so long

remembered to their cost by the Guelfs, the battle of Monteaperti

(1260)--

Lo strazio, e 'l gran scempio

Che fece l'Arbia colorata in rossa.--_Inf._ 10.

[Footnote 6: G. Villani, vi. 33, iv. 10; _Inf._ 19; _Parad._ 25.]

[Footnote 7: G. Villani, vi. 39, 65.]

That the head of their house, Farinata, saved Florence from the

vengeance of his meaner associates, was not enough to atone for the

unpardonable wrongs which they had done to the Guelfs and the

democracy. When the red lily of the Guelfs finally supplanted the

white one as the arms of Florence, and the badge of Guelph triumph,

they were proscribed for ever, like the Peisistratidæ and the

Tarquins. In every amnesty their names were excepted. The site on

which their houses had stood was never again to be built upon, and

remains the Great Square of Florence; the architect of the Palace of

the People was obliged to sacrifice its symmetry, and to place it

awry, that its walls might not encroach on the accursed ground.[8]

"They had been," says a writer, contemporary with Dante, speaking of

the time when he also became an exile; "they had been for more than

forty years outlaws from their country, nor ever found mercy nor pity,

remaining always abroad in great state, nor ever abased their honour,

seeing that they ever abode with kings and lords, and to great things

applied themselves."[9] They were loved as they were hated. When under

the protection of a cardinal one of them visited the city, and the

chequered blue and gold blazon of their house was, after an interval

of half a century, again seen in the streets of Florence; "many

ancient Ghibelline men and women pressed to kiss the arms,"[10] and

even the common people did him honour.

[Footnote 8: G. Villani, vi. 33, viii. 26; Vasari, _Arnolfo di Lapo_,

i. 255 (Fir. 1846).]

[Footnote 9: _Dino Compagni_, p. 88.]

[Footnote 10: _Dino Compagni_, p. 107.]

But the fortunes of Florentine factions depended on other causes than

merely the address or vigour of their leaders. From the year of

Dante's birth and Charles's victory, Florence, as far as we shall have

to do with it, became irrevocably Guelf. Not that the whole commonalty

of Florence formally called itself Guelf, or that the Guelf party was

co-extensive with it; but the city was controlled by Guelf councils,

devoted to the objects of the great Guelf party, and received in

return the support of that party in curbing the pride of the nobles,

and maintaining democratic forms. The Guelf party of Florence, though

it was the life and soul of the republic, and irresistible in its

disposal of the influence and arms of Florence, and though it embraced

a large number of the most powerful families, is always spoken of as

something distinct from, and external to, the governing powers, and

the whole body of the people. It was a body with a separate and

self-constituted existence;--in the state and allied to it, but an

independent element, holding on to a large and comprehensive union

without the state. Its organisation in Florence is one of the most

curious among the many curious combinations which meet us in Italian

history. After the final expulsion of the Ghibellines, the Guelf party

took form as an institution, with definite powers, and a local

existence. It appears with as distinct a shape as the Jacobin Club or

the Orange Lodges, side by side with the government. It was a

corporate body with a common seal, common property, not only in funds

but lands--officers, archives, a common palace,[11] a great council, a

secret committee, and last of all, a public accuser of the

Ghibellines; of the confiscated Ghibelline estates one-third went to

the republic, another third to compensate individual Guelfs, the rest

was assigned to the Guelf party.[12] A pope, (Clement IV., 1265-68)

had granted them his own arms[13]; and their device, a red eagle

clutching a serpent, may be yet seen, with the red lily, and the

party-coloured banner of the commonalty, on the battlements of the

Palazzo Vecchio.

[Footnote 11: Giotto painted in it: Vasari, _Vit. di Giotto_, p. 314.]

[Footnote 12: G. Villani, vii. 2, 17.]

[Footnote 13: _Ibid._ vii. 2.]

But the expulsion of the Ghibellines did but little to restore peace.

The great Guelf families, as old as many of the Ghibellines, had as

little reverence as they for law or civic rights. Below these, the

acknowledged nobility of Florence, were the leading families of the

"people," houses created by successful industry or commerce, and

pushing up into that privileged order, which, however ignored and

even discredited by the laws, was fully recognised by feeling and

opinion in the most democratic times of the republic. Rivalries and

feuds, street broils and conspiracies, high-handed insolence from the

great men, rough vengeance from the populace, still continued to vex

jealous and changeful Florence. The popes sought in vain to keep in

order their quarrelsome liegemen; to reconcile Guelf with Guelf, and

even Guelf with Ghibelline. Embassies went and came, to ask for

mediation and to proffer it; to apply the healing paternal hand; to

present an obsequious and ostentatious submission. Cardinal legates

came in state, and were received with reverential pomp; they formed

private committees, and held assemblies, and made marriages; they

harangued in honeyed words, and gained the largest promises; on one

occasion the Great Square was turned into a vast theatre, and on this

stage one hundred and fifty dissidents on each side came forward, and

in the presence and with the benediction of the cardinal kissed each

other on the mouth.[14] And if persuasion failed, the pope's

representative hesitated not to excommunicate and interdict the

faithful but obdurate city. But whether excommunicated or blessed,

Florence could not be at peace; however wise and subtle had been the

peace-maker's arrangements, his departing _cortège_ was hardly out of

sight of the city before they were blown to the winds. Not more

successful were the efforts of the sensible and moderate citizens who

sighed for tranquillity within its walls. Dino Compagni's interesting

though not very orderly narrative describes with great frankness, and

with the perplexity of a simple-hearted man puzzled by the continual

triumph of clever wickedness, the variety and the fruitlessness of the

expedients devised by him and other good citizens against the resolute

and incorrigible selfishness of the great Guelfs--ever, when checked

in one form, breaking out in another; proof against all persuasion,

all benefits; not to be bound by law, or compact, or oath; eluding or

turning to its own account the deepest and sagest contrivances of

constitutional wisdom.

[Footnote 14: G. Villani, vii. 56.]

A great battle won against Ghibelline Arezzo[15] raised the renown and

the military spirit of the Guelf party, for the fame of the battle was

very great; the hosts contained the choicest chivalry of either side,

armed and appointed with emulous splendour. The fighting was hard,

there was brilliant and conspicuous gallantry, and the victory was

complete. It sealed Guelf ascendancy. The Ghibelline warrior-bishop

of Arezzo fell, with three of the Uberti, and other Ghibelline chiefs.

It was a day of trial. "Many that day who had been thought of great

prowess were found dastards, and many who had never been spoken of

were held in high esteem." It repaired the honour of Florence, and the

citizens showed their feeling of its importance by mixing up the

marvellous with its story. Its tidings came to Florence--so runs the

tale in Villani, who declares what he "heard and saw" himself--at the

very hour in which it was won. The Priors of the republic were resting

in their palace during the noonday heat; suddenly the chamber door was

shaken, and the cry heard: "Rise up! the Aretini are defeated." The

door was opened, but there was no one; their servants had seen no one

enter the palace, and no one came from the army till the hour of

vespers, on a long summer's day. In this battle the Guelf leaders had

won great glory. The hero of the day was the proudest, handsomest,

craftiest, most winning, most ambitious, most unscrupulous Guelf noble

in Florence--one of a family who inherited the spirit and recklessness

of the proscribed Uberti, and did not refuse the popular epithet of

"_Malefami_"--Corso Donati. He did not come back from the field of

Campaldino, where he had won the battle by disobeying orders with any

increased disposition to yield to rivals, or court the populace, or

respect other men's rights. Those rivals, too--and they also had

fought gallantly in the post of honour at Campaldino--were such as he

hated from his soul--rivals whom he despised, and who yet were too

strong for him. His blood was ancient, they were upstarts; he was a

soldier, they were traders; he was poor, they the richest men in

Florence. They had come to live close to the Donati, they had bought

the palace of an old Ghibelline family, they had enlarged, adorned,

and fortified it, and kept great state there. They had crossed him in

marriages, bargains, inheritances. They had won popularity, honour,

influence; and yet they were but men of business, while he had a part

in all the political movements of the day. He was the friend and

intimate of lords and noblemen, with great connexions and famous

through all Italy; they were the favourites of the common people for

their kindness and good nature; they even showed consideration for

Ghibellines. He was an accomplished man of the world, keen and subtle,

"full of malicious thoughts, mischievous and crafty;" they were

inexperienced in intrigue, and had the reputation of being clumsy and

stupid. He was the most graceful and engaging of courtiers; they were

not even gentlemen. Lastly, in the debates of that excitable republic

he was the most eloquent speaker, and they were tongue-tied.[16]

[Footnote 15: _Campaldino_, in 1289. G. Vill. vii. 131; _Dino Comp._

p. 14.]

[Footnote 16: _Dino Comp._ pp. 32, 75, 94, 133.]

"There was a family," writes Dino Compagni, "who called themselves the

Cerchi, men of low estate, but good merchants and very rich; and they

dressed richly, and maintained many servants and horses, and made a

brave show; and some of them bought the palace of the Conti Guidi,

which was near the houses of the Pazzi and Donati, who were more

ancient of blood but not so rich; therefore, seeing the Cerchi rise to

great dignity, and that they had walled and enlarged the palace, and

kept great state, the Donati began to have a great hatred against

them." Villani gives the same account of the feud.[17] "It began in

that quarter of scandal the Sesta of Porta S. Piero, between the

Cerchi and Donati, on the one side through jealousy, on the other

through churlish rudeness. Of the house of the Cerchi was head Messer

Vieri de' Cerchi, and he and those of his house were people of great

business, and powerful, and of great relationships, and most wealthy

traders, so that their company was one of the greatest in the world;

men they were of soft life, and who meant no harm; boorish and

ill-mannered, like people who had come in a short time to great state

and power. The Donati were gentlemen and warriors, and of no

excessive wealth.... They were neighbours in Florence and in the

country, and by the conversation of their jealousy with the peevish

boorishness of the others, arose the proud scorn that there was

between them." The glories of Campaldino were not as oil on these

troubled waters. The conquerors flouted each other all the more

fiercely in the streets on their return, and ill-treated the lower

people with less scruple. No gathering for festive or serious purposes

could be held without tempting strife. A marriage, a funeral, a ball,

a gay procession of cavaliers and ladies--any meeting where one stood

while another sat, where horse or man might jostle another, where

pride might be nettled or temper shown, was in danger of ending in

blood. The lesser quarrels meanwhile ranged themselves under the

greater ones; and these, especially that between the Cerchi and

Donati, took more and more a political character. The Cerchi inclined

more and more to the trading classes and the lower people; they threw

themselves on their popularity, and began to hold aloof from the

meetings of the "Parte Guelfa," while this organised body became an

instrument in the hands of their opponents, a club of the nobles.

Corso Donati, besides mischief of a more substantial kind, turned his

ridicule on their solemn dulness and awkward speech, and his friends

the jesters, one Scampolino in particular, carried his gibes and

nicknames all over Florence. The Cerchi received all in sullen and

clogged indifference. They were satisfied with repelling attacks, and

nursed their hatred.[18]

[Footnote 17: G. Vill. viii. 39.]

[Footnote 18: _Dino Compagni_, pp. 32, 34, 38.]

Thus the city was divided, and the attempts to check the factions only

exasperated them. It was in vain that, when at times the government

and the populace lost patience, severe measures were taken. It was in

vain that the reformer, Gian della Bella, carried for a time his harsh

"orders of justice" against the nobles, and invested popular vengeance

with the solemnity of law and with the pomp and ceremony of a public

act--that when a noble had been convicted of killing a citizen, the

great officer, "Standard-bearer," as he was called, "of justice,"

issued forth in state and procession, with the banner of justice borne

before him, with all his train, and at the head of the armed citizens,

to the house of the criminal, and razed it to the ground. An

eyewitness describes the effect of such chastisement:--"I, Dino

Compagni, being Gonfalonier of Justice in 1293, went to their houses,

and to those of their relations, and these I caused to be pulled down

according to the laws. This beginning in the case of the other

Gonfaloniers came to an evil effect; because, if they demolished the

houses according to the laws, the people said that they were cruel;

and if they did not demolish them completely, they said that they were

cowards; and many distorted justice for fear of the people." Gian

della Bella was overthrown with few regrets even on the part of the

people. Equally vain was the attempt to keep the peace by separating

the leaders of the disturbances. They were banished by a kind of

ostracism; they departed in ostentatious meekness, Corso Donato to

plot at Rome, Vieri de' Cerchi to return immediately to Florence.

Anarchy had got too fast a hold on the city, and it required a

stronger hand than that of the pope, or the signory of the republic,

to keep it down.

Yet Florence prospered. Every year it grew richer, more intellectual,

more refined, more beautiful, more gay. With its anarchy there was no

stagnation. Torn and divided as it was, its energy did not slacken,

its busy and creative spirit was not deadened, its hopefulness not

abated. The factions, fierce and personal as they were, did not hinder

that interest in political ideas, that active and subtle study of the

questions of civil government, that passion and ingenuity displayed in

political contrivance, which now pervaded Northern Italy, everywhere

marvellously patient and hopeful, though far from being equally

successful. In Venice at the close of the thirteenth century, that

polity was finally settled and consolidated, by which she was great as

long as cities could be imperial, and which even in its decay survived

the monarchy of Louis XIV. and existed within the memory of living

men. In Florence, the constructive spirit of law and order only

resisted, but never triumphed. Yet it was at this time resolute and

sanguine, ready with experiment and change, and not yet dispirited by

continual failure. Political interest, however, and party contests

were not sufficient to absorb and employ the citizens of Florence.

Their genial and versatile spirit, so keen, so inventive, so elastic,

which made them such hot and impetuous partisans, kept them from being

only this. The time was one of growth; new knowledge, new powers, new

tastes were opening to men--new pursuits attracted them. There was

commerce, there was the school philosophy, there was the science of

nature, there was ancient learning, there was the civil law, there

were the arts, there was poetry, all rude as yet, and unformed, but

full of hope--the living parents of mightier offspring. Frederick II.

had once more opened Aristotle to the Latin world; he had given an

impulse to the study of the great monuments of Roman legislation which

was responded to through Italy; himself a poet, his example and his

splendid court had made poetry fashionable. In the end of the

thirteenth century a great stride was made at Florence. While her

great poet was growing up to manhood, as rapid a change went on in her

streets, her social customs, the wealth of her citizens, their ideas

of magnificence and beauty, their appreciation of literature. It was

the age of growing commerce and travel; Franciscan missionaries had

reached China, and settled there;[19] in 1294, Marco Polo returned to

Venice, the first successful explorer of the East. The merchants of

Florence lagged not; their field of operation was Italy and the West;

they had their correspondents in London, Paris, and Bruges; they were

the bankers of popes and kings.[20] And their city shows to this day

the wealth and magnificence of the last years of the thirteenth

century. The ancient buildings, consecrated in the memory of the

Florentine people, were repaired, enlarged, adorned with marble and

bronze--Or San Michele, the Badia, the Baptistery; and new buildings

rose on a grander scale. In 1294 was begun the Mausoleum of the great

Florentine dead, the Church of S. Croce. In the same year, a few

months later, Arnolfo laid the deep foundations which were afterwards

to bear up Brunelleschi's dome, and traced the plan of the magnificent

cathedral. In 1298 he began to raise a Town-hall worthy of the

Republic, and of being the habitation of its magistrates, the frowning

mass of the Palazzo Vecchio. In 1299, the third circle of the walls

was commenced, with the benediction of bishops, and the concourse of

all the "lords and orders" of Florence. And Giotto was now beginning

to throw Cimabue into the shade--Giotto, the shepherd's boy, painter,

sculptor, architect, and engineer at once, who a few years later was

to complete and crown the architectural glories of Florence by that

masterpiece of grace, his marble Campanile.

[Footnote 19: See the curious letters of _John de Monte Corvino_,

about his mission in Cathay, 1289-1305, in Wadding, vi. 69.]

[Footnote 20: _E.g._ the _Mozzi_, of Greg. X.; _Peruzzi_, of Philip le

Bel; _Spini_, of Boniface VIII.; _Cerchi del Garbo_, of Benedict XI.

(G. Vill. vii. 42, viii. 63, 71; _Dino Comp._ p. 35).]

Fifty years made then all that striking difference in domestic habits,

in the materials of dress, in the value of money, which they have

usually made in later centuries. The poet of the fourteenth century

describes the proudest nobleman of a hundred years before "with his

leathern girdle and clasp of bone;" and in one of the most beautiful

of all poetic celebrations of the good old time, draws the domestic

life of ancient Florence in the household where his ancestor was born:

A così riposato, a così bello

Viver di cittadini, a così fida

Cittadinanza, a così dolce ostello

Maria mi diè, chiamata in alte grida.--_Par._ c. 15.[21]

[Footnote 21:

Florence, confined within that ancient wall,

Whence still the chimes at noon and evening sound,

Was sober, modest, and at peace with all.

Myself have seen Bellincion Berti pace

The street in leathern belt; his lady come

Forth from her toilet with unpainted face.

* * * *

Oh happy wives! each soon to lay her head

In her own tomb; and no one yet compelled

To weep deserted in a lonely bed.

* * * *

To such pure life of beauty and repose--

Such faithful citizens--such happy men--

The virgin gave me, when my mother's throes

Forced her with cries to call on Mary's name.--WRIGHT.]

There high-born dames, he says, still plied the distaff and the loom;

still rocked the cradle with the words which their own mothers had

used; or working with their maidens, told them old tales of the

forefathers of the city, "of the Trojans, of Fiesole, and of Rome."

Villani still finds this rudeness within forty years of the end of the

century, almost within the limits of his own and Dante's life; and

speaks of that "old first people," _il primo Popolo Vecchio_, with

their coarse food and expenditure, their leather jerkins, and plain

close gowns, their small dowries and late marriages, as if they were

the first founders of the city, and not a generation which had lasted

on into his own.[22] Twenty years later, his story is of the gaiety,

the riches, the profuse munificence, the brilliant festivities, the

careless and joyous life, which attracted foreigners to Florence as

the city of pleasure; of companies of a thousand or more, all clad in

white robes, under a lord, styled "of Love," passing their time in

sports and dances; of ladies and knights, "going through the city with

trumpets and other instruments, with joy and gladness," and meeting

together in banquets evening and morning; entertaining illustrious

strangers, and honourably escorting them on horseback in their passage

through the city; tempting by their liberality, courtiers, and wits,

and minstrels, and jesters, to add to the amusements of Florence.[23]

Nor were these the boisterous triumphs of unrefined and coarse

merriment. How variety of character was drawn out, how its more

delicate elements were elicited and tempered, how nicely it was

observed, and how finely drawn, let the racy and open-eyed

story-tellers of Florence testify.

[Footnote 22: G. Vill. vi. 69 (1259).]

[Footnote 23: G. Vill. vii. 89 (1283).]

Not perhaps in these troops of revellers, but amid music and song, and

in the pleasant places of social and private life, belonging to the

Florence of arts and poetry, not to the Florence of factions and

strife, should we expect to find the friend of the sweet singer,

Casella, and of the reserved and bold speculator, Guido Cavalcanti;

the mystic poet of the _Vita Nuova_, so sensitive and delicate,

trembling at a gaze or a touch, recording visions, painting angels,

composing Canzoni and commenting on them; finally devoting himself to

the austere consolations of deep study. To superadd to such a

character that of a democratic politician of the middle ages, seems an

incongruous and harsh combination. Yet it was a real one in this

instance. The scholar's life is, in our idea of it, far separated from

the practical and the political; we have been taught by our experience

to disjoin enthusiasm in love, in art, in what is abstract or

imaginative, from keen interest and successful interference in the

affairs and conflicts of life. The practical man may sometimes be also

a _dilettante_; but the dreamer or the thinker, wisely or indolently,

keeps out of the rough ways where real passions and characters meet

and jostle, or if he ventures, seldom gains honour there. The

separation, though a natural one, grows wider as society becomes more

vast and manifold, as its ends, functions, and pursuits are

disentangled, while they multiply. But in Dante's time, and in an

Italian city, it was not such a strange thing that the most refined

and tender interpreter of feeling, the popular poet, whose verses

touched all hearts, and were in every mouth, should be also at once

the ardent follower of all abstruse and difficult learning, and a

prominent character among those who administered the State. In that

narrow sphere of action, in that period of dawning powers and

circumscribed knowledge, it seemed no unreasonable hope or unwise

ambition to attempt the compassing of all science, and to make it

subserve and illustrate the praise of active citizenship.[24] Dante,

like other literary celebrities of the time, was not less from the

custom of the day, than from his own purpose, a public man. He took

his place among his fellow-citizens; he went out to war with them; he

fought, it is said, among the skirmishers at the great Guelf victory

of Campaldino; to qualify himself for office in the democracy, he

enrolled himself in one of the Guilds of the people, and was

matriculated in the "Art" of the Apothecaries; he served the State as

its agent abroad; he went on important missions to the cities and

courts of Italy--according to a Florentine tradition, which enumerates

fourteen distinct embassies, even to Hungary and France. In the

memorable year of Jubilee, 1300, he was one of the Priors of the

Republic. There is no shrinking from fellowship and co-operation and

conflict with the keen or bold men of the market-place and

council-hall, in that mind of exquisite and, as drawn by itself,

exaggerated sensibility. The doings and characters of men, the

workings of society, the fortunes of Italy, were watched and thought

of with as deep an interest as the courses of the stars, and read in

the real spectacle of life with as profound emotion as in the

miraculous page of Virgil; and no scholar ever read Virgil with such

feeling--no astronomer ever watched the stars with more eager

inquisitiveness. The whole man opens to the world around him; all

affections and powers, soul and sense, diligently and thoughtfully

directed and trained, with free and concurrent and equal energy, with

distinct yet harmonious purposes, seek out their respective and

appropriate objects, moral, intellectual, natural, spiritual, in that

admirable scene and hard field where man is placed to labour and love,

to be exercised, proved, and judged.

[Footnote 24: _Vide_ the opening of the _De Monarchia_.]

In a fresco in the chapel of the old palace of the Podestà[25] at

Florence is a portrait of Dante, said to be by the hand of his

contemporary Giotto. It was discovered in 1841 under the whitewash,

and a tracing made by Mr. Seymour Kirkup has been reproduced in

fac-simile by the Arundel Society. The fresco was afterwards restored

or repainted with no happy success. He is represented as he might have

been in the year of Campaldino (1289). The countenance is youthful yet

manly, more manly than it appears in the engravings of the picture;

but it only suggests the strong deep features of the well-known

traditional face. He is drawn with much of the softness, and

melancholy pensive sweetness, and with something also of the quaint

stiffness of the _Vita Nuova_--with his flower and his book. With him

is drawn his master, Brunetto Latini,[26] and Corso Donati. We do not

know what occasion led Giotto thus to associate him with the great

"Baron." Dante was, indeed, closely connected with the Donati. The

dwelling of his family was near theirs, in the "Quarter of Scandal,"

the Ward of the Porta S. Piero. He married a daughter of their house,

Madonna Gemma. None of his friends are commemorated with more

affection than the companion of his light and wayward days, remembered

not without a shade of anxious sadness, yet with love and hope,

Corso's brother, Forese.[27] No sweeter spirit sings and smiles in the

illumined spheres of Paradise, than she whom Forese remembers as on

earth one,

Che tra bella e buona

Non so qual fosse più--[28]

and who, from the depth of her heavenly joy, teaches the poet that in

the lowest place among the blessed there can be no envy[29]--the

sister of Forese and Corso, Piccarda. The _Commedia_, though it

speaks, as if in prophecy, of Corso's miserable death, avoids the

mention of his name.[30] Its silence is so remarkable as to seem

significant. But though history does not group together Corso and

Dante, the picture represents the truth--their fortunes were linked

together. They were actors in the same scene--at this distance of time

two of the most prominent; though a scene very different from that

calm and grave assembly, which Giotto's placid pencil has drawn on the

old chapel wall.

[Footnote 25: The Bargello, a prison (1850); a museum (1878). _V._

Vasari, p. 311.]

[Footnote 26: He died in 1294. G. Vill. viii. 10.]

[Footnote 27: _Purgat._ c. 23.]

[Footnote 28: _Ibid._ c. 24.

My sister, good and beautiful--which most I know not.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 29: _Parad._ c. 3.]

[Footnote 30: _Purg._ c. 24, 82-87.]

The outlines of this part of Dante's history are so well known that it

is not necessary to dwell on them; and more than the outlines we know

not. The family quarrels came to a head, issued in parties, and the

parties took names; they borrowed them from two rival factions in a

neighbouring town, Pistoia, whose feud was imported into Florence; and

the Guelfs became divided into the Black Guelfs who were led by the

Donati, and the White Guelfs who sided with the Cerchi.[31] It still

professed to be but a family feud, confined to the great houses; but

they were too powerful and Florence too small for it not to affect the

whole Republic. The middle classes and the artisans looked on, and

for a time not without satisfaction, at the strife of the great men;

but it grew evident that one party must crush the other, and become

dominant in Florence; and of the two, the Cerchi and their White

adherents were less formidable to the democracy than the unscrupulous

and overbearing Donati, with their military renown and lordly tastes;

proud not merely of being nobles, but Guelf nobles; always loyal

champions, once the martyrs, and now the hereditary assertors, of the

great Guelf cause. The Cerchi with less character and less zeal, but

rich, liberal, and showy, and with more of rough kindness and vulgar

good-nature for the common people, were more popular in Guelf Florence

than the "Parte Guelfa;" and, of course, the Ghibellines wished them

well. Both the contemporary historians of Florence lead us to think

that they might have been the governors and guides of the Republic--if

they had chosen, and had known how; and both, though condemning the

two parties equally, seemed to have thought that this would have been

the best result for the State. But the accounts of both, though they

are very different writers, agree in their scorn of the leaders of the

White Guelfs. They were upstarts, purse-proud, vain, and

coarse-minded; and they dared to aspire to an ambition which they were

too dull and too cowardly to pursue, when the game was in their

hands. They wished to rule; but when they might, they were afraid. The

commons were on their side, the moderate men, the party of law, the

lovers of republican government, and for the most part the

magistrates; but they shrank from their fortune, "more from cowardice

than from goodness, because they exceedingly feared their

adversaries."[32] Boniface VIII. had no prepossessions in Florence,

except for energy and an open hand; the side which was most popular he

would have accepted and backed; but "he would not lose," he said, "the

men for the women." "_Io non voglio perdere gli uomini per le

femminelle._"[33] If the Black party furnished types for the grosser

or fiercer forms of wickedness in the poet's Hell, the White party

surely were the originals of that picture of stupid and cowardly

selfishness, in the miserable crowd who moan and are buffeted in the

vestibule of the Pit, mingled with the angels who dared neither to

rebel nor be faithful, but "_were for themselves_;" and whoever it may

be who is singled out in the "setta dei cattivi," for deeper and

special scorn--he,

Che fece per viltà il gran rifiuto--[34]

the idea was derived from the Cerchi in Florence.

[Footnote 31: In 1300. G. Villani, viii. 38, 39.]

[Footnote 32: _Dino Comp._ p. 45.]

[Footnote 33: _Ibid._ p. 62.]

[Footnote 34: _Inf._ c. 3, 60.]

A French prince was sent by the Pope to mediate and make peace in

Florence. The Black Guelfs and Corso Donati came with him. The

magistrates were overawed and perplexed. The White party were, step by

step, amused, entrapped, led blindly into false plots, entangled in

the elaborate subtleties, and exposed with all the zest and mockery,

of Italian intrigue--finally chased out of their houses and from the

city, condemned unheard, outlawed, ruined in name and property, by the

Pope's French mediator. With them fell many citizens who had tried to

hold the balance between the two parties: for the leaders of the Black

Guelfs were guilty of no errors of weakness. In two extant lists of

the proscribed--condemned by default, for corruption and various

crimes, especially for hindering the entrance into Florence of Charles

de Valois, to a heavy fine and banishment--then, two months after, for

contumacy, to be burned alive if he ever fell into the hands of the

Republic--appears the name of Dante Alighieri; and more than this,

concerning the history of his expulsion, we know not.[35]

[Footnote 35: Pelli, _Memorie per servire alla vita di Dante._ Fir.

1823, pp. 105, 106.]

Of his subsequent life, history tells us little more than the general

character. He acted for a time in concert with the expelled party,

when they attempted to force their way back to Florence; he gave them

up at last in scorn and despair: but he never returned to Florence.

And he found no new home for the rest of his days. Nineteen years,

from his exile to his death, he was a wanderer. The character is

stamped on his writings. History, tradition, documents, all scanty or

dim, do but disclose him to us at different points, appearing here and

there, we are not told how or why. One old record, discovered by

antiquarian industry, shows him in a village church near Florence,

planning, with the Cerchi and the White party, an attack on the Black

Guelfs. In another, he appears in the Val di Magra, making peace

between its small potentates: in another, as the inhabitant of a

certain street in Padua. The traditions of some remote spots about

Italy still connect his name with a ruined tower, a mountain glen, a

cell in a convent. In the recollections of the following generation,

his solemn and melancholy form mingled reluctantly, and for awhile, in

the brilliant court of the Scaligers; and scared the women, as a

visitant of the other world, as he passed by their doors in the

streets of Verona. Rumour brings him to the West--with probability to

Paris, more doubtfully to Oxford. But little certain can be made out

about the places where he was an honoured and admired, but it may be,

not always a welcome guest, till we find him sheltered, cherished,

and then laid at last to rest, by the Lords of Ravenna. There he still

rests, in a small, solitary chapel, built, not by a Florentine, but a

Venetian. Florence, "that mother of little love," asked for his bones;

but rightly asked in vain.[36] His place of repose is better in those

remote and forsaken streets "by the shore of the Adrian Sea," hard by

the last relics of the Roman Empire--the mausoleum of the children of

Theodosius, and the mosaics of Justinian--than among the assembled

dead of S. Croce, or amid the magnificence of S. Maria del Fiore.[37]

[Footnote 36: See Dr. Barlow's _Sixth Centenary Festivals of Dante_.

(1866.)]

[Footnote 37: These notices have been carefully collected by _Pelli_,

who seems to have left little to glean (_Memorie_, &c. Ed. 2da,

1823). A few additions have been made by _Gerini_ (_Mem. Stor. della

Lunigiana_), and _Troya_ (_Veltro Allegorico_), but they are not of

much importance. _Arrivabene_ (_Secolo di Dante_) has brought together

a mass of illustration which is very useful, and would be more so, if

he were more careful, and quoted his authorities. _Balbo_ arranges

these materials with sense and good feeling; though, as a writer, he

is below his subject. A few traits and anecdotes may be found in the

novelists--as Sacchetti.]

The _Commedia_, at the first glance, shows the traces of its author's

life. It is the work of a wanderer. The very form in which it is cast

is that of a journey, difficult, toilsome, perilous, and full of

change. It is more than a working out of that touching phraseology of

the middle ages, in which "the way" was the technical theological

expression for this mortal life; and "_viator_" meant man in his

state of trial, as "_comprehensor_" meant man made perfect, having

attained to his heavenly country. It is more than merely this. The

writer's mind is full of the recollections and definite images of his

various journeys. The permanent scenery of the _Inferno_ and

_Purgatorio_, very variously and distinctly marked, is that of travel.

The descent down the sides of the Pit, and the ascent of the Sacred

Mountain, show one familiar with such scenes--one who had climbed

painfully in perilous passes, and grown dizzy on the brink of narrow

ledges over sea or torrent. It is scenery from the gorges of the Alps

and Apennines, or the terraces and precipices of the Riviera. Local

reminiscences abound:--the severed rocks of the Adige Valley--the

waterfall of S. Benedetto--the crags of Pietra-pana and S. Leo, which

overlook the plains of Lucca and Ravenna--the "fair river" that flows

among the poplars between Chiaveri and Sestri--the marble quarries of

Carrara--the "rough and desert ways between Lerici and Turbia," and

those towery cliffs, going sheer into the deep sea at Noli, which

travellers on the Corniche road some thirty years ago may yet remember

with fear. Mountain experience furnished that picture of the traveller

caught in an Alpine mist and gradually climbing above it; seeing the

vapours grow thin, and the sun's orb appear faintly through them; and

issuing at last into sunshine on the mountain top, while the light of

sunset was lost already on the shores below:

Ai raggi, morti già nei bassi lidi:--_Purg._ 17.

or that image of the cold dull shadow over the torrent, beneath the

Alpine fir--

Un'ombra smorta

Qual sotto foglie verdi e rami nigri

Sovra suoi freddi rivi, l'Alpe porta:--_Purg._ 33.[38]

or of the large snow-flakes falling without wind, among the

mountains--

d'un cader lento

Piovean di fuoco dilatate falde

Come di neve in Alpe senza vento.--_Inferno_, 14.[39]

[Footnote 38:

A death-like shade--

Like that beneath black boughs and foliage green

O'er the cool streams in Alpine glens display'd.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 39:

O'er all the sandy desert falling slow,

Were shower'd dilated flakes of fire, like snow

On Alpine summits, when the wind is low.--IBID.]

He delights in a local name and local image--the boiling pitch, and

the clang of the shipwrights in the arsenal of Venice--the sepulchral

fields of Arles and Pola--the hot-spring of Viterbo--the hooded monks

of Cologne--the dykes of Flanders and Padua--the Maremma, with its

rough brushwood, its wild boars, its snakes, and fevers. He had

listened to the south wind among the pine tops, in the forest by the

sea, at Ravenna. He had watched under the Carisenda tower at Bologna,

and seen the driving clouds "give away their motion" to it, and make

it seem to be falling; and had noticed how at Rome the October sun

sets between Corsica and Sardinia.[40] His images of the sea are

numerous and definite--the ship backing out of the tier in harbour,

the diver plunging after the fouled anchor, the mast rising, the ship

going fast before the wind, the water closing in its wake, the arched

backs of the porpoises the forerunners of a gale, the admiral watching

everything from poop to prow, the oars stopping altogether at the

sound of the whistle, the swelling sails becoming slack when the mast

snaps and falls.[41] Nowhere could we find so many of the most

characteristic and strange sensations of the traveller touched with

such truth. Everyone knows the lines which speak of the voyager's

sinking of heart on the first evening at sea, and of the longings

wakened in the traveller at the beginning of his journey by the

distant evening bell[42]; the traveller's _morning_ feelings are not

less delicately noted--the strangeness on first waking in the open air

with the sun high; morning thoughts, as day by day he wakes nearer

home; the morning sight of the sea-beach quivering in the early light;

the tarrying and lingering, before setting out in the morning[43]--

Noi eravam lunghesso 'l mare ancora,

Come gente che pensa al suo cammino,

Che va col cuore, e col corpo dimora.[44]

[Footnote 40: _Inf._ 31, 18.]

[Footnote 41: _Ibid._ 17, 16, 31; _Purg._ 24; _Par._ 2; _Inf._ 22;

_Purg._ 30; _Par._ 25; _Inf._ 7.]

[Footnote 42: _Purg._ 8. "Era già l'ora," &c.]

[Footnote 43: _Purg._ 19, 27, 1, 2.]

[Footnote 44:

By ocean's shore we still prolonged our stay

Like men, who, thinking of a journey near,

Advance in thought, while yet their limbs delay.--WRIGHT.]

He has recorded equally the anxiety, the curiosity, the suspicion with

which, in those times, stranger met and eyed stranger on the road; and

a still more characteristic trait is to be found in those lines where

he describes the pilgrim gazing around in the church of his vow, and

thinking how he shall tell of it:

E quasi peregrin che si ricrea

Nel tempio del suo voto riguardando,

E spera già ridir com'ello stea:--_Parad._ 31.[45]

or again, in that description, so simple and touching, of his thoughts

while waiting to see the relic for which he left his home:

Quale è colui che forse di Croazia

Viene a veder la Veronica nostra,

Che per l'antica fama non si sazia,

Ma dice nel pensier, fin che si mostra;

Signor mio Gesù Cristo, Dio verace,

Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?--_Parad._ 31.[46]

[Footnote 45:

And like a pilgrim who with fond delight

Surveys the temple he has vow'd to see,

And hopes one day its wonders to recite.--IBID.]

[Footnote 46:

Like one who, from Croatia come to see

Our Veronica (image long adored),

Gazes, as though content he ne'er could be--

Thus musing, while the relic is pourtray'd--

"Jesus my God, my Saviour and my Lord,

O were thy features these I see display'd?"--WRIGHT.

Quella imagine benedetta la quale Gesù Cristo lasciò a noi

per esempio della sua bellissima figura.--_Vita Nuova_, p.

353.

He speaks of the pilgrims going to Rome to see it; compare also the

sonnet to the pilgrims, p. 355:

Deh peregrini, che pensosi andate

Forse di cosa, che non v'è presente,

Venite voi di sì lontana gente,

Com'alla vista voi ne dimostrate.]

Of these years then of disappointment and exile the _Divina Commedia_

was the labour and fruit. A story in Boccaccio's life of Dante, told

with some detail, implies indeed that it was begun, and some progress

made in it, while Dante was yet in Florence--begun in Latin, and he

quotes three lines of it--continued afterwards in Italian. This is not

impossible; indeed the germ and presage of it may be traced in the

_Vita Nuova_. The idealised saint is there, in all the grace of her

pure and noble humbleness, the guide and safeguard of the poet's

soul. She is already in glory with Mary the queen of angels. She

already beholds the face of the Everblessed. And the _envoye_ of the

_Vita Nuova_ is the promise of the _Commedia_. "After this sonnet,"

(in which he describes how beyond the widest sphere of heaven his love

had beheld a lady receiving honour, and dazzling by her glory the

unaccustomed spirit)--"After this sonnet there appeared to me a

marvellous vision, in which I saw things which made me resolve not to

speak more of this blessed one, until such time as I should be able to

indite more worthily of her. And to attain to this, I study to the

utmost of my power, as she truly knows. So that, if it shall be the

pleasure of Him, by whom all things live, that my life continue for

some years, I hope to say of her that which never hath been said of

any woman. And afterwards, may it please Him, who is the Lord of

kindness, that my soul may go to behold the glory of her lady, that

is, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously gazes on the countenance

of Him, _qui est per omnia secula benedictus_."[47] It would be

wantonly violating probability and the unity of a great life, to

suppose that this purpose, though transformed, was ever forgotten or

laid aside. The poet knew not indeed what he was promising, what he

was pledging himself to--through what years of toil and anguish he

would have to seek the light and the power he had asked; in what form

his high venture should be realised. But the _Commedia_ is the work of

no light resolve, and we need not be surprised at finding the resolve

and the purpose at the outset of the poet's life. We may freely accept

the key supplied by the words of the _Vita Nuova_. The spell of

boyhood is never broken, through the ups and downs of life. His course

of thought advances, alters, deepens, but is continuous. From youth to

age, from the first glimpse to the perfect work, the same idea abides

with him, "even from the flower till the grape was ripe." It may

assume various changes--an image of beauty, a figure of philosophy, a

voice from the other world, a type of heavenly wisdom and joy--but

still it holds, in self-imposed and willing thraldom, that creative

and versatile and tenacious spirit. It was the dream and hope of too

deep and strong a mind to fade and come to naught--to be other than

the seed of the achievement and crown of life. But with all faith in

the star and the freedom of genius, we may doubt whether the

prosperous citizen would have done that which was done by the man

without a home. Beatrice's glory might have been sung in grand though

barbarous Latin to the literati of the fourteenth century; or a poem

of new beauty might have fixed the language and opened the literature

of modern Italy; but it could hardly have been the _Commedia_. That

belongs, in its date and its greatness, to the time when sorrow had

become the poet's daily portion, and the condition of his life.

[Footnote 47: _Vita Nuova_, last paragraph. See _Purg._ 30; _Parad._

30, 6, 28-33.]

The _Commedia_ is a novel and startling apparition in literature.

Probably it has been felt by some, who have approached it with the

reverence due to a work of such renown, that the world has been

generous in placing it so high. It seems so abnormal, so lawless, so

reckless of all ordinary proprieties and canons of feeling, taste, and

composition. It is rough and abrupt; obscure in phrase and allusion,

doubly obscure in purpose. It is a medley of all subjects usually kept

distinct: scandal of the day and transcendental science, politics and

confessions, coarse satire and angelic joy, private wrongs, with the

mysteries of the faith, local names and habitations of earth, with

visions of hell and heaven. It is hard to keep up with the

ever-changing current of feeling, to pass as the poet passes, without

effort or scruple, from tenderness to ridicule, from hope to bitter

scorn or querulous complaint, from high-raised devotion to the

calmness of prosaic subtleties or grotesque detail. Each separate

element and vein of thought has its precedent, but not their

amalgamation. Many had written visions of the unseen world, but they

had not blended with them their personal fortunes. S. Augustine had

taught the soul to contemplate its own history, and had traced its

progress from darkness to light;[48] but he had not interwoven with it

the history of Italy, and the consummation of all earthly destinies.

Satire was no new thing; Juvenal had given it a moral, some of the

Provençal poets a political turn; S. Jerome had kindled into it

fiercely and bitterly even while expounding the Prophets; but here it

streams forth in all its violence, within the precincts of the eternal

world, and alternates with the hymns of the blessed. Lucretius had

drawn forth the poetry of nature and its laws; Virgil and Livy had

unfolded the poetry of the Roman empire; S. Augustine, the still

grander poetry of the history of the City of God; but none had yet

ventured to weave into one the three wonderful threads. And yet the

scope of the Italian poet, vast and comprehensive as the issue of all

things, universal as the government which directs nature and

intelligence, forbids him not to stoop to the lowest caitiff he has

ever despised, the minutest fact in nature that has ever struck his

eye, the merest personal association which hangs pleasantly in his

memory. Writing for all time, he scruples not to mix with all that is

august and permanent in history and prophecy, incidents the most

transient, and names the most obscure; to waste an immortality of

shame or praise on those about whom his own generation were to inquire

in vain. Scripture history runs into profane; Pagan legends teach

their lesson side by side with Scripture scenes and miracles; heroes

and poets of heathenism, separated from their old classic world, have

their place in the world of faith, discourse with Christians of

Christian dogmas, and even mingle with the Saints; Virgil guides the

poet through his fear and his penitence to the gates of Paradise.

[Footnote 48: See _Convito_, 1, 2.]

This feeling of harsh and extravagant incongruity, of causeless and

unpardonable darkness, is perhaps the first impression of many readers

of the _Commedia_. But probably as they read on, there will mingle

with this a sense of strange and unusual grandeur, arising not alone

from the hardihood of the attempt, and the mystery of the subject, but

from the power and the character of the poet. It will strike them that

words cut deeper than is their wont; that from that wild uncongenial

imagery, thoughts emerge of singular truth and beauty. Their

dissatisfaction will be chequered, even disturbed--for we can often

bring ourselves to sacrifice much for the sake of a clear and

consistent view--by the appearance, amid much that repels them, of

proofs undeniable and accumulating of genius as mighty as it is

strange. Their perplexity and disappointment may grow into distinct

condemnation, or it may pass into admiration and delight; but no one

has ever come to the end of the _Commedia_ without feeling that if it

has given him a new view and specimen of the wildness and

unaccountable waywardness of the human mind, it has also added, as few

other books have, to his knowledge of its feelings, its capabilities,

and its grasp, and suggested larger and more serious thoughts, for

which he may be grateful, concerning that unseen world of which he is

even here a member.

Dante would not have thanked his admirers for becoming apologists.

Those in whom the sense of imperfection and strangeness overpowers

sympathy for grandeur, and enthusiasm for nobleness, and joy in

beauty, he certainly would have left to themselves. But neither would

he teach any that he was leading them along a smooth and easy road.

The _Commedia_ will always be a hard and trying book; nor did the

writer much care that it should be otherwise. Much of this is no doubt

to be set down to its age; much of its roughness and extravagance, as

well as of its beauty--its allegorical spirit, its frame and scenery.

The idea of a visionary voyage through the worlds of pain and bliss is

no invention of the poet--it was one of the commonest and most

familiar medieval vehicles of censure or warning; and those who love

to trace the growth and often strange fortunes of popular ideas, or

whose taste leads them to disbelieve in genius, and track the

parentage of great inventions to the foolish and obscure, may find

abundant materials in the literature of legends.[49] But his own

age--the age which received the _Commedia_ with mingled enthusiasm and

wonder, and called it the Divine, was as much perplexed as we are,

though probably rather pleased thereby than offended. That within a

century after its composition, in the more famous cities and

universities of Italy, Florence, Venice, Bologna, and Pisa, chairs

should have been founded, and illustrious men engaged to lecture on

it, is a strange homage to its power, even in that time of quick

feeling; but as strange and great a proof of its obscurity. What is

dark and forbidding in it was scarcely more clear to the poet's

contemporaries. And he, whose last object was amusement, invites no

audience but a patient and confiding one.

O voi che siete in piccioletta barca,

Desiderosi di ascoltar, seguiti

Dietro al mio legno che cantando varca,

Tornate a riveder li vostri liti:

Non vi mettete in pelago, chè forse

Perdendo me rimarreste smarriti.

L'acqua ch'io prendo giammai non si corse:

Minerva spira, e conducemi Apollo,

E nuove muse mi dimostran l'Orse.

Voi altri pochi, che drizzaste 'l collo

Per tempo al pan degli angeli, del quale

Vivesi qui, ma non si vien satollo,

Metter potete ben per l'alto sale

Vostro navigio, servando mio solco

Dinanzi all'acqua che ritorna eguale.

Que gloriosi che passaro a Colco,

Non s'ammiraron, come voi farete,

Quando Jason vider fatto bifolco.--_Parad._ 2.[50]

[Footnote 49: _Vide_ Ozanam, _Dante_, pp. 535, _sqq._ Ed.]

[Footnote 50:

O ye who fain would listen to my song,

Following in little bark full eagerly

My venturous ship, that chanting hies along,

Turn back unto your native shores again;

Tempt not the deep, lest haply losing me,

In unknown paths bewildered ye remain.

I am the first this voyage to essay;

Minerva breathes--Apollo is my guide;

And new-born muses do the Bears display.

Ye other few, who have look'd up on high

For angels' food betimes, e'en here supplied

Largely, but not enough to satisfy,--

Mid the deep ocean ye your course may take,

My track pursuing the pure waters through,

Ere reunites the quickly-closing wake.

Those glorious ones, who drove of yore their prow

To Colchos, wonder'd not as ye will do,

When they saw Jason working at the plough.

WRIGHT'S _Dante_.]

The character of the _Commedia_ belongs much more, in its excellence

and its imperfections, to the poet himself and the nature of his

work, than to his age. That cannot screen his faults; nor can it

arrogate to itself, it must be content to share, his glory. His

leading idea and line of thought was much more novel then than it is

now, and belongs much more to the modern than the medieval world. The

_Story of a Life_, the poetry of man's journey through the wilderness

to his true country, is now in various and very different shapes as

hackneyed a form of imagination, as an allegory, an epic, a legend of

chivalry were in former times. Not, of course, that any time has been

without its poetical feelings and ideas on the subject; and never were

they deeper and more diversified, more touching and solemn, than in

the ages that passed from S. Augustine and S. Gregory to S. Thomas and

S. Bonaventura. But a philosophical poem, where they were not merely

the colouring, but the subject, an _epos_ of the soul, placed for its

trial in a fearful and wonderful world, with relations to time and

matter, history and nature, good and evil, the beautiful, the

intelligible, and the mysterious, sin and grace, the infinite and the

eternal--and having in the company and under the influences of other

intelligences, to make its choice, to struggle, to succeed or fail, to

gain the light, or be lost--this was a new and unattempted theme. It

has been often tried since, in faith or doubt, in egotism, in sorrow,

in murmuring, in affectation, sometimes in joy--in various forms, in

prose and verse, completed or fragmentary, in reality or fiction, in

the direct or the shadowed story, in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, in

Rousseau's _Confessions_, in _Wilhelm Meister_ and _Faust_, in the

_Excursion_. It is common enough now for the poet, in the faith of

human sympathy, and in the sense of the unexhausted vastness of his

mysterious subject, to believe that his fellows will not see without

interest and profit, glimpses of his own path and fortunes--hear from

his lips the disclosure of his chief delights, his warnings, his

fears--follow the many-coloured changes, the impressions and workings,

of a character, at once the contrast and the counterpart to their own.

But it was a new path then; and he needed to be, and was, a bold man,

who first opened it--a path never trod without peril, usually with

loss or failure.

And certainly no great man ever made less secret to himself of his own

genius. He is at no pains to rein in or to dissemble his consciousness

of power, which he has measured without partiality, and feels sure

will not fail him. "Fidandomi di me più che di un altro"[51]--is a

reason which he assigns without reserve. We look with the distrust and

hesitation of modern days, yet, in spite of ourselves, not without

admiration and regret, at such frank hardihood. It was more common

once than now. When the world was young, it was more natural and

allowable--it was often seemly and noble. Men knew not their

difficulties as we know them--we, to whom time, which has taught so

much wisdom, has brought so many disappointments--we who have seen how

often the powerful have fallen short, and the noble gone astray, and

the most admirable missed their perfection. It is becoming in us to

distrust ourselves--to be shy if we cannot be modest; it is but a

respectful tribute to human weakness and our brethren's failures. But

there was a time when great men dared to claim their greatness--not in

foolish self-complacency, but in unembarrassed and majestic

simplicity, in magnanimity and truth, in the consciousness of a

serious and noble purpose, and of strength to fulfil it. Without

passion, without elation as without shrinking, the poet surveys his

superiority and his high position, as something external to him; he

has no doubts about it, and affects none. He would be a coward, if he

shut his eyes to what he could do; as much a trifler in displaying

reserve as ostentation. Nothing is more striking in the _Commedia_

than the serene and unhesitating confidence with which he announces

himself the heir and reviver of the poetic power so long lost to the

world--the heir and reviver of it in all its fulness. He doubts not

of the judgment of posterity. One has arisen who shall throw into the

shade all modern reputations, who shall bequeath to Christendom the

glory of that name of Poet, "che più dura e più onora," hitherto the

exclusive boast of heathenism, and claim the rare honours of the

laurel:

Sì rade volte, padre, se ne coglie

Per trionfare o Cesare o poeta,

(Colpa e vergogna dell'umane voglie),

Che partorir letizia in su la lieta

Delfica deità dovrìa la fronda

Peneia quando alcun di sè asseta.--_Parad._ 1.[52]

[Footnote 51: _Convito_, 1, 10.]

[Footnote 52:

For now so rarely Poet gathers these,

Or Cæsar, winning an immortal praise

(Shame unto man's degraded energies),

That joy should to the Delphic God arise

When haply any one aspires to gain

The high reward of the Peneian prize.--WRIGHT.]

He has but to follow his star to be sure of the glorious port:[53] he

is the master of language: he can give fame to the dead--no task or

enterprise appals him, for whom spirits keep watch in heaven, and

angels have visited the shades--"tal si partì dal cantar

alleluia:"--who is Virgil's foster child and familiar friend. Virgil

bids him lay aside the last vestige of fear. Virgil is to "crown him

king and priest over himself,"[54] for a higher venture than heathen

poetry had dared; in Virgil's company he takes his place without

diffidence, and without vain-glory, among the great poets of old--a

sister soul.[55]

[Footnote 53: Brunetto Latini's Prophecy, _Inf._ 15.]

[Footnote 54: See the grand ending of _Purg._ 27.

Tratto t'ho qui con ingegno e con arte;

Lo tuo piacere omai prendi per duce:

Fuor se' dell'erte vie, fuor se' dell'arte.

Vedi il sole che 'n fronte ti riluce.

Vede l'erbetta, i fiori, e gli arboscelli

Che questa terra sol da sè produce.

Mentre che vegnon lieti gli occhi belli

Che lagrimando a te venir mi fenno,

Seder ti puoi e puoi andar tra elli.

Non aspettar mio dir più nè mio cenno;

Libero, dritto, sano è tuo arbitrio,

E fallo fora non fare a suo senno:

Perch'io te sopra te corono e mitrio.]

[Footnote 55: _Purg._ c. 21.]

Poichè la voce fu restata e queta,

Vidi quattro grand'ombre a noi venire:

Sembianza avean nè trista nè lieta:

* * * *

Così vidi adunar la bella scuola

Di quel signor dell'altissimo canto

Che sovra gli altri come aquila vola.

Da ch'ebber ragionato insieme alquanto

Volsersi a me con salutevol cenno

E 'l mio maestro sorrise di tanto.

E più d'onore ancora assai mi fenno:

Ch'essi mi fecer della loro schiera,

Sì ch'io fui sesto tra cotanto senno.--_Inf._ 4.[56]

[Footnote 56:

Ceased had the voice--when in composed array

Four mighty shades approaching I survey'd;--

Nor joy, nor sorrow did their looks betray.

* * * *

Assembled thus, was offered to my sight

The school of him, the Prince of poetry,

Who, eagle-like, o'er others takes his flight.

When they together had conversed awhile,

They turned to me with salutation bland,

Which from my master drew a friendly smile:

And greater glory still they bade me share,

Making me join their honourable band--

The sixth united to such genius rare.--WRIGHT.]

This sustained magnanimity and lofty self-reliance, which never

betrays itself, is one of the main elements in the grandeur of the

_Commedia_. It is an imposing spectacle to see such fearlessness, such

freedom, and such success in an untried path, amid unprepared

materials and rude instruments, models scanty and only half

understood, powers of language still doubtful and suspected, the

deepest and strongest thought still confined to unbending forms and

the harshest phrase; exact and extensive knowledge, as yet far out of

reach; with no help from time, which familiarises all things, and of

which, manner, elaboration, judgment, and taste are the gifts and

inheritance;--to see the poet, trusting to his eye "which saw

everything"[57] and his searching and creative spirit, venture

undauntedly into all regions of thought and feeling, to draw thence a

picture of the government of the universe.

[Footnote 57: "Dante che tutto vedea."--_Sacchetti_, Nov. 114.]

But such greatness had to endure its price and its counterpoise. Dante

was alone:--except in his visionary world, solitary and companionless.

The blind Greek had his throng of listeners; the blind Englishman his

home and the voices of his daughters; Shakspere had his free

associates of the stage; Goethe, his correspondents, a court, and all

Germany to applaud. Not so Dante. The friends of his youth are already

in the region of spirits, and meet him there--Casella, Forese;--Guido

Cavalcanti will soon be with them. In this upper world he thinks and

writes as a friendless man--to whom all that he had held dearest was

either lost or embittered; he thinks and writes for himself.

And so he is his own law; he owns no tribunal of opinion or standard

of taste, except among the great dead. He hears them exhort him to

"let the world talk on--to stand like a tower unshaken by the

winds."[58] He fears to be "a timid friend to truth," "--to lose life

among those who shall call this present time antiquity."[59] He

belongs to no party. He is his own arbiter of the beautiful and the

becoming; his own judge over right and injustice, innocence and guilt.

He has no followers to secure, no school to humour, no public to

satisfy; nothing to guide him, and nothing to consult, nothing to bind

him, nothing to fear, out of himself. In full trust in heart and will,

in his sense of truth, in his teeming brain, he gives himself free

course. If men have idolised the worthless, and canonised the base, he

reverses their award without mercy, and without apology; if they have

forgotten the just because he was obscure, he remembers him: if "Monna

Berta and Ser Martino,"[60] the wimpled and hooded gossips of the

day, with their sage company, have settled it to their own

satisfaction that Providence cannot swerve from their general rules,

cannot save where they have doomed, or reject where they have

approved--he both fears more and hopes more. Deeply reverent to the

judgment of the ages past, reverent to the persons whom they have

immortalised for good and even for evil, in his own day he cares for

no man's person and no man's judgment. And he shrinks not from the

auguries and forecastings of his mind about their career and fate. Men

reasoned rapidly in those days on such subjects, and without much

scruple; but not with such deliberate and discriminating sternness.

The most popular and honoured names in Florence,

Farinata e 'l Tegghiaio, che fur sì degni,

Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, e 'l Mosca

E gli altri, ch'a ben far poser gl'ingegni;

have yet the damning brand: no reader of the _Inferno_ can have

forgotten the shock of that terrible reply to the poet's questionings

about their fate:

Ei son tra le anime più nere.[61]

[Footnote 58: _Purg._ 5.]

[Footnote 59:

La luce in che rideva il mio tesoro

Ch'io trovai lì, si fe' prima corrusca,

Quale a raggio di sole specchio d'oro;

Indi rispose: coscienza fusca

O della propria o dell'altrui vergogna

Pur sentirà la tua parola brusca;

Ma nondimen, rimossa ogni menzogna,

Tutta tua vision fa manifesta,

E lascia pur grattar dov'è la rogna:

Che se la voce tua sarà molesta

Nel primo gusto, vital nutrimento

Lascerà poi quando sarà digesta.

Questo tuo grido farà come vento

Che le più alte cime più percuote:

E ciò non fia d'onor poco argomento.

Però ti son mostrate, in queste ruote,

Nel monte, e nella valle dolorosa,

Pur l'anime che son di fama note.

Che l'animo di quel ch'ode non posa,

Nè ferma fede, per esemplo ch'aja

La sua radice incognito e nascosa,

Nè per altro argumento che non paja.--_Parad._ 17.]

[Footnote 60:

Non creda Monna Berta e Ser Martino

Per vedere un furare, altro offerere,

Vederli dentro al consiglio divino:

Chè quel può surger, e quel può cadere.--_Ibid._ 13.]

[Footnote 61: _Inf._ 6.]

If he is partial, it is no vulgar partiality: friendship and old

affection do not venture to exempt from its fatal doom the sin of his

famous master, Brunetto Latini;[62] nobleness and great deeds, a

kindred character and common wrongs, are not enough to redeem

Farinata; and he who could tell her story bowed to the eternal law,

and dared not save Francesca. If he condemns by a severer rule than

that of the world, he absolves with fuller faith in the possibilities

of grace. Many names of whom history has recorded no good, are marked

by him for bliss; yet not without full respect for justice. The

penitent of the last hour is saved, but he suffers loss. Manfred's

soul is rescued; mercy had accepted his tears, and forgiven his great

sins; and the excommunication of his enemy did not bar his salvation:

Per lor maladizion sì non si perde

Che non possa tornar l'eterno amore

Mentre che la speranza ha fior del verde.--_Purg._ 3.

[Footnote 62:

Che in la mente m'è fitta, ed or m'accuora,

_La cara buona imagine paterna._--_Inf._ 15.]

Yet his sin, though pardoned, was to keep him for long years from the

perfection of heaven.[63] And with the same independence with which he

assigns their fate, he selects his instances--instances which are to

be the types of character and its issues. No man ever owned more

unreservedly the fascination of greatness, its sway over the

imagination and the heart; no one prized more the grand harmony and

sense of fitness which there is, when the great man and the great

office are joined in one, and reflect each other's greatness. The

famous and great of all ages are gathered in the poet's vision; the

great names even of fable--Geryon and the giants, the Minotaur and

Centaurs, and the heroes of Thebes and Troy. But not the great and

famous only: this is too narrow, too conventional a sphere; it is not

real enough. He felt, what the modern world feels so keenly, that

wonderful histories are latent in the inconspicuous paths of life, in

the fugitive incidents of the hour, among the persons whose faces we

have seen. The Church had from the first been witness to the deep

interest of individual life. The rising taste for novels showed that

society at large was beginning to be alive to it. And it is this

feeling--that behind the veil there may be grades of greatness but

nothing insignificant--that led Dante to refuse to restrict himself to

the characters of fame. He will associate with them the living men who

have stood round him; they are part of the same company with the

greatest. That they have interested him, touched him, moved his

indignation or pity, struck him as examples of great vicissitude or

of a perfect life, have pleased him, loved him--this is enough why

they should live in his poem as they have lived to him. He chooses at

will; history, if it has been negligent at the time about those whom

he thought worthy of renown, must be content with its loss. He tells

their story, or touches them with a word like the most familiar names,

according as he pleases. The obscure highway robber, the obscure

betrayer of his sister's honour--Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,

and Caccianimico--are ranked, not according to their obscurity, but

according to the greatness of their crimes, with the famous

conquerors, and "scourges of God," and seducers of the heroic age,

Pyrrhus and Attila, and the great Jason of "royal port, who sheds no

tear in his torments."[64] He earns as high praise from Virgil, for

his curse on the furious wrath of the old frantic Florentine burgher,

as if he had cursed the disturber of the world's peace.[65] And so in

the realms of joy, among the faithful accomplishers of the highest

trusts, kings and teachers of the nations, founders of orders, sainted

empresses, appear those whom, though the world had forgotten or

misread them, the poet had enshrined in his familiar thoughts, for

their sweetness, their gentle goodness, their nobility of soul; the

penitent, the nun, the old crusading ancestor, the pilgrim who had

deserted the greatness which he had created, the brave logician, who

"syllogised unpalatable truths" in the Quartier Latin of Paris.[66]

[Footnote 63: Charles of Anjou, his Guelf conqueror, is placed above

him, in the valley of the kings (_Purg._ 7), "Colui dal maschio

naso"--notwithstanding the charges afterwards made against him

(_Purg._ 20).]

[Footnote 64: See the magnificent picture, _Inf._ 18.]

[Footnote 65: _Ibid._ 8.]

[Footnote 66: Cunizza, Piccarda, Cacciaguida, Roméo. (_Parad._ 9, 3,

15, 6, 10.)

----La luce eterna di Sigieri

Che leggendo nel vico degli Strami

Sillogizzò invidiosi veri----

in company with S. Thomas Aquinas, in the sphere of the Sun. Ozanam

gives a few particulars of this forgotten professor of the "Rue du

Fouarre," pp. 320-23.]

There is small resemblance in all this--this arbitrary and imperious

tone, this range of ideas, feelings, and images, this unshackled

freedom, this harsh reality--to the dreamy gentleness of the _Vita

Nuova_, or even the staid argumentation of the more mature _Convito_.

The _Vita Nuova_ is all self-concentration--a brooding, not unpleased,

over the varying tides of feeling, which are little influenced by the

world without; where every fancy, every sensation, every superstition

of the lover is detailed with the most whimsical subtlety. The

_Commedia_, too, has its tenderness--and that more deep, more natural,

more true, than the poet had before adapted to the traditionary

formulæ of the "Courts of Love,"--the eyes of Beatrice are as bright,

and the "conquering light of her smile;"[67] they still culminate,

but they are not alone, in the poet's heaven. And the professed

subject of the _Commedia_ is still Dante's own story and life; he

still makes himself the central point. And steeled as he is by that

high and hard experience of which his poem is the projection and

type--"Ben tetragono ai colpi di ventura"--a stern and brief-spoken

man, set on objects, and occupied with a theme, lofty and vast as can

occupy man's thoughts, he still lets escape ever and anon some passing

avowal of delicate sensitiveness,[68] lingers for a moment on some

indulged self-consciousness, some recollection of his once quick and

changeful mood--"io che son trasmutabil per tutte guise"[69]--or half

playfully alludes to the whispered name of a lady,[70] whose pleasant

courtesy has beguiled a few days of exile. But he is no longer

spell-bound and entangled in fancies of his own weaving--absorbed in

the unprofitable contemplation of his own internal sensations. The man

is indeed the same, still a Florentine, still metaphysical, still a

lover. He returns to the haunts and images of youth, to take among

them his poet's crown; but "with other voice and other garb,"[71] a

penitent and a prophet--with larger thoughts, wider sympathies, freer

utterance; sterner and fiercer, yet nobler and more genuine in his

tenderness--as one whom trial has made serious, and keen, and

intolerant of evil, but not sceptical or callous; yet with the

impressions and memories of a very different scene from his old

day-dreams.

[Footnote 67: Vincendo me col lume d'un sorriso.--_Parad._ 18.]

[Footnote 68: For instance, his feeling of distress at gazing at the

blind, who were not aware of his presence--

A me pareva andando fare oltraggio

Vedendo altrui, non essendo veduto:--_Purg._ 13.

and of shame, at being tempted to listen to a quarrel between two lost

spirits:

Ad ascoltarli er'io del tutto fisso,

Quando 'l Maestro mi disse: or pur mira,

Che per poco è, che teco non mi risso.

Quando io 'l senti' a me parlar con ira

Volsimi verso lui con tal vergogna,

Ch'ancor per la memoria mi si gira, &c.--_Inf._ 30.

and the burst,

O dignitosa coscienza e netta,

Come t'è picciol fallo amaro morso.--_Purg._ 3.]

[Footnote 69: _Parad._ 5.]

[Footnote 70: _Purg._ 24.]

[Footnote 71: _Parad._ 25.]

After that it was the pleasure of the citizens of that

fairest and most famous daughter of Rome, Florence, to cast

me forth from her most sweet bosom (wherein I had been

nourished up to the maturity of my life, and in which, with

all peace to her, I long with all my heart to rest my weary

soul, and finish the time which is given me), I have passed

through almost all the regions to which this language

reaches, a wanderer, almost a beggar, displaying, against my

will, the stroke of fortune, which is ofttimes unjustly wont

to be imputed to the person stricken. Truly, I have been a

ship without a sail or helm, carried to divers harbours, and

gulfs, and shores, by that parching wind which sad poverty

breathes; and I have seemed vile in the eyes of many, who

perchance, from some fame, had imagined of me in another

form; in the sight of whom not only did my presence become

nought, but every work of mine less prized, both what had

been and what was to be wrought.--_Convito_, Tr. i. c. 3.

Thus proved, and thus furnished--thus independent and confident,

daring to trust his instinct and genius in what was entirely untried

and unusual, he entered on his great poem, to shadow forth, under the

figure of his own conversion and purification, not merely how a single

soul rises to its perfection, but how this visible world, in all its

phases of nature, life, and society, is one with the invisible, which

borders on it, actuates, accomplishes, and explains it. It is this

vast plan--to take into his scope, not the soul only in its struggles

and triumph, but all that the soul finds itself engaged with in its

course; the accidents of the hour, and of ages past; the real persons,

great and small, apart from and without whom it cannot think or act;

the material world, its theatre and home--it is this which gives so

many various sides to the _Commedia_, which makes it so novel and

strange. It is not a mere personal history, or a pouring forth of

feeling, like the _Vita Nuova_, though he is himself the mysterious

voyager, and he opens without reserve his actual life and his heart;

he speaks, indeed, in the first person, yet he is but a character of

the drama, and in great part of it with not more of distinct

personality than in that paraphrase of the penitential Psalms, in

which he has preluded so much of the _Commedia_. Yet the _Commedia_ is

not a pure allegory; it admits, and makes use of the allegorical, but

the laws of allegory are too narrow for it; the real in it is too

impatient of the veil, and breaks through in all its hardness and

detail, into what is most shadowy. History is indeed viewed not in its

ephemeral look, but under the light of God's final judgments; in its

completion, not in its provisional and fragmentary character; viewed

therefore but in faith;--but its issues, which in this confused scene

we ordinarily contemplate in the gross, the poet brings down to detail

and individuals; he faces and grasps the tremendous thought that the

very men and women whom we see and speak to, are now the real

representatives of sin and goodness, the true actors in that scene

which is so familiar to us as a picture--unflinching and terrible

heart, he endures to face it in its most harrowing forms. But he wrote

not for sport, nor to give poetic pleasure; he wrote to warn; the seed

of the _Commedia_ was sown in tears, and reaped in misery: and the

consolations which it offers are awful as they are real.

Thus, though he throws into symbol and image, what can only be

expressed by symbol and image, we can as little forget in reading him

this real world in which we live, as we can in one of Shakspere's

plays. It is not merely that the poem is crowded with real personages,

most of them having the single interest to us of being real. But all

that is associated with man's history and existence is interwoven with

the main course of thought--all that gives character to life, all that

gives it form and feature, even to quaintness, all that occupies the

mind, or employs the hand--speculation, science, arts, manufactures,

monuments, scenes, customs, proverbs, ceremonies, games, punishments,

attitudes of men, habits of living creatures. The wildest and most

unearthly imaginations, the most abstruse thoughts take up into, and

incorporate with themselves the forcible and familiar impressions of

our mother earth, and do not refuse the company and aid even of the

homeliest.

This is not mere poetic ornament, peculiarly, profusely, or

extravagantly employed. It is one of the ways in which his dominant

feeling expresses itself--spontaneous and instinctive in each several

instance of it, but the kindling and effluence of deliberate thought,

and attending on a clear purpose--the feeling of the real and intimate

connexion between the objects of sight and faith. It is not that he

sees in one the simple counterpart and reverse of the other, or sets

himself to trace out universally their mutual correspondences; he has

too strong a sense of the reality of this familiar life to reduce it

merely to a shadow and type of the unseen. What he struggles to

express in countless ways, with all the resources of his strange and

gigantic power, is that this world and the next are both equally real,

and both one--parts, however different, of one whole. The world to

come we know but in "a glass darkly;" man can only think and imagine

of it in images, which he knows to be but broken and faint

reflections: but this world we know, not in outline, and featureless

idea, but by name, and face, and shape, by place and person, by the

colours and forms which crowd over its surface, the men who people its

habitations, the events which mark its moments. Detail fills the sense

here, and is the mark of reality. And thus he seeks to keep alive the

feeling of what that world is which he connects with heaven and hell;

not by abstractions, not much by elaborate and highly-finished

pictures, but by names, persons, local features, definite images.

Widely and keenly has he ranged over and searched into the world--with

a largeness of mind which disdained not to mark and treasure up, along

with much unheeded beauty, many a characteristic feature of nature,

unnoticed because so common. All his pursuits and interests contribute

to the impression, which, often instinctively it may be, he strives to

produce, of the manifold variety of our life. As a man of society, his

memory is full of its usages, formalities, graces, follies,

fashions--of expressive motions, postures, gestures, looks--of music,

of handicrafts, of the conversation of friends or associates--of all

that passes, so transient, yet so keenly pleasant or distasteful,

between man and man. As a traveller, he recalls continually the names

and scenes of the world;--as a man of speculation, the secrets of

nature--the phenomena of light, the theory of the planets' motions,

the idea and laws of physiology. As a man of learning, he is filled

with the thoughts and recollections of ancient fable and history; as a

politician, with the thoughts, prognostications, and hopes, of the

history of the day; as a moral philosopher he has watched himself, his

external sensations and changes, his inward passions, his mental

powers, his ideas, his conscience; he has far and wide noted

character, discriminated motives, classed good and evil deeds. All

that the man of society, of travel, of science, of learning, the

politician, the moralist, could gather, is used at will in the great

poetic structure; but all converges to the purpose, and is directed by

the intense feeling of the theologian, who sees this wonderful and

familiar scene melting into, and ending in another yet more wonderful,

but which will one day be as familiar--who sees the difficult but sure

progress of the manifold remedies of the Divine government to their

predestined issue; and, over all, God and His saints.

So comprehensive in interest is the _Commedia_. Any attempt to explain

it, by narrowing that interest to politics, philosophy, the moral

life, or theology itself, must prove inadequate. Theology strikes the

key-note; but history, natural and metaphysical science, poetry, and

art, each in their turn join in the harmony, independent, yet

ministering to the whole. If from the poem itself we could be for a

single moment in doubt of the reality and dominant place of religion

in it, the plain-spoken prose of the _Convito_ would show how he

placed "the Divine Science, full of all peace, and allowing no strife

of opinions and sophisms, for the excellent certainty of its subject,

which is God," in single perfection above all other sciences, "which

are, as Solomon speaks, but queens, or concubines, or maidens; but she

is the 'Dove,' and the 'perfect one'--'Dove,' because without stain of

strife--'perfect,' because perfectly she makes us behold the truth, in

which our soul stills itself and is at rest." But the same passage[72]

shows likewise how he viewed all human knowledge and human interests,

as holding their due place in the hierarchy of wisdom, and among the

steps of man's perfection. No account of the _Commedia_ will prove

sufficient, which does not keep in view, first of all, the high moral

purpose and deep spirit of faith with which it was written, and then

the wide liberty of materials and means which the poet allowed himself

in working out his design.

[Footnote 72: _Convito_, Tr. 2, c. 14, 15.]

Doubtless, his writings have a political aspect. The "great Ghibelline

poet" is one of Dante's received synonymes; of his strong political

opinions, and the importance he attached to them, there can be no

doubt. And he meant his poem to be the vehicle of them, and the record

to all ages of the folly and selfishness with which he saw men

governed. That he should take the deepest interest in the goings on of

his time, is part of his greatness; to suppose that he stopped at

them, or that he subordinated to political objects or feelings all the

other elements of his poem, is to shrink up that greatness into very

narrow limits. Yet this has been done by men of mark and ability, by

Italians, by men who read the _Commedia_ in their own mother-tongue.

It has been maintained as a satisfactory account of it--maintained

with great labour and pertinacious ingenuity--that Dante meant nothing

more by his poem than the conflicts and ideal triumph of a political

party. The hundred cantos of that vision of the universe are but a

manifesto of the Ghibelline propaganda, designed, under the veil of

historic images and scenes, to insinuate what it was dangerous to

announce; and Beatrice, in all her glory and sweetness, is but a

specimen of the jargon, cant, and slang of Ghibelline freemasonry.

When Italians write thus, they degrade the greatest name of their

country to a depth of laborious imbecility, to which the trifling of

schoolmen and academicians is as nothing. It is to solve the enigma of

Dante's works, by imagining for him a character in which it is hard to

say which predominates, the pedant, mountebank, or infidel. After that

we may read Voltaire's sneers with patience, and even enter with

gravity on the examination of Father Hardouin's Historic Doubts. The

fanaticism of an outraged liberalism, produced by centuries of

injustice and despotism, is but a poor excuse for such perverse

blindness.[73]

[Footnote 73: In the _Remains of Arthur Henry Hallam_ is a paper, in

which he examines and disposes of this theory with a courteous and

forbearing irony, which would have deepened probably into something

more, on thinking over it a second time.]

Dante was not a Ghibelline, though he longed for the interposition of

an Imperial power. Historically he did not belong to the Ghibelline

party. It is true that he forsook the Guelfs, with whom he had been

brought up, and that the White Guelfs, with whom he was expelled from

Florence, were at length merged and lost in the Ghibelline party[74];

and he acted with them for a time.[75] But no words can be stronger

than those in which he disjoins himself from that "evil and foolish

company," and claims his independence--

A te fia bello

_Averti fatto parte per te stesso_.[76]

[Footnote 74: _Dino Comp._ pp. 89-91.]

[Footnote 75: His name appears among the White delegates in 1307.

Pelli, p. 117.]

[Footnote 76: _Parad._ 17.]

And it is not easy to conceive a Ghibelline partisan putting into the

mouth of Justinian, the type of law and empire, a general condemnation

of his party as heavy as that of their antagonists;--the crime of

having betrayed, as the Guelfs had resisted, the great symbol of

public right--

Omai puoi giudicar di que' cotali

Ch'io accusai di sopra, e de' lor falli

Che son cagion di tutti i vostri mali.

L'uno al pubblico segno i gigli gialli

Oppone, e _quel s'appropria l'altro a parte_,

Sì ch'è forte a veder qual più si falli.

_Faccian li Ghibellin, faccian lor arte

Sott'altro segno; chè mal segue quello

Sempre chi la giustizia e lui diparte._[77]

[Footnote 77: _Ibid._ 6.]

And though, as the victim of the Guelfs of Florence, he found refuge

among Ghibelline princes, he had friends among Guelfs also. His steps

and his tongue were free to the end. And in character and feeling, in

his austerity, his sturdiness and roughness, his intolerance of

corruption and pride, his strongly-marked devotional temper, he was

much less a Ghibelline than like one of those stern Guelfs who hailed

Savonarola.

But he had a very decided and complete political theory, which

certainly was not Guelf; and, as parties then were, it was not much

more Ghibelline. Most assuredly no set of men would have more

vigorously resisted the attempt to realise his theory, would have

joined more heartily with all immediate opponents--Guelfs, Black,

White, and Green, or even Boniface VIII.,--to keep out such an emperor

as Dante imagined, than the Ghibelline nobles and potentates.

Dante's political views were a dream; though a dream based on what had

been, and an anticipation of what was, in part at least, to come. It

was a dream in the middle ages, in divided and republican Italy, the

Italy of cities--of a real and national government, based on justice

and law. It was the dream of a real _state_. He imagined that the

Roman empire had been one great state; he persuaded himself that

Christendom might be such. He was wrong in both instances; but in this

case, as in so many others, he had already caught the spirit and ideas

of a far-distant future; and the political organisation of modern

times, so familiar to us that we cease to think of its exceeding

wonder, is the practical confirmation, though in a form very different

from what he imagined, of the depth and farsightedness of those

expectations which are in outward form so chimerical--"_i miei non

falsi errori_."

He had studied the "infinite disorders of the world" in one of their

most unrestrained scenes, the streets of an Italian republic. Law was

powerless, good men were powerless, good intentions came to naught;

neither social habits nor public power could resist, when selfishness

chose to have its way. The Church was indeed still the salt of the

nations; but it had once dared and achieved more; it had once been the

only power which ruled them. And this it could do no longer. If

strength and energy had been enough to make the Church's influence

felt on government, there was a Pope who could have done it--a man who

was undoubtedly the most wondered at and admired of his age, whom

friend or foe never characterised, without adding the invariable

epithet of his greatness of soul--the "_magnanimus peccator_,"[78]

whose Roman grandeur in meeting his unworthy fate fascinated into

momentary sympathy even Dante.[79] But among the things which

Boniface VIII. could not do, even if he cared about it, was the

maintaining peace and law in Italian towns. And while this great

political power was failing, its correlative and antagonist was

paralysed also. "Since the death of Frederic II.," says Dante's

contemporary, "the fame and recollections of the empire were well-nigh

extinguished."[80] Italy was left without government--"come nave senza

nocchiero in gran tempesta"--to the mercies of her tyrants:

Che le terre d'Italia tutte piene

Son di tiranni, e un Marcel diventa

Ogni villan, che parteggiando viene.--_Purg._ 6.

[Footnote 78: Benvenuto da Imola.]

[Footnote 79:

Veggio in Alagna entrar lo fiordaliso,

E nel vicario suo Cristo esser catto;

Veggiolo un'altra volta esser deriso;

Veggio rinnovellar l'aceto e 'l fele,

E tra vivi ladroni essere anciso.--_Purg._ 20.

G. Villani, viii. 63. Come magnanimo e valente, disse, _Dacchè per

tradimento, come Gesù Cristo, voglio esser preso e mi conviene morire,

almeno voglio morire come Papa_; e di presente si fece parare

dell'ammanto di S. Piero, e colla corona di Constantino in capo, e

colle chiavi e croce in mano, e in su la sedia papale si pose a

sedere, e giunto a lui Sciarra e gli altri suoi nimici; con villane

parole lo scherniro.]

[Footnote 80: _Dino Compagni_, p. 135.]

In this scene of violence and disorder, with the Papacy gone astray,

the empire debased and impotent, the religious orders corrupted, power

meaning lawlessness, the well-disposed become weak and cowardly,

religion neither guide nor check to society, but only the consolation

of its victims--Dante was bold and hopeful enough to believe in the

Divine appointment, and in the possibility, of law and government--of

a state. In his philosophy, the institutions which provide for man's

peace and liberty in this life are part of God's great order for

raising men to perfection;--not indispensable, yet ordinary parts;

having their important place, though but for the present time; and

though imperfect, real instruments of His moral government. He could

not believe it to be the intention of Providence, that on the

introduction of higher hopes and the foundation of a higher society,

civil society should collapse and be left to ruin, as henceforth

useless or prejudicial in man's trial and training; that the

significant intimations of nature, that law and its results, justice,

peace, and stability, ought to be and might be realised among men, had

lost their meaning and faded away before the announcement of a kingdom

not of this world. And if the perfection of civil society had not been

superseded by the Church, it had become clear, if events were to be

read as signs, that she was not intended to supply its political

offices and functions. She had taught, elevated, solaced, blessed, not

only individual souls, but society; she had for a time even governed

it: but though her other powers remained, she could govern it no

longer. Failure had made it certain that, in his strong and quaint

language, "_Virtus authorizandi regnum nostræ mortalitatis est contra

naturam ecclesiæ; ergo non est de numero virtutum suarum_."[81]

Another and distinct organisation was required for this, unless the

temporal order was no longer worthy the attention of Christians.

[Footnote 81: _De Monarch._ lib. iii. p. 188, Ed. Fraticelli.]

This is the idea of the _De Monarchia_; and though it holds but a

place in the great scheme of the _Commedia_, it is prominent there

also--an idea seen but in a fantastic shape, encumbered and confused

with most grotesque imagery, but the real idea of polity and law,

which the experience of modern Europe has attained to.

He found in clear outline in the Greek philosophy, the theory of

merely human society; and raising its end and purpose, "_finem totius

humanæ civilitatis_," to a height and dignity which Heathens could not

forecast, he adopted it in its more abstract and ideal form. He

imagined a single authority, unselfish, inflexible, irresistible,

which could make all smaller tyrannies to cease, and enable every man

to live in peace and liberty, so that he lived in justice. It is

simply what each separate state of Christendom has by this time more

or less perfectly achieved. The theoriser of the middle ages could

conceive of its accomplishment only in one form, as grand as it was

impossible--a universal monarchy.

But he did not start from an abstraction. He believed that history

attested the existence of such a monarchy. The prestige of the Roman

empire was then strong. Europe still lingers on the idea, and cannot

even yet bring itself to give up its part in that great monument of

human power. But in the middle ages the Empire was still believed to

exist. It was the last greatness which had been seen in the world, and

the world would not believe that it was over. Above all, in Italy, a

continuity of lineage, of language, of local names, and in part of

civilisation and law, forbad the thought that the great Roman people

had ceased to be. Florentines and Venetians boasted that they were

Romans: the legends which the Florentine ladies told to their maidens

at the loom were tales of their mother city, Rome. The Roman element,

little understood, but profoundly reverenced and dearly cherished, was

dominant; the conductor of civilisation, and enfolding the inheritance

of all the wisdom, experience, feeling, art, of the past, it elevated,

even while it overawed, oppressed, and enslaved. A deep belief in

Providence added to the intrinsic grandeur of the empire a sacred

character. The flight of the eagle has been often told and often sung;

but neither in Livy or Virgil, Gibbon or Bossuet, with intenser

sympathy or more kindred power, than in those rushing and unflagging

verses in which the middle-age poet hears the imperial legislator

relate the fated course of the "sacred sign," from the day when Pallas

died for it, till it accomplished the vengeance of heaven in Judæa,

and afterwards, under Charlemagne, smote down the enemies of the

Church.[82]

[Footnote 82: _Parad._ c. 6.]

The following passage, from the _De Monarchia_, will show the poet's

view of the Roman empire, and its office in the world:

To the reasons above alleged, a memorable experience brings

confirmation: I mean that state of mankind which the Son of

God, when He would for man's salvation take man upon Him,

either waited for, or ordered when so He willed. For if from

the fall of our first parents, which was the starting-point

of all our wanderings, we retrace the various dispositions

of men and their times, we shall not find at any time,

except under the divine monarch Augustus, when a perfect

monarchy existed, that the world was everywhere quiet. And

that then mankind was happy in the tranquillity of universal

peace, this all writers of history, this famous poets, this

even the Scribe of the meekness of Christ has deigned to

attest. And lastly, Paul has called that most blessed

condition, the fulness of time. Truly time, and the things

of time, were full, for no mystery of our felicity then

lacked its minister. But how the world has gone on from the

time when that seamless robe was first torn by the claws of

covetousness, we may read, and would that we might not also

see. O race of men, by how great storms and losses, by how

great shipwrecks hast thou of necessity been vexed since,

transformed into a beast of many heads, thou hast been

struggling different ways, sick in understanding, equally

sick in heart. The higher intellect, with its invincible

reasons, thou reckest not of; nor of the inferior, with its

eye of experience; nor of affection, with the sweetness of

divine suasion, when the trumpet of the Holy Ghost sounds to

thee--"Behold, how good is it, and how pleasant, brethren,

to dwell together in unity."--_De Monarch._ lib. i. p. 54.

Yet this great Roman empire existed still unimpaired in name--not

unimposing even in what really remained of it. Dante, to supply a

want, turned it into a theory--a theory easy to smile at now, but

which contained and was a beginning of unknown or unheeded truth. What

he yearns after is the predominance of the principle of justice in

civil society. That, if it is still imperfect, is no longer a dream in

our day; but experience had never realised it to him, and he takes

refuge in tentative and groping theory. The divinations of the

greatest men have been vague and strange, and none have been stranger

than those of the author of the _De Monarchia_. The second book, in

which he establishes the title of the Roman people to Universal

Empire, is as startling a piece of mediæval argument as it would be

easy to find.

As when we cannot attain to look upon a cause, we commonly

wonder at a new effect, so when we know the cause, we look

down with a certain derision on those who remain in wonder.

And I indeed wondered once how the Roman people had, without

any resistance, been set over the world; and looking at it

superficially, I thought that they had obtained this by no

right, but by mere force of arms. But when I fixed deeply

the eyes of my mind on it, and by most effectual signs knew

that Divine Providence had wrought this, wonder departed,

and a certain scornful contempt came in its stead, when I

perceived the nations raging against the pre-eminence of the

Roman people:--when I see the people imagining a vain thing,

as I once used to do; when, moreover, I grieve over kings

and princes agreeing in this only, to be against their Lord

and his anointed Roman Emperor. Wherefore in derision, not

without a certain grief, I can cry out, for that glorious

people and for Cæsar, with him who cried in behalf of the

Prince of Heaven, "Why did the nations rage, and the people

imagine vain things; the kings of the earth stood up, and

the rulers were joined in one against the Lord and his

anointed." But (because natural love suffers not derision to

be of long duration, but, like the summer sun, which,

scattering the morning mists, irradiates the east with

light, so prefers to pour forth the light of correction)

therefore to break the bonds of the ignorance of such kings

and rulers, to show that the human race is free from _their_

yoke, I will exhort myself, in company with the most holy

Prophet, taking up his following words, "Let us break their

bonds, and cast away from us their yoke."--_De Monarch._

lib. ii. p. 58.

And to prove this pre-eminence of right in the Roman people, and their

heirs, the Emperors of Christendom, he appeals not merely to the

course of Providence, to their high and noble ancestry, to the

blessings of their just and considerate laws, to their unselfish

guardianship of the world--"_Romanum imperium de fonte nascitur

pietatis_;"--not merely to their noble examples of private virtue,

self-devotion, and public spirit--"those most sacred victims of the

Decian house, who laid down their lives for the public weal, as

Livy--not as _they_ deserved, but as _he_ was able--tells to their

glory; and that unspeakable sacrifice of freedom's sternest guardians,

the Catos;" not merely to the "judgment of God" in that great duel and

wager of battle for empire, in which heaven declared against all other

champions and "co-athletes"--Alexander, Pyrrhus, Hannibal, and by all

the formalities of judicial combat awarded the great prize to those

who fought, not for love or hatred, but justice--"_Quis igitur nunc

adeo obtusæ mentis est, qui non videat, sub jure duelli gloriosum

populum coronam totius orbis esse lucratum?_"--not merely to arguments

derived "from the principles of the Christian faith"--but to

_miracles_. "The Roman empire," he says, "was, in order to its

perfections, aided by the help of miracles; therefore it was willed by

God; and, by consequence, both was, and is, of right." And these

miracles, "proved by the testimony of illustrious authorities," are

the prodigies of Livy--the ancile of Numa, the geese of the Capitol,

the escape of Clelia, the hail-storm which checked Hannibal.[83]

[Footnote 83: _De Monarch._ lib. ii. pp. 62, 66, 78, 82, 84, 108-114,

116, 72-76.]

The intellectual phenomenon is a strange one. It would be less strange

if Dante were arguing in the schools, or pleading for a party. But

even Henry of Luxemburg cared little for such a throne as the poet

wanted him to fill, much less Can Grande and the Visconti. The idea,

the theory, and the argument, are of the writer's own solitary

meditation. We may wonder. But there are few things more strange than

the history of argument. How often has a cause or an idea turned out,

in the eyes of posterity, so much better than its arguments. How

often have we seen argument getting as it were into a groove, and

unable to extricate itself, so as to do itself justice. The everyday

cases of private experience, of men defending right conclusions on

wrong or conventional grounds, or in a confused form, entangled with

conclusions of a like yet different nature;--of arguments, theories,

solutions, which once satisfied, satisfying us no longer on a question

about which we hold the same belief--of one party unable to comprehend

the arguments of another--of one section of the same side smiling at

the defence of their common cause by another--are all reproduced on a

grander scale in the history of society. There too, one age cannot

comprehend another; there too it takes time to disengage, subordinate,

eliminate. Truth of this sort is not the elaboration of one keen or

strong mind, but of the secret experience of many; "_nihil sine ætate

est, omnia tempus expectant_." But a counterpart to the _De Monarchia_

is not wanting in our own day; theory has not ceased to be mighty. In

warmth and earnestness, in sense of historic grandeur, in its support

of a great cause and a great idea, not less than in the thought of its

motto, [Greek: heis koiranos estô], De Maistre's volume _Du Pape_,

recalls the antagonist _De Monarchia_; but it recalls it not less in

its bold dealing with facts, and its bold assumption of principles,

though the knowledge and debates of five more busy centuries, and the

experience of modern courts and revolutions, might have guarded the

Piedmontese nobleman from the mistakes of the old Florentine.

But the idea of the _De Monarchia_ is no key to the _Commedia_. The

direct and primary purpose of the _Commedia_ is surely its obvious

one. It is to stamp a deep impression on the mind, of the issues of

good and ill doing here--of the real worlds of pain and joy. To do

this forcibly, it is done in detail--of course it can only be done in

figure. Punishment, purification, or the fulness of consolation are,

as he would think, at this very moment, the lot of all the numberless

spirits who have ever lived here--spirits still living and sentient as

himself: parallel with our life, they too are suffering or are at

rest. Without pause or interval, in all its parts simultaneously, this

awful scene is going on--the judgments of God are being

fulfilled--could we but see it. It exists, it might be seen, at each

instant of time, by a soul whose eyes were opened, which was carried

through it. And this he imagines. It had been imagined before; it is

the working out, which is peculiar to him. It is not a barren vision.

His subject is, besides the eternal world, the soul which contemplates

it; by sight, according to his figures--in reality, by faith. As he is

led on from woe to deeper woe, then through the tempered

chastisements and resignation of Purgatory to the beatific vision, he

is tracing the course of the soul on earth, realising sin and weaning

itself from it--of its purification and preparation for its high lot,

by converse with the good and wise, by the remedies of grace, by

efforts of will and love, perhaps by the dominant guidance of some

single pure and holy influence, whether of person, or institution, or

thought. Nor will we say but that beyond this earthly probation, he is

not also striving to grasp and imagine to himself something of that

awful process and training, by which, whether in or out of the flesh,

the spirit is made fit to meet its Maker, its Judge, and its Chief

Good.

Thus it seems that even in its main design, the poem has more than one

aspect; it is a picture, a figure, partially a history, perhaps an

anticipation. And this is confirmed, by what the poet has himself

distinctly stated, of his ideas of poetic composition. His view is

expressed generally in his philosophical treatise, the _Convito_; but

it is applied directly to the _Commedia_, in a letter, which, if in

its present form, of doubtful authenticity, without any question

represents his sentiments, and the substance of which is incorporated

in one of the earliest writings on the poem, Boccaccio's commentary.

The following is his account of the subject of the poem:

For the evidence of what is to be said, it is to be noted,

that this work is not of one single meaning only, but may be

said to have many meanings ("_polysensuum_"). For the first

meaning is that of the letter--another is that of things

signified by the letter; the first of these is called the

literal sense, the second, the allegorical or moral. This

mode of treating a subject may for clearness' sake be

considered in those verses of the Psalm, "_In exitu

Israel_." "When Israel came out of Egypt, and the house of

Jacob from the strange people, Judah was his sanctuary, and

Israel his dominion." For if we look at the _letter_ only,

there is here signified, the going out of the children of

Israel in the time of Moses--if at the _allegory_ there is

signified our redemption through Christ--if at the _moral_

sense there is signified to us the conversion of the soul

from the mourning and misery of sin to the state of

grace--if at the _anagogic_ sense,[84] there is signified

the passing out of the holy soul from the bondage of this

corruption to the liberty of everlasting glory. And these

mystical meanings, though called by different names, may all

be called _allegorical_ as distinguished from the literal or

historical sense.... This being considered, it is plain that

there ought to be a twofold subject, concerning which the

two corresponding meanings may proceed. Therefore we must

consider first concerning the subject of this work as it is

to be understood literally, then as it is to be considered

allegorically. The subject then of the whole work, taken

literally only, is the state of souls after death considered

in itself. For about this, and on this, the whole work

turns. But if the work be taken allegorically, its subject

is man, as, by his freedom of choice deserving well or ill,

he is subject to the justice which rewards and punishes.[85]

[Footnote 84:

_Litera_ gesta refert, quid credas _allegoria_,

_Moralis_ quid agas, quid speres _anagogia_.

De Witte's note from _Buti_.]

[Footnote 85: Ep. ad _Kan Grand._ § 6, 7.]

The passage in the _Convito_ is to the same effect; but his remarks on

the _moral_ and _anagogic_ meaning may be quoted:

The third sense is called _moral_; that it is which readers

ought to go on noting carefully in writings, for their own

profit and that of their disciples: as in the Gospel it may

be noted, when Christ went up to the mountain to be

transfigured, that of the twelve Apostles, he took with him

only three; in which morally we may understand, that in the

most secret things we ought to have but few companions. The

fourth sort of meaning is called _anagogic_, that is, above

our sense; and this is when we spiritually interpret a

passage, which even in its literal meaning, by means of the

things signified, expresses the heavenly things of

everlasting glory: as may be seen in that song of the

Prophet, which says, that in the coming out of the people of

Israel from Egypt, Judah was made holy and free; which

although it is manifestly true according to the letter, is

not less true as spiritually understood; that is, that when

the soul comes out of sin, it is made holy and free, in its

own power.[86]

[Footnote 86: _Convito_, Tr. 2, c. 1.]

With this passage before us there can be no doubt of the meaning,

however veiled, of those beautiful lines, already referred to, in

which Virgil, after having conducted the poet up the steeps of

Purgatory, where his sins have been one by one cancelled by the

ministering angels, finally takes leave of him, and bids him wait for

Beatrice, on the skirts of the earthly Paradise:

Come la scala tutta sotto noi

Fu corsa e fummo in su 'l grado superno,

In me ficcò Virgilio gli occhi suoi,

E disse: "Il temporal fuoco, e l'eterno

Veduto hai, figlio, e se' venuto in parte

Ov'io per me più oltre non discerno.

Tratto t'ho qui con ingegno e con arte:

Lo tuo piacere omai prendi per duce;

Fuor se' dell'erte vie, fuor se' dell'arte.

Vedi il sole che 'n fronte ti riluce:

Vedi l'erbetta, i fiori, e gli arboscelli

Che quella terra sol da sè produce.

Mentre che vegnon lieti gli occhi belli

Che lagrimando a te venir mi fenno,

Seder ti puoi e puoi andar tra elli.

Non aspettar mio dir più nè mio cenno:

Libero, dritto, sano è tuo arbitrio,

E fallo fora non fare a suo senno:--

Perch'io te sopra te corono e mitrio."[87]

[Footnote 87:

When we had run

O'er all the ladder to its topmost round,

As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'd

His eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son,

The temporal and the eternal, thou hast seen:

And art arrived, where of itself my ken

No further reaches. I with skill and art,

Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take

For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way,

O'ercome the straiter. Lo! the sun, that darts

His beam upon thy forehead: lo! the herb,

The arborets and flowers, which of itself

This land pours forth profuse. Till those bright eyes

With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste

To succour thee, thou mayest or seat thee down,

Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more

Sanction of warning voice or sign from me,

Free of thine own arbitrement to choose,

Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense

Were henceforth error. I invest thee then

With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself."

_Purg._ c. 27--CARY.]

The general meaning of the _Commedia_ is clear enough. But it

certainly does appear to refuse to be fitted into a connected formal

scheme of interpretation. It is not a homogeneous, consistent

allegory, like the _Pilgrim's Progress_ and the _Fairy Queen_. The

allegory continually breaks off, shifts its ground, gives place to

other elements, or mingles with them--like a stream which suddenly

sinks into the earth, and after passing under plains and mountains,

reappears in a distant point, and in different scenery. We can,

indeed, imagine its strange author commenting on it, and finding or

marking out its prosaic substratum, with the cold-blooded precision

and scholastic distinctions of the _Convito_. However, he has not done

so. And of the many enigmas which present themselves, either in its

structure or separate parts, the key seems hopelessly lost. The early

commentators are very ingenious, but very unsatisfactory; they see

where we can see, but beyond that they are as full of uncertainty as

ourselves. It is in character with that solitary and haughty spirit,

while touching universal sympathies, appalling and charming all

hearts, to have delighted in his own dark sayings, which had meaning

only to himself. It is true that, whether in irony, or from that

quaint studious care for the appearance of literal truth, which makes

him apologise for the wonders which he relates, and confirm them by an

oath, "on the words of his poem,"[88] he provokes and challenges us;

bids us admire "doctrine hidden under strange verses;"[89] bids us

strain our eyes, for the veil is thin:

Aguzza, qui, lettor, ben l'occhi al vero:

Chè il velo è ora ben tanto sottile,

Certo, che il trapassar dentro è leggiero.--_Purg._ c. 8.

But eyes are still strained in conjecture and doubt.

[Footnote 88:

Sempre a quel ver, ch'ha faccia di menzogna,

De' l'uom chiuder le labbra, quanto puote,

Però che senza colpa fa vergogna.

Ma qui tacer nol posso; e per le note

Di questa _Commedia_, lettor, ti giuro

S'elle non sien di lunga grazia vote, &c.--_Inf._ 16.]

[Footnote 89: _Inf._ 9.]

Yet the most certain and detailed commentary, one which assigned the

exact reason for every image or allegory, and its place and connexion

in a general scheme, would add but little to the charm or to the use

of the poem. It is not so obscure but that every man's experience who

has thought over and felt the mystery of our present life, may supply

the commentary--the more ample, the wider and more various has been

his experience, the deeper and keener his feeling. Details and links

of connexion may be matter of controversy. Whether the three beasts of

the forest mean definitely the vices of the time, or of Florence

specially, or of the poet himself--"the wickedness of his heels,

compassing him round about"--may still exercise critics and

antiquaries; but that they carry with them distinct and special

impressions of evil, and that they are the hindrances of man's

salvation, is not doubtful. And our knowledge of the key of the

allegory, where we possess it, contributes but little to the effect.

We may infer from the _Convito_[90] that the eyes of Beatrice stand

definitely for the _demonstrations_, and her smiles for the

_persuasions_ of wisdom; but the poetry of the Paradiso is not about

demonstrations and persuasions, but about looks and smiles; and the

ineffable and holy calm--"_serenitatis et æternitatis afflatus_"--which

pervades it, comes from the sacred truths, and holy persons, and that

deep spirit of high-raised yet composed devotion, which it requires no

interpreter to show us.

[Footnote 90: _Convito_, Tr. 3, c. 15.]

Figure and symbol, then, are doubtless the law of composition in the

_Commedia_; but this law discloses itself very variously, and with

different degrees of strictness. In its primary and most general form,

it is palpable, consistent, pervading. There can be no doubt that the

poem is meant to be understood figuratively--no doubt of what in

general it is meant to shadow forth--no doubt as to the general

meaning of its parts, their connexion with each other. But in its

secondary and subordinate applications, the law works--to our eye at

least--irregularly, unequally, and fitfully. There can be no question

that Virgil, the poet's guide, represents the purely human element in

the training of the soul and of society, as Beatrice does the divine.

But neither represent the whole; he does not sum up all appliances of

wisdom in Virgil, nor all teachings and influences of grace in

Beatrice; these have their separate figures. And both represent

successively several distinct forms of their general antitypes. They

have various degrees of abstractness, and narrow down, according to

that order of things to which they refer and correspond, into the

special and the personal. In the general economy of the poem, Virgil

stands for human wisdom in its widest sense; but he also stands for it

in its various shapes, in the different parts. He is the type of human

philosophy and science.[91] He is, again, more definitely, that spirit

of imagination and poetry, which opens men's eyes to the glory of the

visible, and the truth of the invisible; and to Italians, he is a

definite embodiment of it, their own great poet, "_vates, poeta

noster_."[92] In the Christian order, he is human wisdom, dimly

mindful of its heavenly origin--presaging dimly its return to

God--sheltering in heathen times that "vague and unconnected family

of religious truths, originally from God, but sojourning without the

sanction of miracle or visible home, as pilgrims up and down the

world."[93] In the political order, he is the guide of law-givers,

wisdom fashioning the impulses and instincts of men into the harmony

of society, contriving stability and peace, guarding justice; fit part

for the poet to fill, who had sung the origin of Rome, and the justice

and peace of Augustus. In the order of individual life, and the

progress of the individual soul, he is the human conscience witnessing

to duty, its discipline and its hopes, and with yet more certain and

fearful presage, to its vindication; the human conscience seeing and

acknowledging the law, but unable to confer power to fulfil

it--wakened by grace from among the dead, leading the living man up to

it, and waiting for its light and strength. But he is more than a

figure. To the poet himself, who blends with his high argument his

whole life, Virgil had been the utmost that mind can be to

mind--teacher, quickener and revealer of power, source of thought,

exemplar and model, never disappointing, never attained to, observed

with "long study and great love:"

Tu duca, tu signor, e tu maestro.--_Inf._ 2.

[Footnote 91: "O tu ch'onori ogni scienza ed arte."--_Inf._ 4. "Quel

savio gentil che tutto seppe."--_Inf._ 7. "Il mar di tutto 'l

senno."--_Inf._ 8.]

[Footnote 92: _De Monarchia._]

[Footnote 93: Newman's _Arians_.]

And towards this great master, the poet's whole soul is poured forth

in reverence and affection. To Dante he is no figure, but a

person--with feelings and weaknesses--overcome by the vexation,

kindling into the wrath, carried away by the tenderness, of the

moment. He reads his scholar's heart, takes him by the hand in danger,

carries him in his arms and in his bosom, "like a son more than a

companion," rebukes his unworthy curiosity, kisses him when he shows a

noble spirit, asks pardon for his own mistakes. Never were the kind,

yet severe ways of a master, or the disciple's diffidence and

open-heartedness, drawn with greater force, or less effort; and he

seems to have been reflecting on his own affection to Virgil, when he

makes Statius forget that they were both but shades:

Or puoi la quantitate

Comprender dell'amor ch'a te mi scalda,

Quando _dismento la nostra vanitate

Trattando l'ombre come cosa salda_.--_Purg._ 21.

And so with the poet's second guide. The great idea which Beatrice

figures, though always present, is seldom rendered artificially

prominent, and is often entirely hidden beneath the rush of real

recollections, and the creations of dramatic power. Abstractions

venture and trust themselves among realities, and for the time are

forgotten. A name, a real person, a historic passage, a lament or

denunciation, a tragedy of actual life, a legend of classic times, the

fortunes of friends--the story of Francesca or Ugolino, the fate of

Buonconte's corpse, the apology of Pier delle Vigne, the epitaph of

Madonna Pia, Ulysses' western voyage, the march of Roman

history--appear and absorb for themselves all interest: or else it is

a philosophical speculation, or a theory of morality, or a case of

conscience--not indeed alien from the main subject, yet independent of

the allegory, and not translateable into any new meaning--standing on

their own ground, worked out each according to its own law; but they

do not disturb the main course of the poet's thought, who grasps and

paints each detail of human life in its own peculiarity, while he sees

in each a significance and interest beyond itself. He does not stop in

each case to tell us so, but he makes it felt. The tale ends, the

individual disappears, and the great allegory resumes its course. It

is like one of those great musical compositions which alone seem

capable of adequately expressing, in a limited time, a course of

unfolding and change, in an idea, a career, a life, a society--where

one great thought predominates, recurs, gives colour and meaning, and

forms the unity of the whole, yet passes through many shades and

transitions; is at one time definite, at another suggestive and

mysterious; incorporating and giving free place and play to airs and

melodies even of an alien cast; striking off abruptly from its

expected road, but without ever losing itself, without breaking its

true continuity, or failing of its completeness.

This then seems to us the end and purpose of the _Commedia_;--to

produce on the mind a sense of the judgments of God, analogous to that

produced by Scripture itself. They are presented to us in the Bible in

shapes which address themselves primarily to the heart and conscience,

and seek not carefully to explain themselves. They are likened to the

"great deep," to the "strong mountains"--vast and awful, but abrupt

and incomplete, as the huge, broken, rugged piles and chains of

mountains. And we see them through cloud and mist, in shapes only

approximating to the true ones. Still they impress us deeply and

truly, often the more deeply because unconsciously. A character, an

event, a word, isolated and unexplained, stamps its meaning

ineffaceably, though ever a matter of question and wonder; it may be

dark to the intellect, yet the conscience understands it, often but

too well. In such suggestive ways is the Divine government for the

most part put before us in the Bible--ways which do not satisfy the

understanding, but which fill us with a sense of reality. And it seems

to have been by meditating on them, which he certainly did, much and

thoughtfully--and on the infinite variety of similar ways in which

the strongest impressions are conveyed to us in ordinary life, by

means short of clear and distinct explanation--by looks, by images, by

sounds, by motions, by remote allusion and broken words, that Dante

was led to choose so new and remarkable a mode of conveying to his

countrymen his thoughts and feelings and presentiments about the

mystery of God's counsel. The Bible teaches us by means of real

history, traced so far as is necessary along its real course. The poet

expresses his view of the world also in real history, but carried on

into figure.

The poetry with which the Christian Church had been instinct from the

beginning, converges and is gathered up in the _Commedia_. The faith

had early shown its poetical aspect. It is superfluous to dwell on

this, for it is the charge against ancient teaching that it was too

large and imaginative. It soon began to try rude essays in sculpture

and mosaic: expressed its feeling of nature in verse and prose, rudely

also, but often with originality and force; and opened a new vein of

poetry in the thoughts, hopes, and aspirations of regenerate man.

Modern poetry must go back, for many of its deepest and most powerful

sources, to the writings of the Fathers, and their followers of the

School. The Church further had a poetry of its own, besides the poetry

of literature; it had the poetry of devotion--the Psalter chanted

daily, in a new language and a new meaning; and that wonderful body of

hymns, to which age after age had contributed its offering, from the

Ambrosian hymns to the _Veni, Sancte Spiritus_ of a king of France,

the _Pange lingua_ of Thomas Aquinas, the _Dies iræ_, and _Stabat

Mater_, of the two Franciscan brethren, Thomas of Celano, and

Jacopone.[94] The elements and fragments of poetry were everywhere in

the Church--in her ideas of life, in her rules and institutions for

passing through it, in her preparation for death, in her offices,

ceremonial, celebrations, usages, her consecration of domestic,

literary, commercial, civic, military, political life, the meanings

and ends she had given them, the religious seriousness with which the

forms of each were dignified--in her doctrine, and her dogmatic

system--her dependence on the unseen world--her Bible. From each and

all of these, and from that public feeling, which, if it expressed

itself but abruptly and incoherently, was quite alive to the poetry

which surrounded it, the poet received due impressions of greatness

and beauty, of joy and dread. Then the poetry of Christian religion

and Christian temper, hitherto dispersed, or manifested in act only,

found its full and distinct utterance, not unworthy to rank in

grandeur, in music, in sustained strength, with the last noble voices

from expiring Heathenism.

[Footnote 94: Trench, Sacred Latin Poetry, 1849.]

But a long interval had passed since then. The _Commedia_ first

disclosed to Christian and modern Europe that it was to have a

literature of its own, great and admirable, though in its own language

and embodying its own ideas. "It was as if, at some of the ancient

games, a stranger had appeared upon the plain, and thrown his quoit

among the marks of former casts, which tradition had ascribed to the

demi-gods."[95] We are so accustomed to the excellent and varied

literature of modern times, so original, so perfect in form and rich

in thought, so expressive of all our sentiments, meeting so completely

our wants, fulfilling our ideas, that we can scarcely imagine the time

when this condition was new--when society was beholden to a foreign

language for the exponents of its highest thoughts and feelings. But

so it was when Dante wrote. The great poets, historians, philosophers

of his day, the last great works of intellect, belonged to old Rome,

and the Latin language. So wonderful and prolonged was the fascination

of Rome. Men still lived under its influence; believed that the Latin

language was the perfect and permanent instrument of thought in its

highest forms, the only expression of refinement and civilisation; and

had not conceived the hope that their own dialects could ever rise to

such heights of dignity and power. Latin, which had enchased and

preserved such precious remains of ancient wisdom, was now shackling

the living mind in its efforts. Men imagined that they were still

using it naturally on all high themes and solemn business; but though

they used it with facility, it was no longer natural; it had lost the

elasticity of life, and had become in their hands a stiffened and

distorted, though still powerful, instrument. The very use of the word

_latino_ in the writers of this period, to express what is clear and

philosophical in language,[96] while it shows their deep reverence for

it, shows how Latin civilisation was no longer their own, how it had

insensibly become an external and foreign element. But they found it

very hard to resign their claim to a share in its glories; with

nothing of their own to match against it, they still delighted to

speak of it as "our language," or its writers as "our poets," "our

historians."[97]

[Footnote 95: Hallam's _Middle Ages_, c. ix. vol. iii. p. 563.]

[Footnote 96: _Parad._ 3, 12, 17. _Convit._ p. 108. "A più

_Latinamente_ vedere la sentenza letterale."]

[Footnote 97: _Vid._ the _De Monarchia_.]

The spell was indeed beginning to break. Guido Cavalcanti, Dante's

strange, stern, speculative friend, who is one of the fathers of the

Italian language, is characterised in the _Commedia_[98] by his

scornful dislike of Latin, even in the mouth of Virgil. Yet Dante

himself, the great assertor, by argument and example, of the powers of

the Vulgar tongue, once dared not to think that the Vulgar tongue

could be other to the Latin, than as a subject to his sovereign. He

was bolder when he wrote _De Vulgari Eloquio_: but in the earlier

_Convito_, while pleading earnestly for the beauty of the Italian, he

yields with reverence the first place to the Latin--for nobleness,

because the Latin is permanent, and the Vulgar subject to fluctuation

and corruption; for power, because the Latin can express conceptions

to which the Vulgar is unequal; for beauty, because the structure of

the Latin is a masterly arrangement of scientific art, and the beauty

of the Vulgar depends on mere use.[99] The very title of his poem, the

_Commedia_, contains in it a homage to the lofty claims of the Latin.

It is called a Comedy, and not Tragedy, he says, after a marvellous

account of the essence and etymology of the two, first, because it

begins sadly, and ends joyfully; and next, because of its language,

that humble speech of ordinary life, "in which even women

converse."[100]

[Footnote 98: _Inf._ 10, and compare the _Vit. N._ p. 334, ed.

Fraticelli.]

[Footnote 99: _Convito_, i. 5.]

[Footnote 100: Ep. ad Kan Grand. §9,--a curious specimen of the

learning of the time: "Sciendum est, quod _Comoedia_ dicitur a

[Greek: kômê], _villa_ et [Greek: ôdê], quod est _cantus_, unde

_Comoedia_ quasi _villanus cantus_. Et est _Comoedia genus quoddam

poeticæ narrationis_, ab omnibus aliis differens. Differt ergo a

Tragoedia in materia per hoc, quod Tragoedia in principio est

admirabilis et quieta, in fine foetida et horribilis; et dicitur

propter hoc a [Greek: tragos], i.e. _hircus_, et [Greek: ôdê], quasi

_cantus hircinus_, i.e. foetidus ad modum hirci, ut patet per

Senecam in suis tragoediis. _Comoedia_ vero inchoat asperitatem

alicujus rei, sed ejus materia prospere terminatur, ut patet per

Terentium in suis _Comoediis_.... Similiter differunt in modo

loquendi; elate et sublime Tragoedia, _Comoedia_ vero remisse et

humiliter sicut vult Horat. in Poët.... Et per hoc patet, quod

_Comoedia_ diciter præsens opus. Nam si ad materiam respiciamus, a

principio horribilis et foetida est, quia _Infernus_: in fine

prospera, desiderabilis et grata, quia _Paradisus_. Si ad modum

loquendi, remissus est modus et humilis, quia locutio Vulgaris, in qua

et mulierculæ communicant. Et sic patet quia _Comoedia_ dicitur."

Cf. de Vulg. Eloq. 2, 4, _Parad._ 30. He calls the Æneid, "_l'alta

Tragedia_," _Inf._ 20, 113. Compare also Boccaccio's explanation of

his mother's dream of the _peacock_. Dante, he says, is like the

Peacock, among other reasons, "because the peacock has coarse feet,

and a quiet gait;" and "the vulgar language, on which the _Commedia_

supports itself, is coarse in comparison with the high and masterly

literary style which every other poet uses, though it be more

beautiful than others, being in conformity with modern minds. The

quiet gait signifies the humility of the style, which is necessarily

required in _Commedia_, as those know who understand what is meant by

_Commedia_."]

He honoured the Latin, but his love was for the Italian. He was its

champion, and indignant defender against the depreciation of ignorance

and fashion. Confident of its power and jealous of its beauty, he

pours forth his fierce scorn on the blind stupidity, the affectation,

the vain glory, the envy, and above all, the cowardice of Italians who

held lightly their mother tongue. "Many," he says, after enumerating

the other offenders, "from this pusillanimity and cowardice disparage

their own language, and exalt that of others; and of this sort are

those hateful dastards of Italy--_abbominevoli cattivi d'Italia_--who

think vilely of that precious language; which, if it is vile in

anything, is vile only so far as it sounds in the prostituted mouth of

these adulterers."[101] He noted and compared its various dialects; he

asserted its capabilities not only in verse, but in expressive,

flexible, and majestic prose. And to the deliberate admiration of the

critic and the man, were added the homely but dear associations, which

no language can share with that of early days. Italian had been the

language of his parents--"_Questo mio Volgare fu il congiugnitore

delli miei generanti, che con esso parlavano_"--and further, it was

this modern language, "_questo mio Volgare_," which opened to him the

way of knowledge, which had introduced him to Latin, and the sciences

which it contained. It was his benefactor and guide--he personifies

it--and his boyish friendship had grown stronger and more intimate by

mutual good offices. "There has also been between us the goodwill of

intercourse; for from the beginning of my life I have had with it

kindness and conversation, and have used it, deliberating,

interpreting, and questioning; so that, if friendship grows with use,

it is evident how it must have grown in me."[102]

[Footnote 101: _Convito_, i. 11.]

[Footnote 102: _Convito_, i. 13.]

From this language he exacted a hard trial;--a work which should rank

with the ancient works. None such had appeared; none had even advanced

such a pretension. Not that it was a time dead to literature or

literary ambition. Poets and historians had written, and were writing

in Italian. The same year of jubilee which fixed itself so deeply in

Dante's mind, and became the epoch of his vision--the same scene of

Roman greatness in its decay, which afterwards suggested to Gibbon the

_Decline and Fall_, prompted, in the father of Italian history, the

desire to follow in the steps of Sallust and Livy, and prepare the way

for Machiavelli and Guicciardini, Davila, and Fra Paolo.[103] Poetry

had been cultivated in the Roman languages of the West--in Aquitaine

and Provence, especially--for more than two centuries; and lately,

with spirit and success, in Italian. Names had become popular,

reputations had risen and waned, verses circulated and were

criticised, and even descended from the high and refined circles to

the workshop. A story is told of Dante's indignation, when he heard

the canzoni which had charmed the Florentine ladies mangled by the

rude enthusiasm of a blacksmith at his forge.[104] Literature was a

growing fashion; but it was humble in its aspirations and efforts. Men

wrote like children, surprised and pleased with their success; yet

allowing themselves in mere amusement, because conscious of weakness

which they could not cure.

[Footnote 103: G. Villani was at Rome in the year of jubilee 1300, and

describes the great concourse and order of the pilgrims, whom he

reckons at 200,000, in the course of the year. "And I," he proceeds,

"finding myself in that blessed pilgrimage in the holy city of Rome,

seeing the great and ancient things of the same, and reading the

histories of the great deeds of the Romans, written by Virgil, and by

Sallust, and Lucan, and Titus Livius, and Valerius, and Paulus

Orosius, and other masters of histories, who wrote as well of the

smaller matters as of the greater, concerning the exploits and deeds

of the Romans; and further, of the strange things of the whole world,

for memory and example's sake to those who should come after--I, too,

took their style and fashion, albeit that, as their scholar, I be not

worthy to execute such a work. But, considering that our city of

Florence, the daughter and creation of Rome, was in its rising, and on

the eve of achieving great things, as Rome was in its decline, it

seemed to me convenient to bring into this volume and new chronicle

all the deeds and beginnings of the city of Florence, so far as I have

been able to gather and recover them; and for the future, to follow at

large the doings of the Florentines, and the other notable things of

the world briefly, as long as it may be God's pleasure; under which

hope, rather by his grace than by my poor science, I entered on this

enterprise: and so, in the year 1300, being returned from Rome, I

began to compile this book, in reverence towards God and St. John, and

commendation of our city of Florence."--_G. Vill._ viii. 36.]

[Footnote 104: _Sacchetti_, Nov. 114.]

Dante, by the _Divina Commedia_, was the restorer of seriousness in

literature. He was so, by the magnitude and pretensions of his work,

and by the earnestness of its spirit. He first broke through the

prescription which had confined great works to the Latin, and the

faithless prejudices which, in the language of society, could see

powers fitted for no higher task than that of expressing, in curiously

diversified forms, its most ordinary feelings. But he did much more.

Literature was going astray in its tone, while growing in importance;

the _Commedia_ checked it. The Provençal and Italian poetry was, with

the exception of some pieces of political satire, almost exclusively

amatory, in the most fantastic and affected fashion. In expression, it

had not even the merit of being natural; in purpose it was trifling;

in the spirit which it encouraged, it was something worse. Doubtless

it brought a degree of refinement with it, but it was refinement

purchased at a high price, by intellectual distortion, and moral

insensibility. But this was not all. The brilliant age of Frederick

II., for such it was, was deeply mined by religious unbelief. However

strange this charge first sounds against the thirteenth century, no

one can look at all closely into its history, at least in Italy,

without seeing that the idea of infidelity--not heresy, but

infidelity--was quite a familiar one; and that side by side with the

theology of Aquinas and Bonaventura, there was working among those who

influenced fashion and opinion, among the great men, and the men to

whom learning was a profession, a spirit of scepticism and irreligion

almost monstrous for its time, which found its countenance in

Frederick's refined and enlightened court. The genius of the great

doctors might have kept in safety the Latin Schools, but not the free

and home thoughts which found utterance in the language of the people,

if the solemn beauty of the Italian _Commedia_ had not seized on all

minds. It would have been an evil thing for Italian, perhaps for

European literature, if the siren tales of the _Decameron_ had been

the first to occupy the ear with the charms of a new language.

Dante has had hard measure, and from some who are most beholden to

him. No one in his day served the Church more highly, than he whose

faith and genius secured on her side the first great burst of

imagination and feeling, the first perfect accents of modern speech.

The first-fruits of the new literature were consecrated, and offered

up. There was no necessity, or even probability in Italy in the

fourteenth century that it should be so, as there might perhaps have

been earlier. It was the poet's free act--free in one, for whom nature

and heathen learning had strong temptations--that religion was the

lesson and influence of the great popular work of the time. That

which he held up before men's awakened and captivated minds, was the

verity of God's moral government. To rouse them to a sense of the

mystery of their state; to startle their commonplace notions of sin

into an imagination of its variety, its magnitude, and its infinite

shapes and degrees; to open their eyes to the beauty of the Christian

temper, both as suffering and as consummated; to teach them at once

the faithfulness and awful freeness of God's grace; to help the dull

and lagging soul to conceive the possibility, in its own case, of

rising step by step in joy without an end--of a felicity not

unimaginable by man, though of another order from the highest

perfection of earth;--this is the poet's end. Nor was it only vague

religious feelings which he wished to excite. He brought within the

circle of common thought, and translated into the language of the

multitude, what the Schools had done to throw light on the deep

questions of human existence, which all are fain to muse upon, though

none can solve. He who had opened so much of men's hearts to

themselves, opened to them also that secret sympathy which exists

between them and the great mysteries of the Christian doctrine.[105]

He did the work, in his day, of a great preacher. Yet he has been

both claimed and condemned, as a disturber of the Church's faith.

[Footnote 105: _Vide_ Ozanam.]

He certainly did not spare the Church's rulers. He thought they were

betraying the most sacred of all trusts; and if history is at all to

be relied on, he had some grounds for thinking so. But it is confusing

the feelings of the middle ages with our own, to convert every fierce

attack on the Popes into an anticipation of Luther. Strong language of

this sort was far too commonplace to be so significant. No age is

blind to practical abuses, or silent on them; and when the middle ages

complained, they did so with a full-voiced and clamorous rhetoric,

which greedily seized on every topic of vilification within its reach.

It was far less singular, and far less bold, to criticise

ecclesiastical authorities, than is often supposed; but it by no means

implied unsettled faith, or a revolutionary design. In Dante's case,

if words have any meaning--not words of deliberate qualification, but

his unpremeditated and incidental expressions--his faith in the Divine

mission and spiritual powers of the Popes was as strong as his

abhorrence of their degeneracy, and desire to see it corrected by a

power which they would respect--that of the temporal sword. It would

be to mistake altogether his character, to imagine of him, either as a

fault or as an excellence, that he was a doubter. It might as well be

supposed of Aquinas.

No one ever acknowledged with greater seriousness, as a fact in his

position in the world, the agreement in faith among those with whom he

was born. No one ever inclined with more simplicity and reverence

before that long communion and consent in feeling and purpose, the

"_publicus_ sensus" of the Christian Church. He did feel difficulties;

but the excitement of lingering on them was not among his enjoyments.

That was the lot of the heathen; Virgil, made wise by death, counsels

him not to desire it:

"Matto è chi spera, che nostra ragione

Possa trascorrer la 'nfinita via

Che tiene una sustanzia in tre Persone.

State contenti, umana gente, al _quia_;

Chè se potuto aveste veder tutto,

Mestier non era partorir Maria:

E disiar vedeste senza frutto

Tai, che sarebbe lor disio quetato,

Ch'eternamente è dato lor per lutto;

I' dico d'Aristotile e di Plato,

E di molti altri:"--e qui chinò la fronte,

E più non disse, e rimase turbato.--_Purg._ c. 3.[106]

[Footnote 106:

"Insensate he, who thinks with mortal ken

To pierce Infinitude, which doth enfold

Three Persons in one Substance. Seek not then,

O mortal race, for reasons--but believe,

And be contented; for had all been seen,

No need there was for Mary to conceive.

Men have ye known, who thus desired in vain;

And whose desires, that might at rest have been,

Now constitute a source of endless pain;

Plato, the Stagirite; and many more,

I here allude to;"--then his head he bent,

Was silent, and a troubled aspect wore.--WRIGHT.]

The Christian poet felt that it was greater to believe and to act. In

the darkness of the world one bright light appeared, and he followed

it. Providence had assigned him his portion of truth, his portion of

daily bread; if to us it appears blended with human elements, it is

perfectly clear that he was in no position to sift them. To choose was

no trial of his. To examine and seek, where it was impossible to find,

would have been folly. The authority from which he started had not yet

been seriously questioned; there were no palpable signs of

doubtfulness on the system which was to him the representative of

God's will; and he sought for none. It came to him claiming his

allegiance by custom, by universality, by its completeness as a whole,

and satisfying his intellect and his sympathies in detail. And he gave

his allegiance--reasonably, because there was nothing to hope for in

doubting--wisely, because he gave it loyally and from his heart.

And he had his reward--the reward of him who throws himself with

frankness and earnestness into a system; who is not afraid or

suspicious of it; who is not unfaithful to it. He gained not merely

power--he gained that freedom and largeness of mind which the

suspicious or the unfaithful miss. His loyalty to the Church was no

cramping or blinding service; it left to its full play that fresh and

original mind, left it to range at will in all history and all nature

for the traces of Eternal wisdom, left it to please itself with all

beauty, and pay its homage to all excellence. For upon all wisdom,

beauty, and excellence, the Church had taught him to see, in various

and duly distinguished degrees, the seal of the one Creator. She

imparts to the poem, to its form and progressive development, her own

solemnity, her awe, her calm, her serenity and joy; it follows her

sacred seasons and hours; repeats her appointed words of benediction

and praise; moulds itself on her belief, her expectations, and

forecastings.[107] Her intimations, more or less distinct, dogma or

tradition or vague hint, guide the poet's imagination through the land

where all eyes are open. The journey begins under the Easter moon of

the year of jubilee, on the evening of Good Friday; the days of her

mourning he spends in the regions of woe, where none dares to

pronounce the name of the Redeemer, and he issues forth to "behold

again the stars," to learn how to die to sin and rise to

righteousness, very early in the morning, as it begins to dawn, on the

day of the Resurrection. The whole arrangement of the _Purgatorio_ is

drawn from Church usages. It is a picture of men suffering in calm and

holy hope the sharp discipline of repentance, amid the prayers, the

melodies, the consoling images and thoughts, the orderly ritual, the

hours of devotion, the sacraments of the Church militant. When he

ascends in his hardiest flight, and imagines the joys of the perfect

and the vision of God, his abundant fancy confines itself strictly to

the limits sanctioned by her famous teachers--ventures into no new

sphere, hazards no anticipations in which they have not preceded it,

and is content with adding to the poetry which it elicits from their

ideas, a beauty which it is able to conceive apart altogether from

bodily form--the beauty, infinite in its variety, of the expression of

the human eye and smile--the beauty of light, of sound, of motion. And

when his song mounts to its last strain of triumph, and the poet's

thought, imagination, and feeling of beauty, tasked to the utmost, nor

failing under the weight of glory which they have to express, breathe

themselves forth in words, higher than which no poetry has ever risen,

and represent, in images transcending sense, and baffling it, yet

missing not one of those deep and transporting sympathies which they

were to touch, the sight, eye to eye, of the Creator by the

creature--he beholds the gathering together, in the presence of God,

of "all that from our earth has to the skies returned," and of the

countless orders of their thrones mirrored in His light--

Mira

Quanto è 'l convento delle bianche stole--

under a figure already taken into the ceremonial of the Church--the

mystic Rose, whose expanding leaves image forth the joy of the

heavenly Jerusalem, both triumphant and militant.[108]

[Footnote 107: See an article in the _Brit. Critic_, No. 65, p. 120.]

[Footnote 108: See the form of benediction of the "Rosa d'oro."

_Rituum Ecclesiæ Rom. Libri Tres._ fol. xxxv. Venet. 1516. Form of

giving: "Accipe rosam de manibus nostris ... per quam designatus

gaudium utriusque Hierusalem triumphantis scilicet et militantis

ecclesiæ per quam omnibus Christi fidelibus manifestatur flos ipse

pretiosissimus qui est gaudium et corona sanctorum omnium." He alludes

to it in the _Convito_, iv. 29.

O isplendor di Dio, per cu' io vidi

L'alto trionfo del regno verace,

Dammi virtù a dir com'io lo vidi.

Lume è lassù, che visibile face

Lo creatore a quella creatura,

Che solo in lui vedere ha la sua pace:

E si distende in circular figura

In tanto, che la sua circonferenza

Sarebbe al Sol troppo larga cintura.

* * * *

E come clivo in acqua di suo imo

Si specchia quasi per vedersi adorno,

Quanto è nel verde e ne' fioretti opimo;

Sì soprastando al lume intorno intorno

Vidi specchiarsi in più di mille soglie,

Quanto di noi lassù fatto ha ritorno.

E se l'infimo grado in sè raccoglie

Sì grande lume, quant'è la larghezza

Di questa rosa nell'estreme foglie?

* * * *

Nel giallo della rosa sempiterna,

Che si dilata, rigrada, e redole

Odor di lode al Sol, che sempre verna,

Qual'è colui, che tace e dicer vuole,

Mi trasse Beatrice, e disse; mira

Quanto è 'l convento delle bianche stole!

Vedi nostra Città quanto ella gira!

Vedi li nostri scanni sì ripieni,

Che poca gente omai ci si disira.

* * * *

In forma dunque di candida rosa

Mi si mostrava la milizia santa,

Che nel suo sangue Cristo fece sposa.--_Parad._ 30, 31.]

But this universal reference to the religious ideas of the Church is

so natural, so unaffected, that it leaves him at full liberty in other

orders of thought. He can afford not to be conventional--he can afford

to be comprehensive and genuine. It has been remarked how, in a poem

where there would seem to be a fitting place for them, the

ecclesiastical legends of the middle ages are almost entirely absent.

The sainted spirits of the _Paradiso_ are not exclusively or chiefly

the Saints of popular devotion. After the Saints of the Bible, the

holy women, the three great Apostles, the Virgin mother, they are

either names personally dear to the poet himself, friends whom he had

loved, and teachers to whom he owed wisdom--or great men of masculine

energy in thought or action, in their various lines "compensations and

antagonists of the world's evils"--Justinian and Constantine, and

Charlemagne--the founders of the Orders, Augustine, Benedict, and

Bernard, Francis and Dominic--the great doctors of the Schools, Thomas

Aquinas, and Bonaventura, whom the Church had not yet canonized. And

with them are joined--and that with a full consciousness of the line

which theology draws between the dispensations of nature and

grace--some rare types of virtue among the heathen. Cato is admitted

to the outskirts of Purgatory; Trajan, and the righteous king of

Virgil's poem, to the heaven of the just.[109]

[Footnote 109:

Chi crederebbe giù nel mondo errante,

Che Rifèo Trojano[A] in questo tondo

Fosse la quinta delle luci sante?

Ora conosce assai di quel, che 'l mondo

Veder non può della divina grazia;

Benchè sua vista non discerna il fondo.--_Parad._ c. 20.]

[Footnote A:

Rhipeus justissimus unus

Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus æqui.--_Æn._ ii.]

Without confusion or disturbance to the religious character of his

train of thought, he is able freely to subordinate to it the lessons

and the great recollections of the Gentile times. He contemplates them

with the veil drawn off from them; as now known to form but one whole

with the history of the Bible and the Church, in the design of

Providence. He presents them in their own colours, as drawn by their

own writers--he only adds what Christianity seems to show to be their

event. Under the conviction, that the light of the Heathen was a real

guide from above, calling for vengeance in proportion to

unfaithfulness, or outrage done to it--"He that nurtureth the heathen,

it is He that teacheth man knowledge--shall not He punish?"--the great

criminals of profane history are mingled with sinners against God's

revealed will--and that, with equal dramatic power, with equal feeling

of the greatness of their loss. The story of the voyage of Ulysses is

told with as much vivid power and pathetic interest as the tales of

the day.[110] He honours unfeignedly the old heathen's brave disdain

of ease; that spirit, even to old age, eager, fresh, adventurous, and

inquisitive. His faith allowed him to admire all that was beautiful

and excellent among the heathen, without forgetting that it fell short

of what the new gift of the Gospel can alone impart. He saw in it

proof that God had never left His will and law without their witness

among men. Virtue was virtue still, though imperfect, and

unconsecrated--generosity, largeness of soul, truth, condescension,

justice, were never unworthy of the reverence of Christians. Hence he

uses without fear or scruple the classic element. The examples which

recall to the minds of the penitents, by sounds and sights, in the

different terraces of Purgatory, their sin and the grace they have to

attain to, come indiscriminately from poetry and Scripture. The

sculptured pavement, to which the proud are obliged ever to bow down

their eyes, shows at once the humility of S. Mary and of the Psalmist,

and the condescension of Trajan; and elsewhere the pride of Nimrod and

Sennacherib, of Niobe, and Cyrus. The envious hear the passing voices

of courtesy from saints and heroes, and the bursting cry, like

crashing thunder, of repentant jealousy from Cain and Aglaurus; the

avaricious, to keep up the memory of their fault, celebrate by day the

poverty of Fabricius and the liberality of S. Nicolas, and execrate by

night the greediness of Pygmalion and Midas, of Achan, Heliodorus, and

Crassus.

[Footnote 110: _Inf._ c. 26.]

Dante's all-surveying, all-embracing mind, was worthy to open the

grand procession of modern poets. He had chosen his subject in a

region remote from popular thought--too awful for it, too abstruse. He

had accepted frankly the dogmatic limits of the Church, and thrown

himself with even enthusiastic faith into her reasonings, at once so

bold and so undoubting--her spirit of certainty, and her deep

contemplations on the unseen and infinite. And in literature, he had

taken as guides and models, above all criticism and all appeal, the

classical writers. Yet with his mind full of the deep and intricate

questions of metaphysics and theology, and his poetical taste always

owning allegiance to Virgil, Ovid, and Statius--keen and subtle as a

Schoolman--as much an idolator of old heathen art and grandeur as the

men of the _Renaissance_--his eye is as open to the delicacies of

character, to the variety of external nature, to the wonders of the

physical world--his interest in them as diversified and fresh, his

impressions as sharp and distinct, his rendering of them as free and

true and forcible, as little weakened or confused by imitation or by

conventional words, his language as elastic, and as completely under

his command, his choice of poetic materials as unrestricted and

original, as if he had been born in days which claim as their own such

freedom, and such keen discriminative sense of what is real, in

feeling and image;--as if he had never felt the attractions of a

crabbed problem of scholastic logic, or bowed before the mellow grace

of the Latins. It may be said, indeed, that the time was not yet come

when the classics could be really understood and appreciated; and this

is true, perhaps fortunate. But admiring them with a kind of devotion,

and showing not seldom that he had caught their spirit, he never

_attempts_ to copy them. His poetry in form and material is all his

own. He asserted the poet's claim to borrow from all science, and from

every phase of nature, the associations and images which he wants; and

he showed that those images and associations did not lose their poetry

by being expressed with the most literal reality.

But let no reader of fastidious taste disturb his temper by the study

of Dante. Dante certainly opened that path of freedom and poetic

conquest, in which the greatest efforts of modern poetry have followed

him--opened it with a magnificence and power which have never been

surpassed. But the greatest are but pioneers; they must be content to

leave to a posterity, which knows more, if it cannot do as much, a

keen and even growing sense of their defects. The _Commedia_ is open

to all the attacks that can be made on grotesqueness and extravagance.

This is partly owing, doubtless, to the time, in itself quaint,

quainter to us, by being remote and ill-understood; but even then,

weaker and less daring writers than Dante do not equally offend or

astonish us. So that an image or an expression will render forcibly a

thought, there is no strangeness which checks him. Barbarous words are

introduced, to express the cries of the demon or the confusion of

Babel--even to represent the incomprehensible song of the

blessed;[111] inarticulate syllables, to convey the impression of some

natural sound--the cry of sorrowful surprise:

Alto sospir, che duolo strinse in _hui_;--_Purg._ 16.

or the noise of the cracking ice:

Se Tabernicch

Vi fosse sù caduto, o Pietra-pana

Non avria pur da l'orlo fatto _cricch_;--_Inf._ 32.

even separate letters--to express an image, to spell a name, or as

used in some popular proverb.[112] He employs without scruple, and

often with marvellous force of description, any recollection that

occurs to him, however homely, of everyday life;--the old tailor

threading his needle with trouble (_Inf._ 15);--the cook's assistant

watching over the boiling broth (_Inf._ 21);--the hurried or impatient

horse-groom using his curry-comb (_Inf._ 29);--or the common sights

of the street or the chamber--the wet wood sputtering on the hearth:

Come d'un stizzo verde che arso sia

Dall'un de' capi, che dall'altro geme

E cigola per vento che va via;--_Inf._ 13.[113]

the paper changing colour when about to catch fire:

Come procede innanzi dall'ardore

Per lo papiro suso un color bruno

Che non è nero ancora, e 'l bianco muore:--_Inf._ 25.[114]

the steaming of the hand when bathed, in winter:

Fuman come man bagnata il verno:--

or the ways and appearances of animals--ants meeting on their path:

Lì veggio d'ogni parte farsi presta

Ciascun'ombra, e baciarsi una con una

Senza restar, contente a breve festa:

Così per entro loro schiera bruna

_S'ammusa l'una con l'altra formica_,

Forse a spiar lor via e lor fortuna;--_Purg._ 26.[115]

the snail drawing in its horns (_Inf._ 25);--the hog shut out of its

sty, and trying to gore with its tusks (_Inf._ 30);--the dogs' misery

in summer (_Inf._ 17);--the frogs jumping on to the bank before the

water-snake (_Inf._ 9);--or showing their heads above water:

Come al orlo dell'acqua d'un fosso

Stan gli ranocchi _pur col muso fuori_,

Sì che celano i piedi, e l'altro grosso.--_Inf._ 22.[116]

[Footnote 111: _Parad._ 7, 1-3.]

[Footnote 112: To describe the pinched face of famine;--

Parean l'occhiaje annella senza gemme.

Chi nel viso degli uomini legge OMO

Ben avria quivi conosciuto l'_emme_ (M).--_Purg._ 23.

Again,

Quella reverenza che s'indonna

Di tutto me, pur per B e per ICE.--_Parad._ 7.

Nè O sì tosto mai, nè I si scrisse,

Com'ei s'accese ed arse.--_Inf._ 24.]

[Footnote 113:

Like to a sapling, lighted at one end,

Which at the other hisses with the wind,

And drops of sap doth from the outlet send:

So from the broken twig, both words and blood flow'd forth.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 114:

Like burning paper, when there glides before

The advancing flame a brown and dingy shade,

Which is not black, and yet is white no more.--IBID.]

[Footnote 115:

On either hand I saw them haste their meeting,

And kiss each one the other--pausing not--

Contented to enjoy so short a greeting.

Thus do the ants among their dingy band,

Face one another--each their neighbour's lot

Haply to scan, and how their fortunes stand.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 116:

As in a trench, frogs at the water side

Sit squatting, with their noses raised on high,

The while their feet, and all their bulk they hide--

Thus upon either hand the sinners stood.

But Barbariccia now approaching nigh,

Quick they withdrew beneath the boiling flood.

I saw--and still my heart is thrill'd with fear--

One spirit linger; as beside a ditch,

One frog remains, the others disappear.--IBID.]

It must be said, that most of these images, though by no means all,

occur in the _Inferno_; and that the poet means to paint sin not

merely in the greatness of its ruin and misery, but in characters

which all understand, of strangeness, of vileness, of despicableness,

blended with diversified and monstrous horror. Even he seems to

despair of his power at times:

S'io avessi le rime e aspre, e chiocce,

Come si converrebbe al tristo buco,

Sovra 'l qual pontan tutte l'altre rocce;

Io premerrei di mio concetto il suco

Più pienamente; ma perch'io non l'abbo,

Non senza tema a dicer mi conduco:

Che non è 'mpresa da pigliare a gabbo

Descriver fondo a tutto l'universo,

Nè da lingua, che chiami mamma, o babbo.--_Inf._ 32.[117]

[Footnote 117:

Had I a rhyme so rugged, rough, and hoarse

As would become the sorrowful abyss,

O'er which the rocky circles wind their course,

Then with a more appropriate form I might

Endow my vast conceptions; wanting this,

Not without fear I bring myself to write.

For no light enterprise it is, I deem,

To represent the lowest depth of all;

Nor should a childish tongue attempt the theme.--WRIGHT.]

Feeling the difference between sins, in their elements and, as far as

we see them, their baseness, he treats them variously. His ridicule is

apportioned with a purpose. He passes on from the doom of the sins of

incontinence--the storm, the frost and hail, the crushing

weights--from the flaming minarets of the city of Dis, of the Furies

and Proserpine, "Donna dell'eterno pianto," where the unbelievers lie,

each in his burning tomb--from the river of boiling blood--the wood

with the Harpies--the waste of barren sand with fiery snow, where the

violent are punished--to the Malebolge, the manifold circles of

Falsehood. And here scorn and ridicule in various degrees, according

to the vileness of the fraud, begin to predominate, till they

culminate in that grim comedy, with its _dramatis personæ_ and battle

of devils, Draghignazzo, and Graffiacane, and Malacoda, where the

peculators and sellers of justice are fished up by the demons from the

boiling pitch, but even there overreach and cheat their tormentors,

and make them turn their fangs on each other. The diversified forms of

falsehood seem to tempt the poet's imagination to cope with its

changefulness and inventions, as well as its audacity. The

transformations of the wildest dream do not daunt him. His power over

language is nowhere more forcibly displayed than in those cantos,

which describe the punishments of theft--men passing gradually into

serpents, and serpents into men:

Due e nessun l'imagine perversa

Parea.--_Inf._ 25.

And when the traitor, who murdered his own kinsman, was still alive,

and seemed safe from the infamy which it was the poet's rule to bestow

only on the dead, Dante found a way to inflict his vengeance without

an anachronism:--Branca D'Oria's body, though on earth, is only

animated by a fiend, and his spirit has long since fled to the icy

prison.[118]

[Footnote 118:

Ed egli a me: Come 'l mio corpo stea

Nel mondo sù, nulla scienzia porto.

Cotal vantaggio ha questa Tolommea,

Che spesse volte l'anima ci cade

Innanzi, ch'Atropòs mossa le dea.

E perchè tu più volontier mi rade

Le 'nvetriate lagrime dal volto,

Sappi, che tosto che l'anima trade,

Come fec'io, il corpo suo l'è tolto

Da un Dimonio, che poscia il governa,

Mentre che 'l tempo suo tutto sia volto.

Ella ruina in sì fatta cisterna;

E forse pare ancor lo corpo suso

Dell'ombra, che di qua dietro mi verna.

Tu 'l dei saper, se tu vien pur mo giuso:

Egli è ser Branca d'Oria, e son più anni

Poscia passati, ch'ei fu sì racchiuso.

Io credo, diss'io lui, che tu m'inganni,

Che Branca d'Oria non morì unquanche,

E mangia, e bee, e dorme, e veste panni.

Nel fosso sù, diss'ei, di Malebranche,

Là dove bolle la tenace pece,

Non era giunto ancora Michel Zanche;

Che questi lasciò 'l diavolo in sua vece

Nel corpo suo, e d'un suo prossimano,

Che 'l tradimento insieme con lui fece.--_Inf._ 33.]

These are strange experiments in poetry; their strangeness is

exaggerated as detached passages; but they are strange enough when

they meet us in their place in the context, as parts of a scene, where

the mind is strung and overawed by the sustained power, with which

dreariness, horror, hideous absence of every form of good, is kept

before the imagination and feelings, in the fearful picture of human

sin. But they belong to the poet's system of direct and forcible

representation. What his inward eye sees, what he feels, that he means

us to see and feel as he does; to make us see and feel is his art.

Afterwards we may reflect and meditate; but first we must see--must

see what he saw. Evil and deformity are in the world, as well as good

and beauty; the eye cannot escape them, they are about our path, in

our heart and memory. He has faced them without shrinking or

dissembling, and extorted from them a voice of warning. In all poetry

that is written for mere delight, in all poetry which regards but a

part or an aspect of nature, they have no place--they disturb and mar;

but he had conceived a poetry of the whole, which would be weak or

false without them. Yet they stand in his poem as they stand in

nature--subordinate and relieved. If the grotesque is allowed to

intrude itself--if the horrible and the foul, undisguised and

unsoftened, make us shudder and shrink, they are kept in strong check

and in due subjection by other poetical influences; and the same power

which exhibits them in their naked strength, renders its full grace

and glory to beauty; its full force and delicacy to the most

evanescent feeling.

Dante's eye was free and open to external nature in a degree new among

poets; certainly in a far greater degree than among the Latins, even

including Lucretius, whom he probably had never read. We have already

spoken of his minute notice of the appearance of living creatures; but

his eye was caught by the beautiful as well as by the grotesque.

Take the following beautiful picture of the bird looking out for dawn:

Come l'augello intra l'amate fronde,

Posato al nido de' suoi dolci nati,

La notte, che le cose ci nasconde,

Che per veder gli aspetti desiati,

E per trovar lo cibo, onde li pasca,

In che i gravi labor gli sono aggrati,

Previene 'l tempo in su l'aperta frasca,

E con ardente affetto il sole aspetta,

Fiso guardando, pur che l'alba nasca.--_Parad._ 23.[119]

[Footnote 119:

E'en as the bird that resting in the nest

Of her sweet brood, the shelt'ring boughs among

While all things are enwrapt in night's dark vest--

Now eager to behold the looks she loves,

And to find food for her impatient young

(Whence labour grateful to a mother proves),

Forestalls the time, high perch'd upon the spray,

And with impassion'd zeal the sun expecting,

Anxiously waiteth the first break of day.--WRIGHT.]

Nothing indeed can be more true and original than his images of birds;

they are varied and very numerous. We have the water-birds rising in

clamorous and changing flocks:

Come augelli surti di riviera

_Quasi congratulando a lor pasture_,

Fanno di sè or tonda or lunga schiera;--_Parad._ 18.[120]

the rooks, beginning to move about at daybreak:

E come per lo natural costume,

Le pole insieme, al cominciar del giorno

Si muovono a scaldar le fredde piume,

Poi altre vanno via senza ritorno,

Altre rivolgon sè onde son mosse

Ed altre roteando fan soggiorno;--_Parad._ 21.[121]

the morning sounds of the swallow:

Nell'ora che comincia i tristi lai

La rondinella presso alla mattina,

Forse a memoria de' suoi primi guai;--_Purg._ 9.[122]

the joy and delight of the nightingale's song (_Purg._ 17); the lark,

silent at last, filled with its own sweetness:

Qual lodoletta, che 'n aere si spazia,

Prima cantando, e _poi tace contenta

Dell'ultima dolcezza che la sazia_;--_Parad._ 20.[123]

the flight of the starlings and storks (_Inf._ 5, _Purg._ 24); the

mournful cry and long line of the cranes (_Inf._ 5, _Purg._ 26); the

young birds trying to escape from the nest (_Purg._ 25); the eagle

hanging in the sky:

Con l'ale aperte, e a calare intesa;--

the dove, standing close to its mate, or wheeling round it:

Sì come quando 'l _colombo si pone

Presso al compagno_, l'uno e l'altro pande

_Girando e mormorando_ l'affezione;--_Parad._ 25.[124]

or the flock of pigeons, feeding:

Adunati alla pastura,

Queti, _senza mostrar l'usato orgoglio_.--_Purg._ 2.

[Footnote 120:

And as birds rising from a stream, whence they

Their pastures view, as though their joy confessing,

Now form a round, and now a long array.--IBID.]

[Footnote 121:

And as with one accord, at break of day,

The rooks bestir themselves, by nature taught

To chase the dew-drops from their wings away;

Some flying off, to reappear no more--

Others repairing to their nests again--

Some whirling round--then settling as before.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 122:

What time the swallow pours her plaintive strain,

Saluting the approach of morning gray,

Thus haply mindful of her former pain.--IBID.]

[Footnote 123:

E'en as the lark high soaring pours its throat

Awhile, then rests in silence, as though still

It dwelt enamour'd of its last sweet note.--IBID.]

[Footnote 124:

As when unto his partner's side, the dove

Approaches near--both fondly circling round,

And cooing, show the fervour of their love;

So these great heirs of immortality

Receive each other; while they joyful sound

The praises of the food they share on high.--WRIGHT.]

Hawking supplies its images: the falcon coming for its food:

Il falcon che prima a piè si mira,

Indi si volge al grido, e si protende,

Per lo disio del pasto, che là il tira;--_Purg._ 19.[125]

or just unhooded, pluming itself for its flight:

Quasi falcon, ch'esce del cappello,

Muove la testa, e con l'ale s'applaude,

_Voglia mostrando, e facendosi bello_;--_Parad._ 19.[126]

or returning without success, sullen and loath:

Come 'l falcon ch'è stato assai su l'ali,

Che senza veder logoro, o uccello,

Fa dire al falconiere: Oimè tu cali!

Discende lasso onde si muove snello

Per cento ruote, _e da lungi si pone_

Dal suo maestro, _disdegnoso e fello_.--_Inf._ 17.[127]

[Footnote 125:

And, as a falcon, which first scans its feet,

Then turns him to the call, and forward flies,

In eagerness to catch the tempting meat.--IBID.]

[Footnote 126:

Lo, as a falcon, from the hood released,

Uplifts his head, and joyous flaps his wings,

His beauty and his eagerness increased.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 127:

E'en as a falcon, long upheld in air,

Not seeing lure or bird upon the wing,

So that the falconer utters in despair

"Alas, thou stoop'st!" fatigued descends from high;

And whirling quickly round in many a ring,

Far from his master sits--disdainfully.--IBID.]

It is curious to observe him taking Virgil's similes, and altering

them. When Virgil describes the throng of souls, he compares them to

falling leaves, or gathering birds in autumn:

Quam multa in silvis auctumni frigore primo

Lapsa cadunt folia, aut ad terram gurgite ab alto

Quam multæ glomerantur aves, ubi frigidus annus

Trans pontum fugat, et terris immittit apricis--

Dante uses the same images, but without copying:

Come d'Autunno si levan le foglie,

L'una appresso dell'altra, infin che 'l ramo

Rende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie;

Similemente il mal seme d'Adamo:

Gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una

Per cenni, com'augel per suo richiamo.

Così sen vanno su per l'onda bruna,

Ed avanti che sien di là discese,

Anche di qua nuova schiera s'aduna.--_Inf._ 3.[128]

[Footnote 128:

As leaves in autumn, borne before the wind,

Drop one by one, until the branch laid bare,

Sees all its honours to the earth consign'd:

So cast them downward at his summons all

The guilty race of Adam from that strand--

Each as a falcon answering to the call.--WRIGHT.]

Again--compared with one of Virgil's most highly-finished and perfect

pictures, the flight of the pigeon, disturbed at first, and then

becoming swift and smooth:

Qualis spelunca subito commota columba,

Cui domus et dulces latebroso in pumice nidi,

Fertur in arva volans, plausumque exterrita pennis

Dat tecto ingentem, mox aere lapsa quieto

Radit iter liquidum, celeres neque commovet alas--

the Italian's simplicity and strength may balance the "ornata parola"

of Virgil:

Quali colombe dal disio chiamate,

Con _l'ali aperte e ferme_ al dolce nido

Volan per l'aer dal voler portate.--_Inf._ 5.[129]

[Footnote 129:

As doves, by strong affection urged, repair

With firm expanded wings to their sweet nest,

Borne by the impulse of their will through air.--IBID.

It is impossible not to be reminded at every step, in spite of the

knowledge and taste which Mr. Cary and Mr. Wright have brought to

their most difficult task, of the truth which Dante has expressed with

his ordinary positiveness.

He is saying that he does not wish his Canzoni to be explained in

Latin to those who could not read them in Italian: "Che sarebbe sposta

la loro sentenzia colà dove elle _non la potessono colla loro bellezza

portare_. E però sappia ciascuno che nulla cosa per legame musaico

(_i.e._ poetico) armonizzata, si può della sua loquela in altra

trasmutare senza rompere tutta la sua dolcezza e armonia. E questa è

la ragione per che Omero non si mutò mai di Greco in Latino, come

l'altre scritture che avemo da loro."--_Convito_, i. c. 8, p. 49.

Dr. Carlyle has given up the idea of attempting to represent Dante's

verse by English verse, and has confined himself to assisting

Englishmen to read him in his own language. His prose translation is

accurate and forcible. And he has added sensible and useful notes.]

Take, again, the _times of the day_, with what is characteristic of

them--appearances, lights, feelings--seldom dwelt on at length, but

carried at once to the mind, and stamped upon it sometimes by a single

word. The sense of _morning_, its inspiring and cheering strength,

softens the opening of the _Inferno_; breathes its refreshing calm, in

the interval of repose after the last horrors of hell, in the first

canto of the _Purgatorio_; and prepares for the entrance into the

earthly Paradise at its close. In the waning light of _evening_, and

its chilling sense of loneliness, he prepared himself for his dread

pilgrimage:

Lo giorno se n'andava, e l'aer bruno

Toglieva gli animai che sono 'n terra

Dalle fatiche loro; ed io sol uno

M'apparechiava a sostener la guerra

Sì del cammino, e sì della pietate.--_Inf._ 2.

Indeed there is scarcely an hour of day or night, which has not left

its own recollection with him;--of which we cannot find some memorial

in his poem. Evening and night have many. Evening, with its softness

and melancholy--its exhaustion and languor, after the work, perhaps

unfulfilled, of day--its regrets and yearnings--its sounds and

doubtful lights--the distant bell, the closing chants of Compline, the

_Salve Regina_, the _Te lucis ante terminum_--with its insecurity, and

its sense of protection from above--broods over the poet's first

resting-place on his heavenly road--that still, solemn, dreamy

scene--the Valley of Flowers in the mountain side, where those who

have been negligent about their salvation, but not altogether

faithless and fruitless, the assembled shades of great kings and of

poets, wait, looking upwards, "pale and humble," for the hour when

they may begin in earnest their penance. (_Purg._ 7 and 8.) The level,

blinding evening beams (_Purg._ 15); the contrast of gathering

darkness in the valley or on the shore with the lingering lights on

the mountain (_Purg._ 17); the rapid sinking of the sun, and approach

of night in the south (_Purg._ 27); the flaming sunset clouds of

August; the sheet-lightning of summer (_Purg._ 5); have left pictures

in his mind, which an incidental touch reawakens, and a few strong

words are sufficient to express. Other appearances he describes with

more fulness. The stars coming out one by one, baffling at first the

eye:

Ed ecco intorno di chiarezza pari

Nascer un lustro sopra quel che v'era,

A guisa d'orizzonte, che rischiari.

_E sì come al salir di prima sera

Comincian per lo Ciel nuove parvenze,

Sì che la cosa pare e non par vera_;--_Parad._ 14.[130]

or else, bursting out suddenly over the heavens:

Quando colui che tutto il mondo alluma,

De l'emisperio nostro si discende,

E 'l giorno d'ogni parte si consuma;

Lo ciel che sol di lui prima s'accende,

Subitamente si rifà parvente

Per molte luci in che una risplende;--_Parad._ 20.[131]

or the effect of shooting-stars:

Quale per li seren tranquilli e puri

Discorre ad ora ad or subito fuoco

Movendo gli occhi che stavan sicuri,

E pare stella che tramuti loco,

Se non che dalla parte onde s'accende

Nulla sen perde, ed esso dura poco;--_Parad._ 15.[132]

or, again, that characteristic sight of the Italian summer night--the

fire-flies:

Quante il villan che al poggio si riposa,

Nel tempo che colui che 'l mondo schiara

La faccia sua a noi tien men ascosa,

Come la mosca cede alla zenzara,

Vede lucciole giù per la vallea

Forse colà dove vendemmia ed ara.--_Inf._ 26.[133]

[Footnote 130:

And lo, on high, and lurid as the one

Now there, encircling it, a light arose,

Like heaven when re-illumined by the sun:

And as at the first lighting up of eve

The sky doth new appearances disclose,

That now seem real, now the sight deceive.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 131:

When he, who with his universal ray

The world illumines, quits our hemisphere,

And, from each quarter, daylight wears away;

The heaven, erst kindled by his beam alone,

Sudden its lost effulgence doth repair

By many lights illumined but by one.--IBID.]

[Footnote 132:

As oft along the pure and tranquil sky

A sudden fire by night is seen to dart,

Attracting forcibly the heedless eye;

And seems to be a star that changes place,

Save that no star is lost from out the part

It quits, and that it lasts a moment's space.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 133:

As in that season when the sun least veils

His face that lightens all, what time the fly

Gives place to the shrill gnat, the peasant then,

Upon some cliff reclined, beneath him sees

Fire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale,

Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies.--CARY.]

Noon, too, does not want its characteristic touches--the

lightning-like glancing of the lizard's rapid motion:

Come il ramarro sotto la gran fersa

Ne' dì canicular cangiando siepe

Folgore par, se la via attraversa;--_Inf._ 25.[134]

the motes in the sunbeam at noontide (_Par._ 14); its clear,

diffused, insupportable brightness, filling all things:

E tutti eran già pieni

Dell'alto dì i giron del sacro monte.--_Purg._ 19.

and veiling the sun in his own light:

Io veggio ben sì come _tu t'annidi

Nel proprio lume_.

* * * *

Sì come 'l sol che si cela egli stessi

Per troppa luce, quando 'l caldo ha rose

Le temperanze de' vapori spessi.--_Parad._ 5.

[Footnote 134:

As underneath the dog-star's scorching ray

The lizard, darting swift from fence to fence,

Appears like lightning, if he cross the way.--WRIGHT.]

But the sights and feelings of morning are what he touches on most

frequently; and he does so with the precision of one who had watched

them with often-repeated delight: the scented freshness of the breeze

that stirs before daybreak:

E quale annunziatrice degli albori

Aura di maggio muovesi ed olezza

Tutta impregnata dall'erba e da' fiori;

Tal mi senti' un vento dar per mezza

La fronte;--_Purg._ 24.[135]

the chill of early morning (_Purg._ 19); the dawn stealing on, and the

stars, one by one, fading "infino alla più bella" (_Parad._ 30); the

brightness of the "trembling morning star"--

Par tremolando mattutina stella;--

the serenity of the dawn, the blue gradually gathering in the east,

spreading over the brightening sky (_Parad._ 1); then succeeded by the

orange tints--and Mars setting red, through the mist over the sea:

Ed ecco, qual sul presso del mattino

Per li grossi vapor Marte rosseggia

Giù nel ponente, sopra 'l suol marino,

Cotal m'apparve, s'io ancor lo veggia,

Un lume per lo mar venir sì ratto

Che 'l muover suo nessun volar pareggia;--_Purg._ 2.[136]

the distant sea-beach quivering in the early light:

L'alba vinceva l'ora mattutina

Che fuggia innanzi, sì che di lontano

Conobbi _il tremolar della marina_;--_Purg._ 1.[137]

the contrast of east and west at the moment of sunrise, and the sun

appearing, clothed in mist:

Io vidi già nel cominciar del giorno

La parte oriental tutta rosata

E l'altro ciel di bel sereno adorno;

E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata

Sì che per temperanza di vapori

L'occhio lo sostenea lunga fiata;--_Purg._ 3.[138]

or breaking through it, and shooting his beams over the sky:

Di tutte parti saettava il giorno

Lo sol ch'avea con le saette conte

Di mezzo 'l ciel cacciato 'l Capricorno.--_Purg._ 2.[139]

[Footnote 135:

As when, announcing the approach of day,

Impregnated with herbs and flowers of Spring,

Breathes fresh and redolent the air of May--

Such was the breeze that gently fann'd my head;

And I perceived the waving of a wing

Which all around ambrosial odours shed.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 136:

When lo! like Mars, in aspect fiery red

Seen through the vapour, when the morn is nigh

Far in the west above the briny bed,

So (might I once more see it) o'er the sea

A light approach'd with such rapidity,

Flies not the bird that might its equal be.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 137:

Now 'gan the vanquish'd matin hour to flee;

And seen from far, as onward came the day,

I recognised the trembling of the sea.--IBID.]

[Footnote 138:

Erewhile the eastern regions have I seen

At daybreak glow with roseate colours, and

The expanse beside all beauteous and serene:

And the sun's face so shrouded at its rise,

And temper'd by the mists which overhung,

That I could gaze on it with stedfast eyes.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 139:

On every side the sun shot forth the day,

And had already with his arrows bright

From the mid-heaven chased Capricorn away.--IBID.]

But _light_ in general is his special and chosen source of poetic

beauty. No poet that we know has shown such singular sensibility to

its varied appearances--has shown that he felt it in itself the cause

of a distinct and peculiar pleasure, delighting the eye apart from

form, as music delights the ear apart from words, and capable, like

music, of definite character, of endless variety, and infinite

meanings. He must have studied and dwelt upon it like music. His mind

is charged with its effects and combinations, and they are rendered

with a force, a brevity, a precision, a heedlessness and

unconsciousness of ornament, an indifference to circumstance and

detail; they flash out with a spontaneous readiness, a suitableness

and felicity, which show the familiarity and grasp given only by daily

observation, daily thought, daily pleasure. Light everywhere--in the

sky and earth and sea--in the star, the flame, the lamp, the

gem--broken in the water, reflected from the mirror, transmitted pure

through the glass, or coloured through the edge of the fractured

emerald--dimmed in the mist, the halo, the deep water--streaming

through the rent cloud, glowing in the coal, quivering in the

lightning, flashing in the topaz and the ruby, veiled behind the pure

alabaster, mellowed and clouding itself in the pearl--light contrasted

with shadow--shading off and copying itself in the double rainbow,

like voice and echo--light seen within light, as voice discerned

within voice, "_quando una è ferma, e l'altra va e riede_"--the

brighter "nestling" itself in the fainter--the purer set off on the

less clear, "_come perla in bianca fronte_"--light in the human eye

and face, displaying, figuring, and confounded with its

expressions--light blended with joy in the eye:

luce

Come letizia in pupilla viva;

and in the smile:

Vincendo me col lume d'un sorriso;

joy lending its expression to light:

Quivi la donna mia vid'io sì lieta--

Che più lucente se ne fè il pianeta.

E se la _stella si cambiò, e rise_,

Qual mi fec'io;--_Parad._ 5.

light from every source, and in all its shapes, illuminates,

irradiates, gives its glory to the _Commedia_. The remembrance of our

"serene life" beneath the "fair stars" keeps up continually the gloom

of the _Inferno_. Light, such as we see it and recognise it, the light

of morning and evening growing and fading, takes off from the

unearthliness of the _Purgatorio_; peopled, as it is, by the undying,

who, though suffering for sin, can sin no more, it is thus made like

our familiar world, made to touch our sympathies as an image of our

own purification in the flesh. And when he rises beyond the regions of

earthly day, light, simple, unalloyed, unshadowed, eternal, lifts the

creations of his thought above all affinity to time and matter; light

never fails him, as the expression of the gradations of bliss; never

reappears the same, never refuses the new shapes of his invention,

never becomes confused or dim, though it is seldom thrown into

distinct figure, and still more seldom _coloured_. Only once, that we

remember, is the thought of colour forced on us; when the bright joy

of heaven suffers change and eclipse, and deepens into red at the

sacrilege of men.[140]

[Footnote 140: _Parad._ 27.]

Yet his eye is everywhere, not confined to the beauty or character of

the sky and its lights. His range of observation and largeness of

interest prevent that line of imagery, which is his peculiar

instrument and predilection, from becoming, in spite of its brightness

and variety, dreamy and monotonous; prevent it from arming against

itself sympathies which it does not touch. He has watched with equal

attention, and draws with not less power, the occurrences and sights

of Italian country life; the summer whirlwind sweeping over the

plain--"_dinanzi polveroso va superbo_" (_Inf._ 9); the rain-storm of

the Apennines (_Purg._ 5); the peasant's alternations of feeling in

spring:

In quella parte del giovinetto anno

Che 'l sole i crin sotto l'Aquario tempra,

E già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno;

Quando la brina in su la terra assempra

L'imagine di sua sorella bianca,

Ma poco dura alla sua penna tempra,

Lo villanello a cui la roba manca

Si leva e guarda, e vede la campagna

Biancheggiar tutta; ond'ei si batte l'anca;

Ritorna a casa, e qua e là si lagna

Come 'l tapin che non sa che si faccia:

Poi riede e la speranza ringavagna

Veggendo 'l mondo aver cangiata faccia

In poco d'ora, e prende il suo vincastro

E fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia:--_Inf._ 24.[141]

the manner in which sheep come out from the fold:

Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso

_A una a due a tre, e l'altre stanno,

Timidette atterrando l'occhio e' l muso;

E ciò che fa la prima, e l'altre fanno,

Addossandosi a lei s'ella s'arresta_

Semplici e quete, e lo 'mperchè non sanno:

Sì vid'io muover a venir la testa

Di quella mandria fortunata allotta,

Pudica in faccia e nell'andare onesta.

Come color dinanzi vider rotta

La luce....

Ristaro, e trasser sè indietro alquanto,

E tutti gli altri che veniano appresso,

Non sappiendo il perchè, fero altrettanto.--_Purg._ 3.

[Footnote 141:

In the new year, when Sol his tresses gay

Dips in Aquarius, and the tardy night

Divides her empire with the lengthening day--

When o'er the earth the hoar-frost pure and bright

Assumes the image of her sister white,

Then quickly melts before the genial light--

The rustic, now exhausted his supply,

Rises betimes--looks out--and sees the land

All white around, whereat he strikes his thigh--

Turns back--and grieving--wanders here and there,

Like one disconsolate and at a stand;

Then issues forth, forgetting his despair,

For lo! the face of nature he beholds

Changed on a sudden--takes his crook again,

And drives his flock to pasture from the folds.--WRIGHT.]

So with the beautiful picture of the goats upon the mountain, chewing

the cud in the noontide heat and stillness, and the goatherd, resting

on his staff and watching them--a picture which no traveller among the

mountains of Italy or Greece can have missed, or have forgotten:

Quali si fanno ruminando manse

Le capre, _state rapide e proterve

Sopra le cime_ avanti che sien pranse,

_Tacite al ombra mentre che 'l sol ferve,

Guardate dal pastor_ che 'n su la verga

Poggiato s'è, e lor poggiato serve.--_Purg._ 27.[142]

[Footnote 142:

Like goats that having over the crags pursued

Their wanton sports, now, quiet pass the time

In ruminating--sated with their food,

Beneath the shade, while glows the sun on high--

Watched by the goatherd with unceasing care,

As on his staff he leans, with watchful eye.--_Ibid._]

So again, with his recollections of cities: the crowd, running

together to hear news (_Purg._ 2), or pressing after the winner of the

game (_Purg._ 6); the blind men at the church doors, or following

their guide through the throng (_Purg._ 13, 16); the friars walking

along in silence, one behind another:

Taciti, soli, e senza compagnia

N'andavam, _l'un dinanzi, e l'altro dopo

Come i frati minor vanno per via_.--_Inf._ 23.

He turns to account in his poem, the pomp and clamour of the host

taking the field (_Inf._ 22); the devices of heraldry; the answering

chimes of morning bells over the city;[143] the inventions and

appliances of art, the wheels within wheels of clocks (_Par._ 24), the

many-coloured carpets of the East (_Inf._ 17); music and dancing--the

organ and voice in church:

--Voce mista al dolce suono

Che or sì or no s'intendon le parole,--_Purg._ 9.

the lute and voice in the chamber (_Par._ 20); the dancers preparing

to begin,[144] or waiting to catch a new strain.[145] Or, again, the

images of domestic life, the mother's ways to her child, reserved and

reproving--"che al figlio par superba"--or cheering him with her

voice, or watching him compassionately in the wandering of fever:

Ond'ella, appresso d'un pio sospiro

Gli occhi drizzò ver me, con quel sembiante

Che madre fa sopra figliuol deliro.--_Parad._ 1.

[Footnote 143:

Indi come orologio che ne chiami

Nell'ora che la sposa di Dio surge

A mattinar lo sposo perchè l'ami,

Che l'una parte e l'altra tira ed urge

Tin tin sonando con sì dolce nota

Che 'l ben disposto spirto d'amor turge;

Così vid'io la gloriosa ruota

Muoversi e render voce a voce, in tempra

Ed in dolcezza ch'esser non può nota

Se non colà dove 'l gioir s'insempra.--_Parad._ 10.]

[Footnote 144:

E come surge, e va, ed entra in ballo

Vergine lieta, sol per farne onore

Alla novizia, e non per alcun fallo.--_Ibid._ 25.]

[Footnote 145:

Donne mi parver, non da ballo sciolte,

Ma che s'arrestin tacite ascoltando

Fin che le nuove note hanno ricolte.--_Ibid._ 10.]

Nor is he less observant of the more delicate phenomena of mind, in

its inward workings, and its connexion with the body. The play of

features, the involuntary gestures and attitudes of the passions, the

power of eye over eye, of hand upon hand, the charm of voice and

expression, of musical sounds even when not understood--feelings,

sensations, and states of mind which have a name, and others, equally

numerous and equally common, which have none--these, often so

fugitive, so shifting, so baffling and intangible, are expressed with

a directness, a simplicity, a sense of truth at once broad and

refined, which seized at once on the congenial mind of his countrymen,

and pointed out to them the road which they have followed in art,

unapproached as yet by any competitors.[146]

[Footnote 146: For instance:--_thoughts upon thoughts, ending in sleep

and dreams_:

Nuovo pensier dentro de me si mise,

Dal qual più altri nacquero e diversi:

_E tanto d'uno in altro vaneggiai

Che gli occhi per vaghezza ricopersi,

E 'l pensamento in sogno trasmutai_.--_Purg._ 18.

_sleep stealing off when broken by light_:

Come si frange il sonno, ove di butto

Nuova luce percuote 'l viso chiuso,

_Che fratto guizza pria che muoja tutto_.--_Ibid._ 17.

_the shock of sudden awakening_:

Come al lume acuto si disonna,

* * * *

_E lo svegliato ciò che vede abborre,_

Sì nescia è la subita vigilia,

Finchè la stimativa nol soccorre.--_Parad._ 26.

_uneasy feelings produced by sight or representation of something

unnatural_:

Come per sostentar solajo o tetto

Per mensola talvolta una figura

Si vede giunger le ginocchia al petto,

_La qual fa del non ver vera rancura

Nascer a chi la vede_; così fatti

Vid'io color.--_Purg._ 10.

_blushing in innocent sympathy for others_:

E come donna onesta che permane

Di sè sicura, e _per l'altrui fallanza

Pure ascoltando timida si fane_:

Così Beatrice trasmutò sembianza.--_Par._ 27.

_asking and answering by looks only_:

Volsi gli occhi agli occhi al signor mio;

Ond'elli m'assentì con lieto cenno

Ciò che chiedea la vista del disio.--_Purg._ 19.

_watching the effect of words_:

Posto avea fine al suo ragionamento

L'alto dottore, ad attento guardava

Nella mia vista s'io parea contento.

Ed io, cui nuova sete ancor frugava,

Di fuor taceva e dentro dicea: forse

Lo troppo dimandar ch'io fo, li grava.

Ma quel padre verace, che s'accorse

Del timido voler che non s'apriva,

Parlando, di parlare ardir mi porse.--_Ibid._ 18.

_Dante betraying Virgil's presence to Statius, by his involuntary

smile_:

Volser Virgilio a me queste parole

Con viso che tacendo dicea: "taci;"

Ma non può tutto la virtù che vuole;

Che riso e pianto son tanto seguaci

Alla passion da che ciascun si spicca,

_Che men segnon voler ne' più veraci.

Io pur sorrisi, come l'uom ch'ammicca:

Perchè l'ombra si tacque, e riguardommi

Negli occhi ove 'l sembiante più si ficca._

E se tanto lavoro in bene assommi,

Disse, perchè la faccia tua testeso

_Un lampeggiar a' un riso_ dimostrommi?--_Purg._ 21.

_smiles and words together_:

Per le _sorrise parolette brevi_.--_Parad._ 1.

_eye meeting eye_:

Gli occhi ritorsi avanti

Dritti nel lume della dolce guida

Che sorridendo ardea negli occhi santi.--_Ibid._ 3.

Come si vede qui alcuna volta

L'affetto nella vista, s'ello è tanto

Che da lui sia tutta l'anima tolta:

Così nel fiammeggiar del fulgor santo

A cui mi volsi, conobbi la voglia

In lui di ragionarmi ancora alquanto.--_Ibid._ 18.

_gentleness of voice_:

E cominciommi a dir soave e piana

Con angelica voce in sua favella.--_Inf._ 2.

E come agli occhi miei si fe' più bella,

Così con voce più dolce e soave,

Ma non con questa moderna favella,

Dissemi;--_Parad._ 16.

_chanting_:

_Te lucis ante_ sì divotamente

Le uscì di bocca e con sì dolce note,

Che fece me a me uscir di mente.

E l'altre poi dolcemente e divote

Seguitar lei per tutto l'inno intero,

Avendo gli occhi alle superne ruote.--_Purg._ 8.

_chanting blended with the sound of the organ_:

Io mi rivolsi attento al primo tuono,

E _Te Deum laudamus_ mi parea

Udire in voce mista al dolce suono.

Tale imagine appunto mi rendea

Ciò ch'io udiva, qual prender si suole

_Quando a cantar con organi si stea;

Ch'or sì, or no, s'intendon le parole_.--_Purg._ 9.

_voices in concert_:

E come in voce voce si discerne

_Quando una è ferma, e' l altra va e riede_.--_Parad._ 8.

_attitudes and gestures: e.g. Beatrice addressing him_,

Con atto e voce di spedito duce.--_Ibid._ 30.

_Sordello eyeing the travellers_:

Venimmo a lei: o anima Lombarda,

Come ti stavi altera e disdegnosa,

E nel muover degli occhi onesta e tarda.

Ella non ci diceva alcuna cosa,

Ma lasciavane gir, solo guardando,

A guisa di leon quando si posa.--_Purg._ 6.

_the angel moving "dry-shod" over the Stygian pool_:

_Dal volto rimovea quell'aer grasso

Menando la sinistra innanzi spesso_,

E sol di quell'angoscia parea lasso.

Ben m'accorsi ch'egli era del ciel messo,

E volsimi al maestro; e quei fe' segno

Ch'io stessi cheto ed inchinassi ed esso.

Ahi quanto mi parea pien di disdegno.

* * * *

Poi si rivolse per la strada lorda,

E non fe' motto a noi, ma fe' sembiante

D'uomo cui altra cura stringa e morda

Che quella di colui che gli è davante.--_Inf._ 9.]

And he has anticipated the latest schools of modern poetry, by making

not merely nature, but science tributary to a poetry with whose

general aim and spirit it has little in common--tributary in its

exact forms, even in its technicalities. He speaks of the

Mediterranean Sea, not merely as a historian, or an observer of its

storms or its smiles, but as a geologist;[147] of light, not merely in

its beautiful appearances, but in its natural laws.[148] There is a

charm, an imaginative charm to him, not merely in the sensible

magnificence of the heavens, "in their silence, and light, and

watchfulness," but in the system of Ptolemy and the theories of

astrology; and he delights to interweave the poetry of feeling and of

the outward sense with the grandeur--so far as he knew it--of order,

proportion, measured magnitudes, the relations of abstract forces,

displayed on such a scene as the material universe, as if he wished to

show that imagination in its boldest flight was not afraid of the

company of the clear and subtle intellect.

[Footnote 147: _La maggior valle_, in che l'acqua si spandi.--_Parad._

9.]

[Footnote 148: _E.g._ _Purg._ 15.]

Indeed the real never daunts him. It is his leading principle of

poetic composition, to draw out of things the poetry which is latent

in them, either essentially, or as they are portions, images, or

reflexes of something greater--not to invest them with a poetical

semblance, by means of words which bring with them poetical

associations, and have received a general poetical stamp. Dante has

few of those indirect charms which flow from the subtle structure and

refined graces of language--none of that exquisitely-fitted and

self-sustained mechanism of choice words of the Greeks--none of that

tempered and majestic amplitude of diction, which clothes, like the

folds of a royal robe, the thoughts of the Latins--none of that

abundant play of fancy and sentiment, soft or grand, in which the

later Italian poets delighted. Words with him are used sparingly,

never in play--never because they carry with them poetical

recollections--never for their own sake; but because they are

instruments which will give the deepest, clearest, sharpest stamp of

that image which the poet's mind, piercing to the very heart of his

subject, or seizing the characteristic feature which to other men's

eyes is confused and lost among others accidental and common, draws

forth in severe and living truth. Words will not always bend

themselves to his demands on them; they make him often uncouth,

abrupt, obscure. But he is too much in earnest to heed uncouthness;

and his power over language is too great to allow uncertainty as to

what he means, to be other than occasional. Nor is he a stranger to

the utmost sweetness and melody of language. But it appears, unsought

for and unlaboured, the spontaneous and inevitable obedience of the

tongue and pen to the impressions of the mind; as grace and beauty, of

themselves, "command and guide the eye" of the painter, who thinks not

of his hand but of them. All is in character with the absorbed and

serious earnestness which pervades the poem; there is no toying, no

ornament, that a man in earnest might not throw into his

words;--whether in single images, or in pictures, like that of the

Meadow of the Heroes (_Inf._ 4), or the angel appearing in hell to

guide the poet through the burning city (_Inf._ 9)--or in histories,

like those of Count Ugolino, or the life of S. Francis (_Parad._

11)--or in the dramatic scenes like the meeting of the poets Sordello

and Virgil (_Purgat._ 6), or that one, unequalled in beauty, where

Dante himself, after years of forgetfulness and sin, sees Beatrice in

glory, and hears his name, never but once pronounced during the

vision, from her lips.[149]

[Footnote 149:

Io vidi già nel cominciar del giorno

La parte oriental tutta rosata,

E l'altro ciel di bel sereno adorno,

E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata,

Sì che per temperanza di vapori

L'occhio lo sostenea lunga fiata;

Così dentro una nuvola di fiori,

Che dalle mani angeliche saliva,

E ricadeva giù dentro e di fuori,

Sovra candido vel cinta d'oliva

Donna m'apparve sotto verde manto

Vestita di color di fiamma viva.

E lo spirito mio, che già cotanto

Tempo era stato che alla sua presenza

Non era di stupor, tremando, affranto.

Senza degli occhi aver più conoscenza,

Per occulta virtù, che da lei mosse,

D'antico amor senti' la gran potenza.

* * * *

Volsimi alla sinistra col rispitto,

Col quale il fantolin corre alla mamma,

Quando ha paura, o quando egli è afflitto,

Per dicere a Virgilio: Men che dramma

Di sangue m'è rimasa, che non tremi:

Conosco i segni dell'antica fiamma.

Ma Virgilio n'avea lasciati scemi

Di sè, Virgilio dolcissimo padre,

Virgilio, a cui per mia salute diemi:

* * * *

Dante, perchè Virgilio se ne vada,

Non piangere anche, non piangere ancora

Chè pianger ti convien per altra spada.

* * * *

Regalmente nell'atto ancor proterva

Continuò, come colui che dice,

E il più caldo parlar dietro reserva,

Guardami ben: ben son, ben son Beatrice:

Come degnasti d'accedere al monte?

Non sapei tu, che qui è l'uom felice?--_Purg._ 30.

But extracts can give but an imperfect notion of this grand and

touching canto.]

But this, or any other array of scenes and images, might be matched

from poets of a far lower order than Dante: and to specimens which

might be brought together of his audacity and extravagance, no

parallel could be found except among the lowest. We cannot, honestly,

plead the barbarism of the time as his excuse. That, doubtless,

contributed largely to them; but they were the faults of the man. In

another age, their form might have been different; yet we cannot

believe so much of time, that it would have tamed Dante. Nor can we

wish it. It might have made him less great: and his greatness can

well bear its own blemishes, and will not less meet its due honour

among men, because they can detect its kindred to themselves.

The greatness of his work is not in its details--to be made or marred

by them. It is the greatness of a comprehensive and vast conception,

sustaining without failure the trial of its long and hazardous

execution, and fulfilling at its close the hope and promise of its

beginning; like the greatness--which we watch in its course with

anxious suspense, and look back upon when it is secured by death, with

deep admiration--of a perfect life. Many a surprise, many a

difficulty, many a disappointment, many a strange reverse and

alternation of feelings, attend the progress of the most patient and

admiring reader of the _Commedia_; as many as attend on one who

follows the unfolding of a strong character in life. We are often

shocked when we were prepared to admire--repelled, when we came with

sympathy; the accustomed key fails at a critical moment--depths are

revealed which we cannot sound, mysteries which baffle and confound

us. But the check is for a time--the gap and chasm does not dissever.

Haste is even an evidence of life--the brief word, the obscure hint,

the unexplained, the unfinished, or even the unachieved, are the marks

of human feebleness, but are also among those of human truth. The

unity of the whole is unimpaired. The strength which is working it

out, though it may have at times disappointed us, shows no hollowness

or exhaustion. The surprise of disappointment is balanced--there is

the surprise of unimagined excellence. Powers do more than they

promised; and that spontaneous and living energy, without which

neither man nor poet can be trusted, and which showed its strength

even in its failures, shows it more abundantly in the novelties of

success--by touching sympathies which have never been touched before,

by the unconstrained freshness with which it meets the proverbial and

familiar, by the freedom with which it adjusts itself to a new

position or an altered task--by the completeness, unstudied and

instinctive, with which it holds together dissimilar and uncongenial

materials, and forces the most intractable, the most unaccustomed to

submission, to receive the colour of the whole--by its orderly and

unmistakable onward march, and its progress, as in height, so in what

corresponds to height. It was one and the same man, who rose from the

despair, the agony, the vivid and vulgar horrors of the _Inferno_, to

the sense and imagination of certainty, sinlessness, and joy

ineffable--the same man whose power and whose sympathies failed him

not, whether discriminating and enumerating, as if he had gone through

them all, the various forms of human suffering, from the dull,

gnawing sense of the loss of happiness, to the infinite woes of the

wrecked and ruined spirit, and the coarser pangs of the material

flesh; or dwelling on the changeful lights and shades of earnest

repentance, in its hard, but not unaided or ungladdened struggle, and

on that restoration to liberty and peace, which can change even this

life into paradise, and reverse the doom which made sorrow our

condition, and laughter and joy unnatural and dangerous--the penalty

of that first fault, which

In pianto ed in affanno

Cambiò onesto riso e dolce giuoco:

or rising finally above mortal experience, to imagine the freedom of

the saints and the peace of eternity. In this consists the greatness

of his power. It is not necessary to read through the _Commedia_ to

see it--open it where we please, we see that he is on his way, and

whither he is going; episode and digression share in the solemnity of

the general order.

And his greatness was more than that of power. That reach and play of

sympathy ministered to a noble wisdom, which used it thoughtfully and

consciously for a purpose to which great poetry had never yet been

applied, except in the mouth of prophets. Dante was a stern man, and

more than stern, among his fellows. But he has left to those who

never saw his face an inheritance the most precious; he has left them

that which, reflecting and interpreting their minds, does so, not to

amuse, not to bewilder, not to warp, not to turn them in upon

themselves in distress or gloom or selfishness; not merely to hold up

a mirror to nature; but to make them true and make them hopeful. Dark

as are his words of individuals, his thoughts are not dark or

one-sided about mankind; his is no cherished and perverse

severity--his faith is too large, too real, for such a fault. He did

not write only the _Inferno_. And the _Purgatorio_ and the _Paradiso_

are not an afterthought, a feebler appendix and compensation,

conceived when too late, to a finished whole, which has taken up into

itself the poet's real mind. Nowhere else in poetry of equal power is

there the same balanced view of what man is, and may be; nowhere so

wide a grasp shown of his various capacities, so strong a desire to

find a due place and function for all his various dispositions. Where

he stands contrasted in his idea of human life with other poets, who

have been more powerful exponents of its separate sides, is in his

large and truthful comprehensiveness. Fresh from the thought of man's

condition as a whole, fresh from the thought of his goodness, his

greatness, his power, as well as of his evil, his mind is equally in

tune when rejoicing over his restoration, as when contemplating the

ruins of his fall. He never lets go the recollection that human life,

if it grovels at one end in corruption and sin, and has to pass

through the sweat and dust and disfigurement of earthly toil, has

throughout, compensations, remedies, functions, spheres innumerable of

profitable activity, sources inexhaustible of delight and

consolation--and at the other end a perfection which cannot be named.

No one ever measured the greatness of man in all its forms with so

true and yet with so admiring an eye, and with such glowing hope, as

he who has also portrayed so awfully man's littleness and vileness.

And he went farther--no one who could understand and do homage to

greatness in man, ever drew the line so strongly between greatness and

goodness, and so unhesitatingly placed the hero of this world

only--placed him in all his magnificence, honoured with no timid or

dissembling reverence--at the distance of worlds, below the place of

the lowest saint.

Those who know the _Divina Commedia_ best, will best know how hard it

is to be the interpreter of such a mind; but they will sympathise with

the wish to call attention to it. They know, and would wish others

also to know, not by hearsay, but by experience, the power of that

wonderful poem. They know its austere, yet subduing beauty; they know

what force there is, in its free and earnest and solemn verse, to

strengthen, to tranquillise, to console. It is a small thing that it

has the secret of Nature and Man; that a few keen words have opened

their eyes to new sights in earth, and sea, and sky; have taught them

new mysteries of sound; have made them recognise, in distinct image or

thought, fugitive feelings, or their unheeded expression, by look, or

gesture, or motion; that it has enriched the public and collective

memory of society with new instances, never to be lost, of human

feeling and fortune; has charmed ear and mind by the music of its

stately march, and the variety and completeness of its plan. But,

besides this, they know how often its seriousness has put to shame

their trifling, its magnanimity their faintheartedness, its living

energy their indolence, its stern and sad grandeur rebuked low

thoughts, its thrilling tenderness overcome sullenness and assuaged

distress, its strong faith quelled despair and soothed perplexity, its

vast grasp imparted the sense of harmony to the view of clashing

truths. They know how often they have found, in times of trouble, if

not light, at least that deep sense of reality, permanent, though

unseen, which is more than light can always give--in the view which

it has suggested to them of the judgments and the love of God.[150]

[Footnote 150: It is necessary to state, that these remarks were

written before we had seen the chapter on Dante in "Italy, past and

present, by L. Mariotti." Had we become acquainted with it earlier, we

should have had to refer to it often, in the way of acknowledgment,

and as often in the way of strong protest.]

DE MONARCHIA.

BOOK I.

I.--It very greatly concerns all men on whom a higher nature has

impressed[151] the love of truth, that, as they have been enriched by

the labour of those before them, so they also should labour for those

that are to come after them, to the end that posterity may receive

from them an addition to its wealth. For he is far astray from his

duty--let him not doubt it--who, having been trained in the lessons of

public business, cares not himself to contribute aught to the public

good. He is no "tree planted by the water-side, that bringeth forth

his fruit in due season." He is rather the devouring whirlpool, ever

engulfing, but restoring nothing. Pondering, therefore, often on these

things, lest some day I should have to answer the charge of the

talent buried in the earth, I desire not only to show the budding

promise, but also to bear fruit for the general good, and to set forth

truths by others unattempted. For what fruit can he be said to bear

who should go about to demonstrate again some theorem of Euclid? or

when Aristotle has shown us what happiness is, should show it to us

once more? or when Cicero has been the apologist of old age, should a

second time undertake its defence? Such squandering of labour would

only engender weariness and not profit.

[Footnote 151: "_In quos veritatis amorem natura superior impressit._"

On the ancient idea (Aug. _De Trin._ iii. 4; Aquin. _Summ._ 1, 66, 3)

of the influence or impression of higher natures on lower, cf.

_Parad._ i. 103, x. 29.]

But seeing that among other truths, ill-understood yet profitable, the

knowledge touching temporal monarchy is at once most profitable and

most obscure, and that because it has no immediate reference to

worldly gain it is left unexplored by all, therefore it is my purpose

to draw it forth from its hiding-places, as well that I may spend my

toil for the benefit of the world, as that I may be the first to win

the prize of so great an achievement to my own glory. The work indeed

is difficult, and I am attempting what is beyond my strength; but I

trust not in my own powers, but in the light of that Bountiful Giver,

"Who giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not."

II.--First, therefore, we must see what is it that is called Temporal

Monarchy, in its idea, so to speak, and according to its purpose.

Temporal Monarchy, then, or, as men call it, the Empire, is the

government of one prince above all men in time, or in those things and

over those things which are measured by time. Three great questions

are asked concerning it. First, there is the doubt and the question,

is it necessary for the welfare of the world? Secondly, did the Roman

people take to itself by right the office of Monarchy? And thirdly,

does the authority of Monarchy come from God directly, or only from

some other minister or vicar of God?

Now, since every truth, which is not itself a first principle, becomes

manifest from the truth of some first principle, it is therefore

necessary in every inquiry to have a knowledge of the first principle

involved, to which by analysis we may go back for the certainty of all

the propositions which are afterwards accepted. And since this

treatise is an inquiry, we must begin by examining the first principle

on the strength of which deductions are to rest. It must be understood

then that there are certain things which, since they are not subject

to our power, are matters of speculation, but not of action: such are

Mathematics and Physics, and things divine. But there are some things

which, since they are subject to our power, are matters of action as

well as of speculation, and in them we do not act for the sake of

speculation, but contrariwise: for in such things action is the end.

Now, since the matter which we have in hand has to do with states,

nay, with the very origin and principle of good forms of government,

and since all that concerns states is subject to our power, it is

manifest that our subject is not in the first place speculation, but

action. And again, since in matters of action the end sought is the

first principle and cause of all (for that it is which first moves the

agent to act), it follows that all our method concerning the means

which are set to gain the end must be taken from the end. For there

will be one way of cutting wood to build a house, and another to build

a ship. That therefore, if it exists, which is the ultimate end for

the universal civil order of mankind, will be the first principle from

which all the truth of our future deductions will be sufficiently

manifest. But it is folly to think that there is an end for this and

for that particular civil order, and yet not one end for all.

III.--Now, therefore, we must see what is the end of the whole civil

order of men; and when we have found this, then, as the

Philosopher[152] says in his book to Nicomachus,[153] the half of our

labour will have been accomplished. And to render the question

clearer, we must observe that as there is a certain end for which

nature makes the thumb, and another, different from this, for which

she makes the whole hand, and again another for which she makes the

arm, and another different from all for which she makes the whole man;

so there is one end for which she orders the individual man, and

another for which she orders the family, and another end for the city,

and another for the kingdom, and finally an ultimate one for which the

Everlasting God, by His art which is nature, brings into being the

whole human race. And this is what we seek as a first principle to

guide our whole inquiry.

[Footnote 152: The common title for Aristotle from the first half of

the thirteenth century. _Vide_ Jourdain, _Recherches sur les

traductions d'Aristote_, p. 212, note.]

[Footnote 153: Arist. _Ethics_, i. 7.]

Let it then be understood that God and nature make nothing to be idle.

Whatever comes into being, exists for some operation or working. For

no created essence is an ultimate end in the creator's purpose, so far

as he is a creator, but rather the proper operation of that essence.

Therefore it follows that the operation does not exist for the sake of

the essence, but the essence for the sake of the operation.

There is therefore a certain proper operation of the whole body of

human kind, for which this whole body of men in all its multitudes is

ordered and constituted, but to which no one man, nor single family,

nor single neighbourhood, nor single city, nor particular kingdom can

attain. What this is will be manifest, if we can find what is the

final and characteristic capacity of humanity as a whole. I say then

that no quality which is shared by different species of things is the

distinguishing capacity of any one of them. For were it so, since this

capacity is that which makes each species what it is, it would follow

that one essence would be specifically distributed to many species,

which is impossible. Therefore the ultimate quality of men is not

existence, taken simply; for the elements share therein. Nor is it

existence under certain conditions;[154] for we find this in minerals

too. Nor is it existence with life; for plants too have life. Nor is

it percipient existence; for brutes share in this power. It is to be

percipient[155] with the possibility of understanding, for this

quality falls to the lot of none but man, either above or below him.

For though there are other beings which with him have understanding,

yet this understanding is not, as man's, capable of development. For

such beings are only certain intellectual natures, and not anything

besides, and their being is nothing other than to understand; which is

without interruption, otherwise they would not be eternal. It is

plain, therefore, that the distinguishing quality of humanity is the

faculty or the power of understanding.

[Footnote 154: "_Esse complexionatum._"]

[Footnote 155: "_Apprehensivum per intellectum possibilem._" _V.

Aquin._ I. 79, 1, 2, 10.]

And because this faculty cannot be realised in act in its entirety at

one time by a single man, nor by any of the individual societies which

we have marked, therefore there must be multitude in the human race,

in order to realise it: just as it is necessary that there should be a

multitude of things which can be brought into being,[156] so that the

capacity of the primal matter for being acted on may be ever open to

what acts on it. For if this were not so, we could speak of a capacity

apart from its substance, which is impossible. And with this opinion

Averroes, in his comment on [Aristotle's] treatise on the Soul,

agrees. For the capacity for understanding, of which I speak, is

concerned not only with universal forms or species, but also, by a

kind of extension, with particular ones. Therefore it is commonly said

that the speculative understanding becomes practical by extension; and

then its end is to do and to make. This I say in reference to things

which may be _done_, which are regulated by political wisdom, and in

reference to things which may be _made_, which are regulated by art;

all which things wait as handmaidens on the speculative intellect, as

on that best good, for which the Primal Goodness created the human

race. Hence the saying of the Politics[157] that those who are strong

in understanding are the natural rulers of others.

[Footnote 156: "_Generabilium._"]

[Footnote 157: Arist. _Polit._ i. 5, 6.--(W.)]

IV.--It has thus been sufficiently set forth that the proper work of

the human race, taken as a whole, is to set in action the whole

capacity of that understanding which is capable of development: first

in the way of speculation, and then, by its extension, in the way of

action. And seeing that what is true of a part is true also of the

whole, and that it is by rest and quiet that the individual man

becomes perfect in wisdom and prudence; so the human race, by living

in the calm and tranquillity of peace, applies itself most freely and

easily to its proper work; a work which, according to the saying;

"Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels," is almost divine.

Whence it is manifest that of all things that are ordered to secure

blessings to men, peace is the best. And hence the word which sounded

to the shepherds from above was not riches, nor pleasure, nor honour,

nor length of life, nor health, nor strength, nor beauty; but peace.

For the heavenly host said: "Glory to God in the highest, and on

earth, peace to men of goodwill." Therefore also, "Peace be with you,"

was the salutation of the Saviour of mankind. For it behoved Him, who

was the greatest of saviours, to utter in His greeting the greatest of

saving blessings. And this custom His disciples too chose to preserve;

and Paul also did the same in his greetings, as may appear manifest to

all.

Now that we have declared these matters, it is plain what is the

better, nay the best, way in which mankind may attain to do its proper

work. And consequently we have seen the readiest means by which to

arrive at the point, for which all our works are ordered, as their

ultimate end; namely, the universal peace, which is to be assumed as

the first principle for our deductions. As we said, this assumption

was necessary, for it is as a sign-post to us, that into it we may

resolve all that has to be proved, as into a most manifest truth.

V.--As therefore we have already said, there are three doubts, and

these doubts suggest three questions, concerning Temporal Monarchy,

which in more common speech is called the Empire; and our purpose is,

as we explained, to inquire concerning these questions in their given

order, and starting from the first principle which we have just laid

down. The first question, then, is whether Temporal Monarchy is

necessary for the welfare of the world; and that it is necessary can,

I think, be shown by the strongest and most manifest arguments; for

nothing, either of reason or of authority, opposes me. Let us first

take the authority of the Philosopher in his Politics.[158] There, on

his venerable authority, it is said that where a number of things are

arranged to attain an end, it behoves one of them to regulate or

govern the others, and the others to submit. And it is not only the

authority of his illustrious name which makes this worthy of belief,

but also reason, instancing particulars.

[Footnote 158: Arist. _Polit._ i. 5.]

If we take the case of a single man, we shall see the same rule

manifested in him: all his powers are ordered to gain happiness; but

his understanding is what regulates and governs all the others; and

otherwise he would never attain to happiness. Again, take a single

household: its end is to fit the members thereof to live well; but

there must be one to regulate and rule it, who is called the father of

the family, or, it may be, one who holds his office. As the

Philosopher says: "Every house is ruled by the oldest."[159] And, as

Homer says, it is his duty to make rules and laws for the rest. Hence

the proverbial curse: "Mayst thou have an equal at home."[160] Take a

single village: its end is suitable assistance as regards persons and

goods, but one in it must be the ruler of the rest, either set over

them by another, or with their consent, the head man amongst them. If

it be not so, not only do its inhabitants fail of this mutual

assistance, but the whole neighbourhood is sometimes wholly ruined by

the ambition of many, who each of them wish to rule. If, again, we

take a single city: its end is to secure a good and sufficient life to

the citizens; but one man must be ruler in imperfect[161] as well as

in good forms of the state. If it is otherwise, not only is the end of

civil life lost, but the city too ceases to be what it was. Lastly, if

we take any one kingdom, of which the end is the same as that of a

city, only with greater security for its tranquillity, there must be

one king to rule and govern. For if this is not so, not only do his

subjects miss their end, but the kingdom itself falls to destruction,

according to that word of the infallible truth: "Every kingdom divided

against itself shall be brought to desolation." If then this holds

good in these cases, and in each individual thing which is ordered to

one certain end, what we have laid down is true.

[Footnote 159: _Ibid._ i. 2, 6, quoting Hom. _Od._ ix. 114.--(W.)]

[Footnote 160: Ficinus translates: "Uno proverbio che quasi

bestemmiando dice, _Abbi pari in casa_."]

[Footnote 161: "_Obliqua_" = [Greek: parekbaseis]. _V._ Arist. _Eth._

viii. 10; _Pol._ iii. 7.--(W.)]

Now it is plain that the whole human race is ordered to gain some end,

as has been before shown. There must, therefore, be one to guide and

govern, and the proper title for this office is Monarch or Emperor.

And so it is plain that Monarchy or the Empire is necessary for the

welfare of the world.

VI.--And as the part is to the whole, so is the order of parts to the

order of the whole. The part is to the whole, as to an end and highest

good which is aimed at; and, therefore, the order in the parts is to

the order in the whole, as it is to the end and highest good aimed at.

Hence we have it that the goodness of the order of parts does not

exceed the goodness of the order of the whole, but that the converse

of this is true. Therefore we find a double order in the world,

namely, the order of parts in relation to each other, and their order

in relation to some one thing which is not a part (as there is in the

order of the parts of an army in relation to each other, and then in

relation to the general); and the order of the parts in relation to

the one thing which is not a part is the higher, for it is the end of

the other order, and the other exists for the sake of it. Therefore,

if the form of this order is found in the units of the mass of

mankind, much more may we argue by our syllogism that it is found in

mankind considered as a whole; for this latter order, or its form, is

better. But as was said in the preceding chapter, and it is

sufficiently plain, this order is found in all the units of the mass

of mankind. Therefore it is, or should be, found in the mass

considered as a whole. And therefore all the parts that we have

mentioned, which are comprised in kingdoms, and the kingdoms

themselves ought to be ordered with reference to one Prince or

Princedom, that is, with reference to a Monarch or Monarchy.

VII.--Further, the whole human race is a whole with reference to

certain parts, and, with reference to another whole, it is a part. For

it is a whole with reference to particular kingdoms and nations, as we

have shown; and it is a part with reference to the whole universe, as

is manifest without argument. Therefore, as the lower portions of the

whole system of humanity are well adapted to that whole, so that whole

is said to be well adapted to the whole which is above it. It is only

under the rule of one prince that the parts of humanity are well

adapted to their whole, as may easily be collected from what we have

said; therefore it is only by being under one Princedom, or the rule

of a single Prince, that humanity as a whole is well adapted to the

Universe, or its Prince, who is the One God. And it therefore follows

that Monarchy is necessary for the welfare of the world.

VIII.--And all is well and at its best which exists according to the

will of the first agent, who is God. This is self-evident, except to

those who deny that the divine goodness attains to absolute

perfection. Now, it is the intention of God that all created things

should represent the likeness of God, so far as their proper nature

will admit. Therefore was it said: "Let us make man in our image,

after our likeness." And though it could not be said that the lower

part of creation was made in the image of God, yet all things may be

said to be after His likeness, for what is the whole universe but the

footprint of the divine goodness? The human race, therefore, is well,

nay at its best state, when, so far as can be, it is made like unto

God. But the human race is then most made like unto God when most it

is one; for the true principle of oneness is in Him alone. Wherefore

it is written: "Hear, O Israel; the Lord thy God is one God." But the

race of man is most one when it is united wholly in one body, and it

is evident that this cannot be, except when it is subject to one

prince. Therefore in this subjection mankind is most made like unto

God, and, in consequence, such a subjection is in accordance with the

divine intention, and it is indeed well and best for man when this is

so, as we showed at the beginning of this chapter.

IX.--Again, things are well and at their best with every son when he

follows, so far as by his proper nature he can, the footsteps of a

perfect father. Mankind is the son of heaven, which is most perfect in

all its works; for it is "man and the sun which produce man,"

according to the second book on Natural Learning.[162] The human

race, therefore, is at its best when it imitates the movements of

heaven, so far as human nature allows. And since the whole heaven is

regulated with one motion, to wit, that of the _primum mobile_, and by

one mover, who is God, in all its parts, movements, and movers (and

this human reason readily seizes from science); therefore, if our

argument be correct, the human race is at its best state when, both in

its movements, and in regard to those who move it, it is regulated by

a single Prince, as by the single movement of heaven, and by one law,

as by the single motion. Therefore it is evidently necessary for the

welfare of the world for there to be a Monarchy, or single Princedom,

which men call the Empire. And this thought did Boethius breathe when

he said: "Oh happy race of men, if your hearts are ruled by the love

which rules the heaven."[163]

[Footnote 162: Arist. _Phys. Ausc._ ii. 2.--(W.)]

[Footnote 163: _De Consol. Phil._ ii. met. 8.--(W.)]

X.--Wherever there is controversy, there ought to be judgment,

otherwise there would be imperfection without its proper remedy,[164]

which is impossible; for God and Nature, in things necessary, do not

fail in their provisions. But it is manifest that there may be

controversy between any two princes, where the one is not subject to

the other, either from the fault of themselves, or even of their

subjects. Therefore between them there should be means of judgment.

And since, when one is not subject to the other, he cannot be judged

by the other (for there is no rule of equals over equals), there must

be a third prince of wider jurisdiction, within the circle of whose

laws both may come. Either he will or he will not be a Monarch. If he

is, we have what we sought; if not, then this one again will have an

equal, who is not subject to his jurisdiction, and then again we have

need of a third. And so we must either go on to infinity, which is

impossible, or we must come to that judge who is first and highest; by

whose judgment all controversies shall be either directly or

indirectly decided; and he will be Monarch or Emperor. Monarchy is

therefore necessary to the world, and this the Philosopher saw when he

said: "The world is not intended to be disposed in evil order; 'in a

multitude of rulers there is evil, therefore let there be one

prince.'"[165]

[Footnote 164: "_Sine proprio perfectivo._"]

[Footnote 165: Arist. _Metaphys._ xii. 10, who quotes from Hom. _Il._

ii. 204.--(W.)]

XI.--Further, the world is ordered best when justice is most paramount

therein: whence Virgil, wishing to celebrate that age, which in his

own time seemed to be arising, sang in his _Bucolics_:[166] "Now doth

the Virgin return, and the kingdom of Saturn." For Justice was named

"the Virgin," and also Astræa. The kingdom of Saturn was the good

time, which they also called the Golden Age. But Justice is paramount

only in a Monarchy, and therefore a Monarchy, that is, the Empire, is

needed if the world is to be ordered for the best. For better proof of

this assumption it must be recognised that Justice, considered in

itself, and in its proper nature, is a certain rightness or rule of

conduct, which rejects on either side all that deviates from it. It is

like whiteness considered as an abstraction, not admitting of degrees.

For there are certain forms of this sort which belong to things

compounded, and exist themselves in a simple and unchanging essence,

as[167] the Master of the Six Principles rightly says. Yet qualities

of this sort admit of degrees on the part of their subjects with which

they are connected, according as in their subjects more or less of

their contraries is mingled. Justice, therefore, is strongest in man,

both as a state of mind and in practice, where there is least

admixture of its opposite; and then we may say of it, in the words of

the Philosopher, that "neither the star of morning nor of evening is

so admirable."[168] For then is it like Phoebe, when she looks

across the heavens at her brother from the purple of the morning calm.

[Footnote 166: _Ecl._ iv. 6.]

[Footnote 167: Gilbert de la Porrée, [dagger symbol]1154. The "Six

Principles" were the last six of the Ten Categories of Aristotle, and

the book became one of the chief elementary logic-books of the Middle

Ages. _Vide_ Hauréau, _Philosophie Scolastique_, 1e Partie, p.

452.]

[Footnote 168: From Arist. _Ethics_, v. 1.--(W.)]

Now Justice, as a state of mind,[169] has a force which opposes it in

the will; for where the will of a man is not pure from all desire,

then, though there be Justice, yet there is not Justice in all its

ideal brightness; for there is in that man, however little, yet in

some degree, an opposing force; and therefore they, who would work on

the feelings[170] of a judge, are rightly repelled. But, in

practice,[171] Justice finds an opposing force in what men are able to

do. For, seeing that it is a virtue regulating our conduct towards

other men, how shall any act according to Justice if he has not the

power of rendering to all their due? Therefore it is plain that the

operation of Justice will be wide in proportion to the power of the

just man.

[Footnote 169: "_Quantum ad habitum._"]

[Footnote 170: "_Passionare._"]

[Footnote 171: "_Quantum ad operationem._"]

From this let us argue: Justice is strongest in the world when it is

in one who is most willing and most powerful; only the Monarch is

this; therefore, only when Justice is in the Monarch is it strongest

in the world. This pro-syllogism goes on through the second figure,

with an involved negative, and is like this: All B is A; only C is A;

therefore only C is B: or all B is A; nothing but C is A; therefore

nothing but C is B.

Our previous explanation makes the first proposition apparent: the

second is proved thus, first in regard to will, and secondly in regard

to power. First it must be observed that the strongest opponent of

Justice is Appetite, as Aristotle intimates in the fifth book to

Nicomachus.[172] Remove Appetite altogether, and there remains nothing

adverse to Justice; and therefore it is the opinion of the Philosopher

that nothing should be left to the judge, if it can be decided by

law;[173] and this ought to be done for fear of Appetite, which easily

perverts men's minds. Where, then, there is nothing to be wished for,

there can be no Appetite, for the passions cannot exist if their

objects are destroyed. But the Monarch has nothing to desire, for his

jurisdiction is bounded only by the ocean; and this is not the case

with other princes, whose kingdoms are bounded by those of their

neighbours; as, for instance, the kingdom of Castile is bounded by the

kingdom of Aragon. From which it follows that the Monarch is able to

be the purest embodiment of Justice among men.

[Footnote 172: _Eth._ v. 2.--(W.)]

[Footnote 173: _Rhetoric_, i. 1.--(W.)]

Further, as Appetite in some degree, however small, clouds the habit

of Justice, so does Charity, or rightly-directed affection, sharpen

and enlighten it. In whomsoever, therefore, rightly-directed affection

may chiefly dwell, in him may Justice best have place: and of this

sort is the Monarch. Therefore where a Monarch reigns Justice is, or

at least may be, strongest. That rightly-directed affections work as

we have said, we may see thus: Appetite, scorning[174] what in itself

belongs to man, seeks for other things outside him; but Charity sets

aside all else, and seeks God and man, and consequently the good of

man. And since of all the good things that men can have the greatest

is to live in peace (as we have already said), and as it is Justice

which most chiefly brings peace, therefore Charity will chiefly make

Justice strong, and the more so in proportion to its own strength.

[Footnote 174: "_Perseitas hominum_" = "_facultas per se

subsistendi_."--DUCANGE.]

And it is clear that right affections ought to exist in a Monarch more

than in any other man for this reason: the object of love is the more

loved the nearer it is to him that loves; but men are nearer to a

Monarch than they are to other princes; therefore it is by a Monarch

that they are, or ought to be, most loved. The first proposition is

manifest if the nature of activity and passivity are considered. The

second is manifest because men are brought near to a Monarch in their

totality,[175] but to other princes only partially; and it is only by

means of the Monarch that men are brought near other princes at all.

Thus the Monarch cares for all primarily and directly, whereas other

princes only care for their subjects through the Monarch, and because

their care for their subjects descends from the supreme care of the

Monarch.

[Footnote 175: "_Secundum totum._"]

Again, a cause has the nature of a cause in proportion as it is more

universal; for the lower cause is such only on account of the higher

one, as appears from the Treatise on Causes.[176] And, in proportion

as a cause is really a cause, it loves what it effects; for such love

follows the cause by itself. Now Monarchy is the most universal cause

of men living well, for other princes work only through the Monarch,

as we have said; and it therefore follows that it is the Monarch who

will most chiefly love the good of men. But that in practice the

Monarch is most disposed to work Justice, who can doubt, except indeed

a man who understands not the meaning of the word? for if he be

really a Monarch he cannot have enemies.

[Footnote 176: A compilation from the Arabians, or perhaps Aristotle

or Proclus, which, under various names, passed for a work of

Aristotle, and is ascribed by Albert the Great to a certain David the

Jew. It is quoted in the twelfth century, and was commented on by

Albert and Thomas Aquinas. _Vide_ Jourdain, _Recherches sur les

traductions d'Aristote_ (1842), pp. 114, 184, 193, 195, 445;

_Philosophie de S. Thomas_ (1858), i. 94.]

The principle assumed being therefore sufficiently explained, the

conclusion is certain, to wit, that a Monarch is necessary that the

world may be ordered for the best.

XII.--Again, the human race is ordered best when it is most free. This

will be manifest if we see what is the principle of freedom. It must

be understood that the first principle of our freedom is freedom of

will, which many have in their mouth, but few indeed understand. For

they come so far as to say that the freedom of the will means a free

judgment concerning will. And this is true. But what is meant by the

words is far from them: and they do just as our logicians do all day

long with certain propositions which are set as examples in the books

of logic, as that, "the three angles of a triangle are equal to two

right angles."[177]

[Footnote 177: Cf. Arist. _Magna Moral._ i. 1: "It would be absurd if

a man, wishing to prove that the angles of a triangle were equal to

two right angles, assumed as his principle that the soul is

immortal."--WITTE.]

Therefore I say that Judgment is between Apprehension and Appetite.

First, a man apprehends a thing; then he judges it to be good or bad;

then he pursues or avoids it accordingly. If therefore the Judgment

guides the Appetite wholly, and in no way is forestalled by the

Appetite, then is the Judgment free. But if the Appetite in any way at

all forestalls the Judgment and guides it, then the Judgment cannot be

free: it is not its own: it is captive to another power. Therefore the

brute beasts cannot have freedom of Judgment; for in them the Appetite

always forestalls the Judgment. Therefore, too, it is that

intellectual beings whose wills are unchangeable, and souls which are

separate from the body, which have gone hence in peace, do not lose

the freedom of their wills, because their wishes cannot change; nay,

it is in full strength and completeness that their wills are

free.[178]

[Footnote 178: Cf. _Purgatorio_, xviii. 22.--WITTE.]

It is therefore again manifest that this liberty, or this principle of

all our liberty, is the greatest gift bestowed by God on mankind: by

it alone we gain happiness[179] as men: by it alone we gain happiness

elsewhere as gods.[180] But if this is so, who will say that human

kind is not in its best state, when it can most use this principle?

But he who lives under a Monarchy is most free. Therefore let it be

understood that he is free who exists not for another's sake but for

his own, as the Philosopher, in his Treatise of simple Being,

thought.[181] For everything which exists for the sake of some other

thing, is necessitated by that other thing, as a road has to run to

its ordained end. Men exist for themselves, and not at the pleasure of

others, only if a Monarch rules; for then only are the perverted forms

of government set right, while democracies, oligarchies, and

tyrannies, drive mankind into slavery, as is obvious to any who goes

about among them all; and public power[182] is in the hands of kings

and aristocracies, which they call the rule of the best, and champions

of popular liberty. And because the Monarch loves his subjects much,

as we have seen, he wishes all men to be good, which cannot be the

case in perverted forms of government:[183] therefore the Philosopher

says, in his _Politics_:[184] "In the bad state the good man is a bad

citizen, but in a good state the two coincide." Good states in this

way aim at liberty, that in them men may live for themselves. The

citizens exist not for the good of consuls, nor the nation for the

good of its king; but the consuls for the good of the citizens, and

the king for the good of his nation. For as the laws are made to suit

the state, and not the state to suit the laws, so those who live under

the laws are not ordered for the legislator, but he for them;[185] as

also the Philosopher holds, in what he has left us on the present

subject. Hence, too, it is clear that although the king or the consul

rule over the other citizens in respect of the means[186] of

government, yet in respect of the end of government they are the

servants of the citizens, and especially the Monarch, who, without

doubt, must be held the servant of all. Thus it becomes clear that the

Monarch is bound by the end appointed to himself in making his laws.

Therefore mankind is best off under a Monarchy, and hence it follows

that Monarchy is necessary for the welfare of the world.

[Footnote 179: "_Felicitamur._"]

[Footnote 180: "_Ut Dii_;" cf. _Paradiso_, v. 19.--WITTE.]

[Footnote 181: _I.e._ _Metaphys._ 1, 2.--(W.)]

[Footnote 182: "_Politizant reges._"]

[Footnote 183: "_Oblique politizantes._"]

[Footnote 184: _Polit._ iii. 4.]

[Footnote 185: _Ibid._ iii. 16, 17.--(W.)]

[Footnote 186: "_Respectu viæ ... respectu termini._"]

XIII.--Further, he who can be best fitted to rule can best fit others.

For in every action the main end of the agent, whether acting by

necessity of nature or voluntarily, is to unfold his own likeness; and

therefore every agent, so far as he is of this sort, delights in

action. For since all that is desires its own existence, and since the

agent in acting enlarges his own existence in some way, delight

follows action of necessity; for delight is inseparable from gaining

what is desired. Nothing therefore acts unless it is of such sort as

that which is acted on ought to be; therefore the Philosopher said in

his _Metaphysics_,[187] "Everything which becomes actual from being

potential, becomes so by means of something actual of the same kind,"

and were anything to try to act in any other way it would fail. Hence

we may overthrow the error of those who think to form the moral

character of others by speaking well and doing ill; forgetting that

the hands of Jacob were more persuasive with his father than his

words, though his hands deceived and his voice spake truth. Hence the

Philosopher, to Nicomachus: "In matters of feeling and action, words

are less to be trusted than deeds."[188] And therefore God said to

David in his sin, "What hast thou to do to declare my statutes?" as

though He would say, "Thou speakest in vain, for thou art different

from what thou speakest." Hence it may be gathered that he needs to be

fitted for his work in the best way who wishes to fit others.

[Footnote 187: _Metaphys._ ix. 8.--(W.)]

[Footnote 188: Arist. _Eth._ x. 1.--(W.)]

But the Monarch is the only one who can be fitted in the best possible

way to govern. Which is thus proved: Each thing is the more easily and

perfectly qualified for any habit, or actual work, the less there is

in it of what is contrary to such a disposition. Therefore, they who

have never even heard of philosophy, arrive at a habit of truth in

philosophy more easily and completely than those who have listened to

it at odd times, and are filled with false opinions. For which reason

Galen well says: "Such as these require double time to acquire

knowledge."[189] A Monarch then has nothing to tempt appetite, or, at

least, less than any other man, as we have shown before; whereas other

princes have much; and appetite is the only corrupter of

righteousness, and the only impediment to justice. A Monarch therefore

is wholly, or at least more than any other prince, disposed to govern

well: for in him there may be judgment and justice more strongly than

in any other. But these two things are the pre-eminent attributes of a

maker of law, and of an executor of law, as that most holy king David

testified when he asked of God the things which were befitting the

king, and the king's son, saying: "Give the king thy judgment, O God,

and thy righteousness unto the king's son."[190]

[Footnote 189: _De cognosc. animi morbis_, c. 10.--WITTE.]

[Footnote 190: Cf. _Parad._ xiii. 95.--(W.)]

We were right then when we assumed that only the Monarch can be best

fitted to rule. Therefore only the Monarch can in the best way fit

other men. Therefore it follows that Monarchy is necessary for the

best ordering of the world.

XIV.--And where a thing can be done by one agent, it is better to do

it by one than by several, for this reason: Let it be possible to do a

certain thing by means of A, and also by means of A and B. If

therefore what is done by A and B can be done by A alone, it is

useless to add B; for nothing follows from the addition; for the same

end which A and B produced is produced also by A. All additions of

this kind are useless and superfluous: all that is superfluous is

displeasing to God and Nature: and all that is displeasing to God and

Nature is bad, as is manifest. It therefore follows not only that it

is better that a thing should be done by one than by many agents, if

it is possible to produce the effect by one; but also that to produce

the effect by one is good, and to produce it by many is simply bad.

Again, a thing is said to be better by being nearer to the best, and

the end has the nature of the best. But for a thing to be done by one

agent is better, for so it comes nearer to the end. And that so it

comes nearer is manifest; for let C be the end which may be reached by

A, or by A and B together: plainly it is longer to reach C by A and B

together than by B alone. But mankind may be governed by one supreme

prince, who is, the Monarch.

But it must be carefully observed that when we say that mankind may be

ruled by one supreme prince, we do not mean that the most trifling

judgments for each particular town are to proceed immediately from

him. For municipal laws sometimes fail, and need guidance, as the

Philosopher shows in his fifth book to Nicomachus, when he praises

equity.[191] For nations and kingdoms and states have, each of them,

certain peculiarities which must be regulated by different laws. For

law is the rule which directs life. Thus the Scythians need one rule,

for they live beyond the seventh climate,[192] and suffer cold which

is almost unbearable, from the great inequality of their days and

nights. But the Garamantes need a different law, for their country is

equinoctial, and they cannot wear many clothes, from the excessive

heat of the air, because the day is as long as the darkness of the

night. But our meaning is that it is in those matters which are common

to all men, that men should be ruled by one Monarch, and be governed

by a rule common to them all, with a view to their peace. And the

individual princes must receive this rule of life or law from him,

just as the practical intellect receives its major premiss from the

speculative intellect, under which it places its own particular

premiss, and then draws its particular conclusion, with a view to

action. And it is not only possible for one man to act as we have

described; it is necessary that it should proceed from one man only to

avoid confusion in our first principles. Moses himself wrote in his

law that he had acted thus. For he took the elders of the tribes of

the children of Israel, and left to them the lesser judgments,

reserving to himself such as were more important, and wider in their

scope; and the elders carried these wider ones to their tribes,

according as they were applicable to each separate tribe.

[Footnote 191: _Eth._ v. 14.--(W.)]

[Footnote 192: Ptolemy, the mediæval authority on geography, divided

the known world into [Greek: klimata], zones of slope towards the

pole, or belts of latitude, eight of which from the equinoctial to the

mouths of the Tanais and the Riphæan mountains. The seventh "clima"

passed over the mouths of the Borysthenes. See Mercator's map in

Bertius' _Theatrum Geographiæ Veteris_ (1618), art. "Ptolemy" in

Smith's _Dictionary of Biography_, p. 577. Dictionary of Antiquities,

art. "Clima."]

Therefore it is better for the human race to be ruled by one than by

many, and therefore there should be a Monarch, who is a single prince;

and if it is better, it is more acceptable to God, since God always

wills what is best. And since of these two ways of government the one

is not only the better, but the best of all, it follows not only that

this one is more acceptable to God as between one and many, but that

it is the most acceptable. Therefore it is best for the human race to

be governed by one man; and Monarchy is necessary for the welfare of

the world.

XV.--I say also that Being, and Unity, and the Good come in order

after the fifth mode of priority.[193] For Being comes by nature

before Unity, and Unity before Good. Where Being is most, there Unity

is greatest; and where Unity is greatest, there Good is also greatest;

and in proportion as anything is far from Being in its highest form,

is it far from Unity, and therefore from Good. Therefore in every kind

of things, that which is most one is best, as the Philosopher holds in

the treatise about simple Being. Therefore it appears that to be one

is the root of Good, and to be many the root of Evil. Therefore,

Pythagoras in his parallel tables placed the one, or Unity, under the

line of good, and the many under the line of Evil; as appears from the

first book of the _Metaphysics_.[194] Hence we may see that to sin is

nothing else than to pass on from the one which we despise and to seek

many things, as the Psalmist saw when he said: "By the fruit of their

corn and wine and oil, are they multiplied."[195]

[Footnote 193: Arist. _Categ._, _e.g._: Priority is said in five

ways--1. First in _time_. 2. First in _pre-supposition_. 3. First in

_order_. 4. First in _excellence_. 5. First in _logical sequence_.]

[Footnote 194: _V._ Arist. _Metaph._ 1, 5; _Ethics_ i. 4; cf. Ritter

and Preller, _Hist. Philos._ sec. 105.]

[Footnote 195: Ps. iv. 8 (vulg.).]

Hence it is plain that whatever is good, is good for this reason, that

it consists in unity. And because concord is a good thing in so far as

it is concord, it is manifest that it consists in a certain unity, as

its proper root, the nature of which will appear if we find the real

nature of concord. Concord then is the uniform motion of many wills;

and hence it appears that a unity of wills, by which is meant their

uniform motion, is the root of concord, nay, concord itself. For as we

should say that many clods of earth are concordant, because that they

all gravitate together towards the centre; and that many flames are

concordant because that they all ascend together towards the

circumference, if they did this of their own free will, so we say that

many men are in concord because that they are all moved together, as

regards their willing, to one thing, which one thing is formally in

their wills just as there is one quality formally in the clods of

earth, that is gravity, and one in the flame of fire, that is

lightness. For the force of willing is a certain power; but the

quality of good which it apprehends is its form; which form, like as

others, being one is multiplied in itself, according to the

multiplication of the matters which receive it, as the soul, and

numbers, and other forms which belong to what is compound.[196]

[Footnote 196: On the scholastic doctrine of forms, _v._ Thom. Aquin.

_Summ._ I. 105, art. 4.]

To explain our assumption as we proposed, let us argue thus: All

concord depends on unity which is in wills; the human race, when it is

at its best, is a kind of concord; for as one man at his best is a

kind of concord, and as the like is true of the family, the city, and

the kingdom; so is it of the whole human race. Therefore the human

race at its best depends on the unity which is in will. But this

cannot be unless there be one will to be the single mistress and

regulating influence of all the rest. For the wills of men, on account

of the blandishments of youth, require one to direct them, as

Aristotle shows in the tenth book of his _Ethics_.[197] And this

cannot be unless there is one prince over all, whose will shall be the

mistress and regulating influence of all the others. But if all these

conclusions be true, as they are, it is necessary for the highest

welfare of the human race that there should be a Monarch in the world;

and therefore Monarchy is necessary for the good of the world.

[Footnote 197: Arist. _Eth._ x. 5.--(W.)]

XVI.--To all these reasons alleged above a memorable experience adds

its confirmation. I mean that condition of mankind which the Son of

God, when, for the salvation of man, He was about to put on man,

either waited for, or, at the moment when He willed, Himself so

ordered. For if, from the fall of our first parents, which was the

turning point at which all our going astray began, we carry our

thoughts over the distribution of the human race and the order of its

times, we shall find that never but under the divine Augustus, who was

sole ruler, and under whom a perfect Monarchy existed, was the world

everywhere quiet. And that then the human race was happy in the

tranquillity of universal peace, this is the witness of all writers of

history; this is the witness of famous poets; this, too, he who wrote

the story of the "meekness and gentleness of Christ" has thought fit

to attest. And last of all, Paul has called that most blessed

condition "the fulness of the times." For then, indeed, time was full,

and all the things of time; because no office belonging to our

felicity wanted its minister. But how the world has fared since that

"seamless robe" has suffered rending by the talons of ambition, we may

read in books; would that we might not see it with our eyes. Oh, race

of mankind! what storms must toss thee, what losses must thou endure,

what shipwrecks must buffet thee, as long as thou, a beast of many

heads, strivest after contrary things. Thou art sick in both thy

faculties of understanding; thou art sick in thine affections.

Unanswerable reasons fail to heal thy higher understanding; the very

sight of experience convinces not thy lower understanding; not even

the sweetness of divine persuasion charms thy affections, when it

breathes into thee through the music of the Holy Ghost: "Behold, how

good and how pleasant a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in

unity."[198]

[Footnote 198: Ps. cxxxii. 1.--(W.)]

BOOK II.

I.--"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing? The

kings of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counsel together

against the Lord and against His anointed, saying: 'Let us break their

bonds asunder, and cast away their cords from us.'"[199] As we

commonly wonder at a new effect, when we have never been face to face

with its cause; so, as soon as we understand the cause, we look down

with a kind of scorn on those who remain in wonder. I, myself, was

once filled with wonder that the Roman people had become paramount

throughout all the earth, without any to withstand them; for when I

looked at the thing superficially I thought that this supremacy had

been obtained, not by any right, but only by arms and violence. But

after that I had carefully and thoroughly examined the matter, when I

had recognised by the most effectual signs that it was divine

providence that had wrought this, my wonder ceased, and a certain

scornful contempt has taken its place, when I perceive the nations

raging against the pre-eminence of the Roman people; when I see the

people imagining a vain thing, as I of old imagined; when, above all,

I grieve that kings and princes agree in this one matter only, in

opposing their Lord, and His one only Roman Emperor. Wherefore in

derision, yet not without a touch of sorrow, I can cry on behalf of

the glorious people and for Cæsar, together with him who cried on

behalf of the Prince of heaven: "Why do the heathen rage, and the

people imagine a vain thing? The kings of the earth stand up, and the

rulers take counsel together against the Lord and against His

anointed." But the love which nature implants in us allows not scorn

to last for long; but, like the summer sun that when it has dispersed

the morning clouds shines with full brightness, this love prefers to

put scorn aside, and to pour forth the light which shall set men

right. So, then, to break the bonds of the ignorance of those kings

and princes, and to show that mankind is free from _their_ yoke, I

will comfort myself in company with that most holy prophet, whom I

follow, taking the words which come after: "Let us break their bonds

asunder, and cast away their yoke from us."

[Footnote 199: Ps. ii. 1-3.--(W.)]

These two things will be sufficiently performed, if I address myself

to the second part of the argument, and manifest the truth of the

question before us. For thus, if we show that the Roman Empire is _by

right_, not only shall we disperse the clouds of ignorance from the

eyes of those princes who have wrongly seized the helm of public

government, falsely imputing this thing to the Roman people; but all

men shall understand that they are free from the yoke of these

usurpers. The truth of the question can be made clear not only by the

light of human reason, but also by the ray of God's authority; and

when these two coincide, then heaven and earth must agree together.

Supported, therefore, by this conviction, and trusting in the

testimony both of reason and of authority, I proceed to settle the

second question.

II.--Inquiry concerning the truth of the first doubt has been made as

accurately as the nature of the subject permitted; we have now to

inquire concerning the second, which is: Whether the Roman people

assumed to itself _of right_ the dignity of the Empire? And the first

thing in this question is to find the truth, to which the reasonings

concerning it may be referred as to their proper first principle.

It must be recognised, then, that as there are three degrees in every

art, the mind of the artist, his instrument, and the material on which

he works, so we may look upon nature in three degrees. For nature

exists, first, in the mind of the First Agent, who is God; then in

heaven; as in an instrument, by means of which the likeness of the

Eternal Goodness unfolds itself on shapeless[200] matter. If an artist

is perfect in his art, and his instrument is perfect, any fault in the

form of his art must be laid to the badness of the material; and so,

since God holds the summit of perfection, and since His instrument,

which is heaven, admits of no failure of its due perfection (which is

manifest from our philosophy touching heaven), it follows that

whatever fault is to be found in the lower world is a fault on the

part of the subject matter, and is contrary to the intention of God

who makes nature,[201] and of heaven; and if in this lower world there

is aught that is good, it must be ascribed first to the artist, who is

God, and then to heaven, the instrument of God's art, which men call

nature; for the material, being merely a possibility, can do nothing

of itself.[202]

[Footnote 200: "_Fluitantem._"]

[Footnote 201: "_Dei naturantis._"]

[Footnote 202: Witte refers to _Parad._ xiii. 67, xxix. 32, i.

127-130. Cf. Thom. Aquin. _Summ._ I., q. 66, art. 1-3; q. 110, art. 2;

q. 115, art. 3-6. This view satisfied thinkers to the time of Hooker

(_E.P._ I. iii.), but was criticised by Bacon, _Nov. Org._ i. 66.]

Hence it is apparent that, since all Right[203] is good, it therefore

exists first in the mind of God; and since all that is in the mind of

God is God, according to the saying, "What was made, in Him was

life;"[204] and as God chiefly wishes for what is Himself, it follows

that Right is the wish of God, so far as it is in Him. And since in

God the will and the wish are the same, it further follows that this

Right is the will of God. Again it follows that Right in the world is

nothing else than the likeness of the will of God, and therefore

whatever does not agree with the divine will cannot be Right, and

whatever does agree with the divine will is Right itself. Therefore to

ask if a thing be by Right is only to ask in other words if it is what

God wills. It may therefore be assumed that what God wills to see in

mankind is to be held as real and true Right.

[Footnote 203: "_Jus._"]

[Footnote 204: St. John i. 3.--(W.)]

Besides we must remember Aristotle's teaching in the first book of his

_Ethics_, where he says: "We must not seek for certitude in every

matter, but only as far as the nature of the subject admits."[205]

Therefore our arguments from the first principle already found will be

sufficient, if from manifest evidence and from the authority of the

wise, we seek for the right of that glorious people. The will of God

is an invisible thing, but "the invisible things of God are seen,

being understood by the things which are made." For when the seal is

out of sight, the wax, which has its impression, gives manifest

evidence of it, though it be unseen; nor is it strange that the will

of God must be sought by signs; for the human will, except to the

person himself who wills, is only discerned by signs.[206]

[Footnote 205: _Eth._ i. 7, from Thom. Aq. _Lect._ XI.--(W.)]

[Footnote 206: The image of the wax and seal was a favourite one. V.

_Parad._ vii. 68, viii. 127, xiii. 67-75, quoted by Witte, who also

refers to the _Epist. ad Reges_, § 8, p. 444, ed. Fraticelli.]

III.--My answer then to the question is, that it was by right, and not

by usurpation, that the Roman people assumed to itself the office of

Monarchy, or, as men call it, the Empire, over all mankind. For in the

first place it is fitting that the noblest people should be preferred

to all others; the Roman people was the noblest; therefore it is

fitting that it should be preferred to all others. By this reasoning I

make my proof; for since honour is the reward of goodness, and since

to be preferred is always honour, therefore to be preferred is always

the reward of goodness. It is plain that men are ennobled for their

virtues; that is, for their own virtues or for those of their

ancestors; for nobleness is virtue and ancestral wealth, according to

Aristotle in his Politics; and according to Juvenal, "There is no

nobleness of soul but virtue,"[207] which two statements refer to two

sorts of nobleness, our own and that of our ancestors.[208]

[Footnote 207: Arist. _Pol._ iii. 12; Juv. viii. 20.--(W.)]

[Footnote 208: Witte refers to Dante's commentary on his own Canzone

in the _Convito_ iv. 3, and the _Parad._ xvi. 1.]

To be preferred, therefore, is, according to reason, the fitting

reward of the noble. And since rewards must be measured by desert,

according to that saying of the Gospel, "with what measure ye mete, it

shall be measured to you again;" therefore to the most noble the

highest place should be given. The testimonies of the ancients confirm

our opinion; for Virgil, our divine poet, testifies throughout his

_Æneid_, that men may ever remember it, that the glorious king, Æneas,

was the father of the Roman people. And this Titus Livius, the famous

chronicler of the deeds of the Romans, confirms in the first part of

his work, which takes its beginning from the capture of Troy. The

nobleness of this most unconquerable and most pious ancestor not only

in regard to his own great virtue, but also to that of his forefathers

and of his wives, the nobleness of whom was combined in their

descendant by the rightful law of descent, I cannot unfold at length;

"I can but touch lightly on the outlines of the truth."[209]

[Footnote 209: "Sed summa sequar vestigia rerum." Virg. _Æn._ i. 342

("fastigia" in all good MSS. and edd.).]

For the virtue then of Æneas himself, hear what our poet tells us when

he introduces Ilioneus in the first _Æneid_, praying thus: "Æneas was

our king; in justice and piety he has not left a peer, nor any to

equal him in war." Hear Virgil in the sixth _Æneid_, when he speaks

of the death of Misenus, who had been Hector's attendant in war, and,

after Hector's death, had attached himself to Æneas; for there Virgil

says that Misenus "followed as good a man;" thus comparing Æneas to

Hector, whom[210] Homer ever praises above all men, as the Philosopher

witnesses in his _Ethics_, in what he writes to Nicomachus on habits

to be avoided.

[Footnote 210: _Æn._ i. 544, vi. 170. _Il._ xxiv. 258, quoted in

Aristotle, _Ethics_, vii. 1.--(W.)]

But, as for hereditary virtue, he was ennobled from all three

continents both by his forefathers and his wives. From Asia came his

immediate ancestor, Assaracus, and others who reigned in Phrygia,

which is a part of Asia. Therefore Virgil writes in the third _Æneid_:

"After that it had seemed good to Heaven to overthrow the power of

Asia, and the guiltless race of Priam." From Europe came the male

founder of his race, who was Dardanus; from Africa his grandmother

Electra, daughter of the great king Atlas, to both which things the

poet testifies in the eighth _Æneid_, where Æneas says to Evander:

"Dardanus, the father of our city, and its founder, whom the Greeks

call the son of Atlas and Electra, came to the race of Teucer--Electra,

whose sire was great Atlas, on whose shoulders rests the circle of

heaven." But in the third _Æneid_ Virgil says that Dardanus drew his

origin from Europe. "There is a land which the Greeks have named

Hesperia, an ancient land, strong and wealthy, where the Ænotrians

dwell; it is said that now their descendants have named the country

Italy, from the name of their king. There is our rightful home; from

that land did Dardanus come." That Atlas came from Africa, the

mountain called by his name, which stands in that continent, bears

witness; and Orosius says that it is in Africa in his description of

the world, where he writes: "Its boundary is Mount Atlas, and the

islands which are called 'the happy isles.'" "Its"--that is, "of

Africa," of which he was speaking.[211]

[Footnote 211: _Æn._ iii. 1, viii. 134, iii. 163; Oros. i. 2.--(W.)]

Likewise I find that by marriage also Æneas was ennobled; his first

wife, Creusa, the daughter of king Priam, was from Asia, as may be

gathered from our previous quotations; and that she was his wife our

poet testifies in the third _Æneid_, where Andromache asks Æneas:

"What of the boy Ascanius, whom Creusa bore to thee, while the ruins

of Troy were yet smoking? Lives he yet to breathe this air?"[212] The

second wife was Dido, the queen and foundress of Carthage in Africa.

That she was the wife of Æneas our poet sings in his fourth _Æneid_,

where he says of Dido: "No more does Dido think of love in secret.

She calls it marriage, and with this name she covers her sin." The

third wife was Lavinia, the mother of Albans and Romans alike, the

daughter of king Latinus and his heir, if we may trust the testimony

of our poet in his last _Æneid_, where he introduces Turnus conquered,

praying to Æneas thus: "Thou hast conquered, and the Ausonians have

seen me lift my hands in prayer for mercy; Lavinia is thine."[213]

This last wife was from Italy, the noblest region of Europe.

[Footnote 212: III. 339. The best MSS. of Virgil omit "peperit fumante

Creusa."]

[Footnote 213: _Æn._ xii. 936.--(W.)]

And now that we have marked these things for evidence of our

assertion, who will not rest persuaded that the father of the Romans,

and therefore the Romans themselves, were the noblest people under

heaven? Who can fail to see the divine predestination shown forth by

the double meeting of blood from every part of the world in the veins

of one man?

IV.--Again, that which is helped to its perfection by miracles is

willed by God, and therefore it is of right. This is manifestly true,

for as Thomas says in his third book against the Gentiles, "a miracle

is something done by God beyond the commonly established order of

things."[214] And so he proves that God alone can work miracles; and

his proof is strengthened by the authority of Moses; for on the

occasion of the plague of lice, when the magicians of Pharaoh used

natural principles artfully, and then failed, they said: "This is the

finger of God."[215] A miracle therefore being the immediate working

of the first agent, without the co-operation of any secondary agents,

as Thomas himself sufficiently proves in the book which we have

mentioned, it is impious to say where a miracle is worked in aid of

anything, that that thing is not of God, as something well pleasing to

him, which he foresaw. Therefore it is religious to accept the

contradictory of this. The Roman Empire has been helped to its

perfection by miracles; therefore it was willed by God, and

consequently was and is by right.[216]

[Footnote 214: _Contra Gent._ iii. 101.--(W.)]

[Footnote 215: Exod. vii. 12-15.--(W.)]

[Footnote 216: Witte refers to the _Ep. ad Reges_, § 8, for the same

thought.]

It is proved by the testimony of illustrious authors that God

stretched forth His hand to work miracles on behalf of the Roman

Empire. For Livy, in the first part of his work, testifies that a

shield fell from heaven into the city chosen of God in the time of

Numa Pompilius, the second king of Rome, whilst he was sacrificing

after the manner of the Gentiles. Lucan mentions this miracle in the

ninth book of his Pharsalia, when he is describing the incredible

force of the South wind. He says: "Surely it was thus, while Numa was

offering sacrifices, that the shield fell with which the chosen

patrician youth moves along. The South wind, or the North wind, had

spoiled the people that bore our shields."[217] And when the Gauls had

taken all the city, and, under cover of the darkness, were stealing on

to attack the Capitol itself, the capture of which was all that

remained to destroy the very name of Rome, then as Livy, and many

other illustrious writers agree in testifying, a goose, which none had

seen before, gave a warning note of the approach of the Gauls, and

aroused the guards to defend the Capitol.[218] And our poet

commemorates the event in his description of the shield of Æneas in

the eighth book. "Higher, and in front of the temple stood Manlius,

the watchman of the Tarpeian keep, guarding the rock of the Capitol.

The palace stood out clear, rough with the thatch which Romulus had

laid; here the goose, inlaid in silver, fluttered on the portico of

gold, as it warned the Romans that the Gauls were even now on the

threshold."[219]

[Footnote 217: Luc. ix. 477.--(W.)]

[Footnote 218: V. Liv. v. 47, and the _Convito_, iv. 5.--(W.)]

[Footnote 219: _Æn._ viii. 652.--(W.)]

And when the nobility of Rome had so fallen under the onset of

Hannibal, that nothing remained for the final destruction of the Roman

commonwealth, but the Carthaginian assault on the city, Livy tells us

in the course of his history of the Punic war, that a sudden dreadful

storm of hail fell upon them, so that the victors could not follow up

their victory.[220]

[Footnote 220: Liv. xxvi. 11; Oros. iv. 17.--(W.)]

Was not the escape of Cloelia wonderful, a woman, and captive in the

power of Porsenna, when she burst her bonds, and, by the marvellous

help of God, swam across the Tiber, as almost all the historians of

Rome tell us, to the glory of that city?[221]

[Footnote 221: Liv. ii. 13; Oros. ii. 5.--(W.)]

Thus was it fitting that He should work who foresaw all things from

the beginning, and ordained them in the beauty of His order; so that

He, who when made visible was to show forth miracles for the sake of

things invisible, should, whilst invisible, also show forth miracles

for the sake of things visible.

V.--Further, whoever works for the good of the state, works with Right

as his end. This may be shown as follows. Right is that proportion of

man to man as to things, and as to persons, which, when it is

preserved, preserves society, and when it is destroyed, destroys

society.[222] The description of Right in the Digest does not give the

essence of right, but only describes it for practical purposes.[223]

If therefore our definition comprehends well the essence and reason

of Right, and if the end of any society is the common good of its

members, it is necessary that the end of all Right is the common good,

and it is impossible that that can be Right, which does not aim at the

common good. Therefore Cicero says well in the first book of his

_Rhetoric_: "Laws must always be interpreted for the good of the

state."[224] If laws do not aim at the good of those who live under

them, they are laws only in name; in reality they cannot be laws. For

it behoves them to bind men together for the common good; and Seneca

therefore says well in his book "on the four virtues:" "Law is the

bond of human society."[225] It is therefore plain that whoever aims

at the good of the state, aims at the end of Right; and therefore, if

the Romans aimed at the good of the state, we shall say truly that

they aimed at the end of Right.

[Footnote 222: Cf. Aristotle, _Ethics_, v. 6.]

[Footnote 223: "Jus est ars boni et æqui." L. 1, fr. _Dig. De Justitia

et Jure_, i. 1.--(W.)]

[Footnote 224: _De Invent._ i. 38.--(W.)]

[Footnote 225: Not Seneca, but Martin, Bp. of Braga, [dagger

symbol]580.--(W.) V. _Biog. Univ._]

That in bringing the whole world into subjection, they aimed at this

good, their deeds declare. They renounced all selfishness, a thing

always contrary to the public weal; they cherished universal peace and

liberty; and that sacred, pious, and glorious people are seen to have

neglected their own private interests that they might follow public

objects for the good of all mankind. Therefore was it well written:

"The Roman Empire springs from the fountain of piety."[226]

[Footnote 226: "_Romanum imperium de fonte nascitur

pietatis._"--(WITTE.) He has not been able to trace the saying.]

But seeing that nothing is known of the intention of an agent who acts

by free choice to any but the agent himself, save only by external

signs, and since reasonings must be examined according to the subject

matter (as has already been said), it will be sufficient on this point

if we set forth proofs which none can doubt, of the intention of the

Roman people, both in their public bodies and individually.

Concerning those public bodies by which men seem in a way to be bound

to the state, the authority of Cicero alone, in the second book of the

_De Officiis_, will suffice. "So long," he says, "as the Empire of the

republic was maintained not by injustice, but by the benefits which it

conferred, we fought either for our allies or for the Empire. Our wars

brought with them an ending which was either indulgent, or else was

absolutely necessary. All kings, peoples, and nations found a port of

refuge in the Senate. Our magistrates and generals alike sought renown

by defending our provinces and our allies with good faith and with

justice. Our government might have been called not so much Empire, as

a Protectorate of the whole world." So wrote Cicero.[227]

[Footnote 227: _De Off._ ii. 8.--(W.)]

Of individuals I will speak shortly. Shall we not say that they

intended the common good, who by hard toil, by poverty, by exile, by

bereavement of their children, by loss of limb, by sacrifice of their

lives, endeavoured to build up the public weal? Did not great

Cincinnatus leave us a sacred example of freely laying down his office

at its appointed end, when, as Livy tells us, he was taken from the

plough and made dictator? And after his victory, after his triumph, he

gave back his Imperator's sceptre to the consuls, and returned to the

ploughshare to toil after his oxen.[228] Well did Cicero, arguing

against Epicurus, in the volume _De Finibus_, speak in praise of him,

mindful of this good deed.[229] "And so," he says, "our ancestors took

Cincinnatus from the plough, and made him dictator."

[Footnote 228: Liv. vi. 28, 29; Oros. ii. 12.--(W.)]

[Footnote 229: II. 4.--(W.)]

Has not Fabricius left us a lofty example of resisting avarice, when,

poor man as he was, for the faith by which he was bound to the

republic, he laughed to scorn the great weight of gold which was

offered him, and refused it, scorning it with words which became him

well. His story too is confirmed by our poet in the sixth

_Æneid_,[230] where he speaks of "Fabricius strong in his poverty."

[Footnote 230: VI. 844.--(W.)]

Has not Camillus left us a memorable example of obeying the laws

instead of seeking our private advantage? For according to Livy he was

condemned to exile, and then, after that he had delivered his country

from the invaders, and had restored to Rome her own Roman spoils, he

yet turned to leave the sacred city, though the whole people bade him

stay; nor did he return till leave was given him to come back by the

authority of the Senate. This high-souled hero also is commended in

the sixth _Æneid_, where our poet speaks of "Camillus, that restored

to us our standards."[231]

[Footnote 231: Liv. v. 46; _Æn._ vi. 826.--(W.)]

Was not Brutus the first to teach that our sons, that all others, are

second in importance to the liberty of our country? For Livy tells us

how, when he was consul, he condemned his own sons to death, for that

they had conspired with the enemy. His glory is made new in our poet's

sixth book, where he sings how "The father shall summon the sons to

die for the sake of fair liberty, when they seek to stir fresh

wars."[232]

[Footnote 232: _Æn._ vi. 821.--(W.)]

Has not Mucius encouraged us to dare everything for our country's

sake, when after attacking Porsenna unawares, he watched the hand

which had missed its stroke being burnt, though it was his own, as if

he were beholding the torment of a foe? This also Livy witnesses to

with astonishment.

Add to these those sacred victims the Decii, who laid down their lives

by an act of devotion for the public safety, whom Livy glorifies in

his narrative, not as they deserve, but as he was able. Add to these

the self-sacrifice, which words cannot express, of Marcus Cato, that

staunchest champion of true liberty. These were men of whom the one,

that he might save his country, did not fear the shadow of death;

while the other, that he might kindle in the world the passionate love

of liberty, showed how dear was liberty, choosing to pass out of life

a free man, rather than without liberty to abide in life.[233] The

glory of all these heroes glows afresh in the words of Cicero in his

book _De Finibus_; of the Decii he speaks thus: "Publius Decius, the

head of the Decii, a consul, when he devoted himself for the state,

and charged straight into the Latin host, was he thinking aught of his

pleasure, where and when he should take it;--when he knew that he had

to die at once, and sought that death with more eager desire than,

according to Epicurus, we should seek pleasure? And were it not that

his deed had justly received its praise, his son would not have done

the like in his fourth consulship; nor would his grandson, again, in

the war with Pyrrhus, have fallen, a consul, in battle; and, a third

time in continuous succession in that family, have offered himself a

victim for the commonwealth." But in the _De Officiis_,[234] Cicero

says of Cato: "Marcus Cato was in no different position from his

comrades who in Africa surrendered to Cæsar. The others, had they

slain themselves, would perhaps have been blamed for the act, for

their life was of less consequence,[235] and their principles were not

so strict. But for Cato, to whom nature had given incredible firmness

and who had strengthened this severity by his unremitting constancy to

his principles, and who never formed a resolution by which he did not

abide, he was indeed bound to die rather than to look on the face of a

tyrant."

[Footnote 233: Witte quotes the _Convito_, iv. 5, where all these

examples are recounted, almost in the same language. He compares

_Parad._ vi. 46 (Cincinnatus), _Purgat._ xx. 25 (Fabricius), _Parad._

vi. 47 (Decii), _Purg._ i. where Cato guards the approach to

Purgatory.]

[Footnote 234: I. 31 (W.), carelessly quoted.]

[Footnote 235: "_Levior_" al. "_lenior_."]

VI.--Two things therefore have been made clear: first, that whoever

aims at the good of the state aims at right;[236] and secondly, that

the Roman people in bringing the world into subjection, aimed at the

public weal. Therefore let us argue thus: Whoever aims at right, walks

according to right; the Roman people in bringing the world into

subjection aimed at right, as we have made manifest in the preceding

chapter. Therefore in bringing the world into subjection the Roman

people acted according to right, consequently it was by right that

they assumed the dignity of Empire.

[Footnote 236: "_Finem juris intendit._"]

We reach this conclusion on grounds which are manifest to all. It is

manifest from this, that whosoever aims at right, walks according to

right. To make this clear, we must mark that everything is made to

gain a certain end, otherwise it would be in vain, and as we said

before this cannot be. And as everything has its proper end, so every

end has some distinct thing of which it is the end. And therefore it

is impossible that any two things, spoken of as separate things,[237]

and in so far as they are two, should have the same end as their aim,

for so the same absurdity[238] would follow, that one of them would

exist in vain. Since, then, there is a certain end of right, as we

have explained, it necessarily follows that when we have decided what

that end is, we have also decided what right is; for it is the natural

and proper effect of right. And since in any sequence it is impossible

to have an antecedent without its consequent, for instance, to have

"man" without "animal," as is evident by putting together and taking

to pieces the idea,[239] so also it is impossible to seek for the end

of right without right, for each thing stands in the same relation to

its proper end, as the consequent does to its antecedent; as without

health it is impossible to attain to a good condition of the body.

Wherefore, it is most evidently clear that he who aims at the end of

right must aim in accordance with right; nor does the contradictory

instance which is commonly drawn from Aristotle's treatment of "good

counsel" avail anything.[240] He there says: "It is possible to obtain

what is the right result from a syllogism, which is incorrect, but not

by an argument which is right, for the middle term is wrong." For if

sometimes a right conclusion is obtained from false principles, this

is only by accident, and happens only in so far as the true conclusion

is imported in the words of the inference. Truth never really follows

from falsehood; but the signs of truth may easily follow from the

signs of falsehood. So also it is in matters of conduct. If a thief

helps a poor man out of the spoils of his thieving, we must not call

that charity; but it is an action which would have the form of

charity, if it had been done out of the man's own substance. And so of

the end of right. If anything, such as the end of right, were gained

without right, it would only be the end of right, that is, the common

good, in the same sense that the gift, made from evil gains, is

charity. And so the example proves nothing, for in our proposition we

speak, not of the apparent but of the real end of right. What was

sought, therefore, is clear.

[Footnote 237: "_Per se loquendo._"]

[Footnote 238: "_Inconveniens._"]

[Footnote 239: "_Construendo et destruendo._" Technical terms of the

conditional syllogism, _constructive_ and _destructive_.]

[Footnote 240: [Greek: Euboulia]. _Ethics_, vi. 10.]

VII.--What nature has ordained is maintained of right. For nature in

its providence does not come short of men's providence; for if it were

to come short, the effect would excel the cause in goodness, which is

impossible. But we see that when public bodies are founded, not only

are the relations of the members to each other considered, but also

their capacities for exercising offices; and this is to consider the

end of right in the society or order which is founded, for right is

not extended beyond what is possible. Nature then, in her ordinances,

does not come short in this foresight. Therefore it is clear that

nature, in ordaining a thing, has regard to its capacities; and this

regard is the fundamental principle of right which nature lays down.

From this it follows that the natural order of things cannot be

maintained without right; for this fundamental principle of right is

inseparably joined to the natural order of things. It is necessary,

therefore, that it is of right that this order is preserved.

The Roman people was ordained for empire, by nature, and this may be

shown as follows: The man would come short of perfection in his art,

who aimed only to produce his ultimate form, and neglected the means

of reaching it; in the same way, if nature only aimed at reproducing

in the world the universal form of the divine likeness, and neglected

the means of doing so, she would be imperfect. But nature, which is

the work of the divine intelligence, is wholly perfect; she therefore

aims at all the means by which her final end is arrived at.

Since then mankind has a certain end, and since there is a certain

means necessary for the universal end of nature, it necessarily

follows that nature aims at obtaining that means. And therefore the

Philosopher, in the second book of _Natural Learning_,[241] well shows

that nature always acts for the end. And since nature cannot reach

this end through one man, because that there are many actions

necessary to it, which need many to act, therefore nature must produce

many men and set them to act. And besides the higher influence,[242]

the powers and properties of inferior spheres contribute much to this.

And therefore we see not only that individual men, but also that

certain races are born to govern, and certain others to be governed

and to serve, as the Philosopher argues in the _Politics_;[243] and

for the latter, as he himself says, subjection is not only expedient,

but just, even though they be forced into subjection.

[Footnote 241: Arist. _Phys. Ausc._ ii. 1.--(W.)]

[Footnote 242: _I.e._ of the heavens. Witte quotes _Parad._ viii. 97,

_Purg._ xiv. 38.]

[Footnote 243: I. 5, 11; 6, 9.--(W.)]

And if this is so, it cannot be doubted that nature ordained in the

world a country and a nation for universal sovereignty; if this were

not so, she would have been untrue to herself, which is impossible.

But as to where that country is, and which is that nation, it is

sufficiently manifest, both from what we have said and from what we

shall say, that it was Rome and her citizens or people; and this our

poet very skilfully touches on in the sixth _Æneid_, where he

introduces Anchises prophesying to Æneas, the ancestor of the Romans:

"Others may mould the breathing bronze more delicately--I doubt it

not; they may chisel from marble the living countenance; they may

surpass thee in pleading causes; they may track the course of the

heavens with the rod, and tell when the stars will rise; but thou,

Roman, remember to rule the nations with thy sway. These shall be thy

endowments--to make peace to be the custom of the world; to spare thy

foes when they submit, and to crush the proud."[244] And again, Virgil

skilfully notes the appointment of the _place_, in the fourth

_Æneid_, when he brings in Jupiter speaking to Mercury concerning

Æneas: "His fair mother did not promise him to us to be such as this:

it was not for this that twice she rescues him from Grecian arms; but

that there should be one to rule over Italy, teeming with empires,

tempestuous with wars." It has, therefore, sufficiently been shown

that the Roman people was by nature ordained to empire. Therefore it

was of right that they gained empire, by subduing to themselves the

world.

[Footnote 244: _Æn._ vi. 848, iv. 227.--(W.)]

VIII.--But in order properly to discover the truth in our inquiry, we

must recognise that the judgment of God is sometimes made manifest to

men, and sometimes hidden from them.

It may be made manifest in two ways, namely, by reason and by faith.

There are some judgments of God to which the human reason, by its own

paths, can arrive; as, that a man should risk death to save his

country. For a part should always risk itself to save its whole, and

each man is a part of his State, as is clear from the Philosopher in

his _Politics_.[245] Therefore every man ought to risk himself for his

country, as the less good for the better; whence the Philosopher says

to Nicomachus: "The end is desirable, indeed, even for an individual,

but it is better and more divine for a nation and State."[246] And

this is the judgment of God, for if it were not so, right reason in

men would miss the intention of nature, which is impossible.

[Footnote 245: Arist. _Pol._ i. 2, 12.--(W.)]

[Footnote 246: _Ethics_, i. 1.]

There are also some judgments of God to which, though human reason

cannot reach them by its own powers, yet, by the aid of faith in those

things which are told us in Holy Scripture it can be lifted up: as,

for instance, that no one, however perfect he may be in moral and

intellectual virtues, both in habit and in action, can be saved

without faith; it being supposed that he never heard aught of Christ.

For human reason cannot of itself see this to be just, yet by faith it

can. For in the Epistle to the Hebrews it is written, "without faith

it is impossible to please God;"[247] and in Leviticus, "what man

soever there be of the House of Israel that killeth an ox, or lamb, or

goat in the camp, or that killeth it out of the camp, and bringeth it

not to the door of the tabernacle to offer an offering unto the Lord,

blood shall be imputed to that man."[248] The door of the tabernacle

stands for Christ, who is the door of the kingdom of heaven, as may be

proved from the Gospel: the killing of animals represents men's

actions.[249]

[Footnote 247: Cf. _Parad._ xix. 70.--(W.)]

[Footnote 248: Heb. ii. 6; Levit. xvii. 3, 4.--(W.).]

[Footnote 249: Witte quotes from Isidore of Seville, a writer much

used in the middle ages, the following: "In a moral sense, we offer a

calf when we conquer the pride of the flesh; a lamb, when we correct

our irrational impulses; a kid, when we master impurity; a dove, when

we are simple; a turtle-dove, when we observe chastity; unleavened

bread, 'when we keep the feast not in the leaven of malice, but in the

unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.'"]

But the judgment of God is a hidden one, when man cannot arrive at the

knowledge of it either by the law of nature or by the written law, but

only occasionally by a special grace. This grace comes in several

ways: sometimes by simple revelation, sometimes by revelation assisted

by a certain kind of trial or debate. Simple revelation, too, is of

two kinds: either God gives it of his own accord, or it is gained by

prayer. God gives it of his own accord in two ways, either plainly, or

by a sign. His judgment against Saul was revealed to Samuel plainly;

but it was by a sign that it was revealed to Pharaoh what God had

judged touching the setting free of the children of Israel. The

judgment of God is also given in answer to prayer, as he knew who

spoke in the second book of Chronicles:[250] "When we know not what we

ought to do, this only have we left, to direct our eyes to Thee."

[Footnote 250: 2 Chron. xx. 12 (Vulg.).]

Revelation by means of trial is also of two kinds. It is given either

by casting lots, or by combat; for "to strive" (_certare_), is derived

from a phrase which means "to make certain" (_certum facere_). It is

clear that the judgment of God is sometimes revealed to men by casting

lots, as in the substitution of Matthias in the Acts of the Apostles.

Again the judgment of God is revealed to men by combat in two ways:

either it is by a trial of strength, as in the duels of champions who

are called "_duelliones_," or it is by the contention of many men,

each striving to reach a certain mark first, as happens in the

contests of athletes who run for a prize. The first of these methods

was prefigured among the Gentiles by the contests between Hercules and

Antæus, which Lucan mentions in the fourth book of his _Pharsalia_,

and Ovid in the ninth book of his _Metamorphoses_. The second is

prefigured by the contest between Atalanta and Hippomenes, described

in the tenth book of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_.[251]

[Footnote 251: _Phars._ iv. 593; _Metam._ ix. 183, x. 569.--(W.).]

Moreover, it ought not to pass unnoticed concerning these two kinds of

strife, that while in the first each champion may fairly hinder his

antagonist, in the second this is not so; for athletes must not hinder

one another in their strife, though our poet seems to have thought

differently in the fifth _Æneid_ where Euryalus so receives the

prize.[252] But Cicero has done better in forbidding this practice in

the third book of the _De Officiis_, following the opinion of

Chrysippus.[253] He there says: "Chrysippus is right here, as he often

is, for he says that he who runs in a race should strive with all his

might to win, but in no way should he try to trip up his competitor."

[Footnote 252: V. 335--(W.)]

[Footnote 253: III. 10.--(W.)]

With these distinctions, then, we may assume that there are two ways

in which men may learn the judgment of God, as we have on this point

stated; first by the contests of athletes, and secondly by the

contests of champions. These ways of discovering the judgment of God I

will treat of in the chapter following.

IX.--That people then, which conquered when all were striving hard for

the Empire of the world, conquered by the will of God. For God cares

more to settle a universal strife than a particular one; and even in

particular contests the athletes sometimes throw themselves on the

judgment of God, according to the common proverb: "To whom God makes

the grant, him let Peter also bless."[254] It cannot, then, be

doubted that the victory in the strife for the Empire of the world

followed the judgment of God. The Roman people, when all were striving

for the Empire of the world, conquered; it will be plain that so it

was, if we consider the prize or goal, and those who strove for it.

The prize or goal was the supremacy over all men; for it is this that

we call the Empire. None reached this but the Roman people. Not only

were they the first, they were the only ones to reach the goal, as we

shall shortly see.

[Footnote 254: Witte only gives a query (?). The saying expresses the

Ghibelline view of the relation of the Empire to the Pope; it may have

originated with the coronation of Charles the Great.]

The first man who panted for the prize was Ninus, King of the

Assyrians; but although for more than ninety years (as Orosius

tells[255]) he, with his royal consort Semiramis, strove for the

Empire of the world and made all Asia subject to himself, nevertheless

he never subdued the West. Ovid mentions both him and his queen in the

fourth book of the _Metamorphoses_, when he says, in the story of

Pyramus:[256] "Semiramis girdled the round space with brick-built

walls;" and, "let them come to Ninus' tomb and hide beneath in its

shade."

[Footnote 255: I. 4.--(W.)]

[Footnote 256: _Metam._ iv. 58, 88.--(W.)]

Secondly, Vesoges, King of Egypt, aspired to this prize; but though he

vexed the North and South of Asia, as Orosius relates,[257] yet he

never gained for himself one-half of the world; nay, when, as it

were, between the judges[258] and the goal, the Scythians drove him

back from his rash enterprise.

[Footnote 257: Oros. i. 14.--(W.)]

[Footnote 258: "Athlothetæ." The judges or umpires in the Greek games,

whose seats were opposite to the goal at the side of the stadium.

_Vide_ Smith's _Dictionary of Antiquities_, s.v. "stadium."]

Then Cyrus, King of the Persians, made the same attempt; but after the

destruction of Babylon, and the transference of its Empire to Persia,

he did not even reach the regions of the West, but lost his life and

his object in one day at the hands of Tamiris, Queen of the

Scythians.[259]

[Footnote 259: Oros. ii. 7.--(W.)]

But after that these had failed, Xerxes, the son of Darius and king

among the Persians, assailed the world with so great a multitude of

nations, with so great a power, that he bridged the channel of the sea

which separates Asia from Europe, between Sestos and Abydos. And of

this wonderful work Lucan makes mention in the second book of his

_Pharsalia_:[260] "Such paths across the seas, made by Xerxes in his

pride, fame tells of." But finally he was miserably repulsed from his

enterprise, and could not attain the goal.

[Footnote 260: _Phars._ ii. 692.--(W.)]

Besides these kings, and after their times, Alexander, King of

Macedon, came nearest of all to the prize of monarchy; he sent

ambassadors to the Romans to demand their submission, but before the

Roman answer came, he fell in Egypt, as Livy[261] tells us, as it were

in the middle of the course. Of his burial there, Lucan speaks in the

eighth book of his _Pharsalia_,[262] where he is inveighing against

Ptolemy, King of Egypt: "Thou last of the Lagæan race, soon to perish

in thy degeneracy, and to yield thy kingdom to an incestuous sister;

while for thee the Macedonian is kept in the sacred cave...."

[Footnote 261: Not Livy. Cf. ix. 18, 3, where, speaking of Alexander

and the Romans, he says: "Quem ne famâ quidem illis notum arbitror

fuisse." The story is Greek in origin, coming from Cleitarchus

(according to Pliny, _Hist. Nat._ iii. 9), who accompanied Alexander

on his Asiatic expedition. Cf. Niebuhr, _Lectures on the History of

Rome_, lect. 52, Grote, _History of Greece_, vol. xii. p. 70, note,

who argue for its truth, and Mommsen, _History of Rome_, vol. i. p.

394, who argues against it. Dante, says Witte, used legends about

Alexander now lost. Cf. _Inf._ xiv. 31.]

[Footnote 262: VIII. 692.]

"Oh the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God!"

Who will not marvel at thee here? For when Alexander was trying to

hinder his Roman competitor in the race, thou didst suddenly snatch

him away from the contest that his rashness might proceed no further.

But that Rome has won the crown of so great a victory is proved on the

testimony of many. Our poet in his first _Æneid_ says:[263] "Hence,

surely, shall one day the Romans come, as the years roll on, to be the

leaders of the world, from the blood of Teucer renewed; over the sea

and over the land they shall hold full sway."[264] And Lucan, in his

first book, writes: "The sword assigns the kingdom; and the fortune of

that mighty people that rules o'er sea and land and the whole earth,

admitted not two to rule." And Boethius, in his second book,[265]

speaking of the Roman prince says: "With his sceptre he ruled the

nations, those whom Phoebus beholds, from his rising afar to where

he sinks his beams beneath the waves; those who are benumbed by the

frosty Seven Stars of the north, those whom the fierce south wind

scorches with his heat, parching the burning sands." And Luke, the

Scribe of Christ, bears the same testimony, whose every word is true,

where he says: "There went out a decree from Cæsar Augustus that all

the world should be taxed;" from which words we must plainly

understand that the Romans had jurisdiction over the whole world.

[Footnote 263: I. 234.--(W.)]

[Footnote 264: I. 109.--(W.)]

[Footnote 265: _De Consol. Phil._ ii. 6.--(W.)]

From all this evidence it is manifest that the Roman people prevailed

when all were striving to gain the Empire of the world. Therefore it

was by the judgment of God that it prevailed; consequently its Empire

was gained by the judgment of God, which is to say, that it was gained

by right.

X.--And what is gained as the result of single combat or duel is

gained of right. For whenever human judgment fails, either because it

is involved in the clouds of ignorance, or because it has not the

assistance of a judge, then, lest justice should be left deserted, we

must have recourse to Him who loved justice so much that He died to

fulfil what it required by shedding His own blood. Therefore the

Psalmist wrote: "The righteous Lord loveth righteousness." This result

is gained when, by the free consent of the parties, not from hatred

but from love of justice, men inquire of the judgment of God by a

trial of strength as well of soul as of body. And this trial of

strength is called a duel, because in the first instance it was

between two combatants, man to man.

But when two nations quarrel they are bound to try in every possible

way to arrange the quarrel by means of discussion; it is only when

this is hopeless that they may declare war. Cicero and Vegetius agree

on this point, the former in his _De Officiis_,[266] the latter in his

book on war. In the practice of medicine recourse may only be had to

amputation and cauterising when every other means of cure have been

tried. So in the same way, it is only when we have sought in vain for

all other modes of deciding a quarrel that we may resort to the remedy

of a single combat, forced thereto by a necessity of justice.

[Footnote 266: _De Off._ i. 12; _De Re Milit._ iii. _prol._--(W.)]

Two formal rules, then, of the single combat are clear, one which we

have just mentioned, the other, which we touched on before, that the

combatants or champions must enter the lists by common consent, not

animated by private hatred or love, but simply by an eager desire for

justice. Therefore Cicero, in touching on this matter, spoke well when

he said: "Wars, which are waged for the crown of empire, must be waged

without bitterness."[267]

[Footnote 267: "Imperii _gloria_," not "_corona_," in _Cic. de Off._

i. 12.--(W.)]

But, if the rules of single combat be kept when men are driven by

justice to meet together by common consent, in their zeal for justice

(and if they are not, the contest ceases to be a single combat), do

not they meet together in the name of God? And if it is so, is not God

in the midst of them, for He Himself promises us this in the Gospel?

And if God is there, is it not impious to suppose that justice can

fail?--that justice which He loved so much, as we have just seen. And

if single combat cannot fail to secure justice, is not what is gained

in single combat gained as of right?

This truth the Gentiles, too, recognised before the trumpet of the

Gospel was sounded, when they sought for a judgment in the fortune of

single combat. So Pyrrhus, noble both in the manners and in the blood

of Æacidæ, gave a worthy answer when the Roman envoys were sent to him

to treat for the ransom of prisoners. "I ask not for gold; ye shall

pay me no price, being not war-mongers, but true men of war. Let each

decide his fate with steel, and not with gold. Whether it be you or I

that our mistress wills to reign, or what chance she may bring to

each, let us try by valour. Hear ye also this word: those whose valour

the fortune of war has spared, their liberty will I too spare. Take ye

them as my gift."[268] So spoke Pyrrhus. By "mistress" he meant

Fortune, which we better and more rightly call the Providence of God.

Therefore, let the combatants beware that they fight not for money;

then it would be no true single combat in which they fought, for they

would strive in a court of blood and injustice; and let it not be

thought that God would then be present to judge; nay, for it would be

that ancient enemy who had been the instigator of the strife. If they

wish to be true combatants, and not dealers in blood and injustice,

let them keep Pyrrhus before their eyes when they enter the arena, the

man who, when he was striving for empire, so scorned gold, as we have

said.

[Footnote 268: Ennius in _Cic. de Off._ i. 12 (W.) "War-monger" is

Spenser's word. _F.Q._ 3, 10, 29.]

But, if men will not receive the truth which we have proved, and

object, as they are wont, that all men are not equal in strength, we

will refute them with the instance of the victory of David over

Goliath; and if the Gentiles seek for aught more, let them repel the

objection by the victory of Hercules over Antæus. For it is mere folly

to fear that the strength which God makes strong should be weaker than

a human champion. It is, therefore, now sufficiently clear that what

is acquired by single combat is acquired by right.

XI.--But the Roman people gained their empire by duel between man and

man; and this is proved by testimonies that are worthy of all

credence; and in proving this, we shall also show that where any

question had to be decided from the beginning of the Roman Empire, it

was tried by single combat.

For first of all, when a quarrel arose about the settling in Italy of

Father Æneas, the earliest ancestor of this people, and when Turnus,

King of the Rutuli, withstood Æneas, it was at last agreed between the

two kings to discover the good pleasure of God by a single combat,

which is sung in the last book of the _Æneid_. And in this combat

Æneas was so merciful in his victory, that he would have granted life

and peace to the conquered foe, had he not seen the belt which Turnus

had taken on slaying Pallas, as the last verses of our poet describe.

Again, when two peoples had grown up in Italy, both sprung from the

Trojan stem, namely, the Romans and the Albans, and they had long

striven whose should be the sign of the eagle,[269] and the Penates of

Troy, and the honours of empire; at last by mutual consent, in order

to have certain knowledge of the case in hand, the three Horatii, who

were brethren, and the three Curatii, who were also brethren, fought

together before the kings and all the people anxiously waiting on

either side; and since the three Alban champions were killed, while

one Roman survived, the palm of victory fell to the Romans, in the

reign of Hostilius the king. This story has been diligently put

together by Livy, in the first part of his history, and Orosius also

gives similar testimony.[270]

[Footnote 269: "_Il sacrosanto segno._" V. _Parad._ vi. 32.]

[Footnote 270: Liv. i. 24; Oros. ii. 4.]

Next they fought for empire with their neighbours the Sabines and

Samnites, as Livy tells us; all the laws of war were kept; and though

those who fought were very many in number, the war was in the form of

a combat between man and man. In the contest with the Samnites,

Fortune nearly repented her of what she had begun, as Lucan instances

in the second book of his _Pharsalia_:[271] "How many companies lay

dead by the Colline gate then, when the headship of the world and

universal empire well-nigh were transferred to other seats, and the

Samnite heaped the corpses of Rome beyond the numbers[272] of the

Caudine Forks."

[Footnote 271: II. 135.]

[Footnote 272:

"Romanaque Samnis

Ultra Caudinas superavit vulnera furcas."

Another reading is "speravit."]

But after that the intestine quarrels of Italy had ceased, and while

the issue of the strife with Greece and Carthage was not yet made

certain by the judgment of God--for both Greece and Carthage aimed at

empire--then Fabricius for Rome, and Pyrrhus for Greece, fought with

vast hosts for the glory of empire, and Rome gained the day. And when

Scipio for Rome, and Hannibal for Carthage, fought man to man, the

Africans fell before the Italians, as Livy and all the other Roman

historians strive to tell.

Who then is so dull of understanding as not to see that this glorious

people has won the crown of all the world, by the decision of combat?

Surely the Roman may repeat Paul's words to Timothy: "There is laid up

for me a crown of righteousness," laid up, that is, in the eternal

providence of God. Let, then, the presumptuous Jurists see how far

they stand below that watch-tower of reason whence the mind of man

regards these principles: and let them be silent, content to show

forth counsel and judgment according to the meaning of the law.

It has now become manifest that it was by combat of man against man

that the Romans gained their empire: therefore it was by right that

they gained it, and this is the principal thesis of the present book.

Up to this point we have proved our thesis by arguments which mostly

rest on principles of reason; we must now make our point clear by

arguments based on the principles of the Christian faith.

XII.--For it is they who profess to be zealous for the faith of Christ

who have chiefly "raged together," and "imagined a vain thing" against

the Roman empire; men who have no compassion on the poor of Christ,

whom they not only defraud as to the revenues of the Church; but the

very patrimonies of the Church are daily seized upon; and the Church

is made poor, while making a show of justice they yet refuse to allow

the minister of justice to fulfil his office.

Nor does this impoverishment happen without the judgment of God. For

their possessions do not afford help to the poor, to whom belongs as

their patrimony the wealth of the Church; and these possessions are

held without gratitude to the empire which gives them. Let these

possessions go back to whence they came. They came well; their return

is evil: for they were well given, and they are mischievously held.

What shall we say to shepherds like these? What shall we say when the

substance of the Church is wasted, while the private estates of their

own kindred are enlarged? But perchance it is better to proceed with

what is set before us; and in religious silence to wait for our

Saviour's help.

I say, then, that if the Roman empire did not exist by right, Christ

in being born presupposed and sanctioned an unjust thing. But the

consequent is false; therefore the contradictory of the antecedent is

true; for it is always true of contradictory propositions, that if one

is false the other is true. It is not needful to prove the falsity of

the consequent to a true believer: for, if he be faithful, he will

grant it to be false; and if he be not faithful, then this reasoning

is not for him.

I prove the consequence thus: wherever a man of his own free choice

carries out a public order, he countenances and persuades by his act

the justice of that order; and seeing that acts are more forcible to

persuade than words (as Aristotle holds in the tenth book of his

_Ethics_),[273] therefore by this he persuades us more than if it were

merely an approval in words. But Christ, as Luke who writes His

story, says, willed to be born of the Virgin Mary under an edict of

Roman authority, so that in that unexampled census of mankind, the Son

of God, made man, might be counted as man: and this was to carry out

that edict. Perhaps it is even more religious to suppose that it was

of God that the decree issued through Cæsar, so that He who had been

such long years expected among men should Himself enroll himself with

mortal man.

[Footnote 273: _Eth._ x. 1.]

Therefore Christ, by His action, enforced the justice of the edict of

Augustus, who then wielded the Roman power. And since to issue a just

edict implies jurisdiction, it necessarily follows that He who showed

that He thought an edict just, must also have showed that He thought

the jurisdiction under which it was issued just; but unless it existed

by right it were unjust.

And it must be noted that the force of the argument taken to destroy

the consequent, though the argument partly holds from its form, shows

its force in the second figure, if it be reduced as a syllogism, just

as the argument based on the assumption of the antecedent is in the

first figure. The reduction is made thus: all that is unjust is

persuaded to men unjustly; Christ did not persuade us unjustly;

therefore He did not persuade us to do unjust things. From the

assumption of the antecedent thus: all injustice is persuaded to men

unjustly: Christ persuaded a certain injustice to man, therefore He

persuaded unjustly.

XIII.--And if the Roman empire did not exist by right, the sin of Adam

was not punished in Christ. This is false, therefore its contradictory

is true. The falsehood of the consequent is seen thus. Since by the

sin of Adam we were all sinners, as the Apostle says:--"Wherefore, as

by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin, and so death

passed upon all men, for that all have sinned,"--then, if Christ had

not made satisfaction for Adam's sin by his death, we should still by

our depraved nature be the children of wrath. But this is not so, for

Paul, speaking of the Father in his Epistle to the Ephesians, says:

"Having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ

to Himself, according to the good pleasure of His will, to the praise

of the glory of His grace, wherein He hath made us accepted in the

beloved, in whom we have redemption by His blood, the forgiveness of

sins according to the riches of His grace, wherein He has abounded

towards us." And Christ Himself, suffering in Himself the punishment,

says in St. John: "It is finished;" for where a thing is finished,

naught remains to be done.

It is convenient that it should be understood that punishment is not

merely penalty inflicted on him who has done wrong, but that penalty

inflicted by one who has penal jurisdiction. And therefore a penalty

should not be called punishment, but rather injury, except where it is

inflicted by the sentence of a regular judge.[274] Therefore the

Israelites said unto Moses: "Who made thee a judge over us?"

[Footnote 274: "_Ab ordinario judice._"]

If, therefore, Christ had not suffered by the sentence of a regular

judge, the penalty would not properly have been punishment; and none

could be a regular judge who had not jurisdiction over all mankind;

for all mankind was punished in the flesh of Christ, who "hath borne

our griefs and carried our sorrows," as saith the Prophet Isaiah. And

if the Roman empire had not existed by right, Tiberius Cæsar, whose

vicar was Pontius Pilate, would not have had jurisdiction over all

mankind. It was for this reason that Herod, not knowing what he did,

like Caiaphas, when he spoke truly of the decree of heaven, sent

Christ to Pilate to be judged, as Luke relates in his gospel. For

Herod was not the vicegerent of Tiberius, under the standard of the

eagle, or the standard of the Senate; but only a king, with one

particular kingdom given him by Tiberius, and ruling the kingdom

committed to his charge under Tiberius.

Let them cease, then, to insult the Roman empire, who pretend that

they are the sons of the Church; when they see that Christ, the

bridegroom of the Church, sanctioned the Roman empire at the beginning

and at the end of His warfare on earth. And now I think that I have

made it sufficiently clear that it was by right that the Romans

acquired to themselves the empire of the world.

Oh happy people, oh Ausonia, how glorious hadst thou been, if either

he, that weakener of thine empire, had never been born, or if his own

pious intention had never deceived him?[275]

[Footnote 275: Constantine the Great.--(W.)]

BOOK III.

I.--"He hath shut the lions' mouths and they have not hurt me,

forasmuch as before Him justice was found in me."[276] At the

beginning of this work I proposed to examine into three questions,

according as the subject-matter would permit me. Concerning the two

first questions our inquiry, as I think, has been sufficiently

accomplished in the preceding books. It remains to treat of the third

question; and, perchance, it may arouse a certain amount of

indignation against me, for the truth of it cannot appear without

causing shame to certain men. But seeing that truth from its

changeless throne appeals to me--that Solomon too, entering on the

forest of his proverbs, teaches me in his own person "to meditate on

truth, to hate the wicked;"[277] seeing that the Philosopher, my

instructor in morals, bids me, for the sake of truth, to put aside

what is dearest;[278] I will, therefore, take confidence from the

words of Daniel in which the power of God, the shield of the defenders

of truth, is set forth, and, according to the exhortation of St.

Paul, "putting on the breast-plate of faith," and in the heat of that

coal which one of the seraphim had taken from off the altar, and laid

on the lips of Isaiah, I will enter on the present contest, and, by

the arm of Him who delivered us by His blood from the powers of

darkness, drive out from the lists the wicked and the liar, in the

sight of all the world. Why should I fear, when the Spirit, which is

co-eternal with the Father and the Son, saith by the mouth of David:

"The righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance, he shall not

be afraid of evil tidings"?[279]

[Footnote 276: Dan. vi. 22. Vulg.--(W.)]

[Footnote 277: Prov. vii. 7. Vulg.--(W.)]

[Footnote 278: Arist. _Eth._ i. 4.--(W.)]

[Footnote 279: Ps. cxii. 7.--(W.)]

The present question, then, concerning which we have to inquire, is

between two great luminaries, the Roman Pontiff and the Roman Prince:

and the question is, does the authority of the Roman Monarch, who, as

we have proved in the second book, is the monarch of the world, depend

immediately on God, or on some minister or vicar of God; by whom I

understand the successor of Peter, who truly has the keys of the

kingdom of heaven?

II.--For this, as for the former questions, we must take some

principle, on the strength of which we may fashion the arguments of

the truth which is to be expounded. For what does it profit to labour,

even in speaking truth, unless we start from a principle? For the

principle alone is the root of all the propositions which are the

means of proof.

Let us, therefore, start from the irrefragable truth that that which

is repugnant to the intention of nature, is against the will of God.

For if this were not true its contradictory would not be false;

namely, that what is repugnant to the intention of nature is not

against God's will, and if this be not false neither are the

consequences thereof false. For it is impossible in consequences which

are necessary, that the consequent should be false, unless the

antecedent were false also.

But if a thing is not "_against the will_" it must either be willed or

simply "not willed," just as "not to hate" means "to love," or "not to

love;" for "not to love" does not mean "to hate," and "not to will"

does not mean "to will not," as is self-evident. But if this is not

false, neither will this proposition be false; "God wills what He does

not will," than which a greater contradiction does not exist.

I prove that what I say is true as follows: It is manifest that God

wills the end of nature; otherwise the motions of heaven would be of

none effect, and this we may not say. If God willed that the end

should be hindered, He would will also that the hindering power should

gain its end, otherwise His will would be of none effect. And since

the end of the hindering power is the non-existence of what it

hinders, it would follow that God wills the non-existence of the end

of nature which He is said to will.

For if God did not will that the end should be hindered, in so far as

He did not will it, it would follow as a consequence to His not

willing it, that He cared nought about the hindering power, neither

whether it existed, nor whether it did not. But he who cares not for

the hindering power, cares not for the thing which can be hindered,

and consequently has no wish for it; and when a man has no wish for a

thing he wills it not. Therefore, if the end of nature can be

hindered, as it can, it follows of necessity that God wills not the

end of nature, and we reach our previous conclusion, that God wills

what He does not will. Our principle is therefore most true, seeing

that from its contradictions such absurd results follow.

III.--At the outset we must note in reference to this third question,

that the truth of the first question had to be made manifest rather to

remove ignorance than to end a dispute. In the second question we

sought equally to remove ignorance and to end a dispute. For there are

many things of which we are ignorant, but concerning which we do not

quarrel. In geometry we know not how to square the circle, but we do

not quarrel on that point. The theologian does not know the number of

the angels, but he does not quarrel about the number. The Egyptian is

ignorant of the political system of the Scythians, but he does not

therefore quarrel concerning it.[280] But the truth in this third

question provokes so much quarrelling that, whereas in other matters

ignorance is commonly the cause of quarrelling, here quarrelling is

the cause of ignorance. For this always happens where men are hurried

by their wishes past what they see by their reason; in this evil bias

they lay aside the light of reason, and being dragged on blindly by

their desires, they obstinately deny that they are blind. And,

therefore, it often follows not only that falsehood has its own

inheritance, but that many men issue forth from their own bounds and

stray through the foreign camp, where they understand nothing, and no

man understands them; and so they provoke some to anger, and some to

scorn, and not a few to laughter.

[Footnote 280: "_Scytharum Civilitatem._" Cf. Arist. _Ethics_, iii. 5,

where [Greek: to bouleuton] is discussed, and thence come the first

and the third example, a little altered, the Egyptian being

substituted for the Spartan.]

Now three classes of men chiefly strive against the truth which we are

trying to prove.

First, the Chief Pontiff, Vicar of our Lord Jesus Christ and the

successor of Peter, to whom we owe, not indeed all that we owe to

Christ, but all that we owe to Peter, contradicts this truth, urged it

may be by zeal for the keys; and also other pastors of the Christian

sheepfolds, and others whom I believe to be only led by zeal for our

mother, the Church. These all, perchance from zeal and not from pride,

withstand the truth which I am about to prove.

But there are certain others in whom obstinate greed has extinguished

the light of reason, who are of their father the devil, and yet

pretend to be sons of the Church. They not only stir up quarrels in

this question, but they hate the name of the most sacred office of

Prince, and would shamelessly deny the principles which we have laid

down for this and the previous questions.

There is also a third class called Decretalists,[281] utterly without

knowledge or skill in philosophy or theology, who, relying entirely on

their Decretals (which doubtless, I think, should be venerated), and

hoping, I believe, that these Decretals will prevail, disparage the

power of the Empire. And no wonder, for I have heard one of them,

speaking of these Decretals, assert shamelessly that the traditions of

the Church are the foundation of the faith. May this wickedness be

taken away from the thoughts of men by those who, antecedently to the

traditions of the Church, have believed in Christ the Son of God,

whether to come, or present, or as having already suffered; and who

from their faith have hoped, and from their hope have kindled into

love, and who, burning with love, will, the world doubts not, be made

co-heirs with Him.

[Footnote 281: _Parad._ ix. 133.--(W.)]

And that such arguers may be excluded once for all from the present

debate, it must be noted that part of Scripture was _before_ the

Church, that part of it came _with_ the Church, and part _after_ the

Church.

_Before_ the Church were the Old and the New Testament--the covenant

which the Psalmist says was "commanded for ever," of which the Church

speaks to her Bridegroom, saying: "Draw me after thee."[282]

[Footnote 282: Ps. cxi. 9. Cant. i. 3.--(W.)]

_With_ the Church came those venerable chief Councils, with which no

faithful Christian doubts but that Christ was present. For we have His

own words to His disciples when He was about to ascend into heaven:

"Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world," to which

Matthew testifies. There are also the writings[283] of the doctors,

Augustine and others, of whom, if any doubt that they were aided by

the Holy Spirit, either he has never beheld their fruit, or if he has

beheld, he has never tasted thereof.

[Footnote 283: "_Scripturæ._"]

_After_ the Church are the traditions which they call Decretals,

which, although they are to be venerated for their apostolical

authority, yet we must not doubt that they are to be held inferior to

fundamental Scripture, seeing that Christ rebuked the Pharisees for

this very thing; for when they had asked: "Why do thy disciples

transgress the tradition of the elders?" (for they neglected the

washing of hands), He answered them, as Matthew testifies: "Why do ye

also transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?" Thus He

intimates plainly that tradition was to have a lower place.

But if the traditions of the Church are _after_ the Church, it follows

that the Church had not its authority from traditions, but rather

traditions from the Church; and, therefore, the men of whom we speak,

seeing that they have nought but traditions, must be excluded from the

debate. For those who seek after this truth must proceed in their

inquiry from those things from which flows the authority of the

Church.

Further, we must exclude others who boast themselves to be white sheep

in the flock of the Lord, when they have the plumage of crows. These

are the children of wickedness, who, that they may be able to follow

their evil ways, put shame on their mother, drive out their brethren,

and when they have done all will allow none to judge them. Why should

we seek to reason with these, when they are led astray by their evil

desires, and so cannot see even our first principle?

Therefore there remains the controversy only with the other sort of

men who are influenced by a certain kind of zeal for their mother the

Church, and yet know not the truth which is sought for. With these

men, therefore--strong in the reverence which a dutiful son owes to

his father, which a dutiful son owes to his mother, dutiful to Christ,

dutiful to the Church, dutiful to the Chief Shepherd, dutiful to all

who profess the religion of Christ--I begin in this book the contest

for the maintenance of the truth.

IV.--Those men to whom all our subsequent reasoning is addressed, when

they assert that the authority of the Empire depends on the authority

of the Church, as the inferior workman depends on the architect, are

moved to take this view by many arguments, some of which they draw

from Holy Scripture, and some also from the acts of the Supreme

Pontiff and of the Emperor himself. Moreover, they strive to have some

proof of reason.

For in the first place they say that God, according to the book of

Genesis, made two great lights, the greater light to rule the day, and

the lesser light to rule the night; this they understand to be an

allegory, for that the lights are the two powers,[284] the spiritual

and the temporal. And then they maintain that as the moon, which is

the lesser light, only has light so far as she receives it from the

sun, so the temporal power only has authority as it receives authority

from the spiritual power.

[Footnote 284: "_Regimina._"]

For the disposing of these, and of other like arguments, we must

remember the Philosopher's words in his book on Sophistry, "the

overthrow of an argument is the pointing out of the mistake."[285]

[Footnote 285: _Soph. El._ ii. 3.--(W.)]

Error may arise in two ways, either in the matter, or in the form of

an argument; either, that is, by assuming to be true what is false, or

by transgressing the laws of the syllogism. The Philosopher raised

objections to the arguments of Parmenides and Melissus on both of

these grounds, saying that they accepted what was false, and that they

did not argue correctly.[286] I use "false" in a large sense, as

including the inconceivable,[287] that which in matters admitting only

of probability has the nature of falseness. If the error is in the

form of an argument, he who wishes to destroy the error must do so by

showing that the laws of the syllogism have been transgressed. If the

error is in the matter, it is because something has been assumed

which is either false in itself, or false in relation to that

particular instance. If the assumption is false in itself, the

argument must be destroyed by destroying the assumption; if it is

false only in that particular instance, we must draw a distinction

between the falseness in that particular instance and its general

truth.

[Footnote 286: Aristotle, _Phys._ i. 2.--(W.)]

[Footnote 287: "_Inopinabili._"]

Having noted these things, to make it more clear how we destroy this

and the further fallacies of our adversaries, we must remark that

there are two ways in which error may arise concerning the mystical

sense, either by seeking it where it is not, or by accepting it in a

sense other than its real sense.

On account of the first of these ways, Augustine says, in his work _Of

the City of God_,[288] that we must not think that all things, of

which we are told, have a special meaning; for it is on account of

that which means something, that that also which means nothing is

woven into a story. It is only with the ploughshare that we turn up

the earth; but the other parts of the plough are also necessary.

[Footnote 288: Dante does not quote St. Augustine's words, but gives

his meaning, xvii. 2.--(W.)]

On account of the second way in which error touching the

interpretation of mysteries may arise, Augustine, in his book

"_concerning Christian doctrine_," speaking of those who wish to find

in Scripture something other than he who wrote the Scripture

meant,[289] says, that such "are misled in the same way as a man who

leaves the straight path, and then arrives at the end of the path by a

long circuit." And he adds: "It ought to be shown that this is a

mistake, lest through the habit of going out of the way, the man be

driven to going into cross or wrong ways." And then he intimates why

such precautions must be taken in interpreting Scripture. "Faith will

falter, if the authority of Scripture be not sure." But I say that if

these things happen from ignorance, we must pardon those who do them,

when we have carefully reproved them, as we pardon those who imagine a

lion in the clouds, and are afraid. But if they are done purposely, we

must deal with those who err thus, as we do with tyrants, who instead

of following the laws of the state for the public good, try to pervert

them for their own advantage.

[Footnote 289: I. 36, 37. Dante writes: "per gyrum." The Benedictine

text has: "per agrum."]

Oh worst of crimes, even though a man commit it in his dreams, to turn

to ill use the purpose of the Eternal Spirit. Such an one does not sin

against Moses, or David, or Job, or Matthew, or Paul, but against the

Eternal Spirit that speaketh in them. For though the reporters of the

words of God are many, yet there is one only that tells them what to

write, even God, who has deigned to unfold to us His will through the

pens of many writers.

Having thus first noted these things, I will proceed, as I said above,

to destroy the argument of those who say that the two great lights are

typical of the two great powers on earth: for on this type rests the

whole strength of their argument. It can be shown in two ways that

this interpretation cannot be upheld. First, seeing that these two

kinds of power are, in a sense, accidents of men, God would thus

appear to have used a perverted order, by producing the accidents,

before the essence to which they belong existed; and it is ridiculous

to say this of God. For the two great lights were created on the

fourth day, while man was not created till the sixth day, as is

evident in the text of Scripture.

Secondly, seeing that these two kinds of rule are to guide men to

certain ends, as we shall see, it follows that if man had remained in

the state of innocence in which God created him, he would not have

needed such means of guidance. These kinds of rule, then, are remedies

against the weakness of sin. Since, then, man was not a sinner on the

fourth day, for he did not then even exist, it would have been idle to

make remedies for his sin, and this would be contrary to the goodness

of God. For he would be a sorry physician who would make a plaster

for an abscess which was to be, before the man was born. It cannot,

therefore, be said that God made these two kinds of rule on the fourth

day, and therefore the meaning of Moses cannot have been what these

men pretend.

We may also be more tolerant, and overthrow this falsehood by drawing

a distinction. This way of distinction is a gentler way of treating an

adversary, for so his arguments are not made to appear consciously

false, as is the case when we utterly overthrow him. I say then that,

although the moon has not light of its own abundantly, unless it

receives it from the sun, yet it does not therefore follow that the

moon is from the sun. Therefore be it known that the being, and the

power, and the working of the moon are all different things. For its

being, the moon in no way depends on the sun, nor for its power, nor

for its working, considered in itself. Its motion comes from its

proper mover, its influence is from its own rays. For it has a certain

light of its own, which is manifest at the time of an eclipse; though

for its better and more powerful working it receives from the sun an

abundant light, which enables it to work more powerfully.

Therefore I say that the temporal power does not receive its being

from the spiritual power, nor its power which is its authority, nor

its working considered in itself. Yet it is good that the temporal

power should receive from the spiritual the means of working more

effectively by the light of the grace which the benediction of the

Supreme Pontiff bestows on it both in heaven and on earth. Therefore

we may see that the argument of these men erred in its form, because

the predicate of the conclusion is not the predicate of the major

premiss. The argument runs thus: The moon receives her light from the

sun, which is the spiritual power. The temporal power is the moon.

Therefore the temporal power receives authority from the spiritual

power. "Light" is the predicate of the major premiss, "authority" the

predicate of the conclusion; which two things we have seen to be very

different in their subject and in their idea.

V.--They draw another argument from the text of Moses, saying that the

types of these two powers sprang from the loins of Jacob, for that

they are prefigured in Levi and Judah, whereof one was founder of the

spiritual power, and the other of the temporal. From this they argue:

the Church has the same relation to the Empire that Levi had to Judah.

Levi preceded Judah in his birth, therefore the Church precedes the

Empire in authority.

This error is easily overthrown. For when they say that Levi and

Judah, the sons of Jacob, are the types of spiritual and temporal

power, I could show this argument, too, to be wholly false; but I will

grant it to be true. Then they infer, as Levi came first in birth, so

does the Church come first in authority. But, as in the previous

argument, the predicates of the conclusion and of the major premiss

are different: authority and birth are different things, both in their

subject and in their idea; and therefore there is an error in the form

of the argument. The argument is as follows: A precedes B in C; D and

E stand in the same relation as A and B; therefore D precedes E in F.

But then F and C are different things. And if it is objected that F

follows from C, that is, authority from priority of birth, and that

the effect is properly substituted for the cause, as if "animal" were

used in an argument for men, the objection is bad. For there are many

men, who were born before others, who not only do not precede those

others in authority, but even come after them: as is plain where we

find a bishop younger than his archpresbyters. Therefore their

objection appears to err in that it assumes as a cause that which is

none.

VI.--Again, from the first book of Kings they take the election and

the deposition of Saul; and they say that Saul, an enthroned king, was

deposed by Samuel, who, by God's command, acted in the stead of God,

as appears from the text of Scripture. From this they argue that, as

that Vicar of God had authority to give temporal power, and to take it

away and bestow it on another, so now the Vicar of God, the bishop of

the universal Church, has authority to give the sceptre of temporal

power, and to take it away, and even to give it to another. And if

this were so, it would follow without doubt that the authority of the

Empire is dependent on the Church, as they say.

But we may answer and destroy this argument, by which they say that

Samuel was the Vicar of God: for it was not as Vicar of God that he

acted, but as a special delegate for this purpose, or as a messenger

bearing the express command of his Lord. For it is clear that what God

commanded him, that only he did, and that only he said.

Therefore we must recognise that it is one thing to be another's

vicar, and that it is another to be his messenger or minister, just as

it is one thing to be a doctor, and another to be an interpreter. For

a vicar is one to whom is committed jurisdiction with law or with

arbitrary power, and therefore within the bounds of the jurisdiction

which is committed to him, he may act by law or by his arbitrary power

without the knowledge of his lord. It is not so with a mere messenger,

in so far as he is a messenger; but as the mallet acts only by the

strength of the smith, so the messenger acts only by the authority of

him that sent him. Although, then, God did this by His messenger

Samuel, it does not follow that the Vicar of God may do the same. For

there are many things which God has done and still does, and yet will

do through angels, which the Vicar of God, the successor of Peter,

might not do.

Therefore we may see that they argue from the whole to a part, thus:

Men can hear and see, therefore the eye can hear and see: which does

not hold. Were the argument negative, it would be good: for instance,

man cannot fly, therefore man's arm cannot fly. And, in the same way,

God cannot, by his messenger, cause what is not to have been,[290] as

Agathon says; therefore neither can his Vicar.

[Footnote 290: As quoted by Aristotle, _Ethics_, vi. 3.--(W.)]

VII.--Further, they use the offering of the wise men from the text of

Matthew, saying that Christ accepted from them both frankincense and

gold, to signify that He was lord and ruler both of things temporal

and of things spiritual; and from this they infer that the Vicar of

Christ is also lord and ruler both of things temporal and of things

spiritual; and that consequently he has authority over both.

To this I answer, that I acknowledge that Matthew's words and meaning

are both as they say, but that the inference which they attempt to

draw therefrom fails, because it fails in the terms of the argument.

Their syllogism runs thus: God is the lord both of things temporal and

of things spiritual, the holy Pontiff is the Vicar of God; therefore

he is lord both of things temporal and of things spiritual. Both of

these propositions are true, but the middle term in them is different,

and _four_ terms are introduced, by which the form of the syllogism is

not kept, as is plain from what is said of "the syllogism

simply."[291] For "God" is the subject of the major premiss, and "the

Vicar of God" is the predicate of the minor; and these are not the

same.

[Footnote 291: Arist. _Anal. Prior._, or rather, the _Summulæ Logicæ_,

l. iv., of Petrus Hispanus.--(W.)]

And if anyone raises the objection that the Vicar of God is equal in

power to God, his objection is idle; for no vicar, whether human or

divine, can be equal in power to the master whose vicar he is, which

is at once obvious. We know that the successor of Peter had not equal

authority with God, at least in the works of nature; he could not make

a clod of earth fall upwards, nor fire to burn in a downward

direction, by virtue of the office committed to him. Nor could all

things be committed to him by God; for God could not commit to any the

power of creation, and of baptism, as is clearly proved,

notwithstanding what[292] the Master says in his fourth book.

[Footnote 292: Peter Lombard, "magister sententiarum," iv. dist. 5, f.

2.--(W.)]

We know also that the vicar of a mortal man is not equal in authority

to the man whose vicar he is, so far as he is his vicar; for none can

give away what is not his. The authority of a prince does not belong

to a prince, except for him to use it; for no prince can give to

himself authority. He can indeed receive authority, and give it up,

but he cannot create it in another man, for it does not belong to a

prince to create another prince. And if this is so, it is manifest

that no prince can substitute for himself a vicar equal to himself in

authority respecting all things, and therefore the objection to our

argument has no weight.

VIII.--They also bring forward that saying in Matthew of Christ to

Peter: "Whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;

and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven;"

which also, from the text of Matthew and John, they allow to have been

in like manner said to all the Apostles. From this they argue that it

has been granted by God to the successor of Peter to be able to bind

and to loose all things; hence they infer that he can loose the laws

and decrees of the Empire, and also bind laws and decrees for the

temporal power; and, if this were so, this conclusion would rightly

follow.

But we must draw a distinction touching their major premiss. Their

syllogism is in this form. Peter could loose and bind all things; the

successor of Peter can do whatever Peter could do; therefore the

successor of Peter can bind and can loose all things: whence they

conclude that he can bind and can loose the decrees and the authority

of the Empire.

Now I admit the minor premiss; but touching the major premiss I draw a

distinction. The universal "everything" which is included in

"whatever" is not distributed beyond the extent of the distributed

term. If I say "all animals run," "all" is distributed so as to

include everything which comes under the class "animal." But if I say

"all men run," then "all" is only distributed so as to include every

individual in the class "man;" and when I say "every grammarian runs,"

then is the distribution even more limited.

Therefore we must always look to see what it is that is to be included

in the word "all," and when we know the nature and extent of the

distributed term, it will easily be seen how far the distribution

extends. Therefore, when it is said "whatsoever thou shalt bind," if

"whatsoever" bore an unlimited sense, they would speak truly, and the

power of the Pope would extend even beyond what they say; for he might

then divorce a wife from her husband, and marry her to another while

her first husband was yet alive, which he can in no wise do. He might

even absolve me when impenitent, which God Himself cannot do.

Therefore it is manifest that the distribution of the term in question

is not absolute, but in reference to something. What this is will be

sufficiently clear if we consider what power was granted to Peter.

Christ said to Peter: "To thee will I give the keys of the kingdom of

heaven"--that is, "I will make thee the doorkeeper of the kingdom of

heaven." And then He adds: "Whatsoever," which is to say "all

that"--to wit, all that has reference to this duty--"thou shalt have

power to bind and to loose." And thus the universal which is implied

in "whatsoever" has only a limited distribution, referring to the

office of the keys of the kingdom of heaven. And in this sense the

proposition of our opponents is true, but, taken absolutely, it is

manifestly false. I say, then, that although the successor of Peter

has power to bind and to loose, as belongs to him to whom the office

of Peter was committed, yet it does not therefore follow that he has

power to bind and to loose the decrees of the Empire, as our opponents

say, unless they further prove that to do so belongs to the office of

the keys, which we shall shortly show is not the case.

IX.--They further take the words in Luke which Peter spake to Christ,

saying: "Behold, here are two swords;" and they understood that by

these two swords the two kinds of rule were foretold. And since Peter

said "here," where he was, which is to say, "with him," they argue

that the authority of the two kinds of rule rests with the successor

of Peter.

We must answer by showing that the interpretation, on which the

argument rests, is wrong. They say that the two swords of which Peter

spake mean the two kinds of rule which we have spoken of; but this we

wholly deny, for then Peter's answer would not be according to the

meaning of the words of Christ; and also we say that Peter made, as

was his wont, a hasty answer, touching only the outside of things.

It will be manifest that such an answer as our opponents allege would

not be according to the meaning of the words of Christ, if the

preceding words, and the reason of them, be considered. Observe, then,

that these words were spoken on the day of the feast, for a little

before Luke writes thus: "Then came the day of unleavened bread, when

the Passover must be killed;" and at this feast Christ had spoken of

His Passion, which was at hand, in which it was necessary for Him to

be separated from His disciples. Observe, too, that when these words

were spoken the twelve were assembled together, and therefore, shortly

after the words which we have just quoted, Luke says: "And when the

hour was come He sat down, and the twelve Apostles with Him." And

continuing His discourse with them, He came to this: "When I sent you,

without purse, and scrip, and shoes, lacked ye anything? And they

said, Nothing. Then said He unto them: But now, he that hath a purse,

let him take it, and likewise his scrip; and he that hath no sword,

let him sell his garment, and buy one." From these words the purpose

of Christ is sufficiently manifest; for He did not say: "Buy, or get

for yourselves, two swords," but rather "twelve swords," seeing that

He spake unto twelve disciples: "He that hath not, let him buy," so

that each should have one. And He said this to admonish them of the

persecution and scorn that they should suffer, as though He would say:

"As long as I was with you men received you gladly, but now you will

be driven away; therefore of necessity ye must prepare for yourselves

those things which formerly I forbade you to have." And therefore if

the answer of Peter bore the meaning which our opponents assign to it,

it would have been no answer to the words of Christ; and Christ would

have rebuked him for answering foolishly, as He often did rebuke him.

But Christ did not rebuke him, but was satisfied, saying unto him: "It

is enough," as though He would say: "I speak because of the necessity;

but if each one of you cannot possess a sword, two are enough."

And that it was Peter's wont to speak in a shallow manner is proved by

his hasty and thoughtless forwardness, to which he was led not only by

the sincerity of his faith, but also, I believe, by the natural purity

and simplicity of his character. All the Evangelists bear testimony to

this forwardness.

Matthew writes that when Jesus had asked His disciples: "Whom say ye

that I am?" Peter answered before them all and said: "Thou art Christ,

the Son of the living God." He writes also that when Christ was saying

to His disciples that he must go up to Jerusalem and suffer many

things, Peter took Him and began to rebuke Him, saying: "Be it far

from Thee, Lord; this shall not be unto Thee." But Christ turned and

rebuked him, and said: "Get thee behind me, Satan." Matthew also

writes that in the Mount of Transfiguration, on the sight of Christ,

and of Moses and Elias, and of the two sons of Zebedee, Peter said:

"Lord, it is good for us to be here; if Thou wilt, let us make here

three tabernacles, one for Thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias." He

also writes that when the disciples were in a ship, in the night, and

Christ went unto them walking on the sea, then Peter said unto Him:

"Lord, if it be Thou, bid me come unto Thee on the water." And when

Christ foretold that all His disciples should be offended because of

Him, Peter answered and said: "Though all men shall be offended

because of Thee, yet will I never be offended;" and then: "Though I

should die with Thee, yet will I not deny Thee." And to this saying

Mark bears witness also. And Luke writes that Peter had said to

Christ, a little before the words touching the swords which we have

quoted: "Lord, I am ready to go with Thee, both into prison and to

death." And John says of him, that, when Christ wished to wash his

feet, Peter answered and said: "Lord, dost Thou wash my feet?" and

then: "Thou shalt never wash my feet." The same Evangelist tells us

that it was Peter who smote the High Priest's servant with a sword,

and the other Evangelists also bear witness to this thing. He tells us

also how Peter entered the sepulchre at once, when he saw the other

disciple waiting outside, and how, when Christ was on the shore after

the resurrection, when Peter had heard that it was the Lord, he girt

his fisher's coat unto him (for he was naked) and did cast himself

into the sea. Lastly, John tells that when Peter saw John, he said

unto Jesus: "Lord, and what shall this man do?"

It is a pleasure to have pursued this point about our Chief

Shepherd,[293] in praise of his purity of spirit; but from what I have

said it is plain that when he spake of the two swords, he answered the

words of Christ with no second meaning.

[Footnote 293: "Archimandrita nostro." Cf. _Parad._ xi. 99, of St.

Francis.--(W.)]

But if we are to receive these words of Christ and of Peter typically,

they must not be explained as our adversaries explain them; but they

must be referred to that sword of which Matthew writes: "Think not

that I am come to send peace on the earth; I come not to send peace,

but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his

father," &c. And this comes to pass not only in words, but also in

fact. And therefore Luke speaks to Theophilus of all "that Jesus began

both to do and to teach." It was a sword of that kind that Christ

commanded them to buy; and Peter said that it was already doubly

there. For they were ready both for words and for deeds, by which they

should accomplish what Christ said that He had come to do by the

sword.

X.--Certain persons say further that the Emperor Constantine, having

been cleansed from leprosy by the intercession of Sylvester, then the

Supreme Pontiff, gave unto the Church the seat of Empire which was

Rome, together with many other dignities belonging to the Empire.[294]

Hence they argue that no man can take unto himself these dignities

unless he receive them from the Church, whose they are said to be.

From this it would rightly follow, that one authority depends on the

other, as they maintain.

[Footnote 294: On the Donation of Constantine, Witte refers to _Inf._

xxxviii. 94; xix. 115; _Purg._ xxxii. 124; _Parad._ xx. 35; _suprà_

ii. 12.]

The arguments which seemed to have their roots in the Divine words,

have been stated and disproved. It remains to state and disprove those

which are grounded on Roman history and in the reason of mankind. The

first of these is the one which we have mentioned, in which the

syllogism runs as follows: No one has a right to those things which

belong to the Church, unless he has them from the Church; and this we

grant. The government of Rome belongs to the Church; therefore no one

has a right to it unless it be given him by the Church. The minor

premiss is proved by the facts concerning Constantine, which we have

touched on.

This minor premiss then will I destroy; and as for their proof, I say

that it proves nothing. For the dignity of the Empire was what

Constantine could not alienate, nor the Church receive. And when they

insist, I prove my words as follows: No man on the strength of the

office which is committed to him, may do aught that is contrary to

that office; for so one and the same man, viewed as one man, would be

contrary to himself, which is impossible. But to divide the Empire is

contrary to the office committed to the Emperor; for his office is to

hold mankind in all things subject to one will: as may be easily seen

from the first book of this treatise. Therefore it is not permitted to

the Emperor to divide the Empire. If, therefore, as they say, any

dignities had been alienated by Constantine, and had passed to the

Church, the "coat without seam"--which even they, who pierced Christ,

the true God, with a spear, dared not rend--would have been rent.[295]

[Footnote 295: Each side in the controversy used the type of the

"seamless robe," one of the Empire (_suprà_ i. 16), the other of the

Church; _e.g._, in the Bull of Boniface VIII., "_Unam Sanctam_."]

Further, just as the Church has its foundation, so has the Empire its

foundation. The foundation of the Church is Christ, as Paul says in

his first Epistle to the Corinthians: "For other foundation can no man

lay than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ."[296] He is the

rock on which the Church is built; but the foundation of the Empire is

human right. Now I say that, as the Church may not go contrary to its

foundation--but must always rest on its foundation, as the words of

the Canticles say: "Who is she that cometh up from the desert,

abounding in delights, leaning on her beloved?"[297]--in the same way

I say that the Empire may not do aught that transgresses human right.

But were the Empire to destroy itself, it would so transgress human

right. Therefore the Empire may not destroy itself. Since then to

divide the Empire would be to destroy it, because the Empire consists

in one single universal Monarchy, it is manifest that he who exercises

the authority of the Empire may not destroy it, and from what we have

said before, it is manifest that to destroy the Empire is contrary to

human right.

[Footnote 296: 1 Cor. iii. 11.--(W.)]

[Footnote 297: Cant. viii. 5.--(W.)]

Moreover, all jurisdiction is prior in time to the judge who has it;

for it is the judge who is ordained for the jurisdiction, not the

jurisdiction for the judge. But the Empire is a jurisdiction,

comprehending within itself all temporal jurisdiction: therefore it is

prior to the judge who has it, who is the Emperor. For it is the

Emperor who is ordained for the Empire, and not contrariwise.

Therefore it is clear that the Emperor, in so far as he is Emperor,

cannot alter the Empire; for it is to the Empire that he owes his

being. I say then that he who is said to have conferred on the Church

the authority in question either was Emperor, or he was not. If he was

not, it is plain that he had no power to give away any part of the

Empire. Nor could he, if he was Emperor, in so far as he was Emperor,

for such a gift would be a diminishing of his jurisdiction.

Further, if one Emperor were able to cut off a certain portion of the

jurisdiction of the Empire, so could another; and since temporal

jurisdiction is finite, and since all that is finite is taken away by

finite diminutions, it would follow that it is possible for the first

of all jurisdictions to be annihilated, which is absurd.

Further, since he that gives is in the position of an agent, and he to

whom a thing is given in that of a patient, as the Philosopher holds

in the fourth book to Nicomachus,[298] therefore, that a gift may be

given, we require not only the fit qualification of the giver, but

also of the receiver; for the acts of the agent are completed in a

patient who is qualified.[299] But the Church was altogether

unqualified to receive temporal things; for there is an express

command, forbidding her so to do, which Matthew gives thus: "Provide

neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses." For though we

find in Luke a relaxation of the command in regard to certain matters,

yet I have not anywhere been able to find that the Church after that

prohibition had licence given her to possess gold and silver. If

therefore the Church was unable to receive temporal power, even

granting that Constantine was able to give it, yet the gift was

impossible; for the receiver was disqualified. It is therefore plain

that neither could the Church receive in the way of possession, nor

could Constantine give in the way of alienation; though it is true

that the Emperor, as protector of the Church, could allot to the

Church a patrimony and other things, if he did not impair his supreme

lordship, the unity of which does not allow division. And the Vicar of

God could receive such things, not to possess them, but as a steward

to dispense the fruits of them to the poor of Christ, on behalf of the

Church, as we know the Apostles did.

[Footnote 298: _Eth._ iv. 1.--(W.)]

[Footnote 299: "_Dispositio; dispositus; indisposita._"]

XI.--Our adversaries further say that the Pope Hadrian[300] summoned

Charles the Great to his own assistance[301] and to that of the

Church, on account of the wrongs suffered from the Lombards in the

time of their king Desiderius, and that Charles received from that

Pope the imperial dignity, notwithstanding that Michael was emperor at

Constantinople. And therefore they say that all the Roman emperors who

succeeded Charles were themselves the "advocates" of the Church, and

ought by the Church to be called to their office. From which would

follow that dependence of the Empire on the Church which they wish to

prove.

[Footnote 300: A.D. 773.--(W.)]

[Footnote 301: "_Advocavit._"]

But to overset their argument, I reply that what they say is nought;

for a usurpation of right does not make right; and if it were so, it

might be proved in the same way that the Church is dependent on the

Empire; for the Emperor Otto restored the Pope Leo, and deposed

Benedict, leading him into exile to Saxony.[302]

[Footnote 302: Otto I. (964) deposed Benedict V. and restored Leo

VIII.]

XII.--But from _reason_ they thus argue: they take the principle laid

down in the tenth book of "_Philosophia Prima_,"[303] saying that all

things which belong to one genus are to be brought under one head,

which is the standard and measure of all that come under that genus.

But all men belong to one genus: therefore they are to be brought

under one head, as the standard and measure of them all. But the

Supreme Pontiff and the Emperor are men; therefore if the preceding

reasoning be true, they must be brought under one head. And since the

Pope cannot come under any other man, the result is that the Emperor,

together with all other men, must be brought under the Pope, as the

measure and rule of all; and then, what those who argue thus desire

follows.

[Footnote 303: Arist. _Metaph._ x. 1.--(W.)]

To overset this argument, I answer that they are right when they say

that all the individuals of one genus ought to be brought under one

head, as their measure; and that they are again right when they say

that all men belong to one genus, and that they are also right when

they argue from these truths that all men should be brought under one

head, taken from the genus man, as their measure and type. But when

they obtain the further conclusion concerning the Pope and the

Emperor, they fall into a fallacy touching accidental attributes.

That this thing may be understood, it must be clearly known that to be

a man is one thing, and to be a pope or an emperor is another; just as

to be a man is different from being a father or a ruler. A man is that

which exists by its essential form, which gives it its genus and

species, and by which it comes under the category of substance. But a

father is that which exists by an accidental form, that is, one which

stands in a certain relation which gives it a certain genus and

species, and through which it comes under the category of relation. If

this were not so, all things would come under the category of

substance, seeing that no accidental form can exist by itself, without

the support of an existing substance; and this is not so. Seeing,

therefore, that the Pope and the Emperor are what they are by virtue

of certain relations: for they owe their existence to the Papacy and

the Empire, which are both relations, one coming within the sphere of

fatherhood, and the other within that of rule; it manifestly follows

that both the Pope and the Emperor, in so far as they are Pope and

Emperor, must come under the category of relation; and therefore that

they must be brought under some head of that genus.

I say then that there is one standard under which they are to be

brought, as men; and another under which they come, as Pope and

Emperor. For in so far as they are men, they have to be brought under

the best man, whoever he be, who is the measure and the ideal of all

mankind; under him, that is, who is most one in his kind,[304] as may

be gathered from the last book to Nicomachus.[305] When, however, two

things are relative, it is evident that they must either be

reciprocally brought under each other, if they are alternately

superior, or if by the nature of their relation they belong to

connected species; or else they must be brought under some third

thing, as their common unity. But the first of these suppositions is

impossible: for then both would be predicable of both, which cannot

be. We cannot say that the Emperor is the Pope, or the Pope the

Emperor. Nor again can it be said that they are connected in species,

for the idea of the Pope is quite other than the idea of the Emperor,

in so far as they are Pope and Emperor. Therefore they must be reduced

to some single thing above them.

[Footnote 304: "_Ad existentem maxime unum in genere suo._"]

[Footnote 305: _Eth._ x. 5, 7.--(W.)]

Now it must be understood that the relative is to the relative as the

relation to the relation. If, therefore, the Papacy and the Empire,

seeing that they are relations of paramount superiority, have to be

carried back to some higher point of superiority from which they, with

the features which make them different,[306] branch off, the Pope and

Emperor, being relative to one another, must be brought back to some

one unity in which the higher point of superiority, without this

characteristic difference, is found. And this will be either God, to

whom all things unite in looking up, or something below God, which is

higher in the scale of superiority, while differing from the simple

and absolute superiority of God. Thus it is evident that the Pope and

the Emperor, in so far as they are men, have to be brought under some

one head; while, in so far as they are Pope and Emperor, they have to

be brought under another head, and so far is clear, as regards the

argument from reason.

[Footnote 306: "_Cum differentialibus suis._"]

XIII.--We have now stated and put on one side those erroneous

reasonings on which they, who assert that the authority of the Roman

Emperor depends on the Pope of Rome, do most chiefly rely. We have now

to go back and show forth the truth in this third question, which we

proposed in the beginning to examine. The truth will appear plainly

enough if I start in my inquiry from the principle which I laid down,

and then show that the authority of the Empire springs immediately

from the head of all being, who is God. This truth will be made

manifest, either if it be shown that the authority of the Empire does

not spring from the authority of the Church; for there is no argument

concerning any other authority. Or again, if it be shown by direct

proof that the authority of the Empire springs immediately from God.

We prove that the authority of the Church is not the cause of the

authority of the Empire in the following manner. Nothing can be the

cause of power in another thing when that other thing has all its

power, while the first either does not exist, or else has no power of

action.[307] But the Empire had its power while the Church was either

not existing at all, or else had no power of acting. Therefore the

Church is not the cause of the power of the Empire, and therefore not

of its authority either, for power and authority mean the same thing.

Let A be the Church, B the Empire, C the authority or power of the

Empire. If C is in B while A does not exist, A cannot be the cause of

C being in B, for it is impossible for an effect to exist before its

cause. Further, if C is in B while A does not act, it cannot be that A

is the cause of C being in B; for, to produce an effect, it is

necessary that the cause, especially the efficient cause of which we

are speaking, should have been at work first. The major premiss of

this argument is self-evident, and the minor premiss is confirmed by

Christ and the Church. Christ confirms it by His birth and His death,

as we have said; the Church confirms it in the words which Paul spake

to Festus in the Acts of the Apostles: "I stand at Cæsar's

judgment-seat, where I ought to be judged," and by the words which an

angel of God spake to Paul a little afterwards: "Fear not, Paul; thou

must be brought before Cæsar;" and again by Paul's words to the Jews

of Italy: "But when the Jews spake against it, I was constrained to

appeal unto Cæsar; not that I had aught to accuse my nation of," but

"to deliver my soul from death." But if Cæsar had not at that time had

the authority to judge in temporal matters, Christ would not have

argued thus; nor would the angel have brought these words; nor would

he, who spake of himself as "having a desire to depart and to be with

Christ," have made an appeal to a judge not having authority.[308]

[Footnote 307: "_Non virtuante._"]

[Footnote 308: "_Incompetentem._" Acts xxv. 10; xxvii. 24; xxviii. 19.

Phil. i. 23.--(W.)]

And if Constantine had not had the authority over the patronage of the

Church, those things which he allotted from the Empire he could not

have had the right to allot; and so the Church would be using this

gift against right; whereas God wills that offerings should be pure,

as is commanded in Leviticus: "No meat offering that ye shall bring

unto the Lord shall be made with leaven." And though this command

appears to regard those who offer, nevertheless it also regards those

who receive an offering. For it is folly to suppose that God wishes to

be received that which He forbids to be offered, for in the same book

there is a command to the Levites: "Ye shall not make yourselves

abominable with any creeping thing that creepeth; neither shall ye

make yourselves unclean with them, that ye shall be defiled

thereby."[309] But to say that the Church so misuses the patrimony

assigned to her is very unseemly; therefore the premiss from which

this conclusion followed is false.

[Footnote 309: Levit. ii. 11; xi. 43.--(W.)]

XIV.--Again, if the Church had power to bestow authority on the Roman

Prince, she would have it either from God, or from herself, or from

some Emperor, or from the universal consent of mankind, or at least of

the majority of mankind. There is no other crevice by which this power

could flow down to the Church. But she has it not from any of these

sources; therefore she has it not at all.

It is manifest that she has it from none of these sources; for if she

had received it from God, she would have received it either by the

divine or by the natural law: because what is received from nature is

received from God; though the converse of this is not true. But this

power is not received by the natural law; for nature lays down no law,

save for the effects of nature, for God cannot fail in power, where he

brings anything into being without the aid of secondary agents. Since

therefore the Church is not an effect of nature, but of God who said:

"Upon this rock I will build my Church," and elsewhere: "I have

finished the work which Thou gavest me to do," it is manifest that

nature did not give the Church this law.

Nor was this power bestowed by the divine law; for the whole of the

divine law is contained in the bosom of the Old or of the New

Testament, and I cannot find therein that any thought or care for

worldly matters was commanded, either to the early or to the latter

priesthood. Nay, I find rather such care taken away from the priests

of the Old Testament by the express command of God to Moses,[310] and

from the priests of the New Testament by the express command of Christ

to His disciples.[311] But it could not be that this care was taken

away from them, if the authority of the temporal power flowed from the

priesthood; for at least in giving the authority there would be an

anxious watchfulness of forethought, and afterwards continued

precaution, lest he to whom authority had been given should leave the

straight way.

[Footnote 310: Numbers xviii. 20. Cf. _Purg._ xvi. 131.--(W.)]

[Footnote 311: Matt. x. 9.--(W.)]

Then it is quite plain that the Church did not receive this power from

herself; for nothing can give what it has not. Therefore all that does

anything, must be such in its doing, as that which it intends to do,

as is stated in the book "of Simple Being."[312] But it is plain that

if the Church gave to herself this power, she had it not before she

gave it. Thus she would have given what she had not, which is

impossible.

[Footnote 312: Arist. _Metaph._ ix. 8.--(W.)]

But it is sufficiently manifest from what we have previously made

evident that the Church has received not this power from any Emperor.

And further, that she had it not from the consent of all, or even of

the greater part of mankind, who can doubt? seeing that not only all

the inhabitants of Asia and Africa, but even the greater number of

Europeans, hold the thought in abhorrence. It is mere weariness to

adduce proofs in matters which are so plain.

XV.--Again, that which is contrary to the nature of a thing cannot be

counted as one of its essential powers; for the essential powers of

each individual follow on its nature, in order to gain its end. But

the power to grant authority in that which is the realm of our mortal

state is contrary to the nature of the Church.[313] Therefore it is

not in the number of its essential powers. For the proof of the minor

premiss we must know that the nature of the Church means the form [or

essence][314] of the Church. For although men use the word nature not

only of the form of a thing, but also of its matter, nevertheless, it

is of the form that they use it more properly, as is proved in the

book "of Natural Learning."[315] But the [essence or] form of the

Church is nothing else than the life of Christ, as it is contained

both in His sayings and in His deeds. For His life was the example and

ideal of the militant Church, especially of its pastors, and above all

of its chief pastor, to whom it belongs to feed the sheep and the

lambs of Christ. And therefore when Christ left His life unto men for

an example He said in John's Gospel: "I have given you an example that

ye should do as I have done to you." And He said unto Peter specially,

after that He had committed unto him the office of shepherd, the words

which John also reports: "Peter, follow me." But Christ denied before

Pilate that His rule was of this sort, saying: "My kingdom is not of

this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants

fight, that I should not be delivered to the Jews; but now is my

kingdom not from hence."[316]

[Footnote 313: "_Virtus auctorizandi regnum nostræ mortalitatis est

contra naturam Ecclesiæ._"]

[Footnote 314: "_Forma._"]

[Footnote 315: Arist. _Phys. Ausc._ ii. 1.--(W.)]

[Footnote 316: John xiii. 15; xxi. 22; xviii. 36.--(W.)]

But this saying must not be understood to mean that Christ, who is

God, is not the lord of this kingdom, for the Psalmist says: "The sea

is His, and He made it, and His hands formed the dry land."[317] We

must understand it to mean that, as _the pattern of the Church_, He

had not the care of this kingdom. It is as if a golden seal were to

speak of itself, and say: "I am not the standard for such and such a

class of things;" for in so far as it is gold, this saying is untrue,

seeing that gold is the standard of all metals; but it is true in so

far as it is a sign capable of being received by impression.

[Footnote 317: Ps. xcv. 5.--(W.)]

It belongs, then, to the very form of the Church always to speak the

same, always to think the same; and to do the opposite of this is

evidently contrary to its essential form--that is to say, to its

nature. And from this it may be collected that the power of bestowing

authority on this kingdom is contrary to the nature of the Church; for

contrariety which is in thought or word follows from contrariety which

is in the thing thought and the thing said; just as truth and

falsehood in speech come from the being or the not-being of the thing,

as we learn from the doctrine of the _Categories_. It has then become

manifest enough by means of the preceding arguments, by which the

contention of our opponents has been shown to lead to an absurd

result, that the authority of the Empire is not in any way dependent

on the authority of the Church.

XVI.--Although it has been proved in the preceding chapter that the

authority of the Empire has not its cause in the authority of the

Supreme Pontiff; for we have shown that this argument led to absurd

results; yet it has not been entirely shown that the authority of the

Empire depends directly upon God, except as a result from our

argument. For it is a consequence that, if the authority comes not

from the vicar of God, it must come from God Himself. And therefore,

for the complete determination of the question proposed, we have to

prove directly that the emperor or monarch of the world stands in an

immediate relation to the King of the universe, who is God.

For the better comprehending of this, it must be recognised that man

alone, of all created things, holds a position midway between things

corruptible and things incorruptible; and therefore[318] philosophers

rightly liken him to a dividing line between two hemispheres. For man

consists of two essential parts, namely, the soul and the body. If he

be considered in relation to his body only, he is corruptible; but if

he be considered in relation to his soul only, he is incorruptible.

And therefore the Philosopher spoke well concerning the incorruptible

soul when he said in the second book "of the Soul:" "It is this alone

which may be separated, as being eternal, from the corruptible."[319]

[Footnote 318: In the _De Causis_ (_v._ above, i. 11), Propos. 9:

"Intelligentia comprehendit generata et naturam, et horizontem naturæ,

scilicet animam; nam ipsa est supra naturam."--(W.)]

[Footnote 319: Arist. _De Anim._ ii. 2.--(W.)]

If, therefore, man holds this position midway between the corruptible

and the incorruptible, since every middle nature partakes of both

extremes, man must share something of each nature. And since every

nature is ordained to gain some final end, it follows that for man

there is a double end. For as he alone of all beings participates

both in the corruptible and the incorruptible, so he alone of all

beings is ordained to gain two ends, whereby one is his end in so far

as he is corruptible, and the other in so far as he is incorruptible.

Two ends, therefore, have been laid down by the ineffable providence

of God for man to aim at: the blessedness of this life, which consists

in the exercise of his natural powers, and which is prefigured in[320]

the earthly Paradise; and next, the blessedness of the life eternal,

which consists in the fruition of the sight of God's countenance, and

to which man by his own natural powers cannot rise, if he be not aided

by the divine light; and this blessedness is understood by the

heavenly Paradise.

[Footnote 320: See _Purg._ xxviii.: and Mr. Longfellow's note ad loc.]

But to these different kinds of blessedness, as to different

conclusions, we must come by different means. For at the first we may

arrive by the lessons of philosophy, if only we will follow them, by

acting in accordance with the moral and intellectual virtues. But at

the second we can only arrive by spiritual lessons, transcending human

reason, so that we follow them in accordance with the theological

virtues, faith, hope, and charity. The truth of the first of these

conclusions and of these means is made manifest by human reason,

which by the philosophers has been all laid open to us. The other

conclusions and means are made manifest by the Holy Spirit, who by the

mouth of the Prophets and holy writers, and by Jesus Christ, the

co-eternal Son of God, and His disciples, has revealed to us

supernatural truth of which we have great need. Nevertheless human

passion would cast them all behind its back, if it were not that men,

going astray like the beasts that perish,[321] were restrained in

their course by bit and bridle, like horses and mules.

[Footnote 321: "_Sua bestialitate vagantes._" _V._ Ps. xxxii. 10.]

Therefore man had need of two guides for his life, as he had a twofold

end in life; whereof one is the Supreme Pontiff, to lead mankind to

eternal life, according to the things revealed to us; and the other is

the Emperor, to guide mankind to happiness in this world, in

accordance with the teaching of philosophy. And since none, or but a

few only, and even they with sore difficulty, could arrive at this

harbour of happiness, unless the waves and blandishments of human

desires were set at rest, and the human race were free to live in

peace and quiet, this therefore is the mark at which he who is to care

for the world, and whom we call the Roman Prince, must most chiefly

aim at: I mean, that in this little plot of earth[322] belonging to

mortal men, life may pass in freedom and with peace. And since the

order of this world follows the order of the heavens, as they run

their course, it is necessary, to the end that the learning which

brings liberty and peace may be duly applied by this guardian of the

world in fitting season and place, that this power should be dispensed

by Him who is ever present to behold the whole order of the heavens.

And this is He who alone has preordained this, that by it in His

providence He might bind all things together, each in their own order.

[Footnote 322: Cf. _Parad._ xxii. 151. "_L'ajuola che ci fa tanto

feroci._"]

But if this is so, God alone elects, God alone confirms: for there is

none higher than God. And hence there is the further conclusion, that

neither those who now are, nor any others who may, in whatsoever way,

have been called "Electors," ought to have that name; rather they are

to be held as declarers and announcers of the providence of God. And,

therefore, it is that they to whom is granted the privilege of

announcing God's will sometimes fall into disagreement; because that,

all of them or some of them have been blinded by their evil desires,

and have not discerned the face of God's appointment.[323]

[Footnote 323: _V._ Hallam, _Middle Ages_, c. v. Bryce, _Roman

Empire_, c. xiv. Witte, _Præf._ p. xxxiv. xlv.]

It is therefore clear that the authority of temporal Monarchy comes

down, with no intermediate will, from the fountain of universal

authority; and this fountain, one in its unity, flows through many

channels out of the abundance of the goodness of God.

And now, methinks, I have reached the goal which I set before me. I

have unravelled the truth of the questions which I asked: whether the

office of Monarchy was necessary to the welfare of the world; whether

it was by right that the Roman people assumed to themselves the office

of Monarchy; and, further, that last question, whether the authority

of the Monarch springs immediately from God, or from some other. Yet

the truth of this latter question must not be received so narrowly as

to deny that in certain matters the Roman Prince is subject to the

Roman Pontiff. For that happiness, which is subject to mortality, in a

sense is ordered with a view to the happiness which shall not taste of

death. Let, therefore, Cæsar be reverent to Peter, as the first-born

son should be reverent to his father, that he may be illuminated with

the light of his father's grace, and so may be stronger to lighten the

world over which he has been placed by Him alone, who is the ruler of

all things spiritual as well as temporal.

THE END.

CONTENTS

OF

DE MONARCHIA.

BOOK I.

WHETHER A TEMPORAL MONARCHY IS NECESSARY FOR THE WELL-BEING OF THE

WORLD?

CHAP. PAGE

I.--Introduction 177

II.--What is the end of the civil order of mankind? 178

III.--It is to cause the whole power of the human intellect to

act in speculation and operation 180

IV.--To attain this end, mankind needs universal peace 184

V.--When several means are ordained to gain an end, one

of them must be supreme over the others 185

VI.--The order which is found in the parts of mankind ought

to be found in mankind as a whole 188

VII.--Kingdoms and nations ought to stand in the same relation

to the monarch as mankind to God 189

VIII.--Men were made in the image of God; but God is one _ib._

IX.--Men are the children of Heaven, and they ought to

imitate the footprints of Heaven 190

X.--There is need of a Supreme Judge for the decision of all

quarrels 191

XI.--The world is best ordered when justice is strongest

therein 192

XII.--Men are at their best in freedom 198

XIII.--He who is best qualified to rule can best order others 201

XIV.--When it is possible, it is better to gain an end by one

agent than by many 203

XV.--That which is most one is everywhere best 206

XVI.--Christ willed to be born in the fulness of time, when

Augustus was monarch 209

BOOK II.

WHETHER THE ROMAN PEOPLE ASSUMED TO ITSELF BY RIGHT THE DIGNITY OF

EMPIRE?

CHAP. PAGE

I.--Introduction 211

II.--That which God wills in human society is to be held as

Right 213

III.--It was fitting for the Romans, as being the noblest

nation, to be preferred before all others 216

IV.--The Roman Empire was helped by miracles, and therefore

was willed by God 220

V.--The Romans, in bringing the world into subjection,

aimed at the good of the state, and therefore at the

end of Right 223

VI.--All men, who aim at Right, walk according to Right 229

VII.--The Romans were ordained for empire by Nature 232

VIII.--The judgment of God showed that empire fell to the

lot of the Romans 235

IX.--The Romans prevailed when all nations were striving

for empire 239

X.--What is acquired by single combat is acquired as of

Right 243

XI.--The single combats of Rome 247

XII.--Christ, by being born, proves to us that the authority of

the Roman Empire was just 250

XIII.--Christ, by dying, confirmed the jurisdiction of the Roman

Empire over all mankind 253

BOOK III.

WHETHER THE AUTHORITY OF THE MONARCH COMES DIRECTLY FROM GOD, OR FROM

SOME VICAR OF GOD?

CHAP. PAGE

I.--Introduction 256

II.--God wills not that which is repugnant to the intention

of Nature 257

III.--Of the three classes of our opponents, and of the too

great authority which many ascribe to tradition 259

IV.--The argument drawn by our opponents from the sun

and the moon 264

V.--The argument drawn from the precedence of Levi over

Judah 270

VI.--The argument drawn from the crowning and deposition

of Saul by Samuel 271

VII.--The argument drawn from the oblation of the Magi 273

VIII.--The argument drawn from the power of the keys given

to Peter 275

IX.--The argument drawn from the two swords 278

X.--The argument drawn from the donation of Constantine 282

XI.--The argument drawn from the summoning of Charles

the Great by Pope Hadrian 287

XII.--The argument drawn from reason 288

XIII.--The authority of the Church is not the cause of the

authority of the Empire 291

XIV.--The Church has power to bestow such authority neither

from God, nor from itself, nor from any emperor 294

XV.--The power of giving authority to the Empire is against

the nature of the Church 297

XVI.--The authority of the Empire comes directly from God 299

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