Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 31, May, 1860

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In the famous simile (_Inferno_, iii. 112-114) in which Dante compares
the spirits falling from the bank of Acheron to the dead leaves
fluttering from a bough in autumn, giving, as Mr. Ruskin says, "the
most perfect image possible of their utter lightness, feebleness,
passiveness, and scattering agony of despair," our common texts have

infin che il ramo
Rende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie,

"Until the branch gives to the earth all its spoils"; but the texts of
Jesi and Mantua, as well as those of the Bartolinian and the Aldus, and
many other early authorities, here put the word _Vede_ in place of
_Rende_, giving a variation which for its poetic worth well deserves to
be marked, if not to be introduced into the received text. "Until the
branch sees all its spoils upon the earth" is a personification quite
in Dante's manner. A confirmation of the value of this reading is given
by the fact that Tasso preferred it to the more common one, and in his
treatise on the "Art of Poetry" praises it as full of energy.

The value of this work of Lord Vernon's to the students of Dante, in
enabling them to secure accuracy in their statements in regard to the
early texts, has been illustrated to us by finding that Blanc, in his
useful and excellent "Vocabolario Dantesco," has not unfrequently
fallen into error through his inability to consult those first
editions. For example, in the line, (_Inferno_, xviii. 43,) _Percio a
figuralo i piedi affissi_, as it is commonly given, or, _Percio a
firgurarlo gli occhi affissi_, as it appears in some editions, Blanc,
who prefers the latter reading, states that _gli occhi_ is found in
_"toutes les anciennes editions."_ But the truth is, that those of
Foligno and Naples read _ipedi_, that of Jesi has _in piedi_, and that
of Mantua _i pie_. The Aldine of 1502 is the earliest edition we have
seen which has _gli occhi_.

In the episode of Ugolino, (_Inferno,_ xxxiii.,) the verse which has
given rise to more comment, perhaps than any other is that (the 26th)
in which the Count says, according to the usual reading, that the
narrow window in his tower had shown him many moons before he dreamed
his evil dream: _Piu lune gia, quand' i' feci il mal sonno,_ "Many
moons already, when I had my ill slumber." But another reading, found
in a majority of the early MSS. and editions, including those of Jesi
and Mantua gives the variation, _piu lume;_ while the editions of
Foligno and Naples give _lieve_, which, affording no intelligible
meaning, must be regarded as a mere misprint. In spite of the weight
of early authority for _lume_, the reading _lune_ is perhaps to be
preferred, as giving in a word a brief expressive statement of a weary
length of imprisonment,--while _lume_ would only serve to fix the
moment of the dream as having been between the first dawn and the full
day. It is rare that the difference between an _n_ and an _m_ is of
such marked effect.

In the sixth canto of _Purgatory_, verse 58, Virgil says, "Behold there
a soul which _a posta_ looks toward us." Such at least is the common
reading, and the words _a posta_ are explained as meaning _fixedly._
But this signification is somewhat forced, _a posta_, or _apposta_,
being more properly used with the meaning of _on purpose_ or
_deliberately_,--and the first four editions supply a reading without
this difficulty, and one which adds a new and significant feature to
the description. They unite in the omission of the letter _a_. The
passage then bears the meaning,--"But behold there a soul which,
_fixed_, or _placed_, alone and all apart, looks toward us." This
reading, beside being supported by the weight of ancient authority,
finds confirmation, in the context, in the terms in which Sordello's
aspect is described: "How lofty and disdainful didst thou stand! how
slow and decorous in the moving of thy eyes!"

A curious example of the mistakes of the old copies is afforded in the
charming description of the Terrestrial Paradise in the twenty-eighth
canto of the _Purgatory_. Dante says, that the leaves on the trees,
trembling in the soft air, were not so disturbed that the little birds
in their tops ceased from any of their arts,--

che gli augelletti per le cime
Lasciasser d' operare ogni lor arte.

The lines are so plain that a mistake is difficult in them; but, of our
four editions, the Jesi is the only one which gives them correctly.
Foligno and Naples read _angeleti_ for _augelletti_, while Mantua gives
us the astonishing word _intelletti_. Again, in line 98 of the same
canto, all four read, _exaltation dell' acqua_, for the simple and
correct _esalazion dell' acqua_. And in line 131, for _Eunoe si
chiama_, Jesi supplies the curious word _curioce si chiama_.

These examples of error are not of great importance in themselves, and
are easily corrected, but they serve to illustrate the great frequency
of error in all the early texts of the "Divina Commedia," and the
probability that many errors not so readily discovered may still exist
in the text, making difficulties where none originally existed. They
are of value, furthermore, in the wider range of critical studies, as
illustrating in a striking way the liability to error which existed in
all books so long as they were preserved only by the work of scribes.
Here is a poem which was transmitted in manuscript for only about one
hundred and fifty years, the first four printed editions of which show
differences in almost every line. It is no exaggeration to say that the
variations between the editions of Foligno, Jesi, and Mantua, in
orthography, inflection, and other grammatical and dialectic forms, not
to speak of the less frequent, though still numerous differences in the
words themselves, greatly exceed, throughout the poem, the number of
lines of which it is composed. Yet by a comparison of them one with
another a consistent and generally satisfactory text has been formed.
The bearing of this upon the views to be taken of the condition of the
text of more ancient works, as, for instance, that of the Gospels, is
plain.

The work before us is so full of matter interesting to the student of
Dante, that we are tempted to go on with further illustrations of it,
though well aware that there are few who have zeal or patience enough
to continue the examination with us. But the number of those in America
who are beginning to read the "Divina Commedia," as something more than
a mere exercise in the Italian language, is increasing, and some of
them, at least, will take pleasure with us in this inquiry concerning
the words, that is, the thoughts of Dante. Why should the minute, but
not fruitless criticism of texts be reserved for the ancient classic
writers? The great poet of the Middle Ages deserves this work at our
hands far more than any of the Latin poets, not excluding even his own
master and guide.

The eleventh canto of the _Paradiso_ is chiefly occupied with the noble
narrative of the life of St. Francis. Reading it as we do, at such a
distance from the time of the events which it records, and with
feelings that have never been warmed into fervor by the facts or the
legends concerning the Saint, it is hard for us to appreciate at its
full worth the beauty of this canto, and its effect upon those who had
seen and conversed with the first Franciscans. Not a century had yet
passed since the death of St. Francis, and the order which he had
founded kept his memory alive in every part of the Catholic world. A
story which may be true or false, and it matters little which, tells us
that Dante himself in his early manhood had proposed to enter its
ranks. There is no doubt that its vows of poverty and chastity, its
arduous but invigorating rule during its early days, appealed with
strong force to his temperament and his imagination, as promising a
withdrawal from those worldly temptations of which he was conscious,
from that pressure of private and public affairs of which he was
impatient. The contrast between the effects which the life of St.
Francis and that of St. Dominic had upon the poet's mind is shown by
the contrast in tone in which in successive cantos he tells of these
two great pillars of the Church.

In lines 71 and 72, speaking of Poverty, the bride of the Saint, he
says,--

Si che dove Maria rimase giuso,
Ella con Cristo salse in sulia croce:

"So that whilst Mary remained below, she mounted the cross with
Christ," Such is the common reading. Now in all four of the editions
which are in Lord Vernon's reprint, in Benvenuto da Imola, in the
Bartolinian codex, in the precious codex of Cortona, and in many other
early manuscripts and editions, the word _pianse_ is found in the place
of _salse_; "She lamented upon the cross with Christ." The antithesis,
though less direct, is not less striking, and the phrase seems to us to
become simpler, more natural, and more touching. Yet this reading has
found little favor with recent editors, and one of them goes so far as
to say, "che non solo impoverisce, ma adultera l' idea."

Passing over other variations, some of them of importance, in this
eleventh canto, we find the last verses standing in most modern
editions,--

E vedra il coreggier che argomenta
U' ben s' impingua, se non si vaneggia.

And the meaning is explained as being,--"And he who is girt with a
leathern cord (_i.e._ the Dominican) will see what is meant by 'Where
well they fatten, if they do not stray.'" But to this there are several
objections. No other example of _coreggier_ thus used is, we believe,
to be found. Moreover, the introduction of a Dominican to learn this
lesson is forced, for it was Dante himself who had had a doubt as to
the meaning of these words, and it was for his instruction that the
discourse in which they were explained was held. We prefer, therefore,
the reading which is found in the editions of Jesi, Foligno, and
Naples, (in part in that of Mantua,) and which is given by many other
ancient texts: _Vedrai_ or _E vedrai il correger che argomenta:_ "Thou
wilt see the reproof which 'Where well they fatten, if they do not
stray,' conveys." This reading has been adopted by Mr. Cayley in his
remarkable translation.

One more instance of the value of Lord Vernon's work, and we have done.
The 106th, 107th, and 108th verses of the twenty-sixth canto of the
_Paradiso_ are among the most difficult of the poem, and have given
rise to great variety of comment. In the edition of Florence of 1830,
in those of Foscolo, and of Costa, and many others, they stand,--

Perch' io la veggio nel verace speglio
Che fa di se pareglie l' altre cose
E nulla face lui di se pareglio.

And they are explained by Bianchi as meaning, "Because I see it in that
true mirror (i. e. God) which makes other things like to themselves,
(that is, represents them as they are,) while nothing can represent Him
like to Himself." Those who love the quarrels of commentators should
look at the notes in the Variorum editions of Padua or Florence to see
with what amusing asperity they have treated each other's solutions of
the passage. Italian words of abuse have a sonorous quality which gives
grandeur to a skirmish of critics. One is declared by his opponent to
have _ingarbugliato_ the clearest meaning; another _guasta il
sentimento_ and _sproposita in grammatica_; a third brings _falso_ and
_assurdo_ to the charge, and, not satisfied with their force, adds
_blasfemo_; a fourth declares that the third has contrived _capovolgere
la consegitenza_; and so on;--from all which the reader, trying to find
shelter from the pelting of hard words, discovers that the meaning is
not clear even to the most confident of the critics. But, standing
apart from the battle, and looking only at the text, and not at the
bewildered comment, we find in the editions of Foligno, Jesi, and
Naples, and in many other ancient texts, a reading which seems to us
somewhat easier than the one commonly adopted. We copy the lines after
the Foligno:--

Per chio laueggio neluerace speglio
che fa dise pareglio alaltre cose
et nulla face lui dise pareglio.

And we would translate them, "Because I see it in that true mirror who
in Himself affords a likeness to [or of] all other things, while
nothing gives back to Him a likeness of Himself." Here _pareglio_
corresponds with the Provencal _parelh_ and the later French
_pareil_,--and the Provencal phrase _rendre le parelha_ affords an
example of similar application to that of the word in Dante.

With us in America, criticism is not rated as it deserves; it is little
followed as a study, and the love for the great masters and poets of
other times and other tongues than our own fails to stimulate the ardor
of students to the thorough examination of their thoughts and words. No
doubt, criticism, as it has too often been pursued, is of small worth,
displaying itself in useless inquiries, and lavishing time and labor
upon insoluble and uninteresting questions. But such is not its true
end. Verbal criticism, rightly viewed, has a dignity which belongs to
few other studies; for it deals with words as the symbols of
thoughts,--with words, which are the most spiritual of the instruments
of human power, the most marvellous of human possessions. It makes
thought accurate, and perception fine. It adds truth to the creations
of imagination by teaching the modes by which they may be best
expressed, and it thus leads to fuller and more appreciative
understanding and enjoyment of the noblest works of the past. There
can, indeed, be no thorough culture without it.

To restore the balance of our lives, in these days of haste, novelty,
and restlessness, there is a need of a larger infusion into them of
pursuits which have no end of immediate publicity or instant return of
tangible profit,--of pursuits which, while separating us from the
intrusive world around us, should introduce us into the freer,
tranquiller, and more spacious world of noble and everlasting thought.
The greener and lonelier precincts of our minds are now trampled upon
by the hurrying feet of daily events and transient interests. If we
would keep that spiritual region unpolluted, we need to acquaint
ourselves with some other literature than that of newspapers and
magazines, and to entertain as familiars the men long dead, yet living
in their works. As Americans, our birthrights in the past are
imperfect; we are born into the present alone. But he who lives only in
present things lives but half a life, and death comes to him as an
impertinent interruption: by living also in the past we learn to value
the present at its worth, to hold ourselves ready for its end. With
Dante, taking him as a guide and companion in our privater moods, we
may, even in the natural body, pass through the world of spirit.

It will be a good indication of the improvement in the intellectual
disposition of our people, when the study of Dante becomes more
general. Meanwhile, on the part of his few students in America, we
would offer our thanks to Lord Vernon and to Mr. Panizzi for the aid
which the liberality of the one and the skill and learning of the other
have given to us, and for the honor they have done to the memory of our
common Author and Leader.

_Notes of Travel and Study in Italy_. By CHARLES ELIOT NORTON. Boston:
Ticknor & Fields. 1860. pp. x., 320.

There is, perhaps, no country with which we are so intimate as with
Italy,--none of which we are always so willing to hear more. Poets and
prosers have alike compared her to a beautiful woman; and while one
finds nothing but loveliness in her, another shudders at her fatal
fascination. She is the very Witch-Venus of the Middle Ages. Roger
Ascham says, "I was once in _Italy_ myself, but I thank God my abode
there was but nine days; and yet I saw in that little time, in one
city, more liberty to sin than ever I heard tell of in our noble city
of London in nine years." He quotes triumphantly the proverb,--_Inglese
italianato, diavolo incarnato_. A century later, the entertaining
"Richard Lassels, Gent., who Travelled through Italy Five times as
Tutor to several of the _English_ Nobility and Gentry," and who is open
to new engagements in that kind, declares, that, "For the Country
itself, it seemed to me to be _Nature's Darling_, and the _Eldest
Sister_ of all other Countries; carrying away from them all the
greatest blessings and favours, and receiving such gracious looks from
the _Sun_ and _Heaven_, that, if there be any fault in _Italy_, it is,
that her Mother _Nature_ hath cockered her too much, even to make her
become Wanton." Plainly, our Tannhaeuser is but too ready to go back to
the Venus-berg!

A new book on Italy seems a dangerous experiment. Has not all been told
and told and told again? Is it not one chief charm of the land, that it
is changeless without being Chinese? Did not Abbot Samson, in 1159,
_Scotti habitum induens_, (which must have shown his massive calves to
great advantage.) probably see much the same popular characteristics
that Hawthorne saw seven hundred years later? Shall a man try to be
entertaining after Montaigne, aesthetic after Winckelmann, wise after
Goethe, or trenchant after Forsyth? Can he hope to bring back anything
so useful as the _fork_, which honest Tom Coryate made prize of two
centuries and a half ago, and put into the greasy fingers of Northern
barbarians? Is not the "Descrittione" of Leandro Alberti still a
competent itinerary? And can one hope to pick up a fresh Latin
quotation, when Addison and Eustace have been before him with their
scrap-baskets?

If there be anything which a person of even moderate accomplishments
may be presumed to know, it is Italy. The only open question left seems
to be, whether Shakespeare were the only man that could write his name
who had never been there. We have read our share of Italian travels,
both in prose and verse, but, as the nicely discriminating Dutchman
found that "too moch brahndee was too moch, but too moch lager-beer was
jost hright," so we are inclined to say that too much Italy is just
what we want. After Des Brosses, we are ready for Henri Beyle, and
Ampere, and Hillard, and About, and Gallenga, and Julia Kavanagh;
"Corinne" only makes us hungry for George Sand. That no one can tell us
anything new is as undeniable as the compensating fact that no one can
tell us anything too old.

There are two kinds of travellers,--those who tell us what they went to
see, and those who tell us what they saw. The latter class are the only
ones whose journals are worth the sifting; and the value of their eyes
depends on the amount of individual character they took with them, and
of the previous culture that had sharpened and tutored the faculty of
observation. In our conscious age the frankness and naivete of the
elder voyagers is impossible, and we are weary of those humorous
confidences on the subject of fleas with which we are favored by some
modern travellers, whose motto should be (slightly altered) from
Horace,--_Flea-bit, et toto cantabitur orbe._ A naturalist
self-sacrificing enough may have this experience more cheaply at home.

The book before us is the record of a second residence in Italy, of
about two years. This in itself is an advantage; since a renewed
experience, after an interval of absence and distraction, enables us to
distinguish what had merely interested us by its strangeness from what
is permanently worthy of study and remembrance. In a second visit we
know at least what we do _not_ wish to see, and our first impressions
have so defined themselves that they afford us a safer standard of
comparison. To most travellers Italy is a land of pure vacation, a
lotus-eating region, "in which it seemeth always afternoon." But Mr.
Norton, whose book shows bow well his time had been employed at home,
could not but spend it to good purpose abroad. The word "study" has a
right to its place on his title-page, and his volume is worthy of a
student. He shows himself to be one who, like Wordsworth, "does not
much or oft delight in personal talk"; there is no gossip between the
covers of his book, no impertinent self-obtrusion. Familiar with what
has been written about Italy by others, he has known how to avoid the
trite highways, and by going back to what was old has found topics that
are really fresh and delightful. The Italy of the ancient Romans is a
foreign country to us, and must always continue so; but the Italy of
the Middle Ages is nearer, not so much in time, as because there is no
impassable rift of religious faith, and consequently of ideas and
motives, between us and it. Far enough away in the centuries to be
picturesque, it is near enough in the sympathy of belief and thought to
be thoroughly intelligible. The chapter on the Brotherhood of the
Misericordia at Florence is remarkably interesting, and the coincidence
which Mr. Norton points out in a note between the circumstances which
led to its foundation and those in which a somewhat similar society
originated in California so lately as 1859 is not only curious, but
pleasant, as showing that there is a natural piety proper to man in all
ages alike. In his account of the building of the Cathedral of Orvieto,
and his notices of Rome as it was when Dante and Petrarch saw it, Mr.
Norton has struck a rich vein, which we hope he will find time to work
more thoroughly hereafter. By the essential fairness of his mind, his
patience in investigation, and his sympathy with what is noble in
character and morally influential in events, he seems to us peculiarly
fitted for that middle ground occupied by the historical essayist, to
whom literature is something cooerdinate with politics, and who finds a
great book more eventful than a small battle.

But if, as a scholar and lover of Art, Mr. Norton naturally turns to
the past, he does not fail to tell us whatever he finds worth knowing
in the present. His tone of mind and habitual subjects of thought may
be inferred from the character of the topics that interest him. The
glimpses he gives us of the actual condition of the people of Italy, as
indicated by their practical conception of the religious dogmas of
their Church, by the quality of the cheap literature that is popular
among them, of the tracts provided for their spiritual aliment by
ecclesiastical authority, and of the caricatures produced in 1848-9,
(as in his notice of "Don Pirlone,") are of special value, and show that
he knows where to look for signs of what lies beneath the surface. His
appreciation of the beautiful in Art has not been cultivated at the
expense of his interest in the moral, political, and physical
well-being of man. His touching sketch of the life of Letterato, the
founder of Ragged Schools, shows that moral loveliness attracts his
sympathy as much when embodied in a life of obscure usefulness as when
it gleams in the saints and angels of Fra Angelico. A conscientious
Protestant, he exposes the corruptions of the Established Church in
Italy, not as an anti-Romanist, but because he sees that they are
practically operative in the social and political degradation of the
people. What good there is never escapes his attention, and we learn
from him much that is new and interesting concerning public charities
and private efforts for the elevation of the lower orders. The miles of
statuary in the Vatican do not weary him so much that he cannot at
night make the round of evening schools for the poor.

We have not read a pleasanter or more instructive book of Italian
travel than this. Mr. Norton's range of interest is so wide that we are
refreshed with continual variety of topic; and his style is pure,
clear, and chaste, without any sacrifice of warmth or richness. It is
always especially agreeable to us to encounter an American who is a
scholar in the true sense of the word, in which sense it is never
dissociated from gentleman. When, as in the present instance,
scholarship is united with a deep and active interest in whatever
concerns the practical well-being of men, we have one of the best
results of our modern civilization. We are no lovers of dilettantism,
but we see in these scholarly tastes and habits which do not seclude a
man from the duties of real life and useful citizenship the only
safeguard against the evils which the rapid heaping-up of wealth is
sure to bring with it.

We do not always agree with Mr. Norton in his estimate of the
comparative merit of different artists. We think he sometimes makes Mr.
Ruskin's mistake of attributing to positive religious sentiment what is
rather to be ascribed to the negative influence of circumstances and
date. We cannot help thinking that the mere arrangement of their
figures by such painters as Cima da Conegliano and Francesco Francia,
the architectural regularity of their disposition, the sculpturesque
dignity of their attitudes, and the consequent impression of
simplicity and repose which they convey, have much to do with the
religious effect they produce on the mind, as contrasted with the more
dramatic and picturesque conceptions of later artists. When we look at
John Bellino's "Gods come down to taste the Fruits of the Earth," we
cannot think him essentially a more religious man than his great pupil
who painted that truly divine countenance of Christ in "The
Tribute-Money." At the same time we go along with Mr. Norton heartily,
where, in the concluding pages of his book, with equal learning and
eloquence, he points out the causes and traces the progress of the
moral and artistic decline which came over Italy in the sixteenth
century, and whose effect made the seventeenth almost a desert. This is
one of the most striking passages in the volume, and the lesson of it
is brought home to us with a force and fervor worthy of the theme. It
also affords a good type of the quiet vigor of thought and the high
moral purpose which are characteristic of the author.

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