DANTE. BY S. ADAMS LEE. ANTE ALIGHIERI was born in 1292, of a describes the punishments of one and the joys of the other. Entering at the surface of the earth, he finds himself in a vast cavity, reaching to the center by a series of circles, in each of which Doble family of Florence, at a time when the some crimes are visited with their appropriate tor rival factions of the Guelphs and Ghibelines made that city the prey of carnage and civil war. He joined the party and shared the fate of the former; was driven from his native city and lived for many years a life of exile, want, and danger. Receiving no aid from those whose cause he had espoused, he went over at last, either from revenge or despair, to the opposite party. He never, however, revisited the city which his talents were to immortalize, but his sufferings to disgrace forever. He closed a life of trouble and sorrow in a foreign land, and yet sleeps, ments. Lucifer sits at the center, imprisoned in an ocean of ice. Beyond the fiend lies purgatory, in the form of a cone, reaching to the surface of the opposite hemisphere, where he places the terrestrial paradise. The celestial paradise is beyond this, divided into seven heavens, and sprinkled with stars and planets, the abodes of happy spirits. It is in the first division of the work that he puts forth all his strength. There are a few fine passages in the Purgatory; but as a whole, this and the Paradise are tedious and disfigured by the perplexed metaphysics and polemics of the age. But the Inferno, to make amends, abounds with beauties; such, too, as few have imitated, and none have ever rivaled. In relating the punishments of the wicked he displays the greatest powers of thought and language; and nothing can be brought home to the mind with more horrible "Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore." There was much in the events of his life, and the situation of his country, to stir up all the bitterness of his naturally gloomy spirit. He saw his beloved Florence the prey of foreign violence and domestic treachery; sold by her children and plundered by her friends. He was himself a vic-fidelity than their foul and fearful torments. He tim, whose fortune and hopes had been blasted by the same pestilence which had destroyed her honor and happiness. He had lost a noble rank and independent fortune. He had been the victim of injustice and insult, the sport of hazard, the prey of misery. Reduced to seek shelter with the enemies he hated and despised, he had felt, as he himself says, "How salt the savor is of others' bread, How hard the passage to descend and climb No wonder, then, that we see in every line the His principal work, it is needless to say, is "La Divina Commedia;" called divine, not from a pardonable vanity in the author, but from the sacred nature of the subject. The word comedy does not indicate any thing dramatic in its form. He adopted it as denoting a lower grade of poetry than the Epic, to which rank he supposed the Eneid to have exclusive claim; and as he most probably had never read, and certainly had never seen a comedy, he knew not that there was any impropriety in the title. The plan of the work is grand, yet simple. It is the journey of the author through hell, purgatory, and paradise, and VOL. XVII-2 does not seek to dazzle or astonish; it is a man telling a story which he feels deeply himself, and whose only aim is to set the events he describes clearly before his hearers, no matter how rough the expressions or homely the images he employs. The great secret of the strong impression he makes is, that he avoids burying his subject under a load of extraneous circumstances, or surrounding it with bright but bewildering ornaments. He brings it before you, unadorned with pomp of language or beauty of illustration, but clear, natural, and forcible in its simplicity. The measure of the poem is one invented by him and since called terza rima; that is, two rhymes are repeated alternately three times each. This measure, singular as it seems, has been extensively and skillfully used in Italy, and Byron has employed it in "The Prophecy of Dante" with as much success as our language will allow. Dante's style in general is hard and rough; obscure sometimes from his abrupt energy; often from the metaphysical speculations into which he wanders, and oftener still from the local allusions with which his works are crowded. His are not the light touches of a pencil dipped in the rainbow; he is rather one who would write on marble, who strikes with rude strength, and whose blows sink deep. His works wear the gloomy coloring of his mind. He was of a grave, lofty, reflective spirit, hardened by adversity, and imbittered by suffering; hence there is little glow of poetic fer gift. His strong creative mind brought together its scattered atoms, and they united in that fabric of beautiful thought and harmonious proportion of which he is at once architect and the noblest ornament. From his works, too, they draw the vor-little play of the imagination about him. But when the frown his face generally wears does relax, the smile that lights it up is doubly brilliant from the contrast; and when his genius does flash forth from the gloom in which it loves to shroud itself, it has the brightness of the lightning break-purest and noblest lesson of patriotism, and learn ing the darkness of the storm. Hence, when he to cast off sectional jealousies, and glory in that interrupts his plain narrative for some episode of country which he loved, forgave, and admired. pathos or power, the effect is inconceivably beau- It is doing no injustice to the memory of Miltiful. In particular we may instance the Story of ton to compare him with Dante. Both arose in Francesca di Rimini, one of the most affecting times of fierce dissensions, tumultuous anarchy, tales of guilty, yet delicate and tender love, that and riotous license; and the mind of each was was ever clothed in verse; and the darker, yet borne along by the tide of popular feeling, which still more masterly picture of the death of Count swayed their lives. Each arose also in the thickUgolino and his sons by famine. In this last epi-est of the struggle between prejudice and libersode there is no load of ornament, no exaggerationality, oppression and resistance; and to their credit, of superlatives. It is a plain tale of intense suf- to the credit of genius, and the credit of human fering and mortal agony; but all the horrors of nature be it spoken, each was found on the side the diseased imagination, all the night-mare dreams of truth and justice. Not like the indolent phiof German mysticism, never came up to its sim- lanthropists of the school of Rosseau, ple, appalling reality. No man exercised so great, so honorable, and so extensive a literary influence as Dante. Homer died without having instructed the ignorance or aroused the emulation of his countrymen; and Virgil shone but as a single star in a bright and thickly-set constellation. But Dante found the Italians illiterate, and left them aroused and enlightened, and substituted strength and confidence for the helpless weakness of their minds; hence his popularity is one of the proudest that any poet ever enjoyed. The natural beauty of Shakspeare is unintelligible and unpleasing to the artificial taste of other countries, and Milton soars beyond the reach of their short-sighted gaze. The very names of many of the English poets are unknown to the foreign critic. But the sweetness and melody of the Italian language, which makes it every-where the chosen vehicle of music, introduces the knowledge of the riches of its literature, as well as of the graces of its harmony; and Dante, like Homer, is appreciated and admired where the noblest flights of the English muse would be pursued by the carpings of petty criticism. Abroad, even national prejudice does not deny him the highest honors; at home his popularity amounts almost to idolatry. His works are studied as a branch of education, and the explanation of them has risen almost to a science. The beauty of his style, the grandeur of his conceptions, the living accuracy of his pictures-these the Italians admire, repeat, and consecrate as the richest legacy of one generation to another. These are only claims on their respect; but he is entitled to and receives the further tribute of their gratitude. Their loved and boasted language is his "Nursing in some delicious solitude Their slothful lives and dainty sympathies;" but armed champions in the lists, periling themselves and all that belonged to them in support of the good cause. Each was the eloquent apostle, each was ready to become the martyr of freedom. Both labored with the same benevolent zeal for the welfare of their countrymen. Milton employed his pen in the "Areopagitica," the "Tract on Education," the "Defensio Populi Anglicani." Dante's works were of the same honorable and useful character-the "Treatise de Vulgari Eloquio," which led to the cultivation of the language, and "La Divina Commedia," which formed and fixed it. Such is the similarity of their characters-in their writings there are more points of difference than of resemblance. Milton's mind was high, excursive, and contemplative; Dante's quick, stern, decided. Milton's power of association was unbounded; it embraced and combined "All thinking things, the object of all thought." Dante, whether the object before him was gloomy or beautiful, mean or majestic, saw it and spoke of it only as it was. Milton is like Noah's dove, which wandered over earth and air before it returned to its resting-place; Dante, like the falcon which fastens its eye on its prey and lights upon it at once. Milton is like the sun, extending its rays throughout the universe; spreading "undivided and operating unspent;" Dante, like the lightning, flashing out from the midst of "thick clouds and dark," and descending in dazzling and blasting power on its victim. The difference in their characters we can discover, or, at least, fancy in their portraits. On the high, calm forehead of Milton we can see enthroned the soaring spirit which rose in its meditations beyond this visible sphere into the distant glories of immensity, and went on its way in pride and triumph, where other minds paused, bewildered and trembling. His features speak of a soul regulated by rigid discipline, stored with all wholesome learning, purified by fervent piety, which bore as little of the stain of this world as ever did any of mortal mold. Dante's face is that of a man of sterner and more intense passions, quicker and more irritable feeling. His brow has not the calm expression of Milton's; it is contracted into a thousand wrinkles, the footprints of the various emotions "Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, all save fear," which chased each other through his brain. Dante lived in the world and found nothing uncongenial to his taste in its contests and employments. Milton became Latin secretary to Cromwell, and the champion of his party from a sense of duty; but while he cheerfully performed his task, he would rather have retired from the "busy hum of men," to lead the peaceful, religious life of pensive but not gloomy melancholy, solemn, yet not sad musing, he describes so exquisitely. Dante was of the Roman temper of Cæsar and Cato; Milton had more of the Attic eloquence of Plato and Xenophon. The one loved to be first in a crowd of combatants, the other, "Apart, sat on a hill retired, In thought more elevate, and reasoned high Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate." Dante we have always thought a greater master of the affections than Milton. He is more vivid and dramatic in his sketches; quicker, more fervent and impassioned in his tone of thought. Neither of them would have had much success in treating the other's subject. The Englishman wanted a fair field, untouched, unapproachable by man; the Italian could not "build the lofty rhyme," without the abundant material which the business and the passion of the world supplied. The gloomy caves of hell would not have furnished him with inspiration had he not peopled them with real beings, and filled them with the vindictive jealousies and sharp contests of his own strong and eventful life. Dante is often rough and homely in his narrative. Milton's faults are the contrary-metaphysical obscurity and over-refinement. He never forgets himself; though his wing after too high a flight may sometimes flag, he never entirely drops his pinion-to use his own happy expression, on him, wherever he moved, "A pomp of winning graces waited still." He is a magician, whose art can cover every barren spot with flowers, and beguile the tedious way he leads us by the splendid scenery he scatters round it. Dante is rather a fellow-traveler with us, who, in a long journey, is sometimes dull and tiresome, sometimes harsh and repulsive, but whom we always feel to be a man of no common order, and whose powers, when passion gives them eloquence or energy, can startle, soothe, dazzle, or terrify us at will. We love the honest hatred of wrong, the quick, sensitive pride, the constant, though wounded patriotism of his character; we admire the intensity, sternness, and simple majesty of his genius, and only regret that he speaks a foreign tongue and not our own. Had he been an Englishman he would have made a noble triumvir, to share with Shakspeare and Milton the empire of the literary world. A A CHRISTIAN VOID OF EARNESTNESS. CHRISTIAN void of earnestness-with what comparison shall I compare him? He is like one of a collection of stuffed birds, where you find the dove, the raven, the nightingale, and the eagle; but the dove can not coo, the raven can not croak, the nightingale can not sing, and the eagle can not soar. Or he may be compared to a galvanized corpse-there is motion in the limbs, but there is no luster in the eye, no bloom on the cheek; it smiles, but it is cold; it moves, but it is dead. Or I may compare him to one of those wax-work figures you often see: Peel, O'Connell, Wordsworth, and Brougham are all in the collection; but Peel can not govern, O'Connell can not agitate, Wordsworth can not dream, and Brougham can not talk. Such miserable mimicries of humanity are professing Christians without earnestness. We are surrounded on all sides by earnest objects and beings. The earth is in earnest as it pursues its path around the sun. The sun is in earnest as he pours abroad his tide of everlasting day. The stars are in earnest as they shine down in such still intensity upon a slumbering world. Angels are in earnest as they pursue their high ministrations. God is in earnest, as he carries on his wondrous plans. "Let us, then, be up and doing, THE TWO CLERKS. BY REV. H. P. ANDREWS. "But they that will be rich, fall into temptation, and a snare." 1 TIM. VI, 9. "A man, and I don't mean to disappoint him. A man who has got money has something to trust in; he can 'snap his fingers in the face of the world,' father says." "Yes, but riches sometimes 'take to themselves ND so you are going to the city to live, are wings and fly away.' But we read in the Bible, you not, George?" "I suppose I shall. Father thinks it is a very fine chance for me; and he wonders that your father was unwilling to have you go. What was the reason, James?" "Well, he said he had a good many reasons; but the one he gave to Mr. Walcott was, that I was too young to leave home." "Too young! why, you are older than I am, and I am fourteen. Father says he will risk me to take care of myself," and the boy straightened himself up as though he already felt himself a man. "That was only one of father's reasons. I think, perhaps, he would have thought more favorably of it if Mr. Walcott had been a Christian." "A Christian! I should like to know what his being a Christian has to do with his success as a merchant. Father says if a man is honest, and looks out for the main chance, that's enough. Mr. Walcott is one of the richest and most successful merchants in the city. And only think of his going away from this town a poor boy with a little bundle in his hand, and entering the city a stranger with only a single shilling in his pocket! And what is he now? There's energy and perseverance for you! I should like to take lessons of such a man." "I do not doubt but Mr. Walcott is a smart business man, and has become very wealthy; but the store of a rich merchant, who thinks of nothing but making money, is hardly the place in which to form the character of a boy-father thinks." "And my father thinks just the contrary. He says if a lad is to become a successful merchant he must commence young-must learn how-so that all the 'tricks of the trade' may become familiar to him." "Well, George, if I can't become a successful merchant without learning the 'tricks of trade,' as you call them, I will be a farmer. My Bible says, 'A faithful man shall abound with blessings; but he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent." "A man may be honest and yet make a good trade; and I don't see what there is wrong in getting all the money we can, and as fast as we can. Father has set his heart upon having me a rich 'Fear the Lord, for there is no want to them that fear him.' I had rather have the Christian's trust than the rich man's." "But are not Christians sometimes poor? I have read of some who almost starved and were very wretched." "It is true Christians are sometimes poor here, but that is because they have laid up all their treasures in heaven. And they sometimes suffer, too, but even this makes them happy; for the Bible declares, 'this light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory,' and when they think of this they can't help rejoicing. They know they can live here but a few years, at longest, and they had rather be rich in a long eternity, than to have all their wealth for a little while on earth." “Well, I suppose what the Bible says is true, though father says that if a man is honest, and lives like a gentleman, it is enough for him in this world. He has never troubled himself about such things as you speak of, and I am sure he has got along in the world just as well as your father. I don't see as those who profess to be Christians do so much better than other people." "But is Mr. Walcott strictly honest in all his dealings? Father thinks he did not deal very honorably with old Mr. Williams." "Honest? Yes, I heard father telling Mr. Wade about that affair with Mr. Williams, and they thought that Mr. Walcott managed it pretty shrewdly. It isn't every one who can make five hundred dollars earn him two thousand as easily as that. It was a perfectly lawful business transaction. Mr. Williams ought to have looked out for himself." "It may have been a perfectly lawful business transaction; but was it kind or right for him to take all that property just because the mortgage had expired the day before? Was this doing as he would be done by?" "I guess he wouldn't give any one the opportunity to serve him such a trick. He would look out for himself." "Well, I would rather not be in such a man's employ. I am afraid I should learn to be dishonest. Father intends to have me go into a store in a year or two if he can find some pious, Christian man who will take me. And I think, George, I shall be happier and better off to 'trust in the Lord' and try to please him, than to 'make haste to be rich.'" "Every one for their notion, James. Father is very much pleased about my going, and has promised to buy me a watch and a new suit of clothes to begin with." "When do you go?" "In about three weeks." "And how soon do you expect to return?" “O, I presume I shall come up on a visit in a few months. I shall not come home very often, though. Mr. Walcott rather I would not." "Well, George, I shall be sorry to have you go. We have always played together, and I shall be real lonely without you. I hope you'll have a happy time and become as rich as you wish." "Thank you, James, I shall certainly try; and if success is possible I mean to be successful." And so the boys parted for the night-the one to study his Sabbath school lesson for the morrow, the other to dream over his going to the city and becoming a rich man. James Hardy and George Roberts were playmates. Their parents were both farmers in the pleasant little village of B. By industry and economy they had gained a moderate competence, and were surrounded by all the comforts and some of the luxuries of life. It would be difficult to tell which was the richer man, or which conducted his business affairs the more shrewdly. But in one very important respect the homes of the two boys materially differed. James Hardy's parents were pious people. Morning and evening the father opened the old family Bible and read the commandments of the Lord, and then they all kneeled down around that family altar and prayed. But in the home of George the voice of prayer was never heard. Mr. Roberts was an honest, upright, exemplary man, but he was not religious. He did not believe it necessary, in order to live happily and honestly, that men should be obliged to pray every day, and "make so much ado about religion." George's mother was a kind-hearted, industrious woman, always yielding to the decisions of her husband; and if he pronounced a matter right she gave herself very little trouble whether it was really so or not. She never taught her little boy to kneel by her side, as James was accustomed to do, and offer his little prayers to God. She had no time, she said; but she taught him to be honest, and always to speak the truth, and to endeavor to live in peace and harmony with all around him. Such were the homes of the two boys, a chapter from whose lives I am about to give. James and George were very nearly of an age. When they were children they used to walk, hand in hand, to school. They sat at the same desk, studied the same lessons, and both were good and promising scholars. Just at the foot of the gardens that ran down in the rear of the two houses was a clear, sparkling rill, that sang sweetly as it hurried along over its pebbly bed, kissed by the bright flowers that grew on either side. This was a favorite resort for the two boys. Here they gathered the wild flowers for their mothers-and here they built their turf dams, and made their mimic mills. Here, too, they would sometimes sit for hours upon a green, grassy knoll, and talk of the glowing future, and, as boys are wont to do, build their beautiful "air castles" of future greatness and fame. But there was always a difference in the boys' plans for the future, which seemed to be of home growth. James was as ambitious as George. But he had been taught by his pious father and devoted mother to desire wealth and honor, that he might be more useful and do good in the world. This lesson he had also learned in the Sabbath school. His teacher had taught him that if he wished to be happy in life he must seek to be good-if he desired to become a great man he must resolve to be a good one-to serve his heavenly Father and be useful to his fellow-men. And young as James was he understood much of this, and daily prayed to God to make him good and holy. But George had never had this great lesson impressed upon his heart. His father rejoiced to see the evidences of smartness in his darling boy; and when, at the age of eight years, he marked his rapid progress in knowledge, and discovered also his inclination to trade, and saw marked evidence of shrewdness in his boyish bargains, he would smooth back the sunny locks from his noble brow and say, he "hoped some day to see his son a merchant, and a rich one, too.” Mr. Roberts was a strictly honest man, so far as dealing with his fellows was concerned, for he had sagacity enough to see that "honesty is the best policy." But for all this, money was his idol. He loved it better than he loved any thing else on earth save his son. He had no higher ambition than to see his boy grow up to be a rich man; and when the rich and enterprising merchant, Mr. Walcott, after the refusal of Mr. Hardy to part with his son, came and desired George to enter his splendid store and fill the place designed for James, he did not hesitate a moment to give his consent. This was just the opening he had been |