Dante. An essay. To which is added a translation of De monarchia

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DANTE

AND

DE MONARCHIA.

DANTE,

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

DEA.N OF ST. Paul's, and honorary fellow of oriel college, oxford.

To which is added
A TRANSLATION OF

DE MONARCHIA.

By R J. CHURCH.

MACMILLAN AND C0._
1879.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PALACE VRESS.

C41oL

NOTICE.

The following Essay first appeared in the " Christian
Remembrancer" of January, 1850, and it was re-
printed 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 Motiarchia 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 Mo-
narchia 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

CS792

vi NOTICE.

composition of the work in the first part of Dante's
hfe, 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 Unain Sanctavi, 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 disappoint-
ment which marks his later writings. As an example
of the political speculation of the time, it should be
compared with the '■^ De Reginiine Principuni" ascribed
to Thomas Aquinas. The whole subject of the me-
diaeval idea of the Empire is admirably discussed
jn Mr. Bryce's book referred to above.

R. W. C,

St. Paul's,

November, 187S,

DANTE.

DANTE/

[Jan. 1850.]

The Divina Covinicdia 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,

* Dante s Divine Comedy, the Inferno ; a literal Prose Translation,
loith 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. (li^yS.)

'f

2 DANTE.

marking out Its advance by grander divisions than
its centuries, and adopted as epochs by the con-
sent 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 Par-
thenon 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 pro-
cesses 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 cieated 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 Avas led to its

DANTE. 3

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 Httle 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 cir-
cumstances 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 har-
mony vvath it, Avhich do not explain it, which have, as
it may seem to us, no natural right to be connected
Avith it, to bear on its character, or contribute to its
acQomplishmcnt, to which we feel, as it Avere, ashamed
to owe what v/e can least spare, yet on which its
forming mind and purpose were dependent, and v/ith
which they had to conspire — affects the imagination
even more than cases where we see nothing. We are

B 2

4 DANTE.

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 Coiiinicdia,
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 Coniiiicdia 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

DANTE. 5

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
throv/n 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

6 DANTE.

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 Pro-
vencals. 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 dis-
covering 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
Covunedia. 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.

DANTE. 7

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, en-
lightened 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 v^-ho 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 meta-
physical 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

8 DANTE.

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 inspira-
tion,— 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 Avas 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 beau-
tiful 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 Avhich without searing
his heart, annealed his strength and purpose, he drew
that great gift and power, by which he stands pre-

DANTE. 9

eminent even among his high compeers, the gift of
being real. And the idea of the Covinicdia 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 contri-
vance, 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 arrange-
ments, 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 w^ere concentrated ^\'ithin 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 administra-
tion and law; but it was not a nation, nor were its-

lo DANTE.

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 Avatch 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

DANTE. 1 1

Italy represent, with entirely undesigned but curiously
exact coincidence, the parts of Athens and Rome.
Venice, superficially so unlilce, 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
tlie family, and the family to the state, in its combina-
tion of remote dominion with the liberty of a solitaiy
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 emipire of Venice, the heir of
Carthage and predecessor of England on the seas, the
great aristocratic republic of looo 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 com-
bined the enterprise and wealth of merchants, the self-
devotion of soldiers and gravity of senators, Avitli 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

12 DANTE.

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 cere-
monial ; 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 territor\'.
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
Peisistratida; 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

DANTE. 13

glor>% with being the fashionable and acknowledged
seat of refinement and taste, with being a favoured
dependency on the modern heir of the Caesars. But
if to Venice belongs a grander pubhc history, Floren-
tine 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.*
The year 1265 Avas 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 degrada-
tion and scandal, unrelieved by one heroic effort

* May, 1265. (Pelli.) Benevento : Feb. 26, 126^. The Florentine
year began March 25.

14 DANTE.

among the successors of Gregory VII., connected the
Reformation with the triumph of Chiirlcs 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 Montcaperti, 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.

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 tradition-
ally, 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 main-

DANTE. 15

taining a strong body of interested feudatories, had
now become the great object of the popes. It may
have been a wise pohcy on their part, for the main-
tenance of their spiritual influence, to attempt to
connect tlieir own independence with the pohtical
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 sparingl}-, if at all, in its later
forms.

The two parties did not care to keep in view prin-
ciples 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. Geo-
graphical 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

1 6 DANTE.

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 suffi-
cient 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, }-et 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 Avho, whether from a
base or a lofty ambition, desired to place their will
above law* — the lord of the feudal castle, the robber-

* " Maghinardo da Susinana {// ZJ^-wi?;//!?, Purg. 14) fu uno grande e
savio tiranno .... gran castellano, e con molti fedeli : savio fu
di guerra e bene avventuroso in piu battaglie, e al suo tempo fece gran

DANTE.

17

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, Avhom the poet finds in the fiery
sepulchres of the unbelievers with the great Ghibelline
emperor and the princely Ghibelline cardinal — the
disdainfid 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.

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 unscrupu-
lousness 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

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 Gliibellini che
fossono." — G. Vill. vii. 149. A Ghibelline by birth and disposition ;
yet, from circumstances, a close ally of the Guelfs of Florence.

G

1 8 DANTE.

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,
Vv'hen 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

DANTE.

19

their meaning. " Although the accursed Guelf and
Ghibelline factions lasted amongst the nobles of
Florence, and they often waged war among them-
selves out of private grudges, and took sides for
the said factions, and held one with another, and
those Avho called themselves Guelfs desired the esta-
blishment 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,"* 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 pre-
text. 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 impla-
cable hatred ; the white lily of Florence, borne by the

* G. Villani, vi. 33.

C 2

2 0 DANTE.

Ghibcllines, was turned to red by the Guclfs, 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.*

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,

* G. Villani, vi. 33, 43 ; Farad. 19.

DANTE. 21

or some panic paralysed the resistance of the other,
or a conflagration interposed itself between the com-
batants, burning out at once Guelf and Ghibelline,
and Ia\'ing 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 liiog/W — to the popular feeling and the
Guelf party : the Baptistery of St. John, " il mio bel
St. Giovanni," " to which all the good people resorted
on Sundays,"* where they had all received ba^Dtism,
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

* G. Villani, vi. 33, iv. 10; /;{/! 19; Pai-ad. 25.

2 2 DANTE.

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.* 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 in-
corrigible, they led the van in that battle, so long
remembered to their cost by the Guelfs, the battle of
Monteaperti (1260) —

Lo strazio, e '1 gran scempio

Che fece 1' Arbia colorata in rossa. — Inf. 10.

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

G. Villani, vi. 39, 65.

DANTE. 23

which they had done to the Guelfs and the democracy.
When the red hly 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 Peisistratidae 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 archi-
tect of the Palace of the People v/as obliged to sacri-
fice its symmetry, and to place it awry, that its Avails
might not encroach on the accursed ground.* " 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." f They were loved as the}' 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 Ghibclline men

* G. Villani, vi. 33, viii. 2G ; Vasavi, Arnolfo di Lapo, i. 255
(Fir. 1S46). t Dino Contpagni, p. S8.

24 DANTE.

and women pressed to kiss the arms,"* and even the
common people did him honour.

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 bod}-
with a separate and self-constiti.ited existence ; — in
the state and allied to it, but an independent element,
holding on to a large and comprehensive union with-
out the state. Its organisation in Florence is one of
the most curious among the many curious combina-

* Dino Couipagni, p. 107.

DANTE. 25

tions Avhich 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,* 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.f A pope,
(Clement IV., 1265-6S) had granted them his own
arms J; 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.

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,

* Giotto painted in it : Vasari, Vit. di Giotto, p. 314.
+ G. Villani, vii. 2, 17. J Ibid. vii. 2.

26 DANTE.

which, however ignored and even discredited by the
laws, Avas 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 Guclf, 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 com-
mittees, 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.* And if per-
suasion failed, the pope's representative hesitated not
to excommunicate and interdict the faithful but obdu-
rate city. But whether excommunicated or blessed,
Florence could not be at peace ; however wise and

* G. Villani, vii. 56.

DANTE. 27

subtle had been the peace-maker's arrangements, his
departing cortege was hardly out of sight of the city
before they were blown to the winds. Not more suc-
cessful 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 fruitlessncss of the expedients devised by him
and other good citizens against the resolute and in-
corrigible 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.

A great battle won against Ghibclline Arezzo *
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 com-
plete. It sealed Guelf ascendancy. The Ghibclline

* Campaldino, in 1289. G. Vill. vii. 131 ; Dino Comp. p. 14.

28 DANTE.

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, Avho 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 Guclf noble in Florence
— one of a family who inherited the spirit and reck-
lessness of the proscribed Uberti, and did not refuse
the popular epithet of " Malefaiiii " — Corso Donati.
He did not com.e back from the field of Campaldino,
where he had won the battle by disobeying orders

DANTE. 29

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
Vi'ho 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 con-
nexions 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

30 DANTE.

the debates of that excitable repubhc he was the most
eloquent speaker, and they were tongue-tied.*

"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, Avhich 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.f " 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

* Dim Comp. pp. 32, 75, 94, 133. t G. Vill. viii. 39.

DANTE. 31

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 Avaters. The con-
querors 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
quari'els 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 Icind,
turned his ridicule on their solemn dulness and
awkv/ard speech, and his friends the jesters, one

32 DANTE.

ScampoHno in particular, carried his gibes and nick-
names all over Florence. The Cerchi received all in
sullen and dogged indifference. They were satisfied
with repelling attacks, and nursed their hatred.*

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 eye-
witness describes the effect of such chastisement : —
^' I, Dino Compagni, being Gonfalonier of Justice in
1293, went to their houses, and to those of their rela-
tions, 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

* Dino Compagni, pp. 32, 34, 38,

DANTE.

ZZ

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 mar-
vellously patient and hopeful, though far from being
equally successful. In Venice at the close of the

D

34 BANTE.

thirteenth century, that pohty 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 suf-
ficient 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

DANTE. 35

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 v/as the age of growing commerce
and travel ; Franciscan missionaries had reached
China, and settled there;* 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.f
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 after-
Avards to bear up Brunelleschi's dome, and traced the
plan of the magnificent cathedral. In 1298 he began

See the curious letters of John de Monte Coi-znno, about his mis-
sion in Cathay, 1289-1305, in Wadding, vi. 69.

t E.g. the Mozzi, of Greg. X. ; Peruzzi, of Phihp le Bel ; Spuri, of
Boniface VHI. ; Ccrchi del Garbo, of Benedict XI. (G. Vill. vii. 42,
viii. 63, 71 ; Dino Coiiip. p. 35).

D 2

36 DANTE.

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 bene-
diction 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 com-
plete and crown the architectural glories of Florence
by that masterpiece of grace, his marble Campanile.

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 cele-
brations of the good old time, draws the domestic
life of ancient Florence in the household where his
ancestor was born :

A cosi riposato, a cosi bello

Viver di cittadini, a cosi fida

Cittadinanza, a cosi dolce ostello

Maria mi die, chiamata in alte grida. — Par. c. 15.*

* Florence, confined within that ancient wall,

Whence still the chimes at noon and evening sound,
Was sober, modest, and at peace with all.

DANTE. 37

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 VcccJiio, with their coarse
food and expenditure, their leather jerkins, and plain
close gowns, their sm.all 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.*
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

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.

* G. Vill. vi. 69 (1259).

38 DANTE.

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, Avith
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.* Nor were these the
boisterous triumphs of unrefined and coarse merri-
ment. 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.

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 Ntiova, so sensitive and delicate, trembling at a
gaze or a touch, recording visions, painting angels,

* G. Vill. vii. 89 (1283).

DANTE. 39

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 cur
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 Avays 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 dis-
entangled, 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 ad-
ministered the State. In that narrow sphere of action,
in that period of dawning powers and circumscribed

40 DANTE.

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.* Dante, like other literary cele-
brities 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 Campal-
dino ; 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

* Vide the opening of the De Monarchia.

DANTE. 41

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 povv-ers, soul and sense, diligently and
thoughtfully directed and trained, with free and con-
current 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.

In a fresco in the chapel of the old palace of the
Podesta * at Florence is a portrait of Dante, said to
be by the hand of his_cqntemporary Giotto. It was
discovered in 1841 under the Avhitewash, 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

* The Bargello, a prison (1850) ; a museum (1878). V. Vasari, p. 311.

42 DANTE.

face. He is drawn with much of the softness, and
melancholy pensive sweetness, and with something-
also of the quaint stiffness of the Vita Niiova — with
his fxower and his book. With him is drawn his
master, Brujietto_Latini,* 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 Genima.
None of his friends are commemorated with more
affection than the companion of his light and way-
ward days, remembered not without a shade of
anxious sadness, yet with love and hope, Corso's
brother, Forese.f No sweeter spirit sings and smiles
in the illumined spheres of Paradise, than she whom
Forese remembers as on earth one,

Che tra bella c buona
Non so qual fosse piu — J

and who, from the depth of her heavenly joy, teaches
the poet that in the lowest place among the blessed

He died in 1294. G. Vill. viii. 10. t Purgat. c. 23.

X Ibid. c. 24.

My sister, good and beautiful — wliicli most I know not.

Wright.

DANTE. 43

there can be no envy* — the sister of Forcse and
Corso, Piccarda. The Comincdia, though it speaks,
as if in prophecy, of Corso's miserable death, avoids
the mention of his name.f Its silence is so remark-
able 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 a,ctors 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.

The outlines of this j^art 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.J 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

* Parad. c. 3. + Purg: c. 24, 82-S7.

t 111 1300. G. Villani, viii. 38, 39.

44 DANTE.

artisans looked on, and for a time not without satisfac-
tion, 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 over-
bearing 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

DANTE.

45

Avas 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." *
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." " lo non voglio perdcrc gll iioniiiii
per le feniniinelle!' -^ 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
" iverc for tJiansdves ; " and whoever it may be \\\\o
is singled out in the " setta dei cattivi," for deeper
and special scorn — he,

Che fece per vilta il gran rifiuto — +

the idea was derived from the Cerchi in Florence.

* Dwo Comp. p. 45. t Ibid. p. 62. t !>'/■ c 3> 60.

46 DANTE.

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 weak-
ness. In two extant lists of the proscribed — con-
demned 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*

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

Pelli, ]Mcmo7-ie per sainrc allazita di Dante. Fir. 1S23, pp. 105, 106.

DANTE. 47

to force their way back to Florence ; he gave them
up at last in scorn and despair : but he never rctvirncd
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, docu-
ments, 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 tra-
ditions 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

48 DANTE.

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.*
Hi's 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.f

The Conniicdia, 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

* See Dr. Barlow's 6'/jr//i Centettary Festivals of Dante. (1866.)
t These notices have been carefully collected by Pelli, who seems
to have left little to glean (i^/t'/wmt.', &c. Ed. 2^^ 1823). A few addi-
tions have been made by Gerini {Mem. Star, delta Ltinigiana), and
Troy a [Veltro AllegoTicd), but they are not of much importance.
Ari'ivabene {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 quoteci 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.

DANTE.

49

for this mortal life ; and "viator" meant man in his
state of trial, as " compreJiensor'' 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
Pnrgatorio, 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 pain-
fully 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 clifts,
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

50

DANTE.

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 gia nei bassi lidi : — Piirg. 17.

or that image of the cold dull shadow over the torrent,
beneath the Alpine fir —

Un' ombra smorta
Oual sotto foglie verdi e raijii nigri
Sovra suoi freddi rivi, 1' Alpe porta : — Piirg. 33.*

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. — Iiifej-no, I4.t

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 Aries 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,

* A death-like shade —
Like that beneath black boughs and foliage green
O'er the cool streams in Alpine glens display'd. — Wright.

t 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.

DANTE. 51

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* His images

o

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 be-
fore 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.f 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 bellj ; the traveller's morning feelings
are not less delicately noted — the strangeness on first
waking in the open air with the sun high; morning

* /;;/ 31, iS.

t Ibid. 17, 16, 31; Pur^^. 24; Par. 2; /;;/ 22; Piirg. 30;
Par. 25 ; /;;/ 7. J Piirg. 8. " Era gib. V ora," &c.

E 2

52 DANTE.

thoughts, as day by day he wakes nearer home ; the
morning sight of the sea-beach quivering in the
early hght ; the tarrying and Hngering, before setting
out in the morning * —

Noi eravam liinghesso '1 mare ancora,
Come gente che pensa al suo cammino,
Che va col cuore, e col corpo dimora.t

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 gia ridir com' ello stea : — Parad. 31.$

or again, in that description, so simple and touching,
of his thoughts while waiting to see the relic for which
he left his home :

* Purg. 19, 27, I, 2.

+ 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.
X 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. — Ieid.

DANTE. 53

Quale e colui che forse di Croazia
Viene a veder la Veronica nostra,
Che per 1' antica fama non si sazia,

I\Ia dice nel pensier, fin che si rnostra ;
Signer mio Gesu Cristo, Uio verace,
Or fu 31 fatta la sembianza vostra? — Parad. 31.*

Of tliese years then of disappointment and exile
the Divina Covnncdia was the labour and fruit. A
story in Boccaccio's Hfe of Dante, told v,-ith some
detail, implies indeed that it was begun, and some pro-
gress made in it, while Dante was yet in Florence —
begun_in Latin, and he quotes three lines of it — con-
tinued 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 ali
the grace of her pure and noble humbleness, the guide

* 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 Gesu Cristo lascio a noi pet
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'e presente,
Venite voi di si lontana gente,
Com' alia vista voi ne dimostrate.

54

DANTE.

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 cnvoye
of the Vita Nuova is the promise of the Comnicdia.
" After this sonnet," (in which he describes how be-
yond the widest sphere of heaven his love had beheld
a lady receiving honour, and dazzling by her gloiy
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 seeula benedicttcsy^ It would
be wantonly violating probabihty and the unity of a
great life, to suppose that this purpose, though trans-
formed, was ever forgotten or laid aside. The poet
knew not indeed what he was promising, what he was

* Vita Nuova, last paragraph. See Piirg. 30 ; Farad. 30, 6, 28-33.

DANTE.

55

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 Coviniedia 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 Niiova. The spell of boyhood is
never broken, through the ups and downs of life. His
course of thought advances, alters, deepens, but is con-
tinuous. 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, wejnay-xiQubt. 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

56 DANTE.

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.

The Connnxdia 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, doubl}'
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

DANTE.

57

not blended with them their personal fortunes.
S. Augustine had taught the soul to contemplate its
own history, and had traced its progress from dark-
ness to light ;* 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 Provencal 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 pC'rii.k<,|
yet the scope of the Italian poet, vast and com- l^^u't'^M'
prehensive as the issue of all things, universal as the ^'^^ ^
government which directs nature and intelligence, 3 ^4-\k
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

* See Convito, i, 2.

5S DANTE.

and permanent in history and prophecy, incidents the
most transient, and names the most obscure ; to waste
an immortahty of shame or praise on those about
whom his own generation Avere 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.

This feeling of harsh and extravagant incongruity,
of causeless and unpardonable darkness, is perhaps
the first impression of many readers of the Conimcdia.
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

DANTE. 59

of genius as mighty as it is strange. Their perplexity
and disappointment may grow into distinct con-
demnation, or it may pass into admiration and
deHght ; but no one has ever come to the end of the
Coviinedia without feeling that if it has given him a
new view and specimen of the wildness and unac-
countable 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 Covnncdia
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 scener>^
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

6o DANTE.

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.* But his own
age — the age which received the Coviiiicdia 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 die 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, clie forse
Perdendo me rimarreste smarriti.

* Vide Ozaiiam, Dank, pp. 535, sqq. Ed. 2''-.

DANTE. 6 1

L' acqua ch' io prendo giammai non si corse :
Minerva spira, e conducemi Apollo,
E nuove muse mi dimostran 1' Orse.

Voi altri pochi, die drizzaste '1 collo
Per tempo al pan degli angeli, del quale
Vivesi qui, ma non si vien satollo,

Metter potete ben per 1' 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,
Ouando Jason vider fatto bifolco. — Farad, i.*

The character of the Coninicdia belongs much
more, in its excellence and its imperfections, to the

* 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 ujd 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.

62 DANTE.

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

DANTE. (i2>

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 Fcmst,
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 beheve 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 i^ower,
which he has measured without partiality, and feels
sure will not fail him. " Fidandomi di me piii chc di
un altro "* — 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

* Convito, I, lo.

64 DANTE.

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 diffi-
culties 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 adm.irable 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 un-
embarrassed 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 dis-
playing reserve as ostentation. Nothing is more
striking in the Comniedia than the serene and un-
hesitating 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

DANTE. 65

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 Christen-
dom the glory of that namiC of Poet, " che piu dura e
piu onora," hitherto the exclusive boast of heathenism,
and claim the rare honours of the laurel :

Si 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 deith. dovria la fronda
Peneia quando alcun di se asseta. — Parad. i.*

He has but to follow his star to be sure of the glorious
port : t 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 parti 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

* For now so rarely Poet gathers these,
Or Caesar, 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.

+ Brunetto Latini's Prophecy, //;/ 15.

F

66 DANTE.

himself," * 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.f

Poiche la voce fu restata e queta,

Vidi quattro grand' ombie a noi venire :

Sembianza avean ne trista ne lieta :

* * * *

Cosi vidi adunar la bella scuola
Di quel signer delF altissimo canto
Che sovra gli altri come aquila vola.

Da ch' ebber ragionato insieme alquanto
Volsersi a me con salutevol cenno
E '1 mio maestro sorrise di tanto.

E piii d' onore ancora assai mi fenno :
Ch' essi mi fecer della loro schiera,
Si ch' io fui sesto tra cotanto senno. — Inf. 4.$

* See the grand ending of Piirg. 27.

Tratto t' ho qui con ingegno e con arte :
Lo tuo piacere omai prendi per duce :
Fuor se' dell' arte vie, fuor se' dell' arte.

Vedi il sole che 'n fronte ti riluce.
Vede 1' erbetta, i fiori, e gli arboscelli
Che questa terra sol da se 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 piu ne mio cenno ;
Libero, dritto, sano e tuo arbitrio,
E fallo fora non fare a suo senno :
Perch' io te sopra te corono e mitrio.
+ Pitrg. c. 21.

X Ceased had the voice — when in composed array
Four mighty shades approaching I survey'd ; —

DANTE. 67

This sustained magnanimity and lofty self-
reliance, which never betrays itself, is one of the main
elements in the grandeur of the Coimnedia. It is an
imposing spectacle to see such fearlessness, such free-
dom, 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, elabora-
tion, judgment, and taste are the gifts and inheritance;
— to see the poet, trusting to his eye "which saw
everything"* 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.

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.
* " Dante che tutto vedea." — Sacchetti, Nov. 114.

F 2

68 DANTE.

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." * He fears to be " a timid friend to truth,"
" — to lose life among those who shall call this present
time antiquity." f He belongs to no party. He is

f La luce in che lideva il mio tesoro
Ch' io trovai li, si fe' prima coirusca,
Quale a raggio di sole specchio d'oro ;

Indi rispose : coscienza fusca
O della propria o dell' altrui vergogna
Pur sentira la tua parola brusca ;

DANTE. 69

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 worth-
less, 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,"*

Ma nondimen, rimossa ogni menzogna,
Tutta tua vision fa manifesta,
E lascia pur grattar dov' e la rogna :

Che se la voce tua sara molesta
Nel prime gusto, vital nutrimento
Lascera poi quando sara digesta.

Questo tuo grido fara come vento
Che le piu alte cime piii percuote :
E cio non fia d' onor poco argomento.

Pero ti son mostrate, in queste ruote,
Nel monte, e nella valle dolorosa,
Pur r anime che son di fama note.

Che r animo di quel ch' ode non posa,
Ne ferma fede, per esemplo ch' aja
La sua radice incognito e nascosa,

Ne per altro argumento che non paja. — Farad. 17.
Non creda Monna Berta e Ser MartiEO
Per vedere un furare, altro offerere,
Vederli dentro al consiglio divino :
Che quel puo siu-ger, e quel puo cadere. — Ibid. 13.

70 DANTE.

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 judg-
ment. 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 delibe-
rate and discriminating sternness. The most popular
and honoured names in Florence,

Farinata e '1 Tegghiaio, che fur si degni,
Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, e '1 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 trale anime piu nere.*
If he is partial, it is no vulgar partiality : friendship

* Inf. 6.

DANTE.

71

and old affection do not venture to exempt from its
fatal doom the sin of his famous master, Brunette
Latini ; * 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. Man-
fred's soul is rescued ; mercy had accepted his tears,
and forgiven his great sins ; and the excmnmunication
of his enemy did not bar his salvation :

Per lor maladizion si non si perde
Che non possa tornar 1' eterno amore
IMentre che la speranza ha fior del verde. — Piirg. 3.

Yet his sin, though pardoned, was to keep him for
long years from the perfection of heaven.f And with
the same independence with which he assigns their
fate, he selects his instances — instances which are to

* Che in la mente m' e fitta, ed or m' accuora,
La car a buona iTnagine paterna. — Inf. 15.
+ Charles of Anjou, his Guelf conqueror, is placed above him, in the
valley of the kings {Piirg. 7), "Colui dal maschio naso" — notwith-
standing the charges afterwards made against him {Purg. 20).

72 DANTE.

be the types of character and its issues. No man
ever owned more unreservedly the fascination of great-
ness, 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 ofhce 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 insigni-
ficant— 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

DANTE. 73

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."* 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, f 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

* See the magnificent picture, Inf. i8.
t Ibid. 8.

74 DANTE.

penitent, the nun, the old crusadnig ancestor, the
pilgrim who had deserted the greatness which he had
created, the brave logician, who " syllogised unpala-
table truths " in the Ouartier Latin of Paris.*

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- con-
centration — 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 formulae of the " Courts of Love,"
— the eyes of Beatrice are as bright, and the " con-
quering light of her smile ;"t they still culminate,

* Cunizza, Piccarda, Cacciaguida, Romeo. {ParaJ. 9, 3, 15, 6, 10.)

La luce eterna di Sigieri

Che leggendo nel vico degli Strami
Sillogizzo 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.

+ Vincendo me col lume d' un sorriso. — Parad. 18.

DANTE.

75

but they are not alone, in the poet's heav^en. And
the professed subiect of the Coiinicdia is still Dante's
own stoiy.an^JiXe ; 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,* 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 " t — or half
playfully alludes to the whispered name of a lady,J

* For instance, his feeling of distress at gazing at tlie blind, who
were not aware of his presence —

A me pareva andando fare oltraggio

Vedendo altrui, non essendo veduto : — Piirg. 13.

and of shame, at being tempted to listen to a quarrel between two lost
spirits :

Ad ascoltarli er' io del tutto fisso,
Quando '1 Maestro mi disse : or pm- mira,
Che per poco e, che teco non mi risso.

Quando io '1 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' e picciol fallo amaro morso. — Ptirg. 3.
t Farad. 5. J Purg. 24.

76 DANTE.

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 un-
profitable 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," * 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.

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

* Farad. 25.

DANTE. 77

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 inde-
pendent 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

78 DANTE.

Psalms, in which he has preluded so much of the
Commedia. Yet the Comnicdia 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 repre-
sentatives of sin and goodness, the true actors in that
scene which is so familiar to us as a picture — un-
flinching 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

DANTE.

79

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 imagina-
tions, 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 w^hich 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

8o DANTE.

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, un-
noticed 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.

DANTE. 8 1

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 specu-
lation, 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, prognosti-
cations, and hopes, of the history of the day ; as a
moral philosopher he has watched himself, his ex-
ternal 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 diffi-
cult but sure progress of the manifold remedies of the
Divine government to their predestined issue ; and,
over all, God and His saints.

82 DANTE.

So comprehensive in interest is the Cominedia.
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 * 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 Commcdia will prove sufficient, which does not
keep in view, first of all, the high moral purpose and

* Convito, Tr, 2, c. 14, 15.

DANTE, 83

deep spirit of faith with which it was written, and
then the wide hberty of materials and means which
the poet allowed himself in working out his design.

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 Avho read the
Cominedia in their own mother-tongue. It has been
maintained as a satisfactory account of it — maintained
Avith 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

G 2

84 DANTE.

specimen of the jargon, cant, and slang of Ghibellinc
freemasonry. When Itahans 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 predomi-
nates, 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.*

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 partyf ; and he acted with
them for a time. J But no words can be stronger

* 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.

t Dino Comp. pp. 89-91,

:|: His name appears among the White delegates in 1307. Pelli, p. 117.

DANTE. z^

than those in which he disjoins himself from that
"■evil and foolish company," and claims his inde-
pendence—

A te fia bello
Avertifatto parte per te stesso*

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 accusal di sopra, e de' lor falll
Che son cagion di tutti 1 vostri mall.

L' uno al pubblico segno 1 gigli gialll
Oppone, e quel s' appropria faltro a parte,
Si ch' e forte a veder qual piu si falli.

Fac'cian li G]iibcllm,Jaccian lor arte
Self altro segno J che mal segue quello
Seiiipre chi la giustizia e lui diparte.\

And though, as the victim of the Guelfs of Florence,
he found refuge among Ghibelline princes, hs 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-

* Parad. 17. f Ibid. 6.

86 DANTE.

marked devotional temper, he was much less a Ghibel-
line 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 Boni-
face 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 sta,te ; he persuaded himself that Christen-
dom 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

DANTE. 87

depth and farsightedness of those expectations which
are in outward form so chimerical — " i mici non falsi
errori."

He had studied the "iniinite 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 govern-
ment, 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 charac-
terised, without adding the invariable epithet of his
greatness of soul — the " inagjianivttis peccaior"^ whose
Roman grandeur in meeting his unworthy fate fasci-
nated into momentary sympathy even Dante.t But

* Benvenuto da Imola.
+ Veggio in Alagna entrar lo fiordaliso,
E nel vicario suo Cristo esser catto ;

Veggiolo un' altra volta esser deriso ;
Veggio rinnovellar I'aceto e '1 fele,
E tra vivi Jadroni essere anciso. — P^^^g' 20.

G. Villani, viii. 63. Come magnanimo e valente, disse, Dacchl per

88 DANTE.

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 anta-
gonist was paralysed also. " Since the death of
Frederic II.," says Dante's contemporary, "the fame
and recollections of the empire were w^ell - nigh
extinguished. "=i^ Italy was left without government
— "come nave senza nocchicro in gran tempesta" — to
the mercies of her tyrants :

Che le terre d'ltalia tutte piene
Son di tiranni, e un Marcel diventa
Ogni villan, die parteggiando viene. — Piirg. 6.

In this scene of violence and disorder, with the
Papacy gone astray, the empire debased and impotent,
the religious orders corrupted, power meaning lawless-
ness, 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

tradimento, come Gesu Crista, voglio csser prcso e mi conviene morire, almcno
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 allri suoi nimici, con villane parole lo scherniro.
* Dino Compagni, p. 135.

DANTE. 89

for man's peace and liberty in this life are part of God's
great order for raising men to perfection ; — not indis-
pensable, 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 Provi-
dence, 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 sig-
nificant 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 cer-
tain that, in his strong and quaint language, " Virtus
mtthorizandi regnum nostm luortcJitatis est contra
naturam ccclesice ; ergo nou est dc nuincro virtiitum
siianimr^ Another and distinct organisation was

De Monarch, lib. iii. d. 188, Ed. Fraticelli.

90 DANTE.

required for this, unless the temporal order was no
longer worthy the attention of Christians.

This is the idea of the De Monarchia ; and
though it holds but a place in the great scheme of the
Conimedia, 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, "finein totius Jmmancs civilitatis" to
a height and dignity which Heathens could not fore-
cast, 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

DANTE. 91

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 Vv'orld,
and the world would not beheve that it was over.
Above all, in Italy, a continuity of lineage, of
language, of local names, and in par!; 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 legis-
lator relate the fated course of the "sacred sign,"
from the day when Pallas died for it, till it accom-
plished the vengeance of heaven in Judsea, and

92 DANTE.

afterwards, under Charlemagne, smote down the
enemies of the Church.^'

The following passage, from the Dc MonarcJna,
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 cjuiet. And that then mankind
was happy in the tranciuillity of universal peace, this all writers
of history, this famous poets, this even the Scribe of the meek-
ness 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.

* Farad, c. 6.

DANTE. 93

Yet this great Roman empire existed still unim-
paired 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
A\'hich contained and was a beginning of unknown or
unheeded truth. What he yearns after is the pre-
dominance 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 Dc j\IonarcJua. The second
book, in which he establishes the title of the Roman
people to Universal Empire, is as startling a piece of
mediasval argument as it Vv^ould 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

94

DANTE.

anointed Roman Emperor. Wherefore in derision, not without
a certain grief, I can cry out, for that glorious people and for
Ctesar, 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 Mona^'ch. 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 m.erely to the course
of Providence, to their high and noble ancestry, to the
blessings of their just and considerate laws, to their
iniselfish guardianship of the world — " Roinanum
imperiiLVi dc fontc nascitur pietatis ; " — not merel}^
to their noble examples of private virtue, self-devo-
tion, 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"

DANTE.

95

— 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
— " Qiiis igitiir nunc adeo obtuscs mentis est, qni non
videat, sub Jure duelli gloviosuvi popiduni coronani totiiis
orbis esse liicratum ? " — 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.*

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

* De Mo}iarch. lib. ii. pp. 62, 66, 78, 82, 84, 10S-I14, 1 16, 12-1^.

96 DANTE.

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 every-
day 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, subor-
dinate, eliminate. Truth of this sort is not the elabora-
tion of one keen or strong mind, but of the secret
experience of many ; " niJiil sine atate est, 07nnia tempus
expectant!' But a counterpart to the De Monarehia 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,
efs Kolpavos ecrTa, De Maistre's volume jDu Pape, recalls
the antagonist De MonareJiia ; but it recalls it not
less in its bold dealing with facts, and its bold assump-
tion of principles, though the knowledge and debates

r>ANTE. 97

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^Mgnarchia is no key to the
Coinvicdia. The direct and primary purpose of the
Couniicdia 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 Avas 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 chas-

98 DANTE.

tisements and resignation of Purgatory to the beatific
vision, he is tracing the course of the soul on earth,
reahsing sin and weaning itself from it — of its purifica-
tion 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 incorpo-
rated in one of the earliest writings on the poem, Boc-
caccio'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 tc

DANTE. 99

have many meanings {^' polysetisuuni"). 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 sanc-
tuary, 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 inoral 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,* 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 allegori-
cally, its subject is man, as, by his freedom of choice deserving well
or ill, he is subject to the justice which rewards and punishes.t

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 mo?'al ; that it is which readers

* Litera gesta refert, quid credas allegoria,
Moralis quid agas, quid speres anagogia.

De Witte's note from Buti.
t Ep. ad Kan Grand. § 6, 7.

H 2

loo DANTE.

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.*

With this passage before us there can be no doubt
of the meaning, however veiled, of those beautiful
Hnes, 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 '1 grado superno,
In me ficco Virgilio gli occhi suoi,

E disse : " II temporal fuoco, e 1' eterno
Veduto hai, figlio, e se' venuto in parte
Ov' io per me piu oltre non discerno.

Tratto t' ho qui con ingegno e con arte :
Lo tuo piacere omai prendi per duce ;

* Conviio, Tr, 2, c. I.

DANTE. loi

Fuor se' dell' erte vie, fuor se' dell' arte.

Vedi il sole che 'n fronte ti riluce :
Vedi r erbetta, i fiori, e gli arboscelli
Che quella terra sol da se produce.

IMentre 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 piii ne mio cenno :
Libero, dritto, sano e tuo arbitrio,
E fallo fora non fare a suo senno : —

Perch' io te sopra te corono e mitrio." *

The general meaning of the Cofnmcdia is clear
enough. But it certainly does appear to refuse to be

* 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 the'e 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
Wcie henceforth error. I invest thee then
With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself."

Purg. c. 27. — Gary.

I02 DANTE.

fitted into a connected formal scheme of interpreta-
tion. It is not a homogeneous, consistent allegory,
like the Pilgrims Progjrss 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, re-
appears in a distant point, and in different scenery.
We can, indeed, imagine its strange author com-
menting 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 sepa-
rate 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 sym-
pathies, 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

DANTE. 103

poem,"* he provokes and challenges us ; bids us
admire "doctrine hidden under strange verses ;"t
bids us strain our eyes, for the veil is thin :

Aguzza, qui, letter, ben 1' occhi al vero :

Che ii Velo e ora ben tanto sottile,

Certo, che il trapassar dentro e leggiero. — Purg. c. 8.

But eyes are still strained in conjecture and doubt.

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 com-
mentary — 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

* Sempre a quel ver, ch' ha faccia di menzogna,
De' 1' uom chiuder le labbra, quanto puote,
Pero 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, (S:c. — Inf. 16.
+ Inf. 9.

1 04 DANTE.

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 know-
ledge of the key of the allegory, where we possess it,
contributes but little to the effect. We may infer
from the Coiivito^ that the eyes of Beatrice stand defi-
nitely for the dcuionstrations, and her smiles for the
persiiasions 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 ct ccteriiitatis afflatus " — which per-
vades it, comes from the sacred truths, and holy per-
sons, and that deep spirit of high-raised yet composed
devotion, which it requires no interpreter to show us.

Figure and symbol, then, are doubtless the law of
composition in the Coinnicdia ; 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 m.eaning
of its parts, their connexion with each other. But in
its secondary and subordinate applications, the law

* Convito, Tr. 3, c. 15.

DANTE. 105

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 anti-
types. 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.* He is, again, more defi-
nitely, 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, pocta
nostcr." t In the Christian order, he is human
wisdom, dimly mindful of its heavenly origin — pre-
saging dimly its return to God — sheltering in heathen

"O tu ch' onori ogni scienza ed arte." — It!/. 4. " Quel savio
gentil che tutto seppe." — Inf. 7. "II mar di tutto '1 senno." — Inf. 8.
'^ De Monarchia.

io6 DANTE.

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."* In the political order, he is
the guide of law-givers, wisdom fashioning the im-
pulses 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 con-
science 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 argu-
ment 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 signer, e tu maestro. — Inf. 2.
* Newman's Arians.

DANTE. 107

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 mis-
takes. Never were the kind, yet severe ways of a
master, or the disciple's diffidence and open-hearted-
ness, 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 disjuento la fiostra vanitate
Tratiando V oinbra 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

io8 DANTE.

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 con-
science— 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 transi-
tions ; is at one time definite, at another suggestive
and mvsterious ; incorporating and giving free place

DANTE.

109

and play to airs and melodies even of an alien cast ;
sti-iking off abruptly from its expected road, but
v.'ithout 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 approxi-
mating to the true ones. Still they impress us deeply
and truly, often the more deeply because uncon-
sciously. 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 — v/ays which do not satisfy the under-
standing, 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

no DANTE.

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 con-
veying 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 Commcdia. 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 aspira-
tions 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 ;

DANTE. Ill

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 Ve7ii, Sancte Spiritiis of a king of
France, the Pange lingua of Thomas Aquinas, the
Dies ir(Ej and Stahat Mater, . of the two Fran-
ciscan brethren, Thomas of Celano, and Jacopone.^^
The elements and fragments of poetry were every-
where in the Church — in her ideas of life, in her rules
and institutions for passing through it, in her prepara-
tion for death, in her offices, ceremonial, celebrations,
usages, her consecration of domestic, literary, com-
mercial, 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

* Trench, Sacred Latin Poetry, 1849.

112 DANTE.

distinct utterance, not unv/orthy to rank in grandeur,
in music, in sustained strength, with the last noble
voices from expiring Heathenism.

But a long interval had passed since then. The
Coinviedla 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." * 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 v/hen this condition was new — when society Avas
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

* Ilallam's Middle A^cs, z ix. vol, iii. p. 563.

DANTE. 113

perfect and permanent instrument of thought in its
highest forms, the only expression of refinement and
civihsation ; 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,* 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." f

The spell was indeed beginning to break. Guido

* Farad. 3, 12, 17. Convit, p. 108. "A piu Latinamcnte vedere
la sentenza letterale."

t Vid. the De Alonarchia.

I

114 DANTE.

CaA^alcanti, Dante's strange, stern, speculative friend,
who is one of the fathers of the Italian language, is
characterised in the Commedia^ 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 Eloqido : 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 fluctua-
tion 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.f 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 mar-
vellous 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

Inf. 10, and compare the Vii. N. p. 334, ed. Fraticelll
t Convito, i. 5.

DANTE. 115

speech of ordinary life, " in which even women
converse." *

He honoured the Latin, but his love was for the
Itah'an. 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

Ep. ad Kan Grand. § 9, — a curious specimen of tlie learning of
the time: "Sciendum est, quod Conicedia diciim 3. kcoixt], villa ei ahrj,
quod est catifus, unde Comoedia quasi villanus cantus. Et est Comoedia
genus quoddam poeticce narratiotiis, ab omnibus aliis differens. Differt
ergo a Tragoedia in materia per hoc, quod Tragcedia in principio est
admirabilis et quieta, in fine foetida et horribilis ; et dicitur propter hoc
a rpayof, i.e. hirciis, et wS?;, quasi catitus kir'cinus, i.e. fcetidus ad
modum hirci, ut patet per Senecam in suis tragoediis. Comcedia vero
inchoat asperitatem alicujus rei, sed ejus materia prospere terminatur,
ut patet per Terentium in suis Comcediis. . . . Similiter differunt in
modo loquendi ; elate et sublime Tragcedia, Comwdia vero remisse et
humiliter sicut vult Horat. in Poet. . . . Et per hoc patet, quod
Comcedia diciter prassens opus. Nam si ad materiam respiciamus, a
principio horribilis et foetida est, quia Infernus : in fine prospera,
desiderabilis et grata, quia Paradisjis. Si ad modum loquendi,
remissus est modus et humilis, quia locutio Vulgaris, in qua et mulier-
culse communicant. Et sic patet quia Cotncedia dicitur." Cf. de Vulg.
Eloq. 2, 4, Parad. 30. He calls the ^neid, "/' alt a Tragcdia" 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 con-
formity with modern minds. The quiet gait signifies the humility of
the style, which is necessarily required in Co/nmedia, as those know
who understand what is meant by Commedia.'''

I 2

ii6 DANTE.

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 cattizd d' Italia — who
think vilcl}' 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."* 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
congiiignitorc delli viicigcncranti, die con csso parlavano"
— and further, it was this modern language, ''questo
mio Volgare^' which opened to him the way of know-
ledge, 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 ofhces. " There has also been between us the

* Convito, i. II.

DANTE. 117

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." *

From this language he exacted a hard trial ; — a
Avork 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 am.bition. 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 after-
wards 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, -f- Poetry had been cultivated in the

* Convito, i. 13.

+ G. Villani was at Rome in the year of jubilee 1300, and
describes tlie great concourse and order of the pilgrims, whom he
reckons at 200,000, in the course of the year. "And I," he pro-
ceeds, "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

ii8 DANTE.

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 des-
cended 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.* Literature was a grow-
ing 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.

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 entei-ed 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.
* Sacchetti, Nov. 114.

DANTE. 119

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 Provencal and Italian poetry was,
with the exception of some pieces of political satire,
almost exclusively amatory, in the most fantastic and
aff"ected fashion. Li 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 insensi-
bility. But this was not all. The brilliant age of
Frederick H., 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

I20 DANTE.

side by side with the theology of Aquinas and Bona-
Ventura, there was working among those who in-
fluenced 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 Covimedia 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 Decmneron 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

DANTE. 121

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 them-
selves, opened to them also that secret sympathy
which exists between them and the great mysteries
of the Christian doctrine. * He did the work, in

* Vide Ozanam.

122 DANTE.

his day, of a great preacher. Yet he has been both
claimed and condemned, as a disturber of the Church's
faith.

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 sup-
posed ; 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 qualifica-
tion, but his unpremeditated and incidental expres-
sions— 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

DANTE. 123

as an excellence, that he was a doubter. It might as
well be supposed of Aquinas.

No one ever acknowledged with greater serious-
ness, as a fact in his position in the world, the agree-
ment 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 e chi spera, che nostra ragione
Possa trascorrer la 'nfinita via
Che tiene una sustanzia in tre Persone.

State contenti, umana gente, al quia ;
Che se potuto aveste veder tutto,
Mestier non era partorir Maria :

E disiar vedeste senza frutto
Tai, che sarebbe lor disio quetato,
Ch' eternamente e dato lor per lutto ;

F dice d' Aristotile e di Plato,
E di molti altri : " — e qui chino la fronte,
Yf piu non disse, e rimase turbato. — Picrg. c. 3.*

"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.

124 DANTE.

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. Pro-
vidence 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 im-
possible to find, would have been folly. The authority
from which he started had not yet been seriously
questioned ; there were no palpable signs of doubtful-
ness on the system which was to him the represen-
tative 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 — tlie reward ^ him who
throws himself with frankness and earnestness into a
system ; who is not afraid or suspicious of it ; who is

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 o. troubled aspect wore. — Wright.

DANTE. 125

not unfaithful to it. He gained not merely power —
he_gained_thatJreedom ami_Jargeness of mind_which
tjie_sus^ic]flais QT^tho^infaithful 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 expecta-
tions, and forecastings.* 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

* See an article in the Brit. Critic, No. 65, p. 120.

126 DANTE.

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 meji_suffering in calm
and_Jioly 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 pre-
ceded 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,

DANTE. 127

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 e '1 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.*

* See the form of benediction of the "Rosa d' oro." Rituum

Ecclesia Rom. Libri Tres. fol. xxxv. Venet 15 16. Form of giving:

"Accipe rosam de manibus nostris. . . . per quam designatus gaudium

iitriusque Hierusalem trimnphantis scilicet et militantis ecclesise 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 i splendor di Dio, per cu' io yidi

L' alto trionfo del regno verace,

Dammi virtu a dir com' io lo vidi.

Lume e lassii, 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 e nel verde e ne' fioretti opinio j

SI soprastando al lume intorno intorno
Vidi specchiarsi in piu di mille soglie,
Quanto di noi lassu fatto ha ritorno.

128 DANTE.

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 re-
marked how, in a poem where there would seem to
be a fitting place for them, the ecclesiastical ]egends
of the middle ages are, almost entirely absent. The
sainted spirits ofljthe 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 dearjo the poet himself, friends whom he
had loved, and teachers to whom he owed wisdom —

E se r infimo grado in se raccoglie

Si grande lume, quant' e 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 vema,
Qual' e colui, che tace e dicer vuole,

Mi trasse Beatrice, e disse ; mira
Quanto e '1 convento delle bianche stole 1

Vedi nostra Citta quanto ella gira !

Vedi li nostri scanni si ripieni,

Che poca gente omai ci si dislra.
» * * *

In forma dunque di Candida rosa

Mi si mostrava la milizia santa,

Che nel sue sangue Cristo fece sposa. — Farad. 30, 31.

DANTE.

129

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 Aquiiias^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 Virgirs
poem, to the heaven of the just.*

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 recollec-
tions of the Gentile times. He contemplates them
with the veil drawn off from them ; as now known to

* Chi crederebbe giu nel mondo errante,
Che Rifeo Trojano' m questo tondo
Fosse la quinta delle luci sante ?

Ora conosce assai di quel, che '1 mondo
Veder non puo della divina grazia ;
Benche sua vista non discerna il fondo. — Parad. c, 20.

' Rhipeus justissimus unus
Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus aequi. — A^n. ii.

I30 DANTE.

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 V — the great criminals of profane
history are mingled with sinners against God's
revealed will — and that, with equal dralnatic 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.* 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,

* Inf. c. 26.

DANTE. 131

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 indis-
criminately 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 repen-
tant 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.

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

K 2

132 DANTE.

undoubting — her spirit of certainty, and her deep
contemplations on the unseen and infinite. And in
hterature, 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 imita-
tion 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

DANTE. 133

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 associa-
tions 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 Coinnicdia 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 Avill render
forcibly a thought, there is no strangeness which
checks him. Barbarous words are introduced, to
express the cries of the demons or the confusion of

134 DANTE.

Babel — even to represent the incomprehensible song
of the blessed ;* inarticulate syllables, to convey
the impression of some natural sound — the cry of
sorrowful surprise :

Alto sospir, che duolo strinse in hui; — Ptirg. i6.

or the noise of the cracking ice :

Se Tabernicch

Vi fosse su caduto, o Pietra-pana

Non avria pur del orlo fatto cricch \ — Inf. 32.

even separate letters — to express an image, to spell a
name, or as used in some popular proverb.t He
employs without scruple, and often with marvellous
force of description, any recollection that occurs to
him, however Jiomely, 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

* Farad. 7, I -3.
+ To describe the pinched face of famine ; —

Parean 1' occhiaje annella senza gemme,

Chi nel viso degli uomini legge 0?iIO

Ben avria quivi conosciuto 1' ernme (J\I). — Purg. 23.

Again,

Quella reverenza che s' indonna

Di tutto me, pur per B e per ICE. — Par ad. 7.

Ne O si tosto mai, ne I si scrisse,
Com' ei s' accese ed arse. — Inf. 24.

DANTE. 135

using his curry-comb {Inf. 29) ; — or the coiTimon
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 dalF altro geme
E cigola per vento che va via ; — htf. 13.*

the paper changing colour when about to catch fire :

Come procede innanzi dah' ardore

Per lo papiro suso un color bruno
Che non e nero ancora, e '1 bianco muore : — Iiif. 25. f

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 :

Li veggio d' ogni parte farsi presta
Ciascun' ombra, e baciarsi una con una
Senza restar, contente a breve festa :

Cosi per entro loro schiera bruna
•S"' animus a V una con V altra fornica,
Forse a spiar lor via e lor fortuna ; — Purg. 26. X

* 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.

^YRIGHT.

t 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.

X On either hand I saw them haste their meeting,
And kiss each one the other — pausing not —
Contented to enjoy so short a greeting.

136 DANTE.

the snail drawing in its horns {Inf. 25) ; — the hog
shut out of its sty, and trying to gore with its tusks
(/;// 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 vniso fuori,

Si che celano i piedi, e 1' altro grosso. — Inf. 22.*

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 despicable-
ness, 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 '1 qual pontan tutte 1' altre rocce ;

Thus do the ants among their cUngy band,
Face one another — each their neighbour's lot
Haply to scan, and how their fortunes stand. — Wright.

* 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. — Tbid.

DANTE. 137

lo premeirei di mio concetto il suco

Piu pienamente ; ma perch' io non 1' abbo,

Non senza tema a dicer mi conduco :
Che non e 'mpresa da pigHare a gabbo

Descriver fondo a tutto 1' universo,

Ne da hngua, che chiami mamma, o babbo. — Inf. yz*

Feelinof the difrerence between sins, in their ele-
ments 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
deir 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 pre-
dominate, till they culminate in that grim comedy,

* 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,

138 DANTE.

with its dramatis pn'sonce 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 imagina-
tion to cope \yith 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 1' imagine perversa
Parea. — Inf. 25.

And when the traitor, who murdered his own kins-
man, 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.*

* Ed egli a me : Come '1 mio corpo stea
Nel mondo su, nulla scienzia porto.
Cotal vantaggio ha questa Tolommea,
Che spesse volte 1' anima ci cade
Innanzi, ch' Atropos mossa le dea.

DANTE. 139

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 feehngs, 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

E perche tu piii volontier mi lade
Le 'nvetriate lagiime dal volto,
Sappi, die tosto che 1' anima trade,

Come fee' io, il corpo suo 1' e tolto
Da un Dimonio, che poscia il governa,
Mentre che '1 tempo suo tutto sia volto.

Ella ruina in si fatta cisterna ;
E forse pare ancor lo corpo suso
Deir ombra, che di qua dietro mi verna.

Tu '1 dei saper, se tu vien pur mo giuso :
Egli e ser Branca d' Oria, e son piii anni
Poscia passati, ch' ei fii si racchiuso.

Io credo, diss' io lui, che tu m' inganni,
Che Branca d' Oria non moii unquanche,
E mangia, e bee, e donne, e veste panni.

Nel fosso su, diss' ei, di Malebranche,
La dove bolle la tenace pece,
Non era giunto ancora Michel Zanche ;

Che questi lascio '1 diavolo in sua vece
Nel corpo suo, e d' un suo prossimano,
Che '1 tradimeiito insieme con lui fece. — Inf. 33.

I40 DANTE.

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 un-
softened, make us shudder and shrink, they are kept
in strong check and in due subjection by otlier
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.

DANTE. 141

Take the following beautiful picture of the bird
looking out for dawn :

Come I'augello intra I'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 '1 tempo in su 1' aperta frasca,

E con ardente affetto il sole aspetta,

Fiso' guardando, pur che I'alba nasca. — Parad. 23.*

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 congratiilajido a lor pasture^
Fanno di se or tonda or lunga schiera ; — Parad. iS.f

* 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 beliold the looks she loves,
And to find food for her impatient young
(\Mience 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.
+ 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.

142 DANTE.

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 se onde son mosse
Ed altre roteando fan soggiorno ; — Parad. 21.'

the morninp; sounds of the swallow :

Nell' ora che comincia i tristi lai
La rondinella presso alia mattina,
Forse a memoria de' suoi primi guai ; — Pio'g. 9. +

the joy and delight of the nightingale's song iPurg.
17) ; the lark, silent at last, filled with its own sweet-
ness :

Oual lodoletta, che 'n aere si spazia,
Prima cantando, e poi tace contenta
Dell' 7iltlina dolcezza che la sazia ; — Parad. 20.$

the flight of the starlings and storks {Inf. 5, Purg.
24) ; the mournful cry and long line of the cranes

* 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.

+ What time the swallow pours her plaintive strain,
Saluting the approach of morning gray,
Thus haply mindful of her former pain. — Ibid.

:J: 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.

DANTE. 143

{Inf. 5, Piirg. 26) ; the young birds trying to escape
from the nest {Purg. 25) ; the eagle hanging in the
sky :

Con r ale aperte, e a calare intesa ;—

the dove, standing close to its mate, or wheeling

round it :

Si come quando '1 Colombo si pone
Presso al compagtio, 1' uno e 1' altro panda
Girando e mormorando I'affezione ; — Parad. 25.*

or the flock of pigeons, feeding :

Adunati alia pastura,
Oueti, se7iza vwstrar P iisato orgoglio. — Purg. 2.

Hawking supplies its images : the falcon coming
for its food :

II falcon die prima a pie si mira,
Indi si volge al grido, e si protende,
Per lo disio del pasto, che Ik il tira ; — Purg. ig.f

* As v>hen 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.

+ 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. — IBIH

144 DANTE.

or just unhooded, pluming itself for its flight :

Quasi falcon, ch' esce del cappello,
Muove la testa, e con 1' ale s' applaude,
Voglia mosiraiido, e facendosi bello ; — Parad. i g.*

or returning without success, sullen and loath :

Come '1 falcon ch' e stato assai su \ ali,
Che senza veder logoro, o uccello,
Fa dire al falconiere : Oimfe tu cali !
Discende lasso onde si muove snello
Per cento ruote, e da lungi si potie
Dal suo maestro, disdeg/ioso e fello. — Inf. 17. f

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 foliaj, aut ad terram gurgite ab alto
Quam mult£e 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 '1 ramo

* Lo, as a falcon, from the hood released,

Uplifts his head, and joyous flaps his ^vings,

His beauty and his eagerness increased. — Wright.

t E'en a? 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. — Ii id.

DANTE. 145

Rende alia terra tutte le sue spoglie ;

Similemente il mal seme d' Adaino :
Gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una
Per cenni, com' augel per suo richiamo.

Cosi sen vanno su per 1' onda bruna,
Ed avanti che sien di la discese,
Anche di qua nuova schiera s' aduna. — Inf. 3.*

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 /' ali aperte e ferme al dolce nido
Volan per 1' aer dal voler portate. — Lif. 5.t

* 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.

t 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
I:r.owledge and taste which Mr. Cary and Mr. W^right have brought to

L

146 DANTE.

Take, again, the times of the day, with what is
characteristic of them — appearances, hghts, feehngs —
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 1' aer bruno
Toglieva gli animai che sono 'n terra
Dalle fatiche loro ; ed io sol uno

M' apparechiava a sostener la guerra
Si del cammino, e si della pietate.— /;z/ 2.

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 cola dove elle non la potessono colla loro bdlezza
portare. E pero sappia ciascuno che nulla cosa per legame musaico
{i.e. poetico) armonizzata, si puo della sua loquela in altra trasmutare
senza rompere tutta la sua dolcezza e armonia. E questa e la ragione
per che Omero non si muto mai di Greco in Latino, come 1' 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 English-
men to read him in his own language. His prose translation is accurate
and forcible. And he has added sensible and useful notes.

DANTE. 147

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 Regiiia, the Tc htcis ante termimtin — 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. {Piirg. 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 {Pm-g.
17) ; the rapid sinking of the sun, and approach of
night in the south [Purg. 27 ) ; the fliaming sunset
clouds of August ; the sheet-lightning of summer
[Piirg. 5) ; have left pictures in his mind, which an
incidental touch reawakens, and a few strong words

are sufficient to express. Other appearances he

L 2

148 DANTE.

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 chc v'era,
A guisa d' orizzonte, che rischiari.

E SI come al salir di prima sera
Comincian per lo del nuove parvenze,
SI che la cosa pare e non par vera ; — Parad. 14.*

or else, bursting out suddenly over the heavens :

Quando colui che tutto 11 mondo allume,
Del' emisperio nostro si discende,
E '1 giorno d' ogni parte si consuma ;

Lo ciel che sol di lui prima s' accende,
Subitamente si rifa parv^ente
Per molte luci in che una risplende ;— Parad. 20.f

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,

* 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. — Weight.

t 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.

DANTE.

149

Se non che dalla parte onde s' accende

Nulla sen perde, ed esso dura poco ;— Parad. 15.*

or, again, that characteristic sight of the ItaHan
summer night — the fire-flies :

Ouante il villan che al poggio si riposa,
Nel tempo che colui che '1 mondo schiara
La faccia sua a noi tien men ascosa,

Come la mosca cede alia zenzara,
Vede lucciole giu per la vallea
Forse colh, dove vendemmia ed ara. — I/if. 26.t

Noon, too, does not want its characteristic touches
— the h'ghtning-hke glancing of the lizard's rapid
motion :

Come il ramarro sotto la gran fersa
Ne' di canicular cangiando siepe
Folgore par, se la via attraversa ; — Inf. 2^,.%

the motes in the sunbeam at noontide {Par. 14) ; its.

'* As oft along the pure and tranquil sky
A sudden lire l^y 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.
f 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.
X 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.

I50 DANTE.

clear, diffused, insupportable brightness, filling all

things :

E tutti eran gih, pieni

Dell' alto di i giron del sacro monte. — Picrg, 19.

and veiling the sun in his own light :

lo veggio ben si come tic f attnidi
Nel propria bwie.

* * » *

Si come '1 sol che si cela egli stessi
Per troppa luce, quando '1 caldo ha rose
Le temperanze de' vapori spessi. — Parad. 5.

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.*

the chill of early morning (Purg. 19) ; the dawn
stealing on, and the stars, one by one, fading " infino

* 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.

DANTE. 151

alia piu 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. i) ; 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 gross! vapor INIarte rosseggia
Giu nel ponente, sopra '1 suol marino,

"Cotal m' apparve, s' io ancor lo veggia,
Un lunie per lo mar venir si ratto
Che '1 muover suo nessun volar pareggia •,-—Ptirg. 2*

the distant sea-beach quivering in the early light :

L' alba vinceva 1' ora mattutina
Che fuggia innanzi, si die di lontano
Conobbi il tremolar della marma ; — Purg i.t

the contrast of east and west at the moment cf sun-
rise, and the sun appearing, clothed in mist :

lo vidi gia nel cominciar del giorno
La parte oriental tutta rosata

* ^Yhen lo ! like Mars, in aspect iiery 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.

+ 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.

152 DANTE.

E r altro ciel di bel sereno adorno ;

E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata
Si die per temperanza di vapori
L' occhio lo sostenea lungo fiato \—Piirg. 3.*

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 '1 ciel cacciato '1 Capricorno. — Purg. 2.f

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 appear-
ances— 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

* 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.

+ On every side the sun shot forth the day,
And had already with his arrows bright
From the mid-heaven chased Capricorn away. — Ibid.

DANTE.

15;

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, trans-
mitted 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 rub}', 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, " qitando una c fcnna, e V altra
va e riedc " — the brighter " nestling " itself in the
fainter — the purer set off on the less clear, ^^ come
per la in bianca f route" — 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 :

^'incendo me col lume d' un sorriso ;

154 DANTE.

joy lending its expression to light :

Quivi la donna mia vidi si lieta —
Che pill lucente se ne fe il pianeta.

E se la Stella si cambio, e rise,
Oual mi fee' io ; — Parad. 5.

light from every source, and in all its shapes, illu-
minates, irradiates, gives its glory to the Covimedia.
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 cre-
ations 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

DANTE. 155

change and eclipse, and deepens into red at the
sacrilege of men.*

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 bright-
ness and variety, dreamy and monotonous ; prevent
it from arming against itself sympathies which it does
not touch. He has watched with equal attention,
and dravv^s with not less power, the occurrences and
sights of Italian country life ; the summer whirl-
wind sweeping over the plain — " dinanzi polveroso va
siiperbo " {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 '1 sole i crin sotto 1' Aquario tempra,
E gia le notti al mezzo di sen vanno ;

Ouando la brina in su la terra assempra
L' imagine di sua sorella bianca,
Ma poco dura alia sua penna tempra,

Lo villanello a cui la roba manca
Si leva e guarda, e vede la campagna
Biancheggiar tutta ; ond ei si batte 1' anca ;

Ritorna a casa, e qua e la si lagna
Come '1 tapin che non sa che si faccia :
Poi riede e la speranza ringavagna

* Par ad. 27.

156 DANTE.

Veggendo '1 mondo aver cangiata faccia
In poco d' ora, e prende il suo vincastro
E fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia : — Inf. 24.*

the manner in which sheep come out from the fold :

Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso
A ima a due a tre, e V allre siajuio,
Timidette atterrando /' occJiio e'' I niiiso ;

E cib che fa la prima., e /' altre fantto,
Addossandosi a lei s^ el la j' arrest a
Semplici e quete, e lo 'mperche non sanno :

Si 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 se indietro alquanto,
E tutti gli altri che veniano appresso,
Non sappiendo il perche, fero altrettanto. — Piirg. 3.

So witli the beautiful picture of the goats upon
the mountain, chewing the cud in the noontide heat

* In the new year, when Sol his tresses gay
Dips in Aquarius, and the tai'dy 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.

DANTE. 157

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 :

(2uali si fanno ruminando manse
Le capre, state rapide e protcrvc
Sopra le ciiiie avanti che sien pranse,

Tacite al oinbra inoitre che V solferve,
Giiardate dal pasto?' che 'n su la verga
Poggiato s' e, e lor poggiato serve. — Purg. 27.*

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, /' nn dinatizi, e /' altro dopo
Come ifrati 7ninor v anno per via. — hif. 23.

He turns to account in his poem, the pomp and
clamour of the host taking the field (/;// 22) ; the
devices of heraldry ; the answering chimes of morning

Like goats that having over the crags pursued
Their wanton sports, now, quiet pass the time
In ruminating — sated with their food,

Beneatli the shade, while glows the sun on Iiigh —
Watched by the goatherd with unceasing care,
As on his staff lie leans, with watchful eye. — Ibid.

158 DANTE.

bells over the city;* the inventions and appHances 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 si or no s' intendon le parole, — Purg. 9.

the lute and voice in the chamber {Par. 20) ; the
dancers preparing to begin,t or waiting to catch a
new strain. J 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 drizzo ver me, con quel sembiante
Che madre fa sopra figliuol deliro. — Pa)\id. i.

* Indi come orologio che ne chiami
Neir ora che la sposa di Dio surge
A mattinar lo sposo perche 1' ami,

Che 1' una parte e 1' altra tira ed urge
Tin tin sonando con si dolce nota
Che '1 ben disposto spirto d' amor turge ;

Cosl vid' io la gloriosa ruota
Muoversi e render voce a voce, in tempra
Ed in dolcezza ch' esser non puo nota

Se non cola dove '1 gioir s' insempra. — Farad. lO,

t E come surge, e va, ed entra in hallo
Vergine lieta, sol per fame onore
Alia novizia, e non per alcun fallo. — Ibid. 25.

X Donne mi parver, non da hallo sciolte,
Ma che s' arrestin tacite ascoltando
Fin che le nuove note hanno ricolte. — Ibid. 10.

DANTE.

159

Nor is he less observant of the more dehcate pheno-
mena of mind, in its inward workings, and its con-
nexion 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, equall}'
numerous and equally common, which have none —
these, often so fugitive, so shifting, so baffling and
intangible, are expressed with a directness, a sim-
plicity, 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.*

* For instance : — thoughts upon thoughts, ending in sleep and dreams :
iS'uovo pensier dentro de me si mise,

Dal qual piii altri nacquero e diversi :
-£" tanto d' uno in altro vaneggiai
Che gli occhi per vaghezza 7'icopersi,

E ' I pensamento in sogno trasmutai. — Purg. iS.

sleep stealing off when broken by light :

Come si frange il sonno, ova di butto
Nuova luce percuote '1 viso chiuso,
Che fratto guizza pria che viuoja tutto. — Ibid. 17
the shoek of suddeji avoakening :

Come al lume acuto si disonna,

* * * *

E lo svegliato cid che vede abhorre,

i6o DANTE.

And he has anticipated the latest schools of
modern poetry, by making not merely nature, but

Si nescia e la subita vigilia,
Finche la sti-mativa nol soccorre. — Farad. 26.
umasy feelings produced by sight or 7-ep7-esentatio>i of sonidJiing unnatural- :

Come per sostentar solajo o tetto .
Per mensola talvolta una figura
Si vede glunger le ginocchia al petto,

La qual fa del 7ion ver vera rancura
Nascer a chi l.i vede ; cosi fatti
Vid' io color. — Purg. 10.
blushing in innocent sympathy fjr others .

E come domia onesta che permane
Di se sicura, e per I' altfui fallcnza
Pure ascoltando timida si fane:

Cosi Beatrice trasmuto sembianza. — Ibid. 27.
asking and answering by looks only :

Volsi gli occhi agli occhi al signor mio ;
Ond' elli m' assenli con lieto cenno
Cio che chiedea la vista del disio. — Purg. 19.
2iatching the effect of words :

Posto avea fine al sue ragionamento
L' alto dottore, ad attento guardava
Nella niia 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 betrajing Virgits presence to Statins, by his involuntary smile:

Volser Virgilio a me queste parole
Con viso che tacendo dicea : " taci ;"
Ma non puo tutto la virtu che vuole ;

Che riso e pianto son tanto seguaci
Alia passion da che ciascun si spicca,
Che mm segnon voler ne' piii veraci.

DANTE. i6r

science tributary to a poetry with whose general aim
and spirit it has little in common — tributary in its

lo pur sorrisi, come V uotn cJi ainmicca :
Perchc V ombra si iacqiie, e riginrdommi
Ncgli occhi ove V sembi ante pin si Jicca.

E se tanto lavoro in bene assommi,

Disse, perche la faccia tua testeso

Un lampeggiar d un riso dimostrommi ? — Purg. 21.

smiles and words together :

Per le sorrise parolette hrevi. — Farad, I.

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 e tanto
Che da lui sia tutta 1' anima tolta :

Cos! nel fiammeggiar del fulgor santo
A cui mi volsi, conobbi la voglia
In lui di ragionarmi ancore 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' pili bella,
Cos! con voce piii dolce e soave,
Ma non con questa moderna favella,
Dissemi ; — Farad, 16.

<hantins

Te hicis ante si divotamente
Le usci di bocca e con si dolce note,
Che fece me a me uscir di mente.

E 1' altre poi dolcemente e divote
Scguitar lei per tutto 1' inno intero,
Avendo gli occhi alle superne ruote. — Fiirg, 8.

M

i62 DANTE.

exact forms, even in its technicalities. He speaks of
the Mediterranean Sea, not merely as a historian, or

chanting blended 7vith the sound of the ofgan :

lo mi rivolsi attento al primo tuono,
E Te Deum laudamus mi parea
Udire in voce mista al dolce suono.
Tale imagine appunto mi rendea
Cio ch' io udiva, qual prender si suole
Quando a cantar con organi si stea ;

Ch'' or si, or no, i intcndon le parole, — Piirg. 9.

voices in concert:

E come in voce voce si discerne
Quando una efenna, e V altra va e riede. — Farad. S.

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" aver the Stygian pool :

Dal volto nmovea quell' aer grasso
3Ienando la siftistra innanzi spesso,
E sol di quell' angoscia parea lasso.

Ben m' accorsi ch' egli era del ciel messo,
E volsimi al maestro ; e quel 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 morde
Che quella di colui che gli e davante. — Inf. 9.

DANTE. 163

an observer of its storms or its smiles, but as a
geologist ;* of light, not merely in its beautiful
appearances, but in its natural laws.f 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.

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 ex-
quisitely-fitted and self-sustained mechanism of choice

* La magglor valle, in che 1' acqua si spandi. — Farad. 9.
+ E.g. Purg. 15.

M 2

1 64 DANTE.

words of the Greeks — none of that tempered and
majestic amphtudc of diction, which clothes, hke 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 recollec-
tions— 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 spon-
taneous 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 oi
them. All is in character with the absorbed and

DANTE. 165

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, hke that of the Meadow of the
Heroes (////. 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
[Piirgat. 6), or that one, unequalled in beauty, v/here
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.*

* lo vidi gia nel cominciar del giorno

La parte oriental tutta rosata,
E r altro ciel di bel sereno adorno,

E la faccia del sol nascere ombrata,
Si che per temperanza di vapori
L' occhio lo sostenea lunga fiata ;

Cosi dentro una nuvola di fieri,
Che dalle mani angeliche saliva,
E ricadeva giu 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 gia cotanto

Tempo era stato che alia sua presenza
Non era di stupor, tremando, affranto.

Se'Hza degli occhi aver piii conoscenza.
Per occulta virtu, che da lei mosse,
D' antico amor senti' la gran potenza.

1 66 DANTE.

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

Volsimi alia sinistra col rispitto,

Col quale il fantolin corre alia mamma,
Quando ha paura, o quando egli e afflitto,

Per dicere a Virgilio : Men che dramma
Di sangue m' e rimasa, che non tremi :
Conosco i segni dell' antica fiamma.

Ma Virgilio n' avea lasciati scemi

Di se, Virgilio dolcissimo padre,

Virgilio, a cui per mia salute diemi :
» * * * ♦

Dante, perche Virgilio se ne vada,

Non piangere anche, non piangere ancora

Che pianger ti convien per altra spada.
*****

Regalmente nell' atto ancor proterva

Continue, come colui che dice,

E il piu caldo parlar diretro serva,

Guardami ben : ben son, ben son Beatrice :

Come degnasti d' accedere al monte ?

Non sapei tu, che qui e 1' uom felice? — Piirg. 30.

But extracts can give but an imperfect notion of this grand and
touching canto.

DANTE. 167

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 m.ade or marred by them. It is the greatness of a
comprehensive and vast conception, sustaining with-
out 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
v/e 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 Covi-
inedia ; 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 amiong those of
human truth. The unity of the Avhole is unimpaired.

1 68 DANTE.

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 ex-
cellence. 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 sym-
pathies failed him not, whether discriminating and
enumerating, as if he had gone through them all, the
various forms of human sufiferincr, from the dull.

DANTE. 169

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
Cambio 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 Comnicdia 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 tlioughtfully and con-
sciously 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

I70 DANTE.

who never saw his face an niheritance 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 Piirgatorio 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. No-
where else in poetry of equal power is there the sarne
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 con-
trasted 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 compre-
hensiveness. 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

DANTE. 171

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 innumer-
able 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 dissem-
bling reverence — at the distance of worlds, below the
place of the lowest saint.

Those who know the Divina Cominedia 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 aiso to know, not by hearsay, but by

172 DANTE.

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 tranquillisc, 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 re-
cognise, in distinct image or thouglit, 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 faint-
heartedness, its living energy their indolence, its
stern and sad grandeur rebuked low thoughts, its
thrilling tenderness overcome sullcnness and as-
suaged 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

DANTE. 173

than light can always give — in the view which it
has suggested to them of the judgments and the
love of God *

* 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. Ivlariotti." 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.

DE MONARCHIA.

BOOK I.

I. — It veiy greatly concerns all men on whom a
higher nature has impressed*^ 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

* ii

'/« gtios va-itatis amorem natura stipe7'ior impressifj' On the
ancient idea (Aug. De Trin. iii. 4; Aquin. Si/mm. i, 66, 3) of the
influence or impression of higlier natures on lower, cf. Farad, i. 103,
X. 29.

N

1 78 DE MONARCHIA.

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.

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."

n. — First, therefore, we must see what is it

DE MONARCHIA. 179

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 ques-
tion, is it necessary for the welfare of the w^orld .'*
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 certaint}'
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 specu-
lation, 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

I So DE MONARCHIA.

do not act for the sake of speculation, but contrari-
wise : 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 de-
ductions 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* says
in his book to Nicomachus,t the half of our

* The common title for Aristotle from the first half of the thirteenth
century. FzVi? Jourdain, Rechenhes siir Ics traductions d^ Aristote, p. 212^
note.

t Arist. Ethics^ i. 7.

DE AIONARCHIA.

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 Vv'hole inquiry.

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

iS2 DE MONARCHIA.

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 vvhich 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 folloAv that one essence would be specifically
distributed to many species, which is impossible.
Therefore the ultimate quality of men is not exist-
ence, taken simply ; for the elements share therein.
Nor is it existence under certain conditions ;* for
we find this in minerals too. Nor is it existence
with life ; for plants too have life. Nor is it per-
cipient existence ; for brutes share in this power-
It is to be percipientf with the possibility of under-
standing, 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 under-
standing, 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 ;
v/hich is without interruption, otherwise they would
not be eternal. It is plain, therefore, that the dis-

* " Esse compkxionatum."
•f* ^^ Apprehensivuin per intellechim possibilem" V. Aqiihi. I. 79. i, 2, 10.

DE MONARCHIA. I S3

tinguishing quality of humanity is the faculty or the
power of understanding.

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 * 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 exten-
sion, with particular ones. Therefore it is com-
monly 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 viade, which are regulated by art ; all which
things wait as handmaidens on the speculative in-

* " Generabilium.^

1 84 DE MONARCH! A.

tellect, as on that best good, for which the Primal
Goodness created the human race. Hence the saying
of the Pohtics* that those who are strong in under-
standing are the natural rulers of others.

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 exten-
sion, 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 goodAvill."
Therefore also, " Peace be with you," was the saluta-

• Arist. Folit. i. 5, 6.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 185

tion of the Saviour of mankind. F'or 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 w^ork. 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 assump-
tion 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 ques-
tions 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 neces-
sary for the welfare of the world ; and that it is neces-
sary can, I think, be shown by the strongest and most

1 86 DE MONARCHIA.

manifest arguments ; for nothing, either of reason or
of authority, opposes me. Let us first take the autho-
rity of the Philosopher in his Politics.* There, on his
venerable authority, it is said that Avhere 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.

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 other-
wise 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."t And, as
Homer says, it is his duty to make rules and laws for
the rest. Hence the proverbial curse: "Maystthou
have an equal at home."J Take a single village : its
end is suitable assistance as regards persons and

* Arist. Polit. i. 5.

t Ibid. i. 2, 6, quoting Horn. Od. ix. 114. — (W.)
J Ficinus translates : " Uno proverbio che quasi bestemmiando dice,
Abbi pari in casa."

DE MONARCHIA. 1S7

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* 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 v^^e take any one kingdom,
of which the end is the same as that of a city, only
with greater security for its tranquillit}^, 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.

Nov/ it is plain that the whole human race is
ordered to gain some end, as has been before shovvn.
There must, therefore, be one to guide and govern,

* " Oi/u/zia" =7rapfK^d(7eis. V. Arist. Eih. viii. 10; Pol. iii. 7.— (W.)

1 88 DE MONARCHIA.

and the proper title for this office is Monarch or
Emperor, And so it is plain that Monarchy or the
Empire is necessar}^ 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 docs 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

DE AIONARCHIA. 1S9

the mass considered as a whole. And therefore all
the parts that we have mentioned, which are com-
prised 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 Avelfare of the world.

"^H. — 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.

igo DE MONARCHIA.

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
Avhole universe but the footprint of the divine good-
ness .'' The human race, therefore, is well, nay at its best
state, Vv'^hen, 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," accord-

DE MONARCIilA. 191

ing to the second book on Natural Learning* The
human race, therefore, is at its best when it imitates the
movements of heaven, so far as human nature allows.
Andsincethewholeheavenis 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. "-f-

X. — Wherever there is controversy, there ought
to be judgment, otherwise there would be imper-
fection without its proper remedy,^ which is im-
possible ; 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

* Arist. Phys. Ansc. ii. 2.— (W.) t De Consol. Phil. ii. met. 8.— (W.)
X ' ' Sine propno pe7-fectivo. ' '

192 DE MONARCHIA.

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 im-
possible, 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. ]\Ionarchy is therefore
necessary to the world, and this the Philosopher sav;
when he said : " The world is not intended to be dis-
posed in evil order ; ' in a multitude of rulers there
is evil, therefore let there be one prince.' "*

XL — Further, the world is ordered best when
justice is most paramount therein : whence Virgil,
washing to celebrate that age, which in his own
time seemed to be arising, sang in Mvs, Bucolics :-\ "Now

Arist. Metaphys. xii. lO, who quotes from Horn, //. ii. 204.— (W.)
t Ed. iv. 6.

DE MONARCHIA. 193

doth the Virgin return, and the kingdom of Saturn."
For Justice was named " the Virgin," and also Astraea.
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
?\Ionarchy, that is, the Empire, is needed if the
world is to be ordered for the best. For better
proof of this assum.ption it must be recognised that
Justice, considered in itself, and in its proper nature,
is a certain rightness or rule of conduct, which re-
jects 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 * 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 arc connected, accord-
ing 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

* Gilbert de la Porree, tiiS4. 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 Haureau,
Philosophie Scolasdque, i^ Partie, p. 452.

O

194 DI^ MONARCHIA.

star of morning nor of evening is so admirable."*
For then is it like Phoebe, when she looks across
the heavens at her brother from the purple of the
morning calm.

Now Justice, as a state of mind,t 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 feelingsj of a judge, are rightly
repelled. But, in practice, § 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.

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

* From Arist. Ethics, v. I. — (W.) + ^^ Quantum ad hahihim.
X '^ Fassionare." § " Quantum ad operatiottem."

DE MONARCHIA. 195

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 pro-
position 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.* Remove Appetite alto-
gether, 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 ;t 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 neigh-
bours ; 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.

Further, as Appetite in some degree, however

* Eth. V. 2.— (W.) + Rhdoric, i. i.— (Vv'.)

O 2

196 DE MONARCHTA,

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, scorn-
ing* 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.

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 himi that loves ; but men are nearer
to a Monarch than they are to other princes ; there-
fore 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

* ' 'Fefseitas hoininum " = ' 'facultas per se subsistmdi. " — Ducange.

DE MONARCHIA. 197

second is manifest because men are brought near to a
Monarch in their totality,* but to other princes only
partially ; and it is only by means of the ]\Ionarch
that men are brought near other princes at all. Thus
the ]\Ionarch cares for all primarily and directly,
whereas other princes only care for their subjects
through the jMonarch, and because their care for
their subjects descends from the supreme care of the
Monarch.

Again, a cause has the nature of a cause in pro-
portion 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.f And, in proportion as
a cause is really a cause, it loves Avhat it effects ; for
such love follows the cause by itself. Now IMonarchy
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

* ^' Seaindum totum."

+ 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 siir les traductions d'Aristote (1842),
pp. 114, 184, 193, 195, 445 ; Philosophie de S. Thomas (185S), i. 94.

19S BE MONARCHIA.

who understands not the meaning of the word ? for if
he be really a Monarch he cannot have enemies.

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,

XIL— 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 \vill, 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."*

Therefore I say that Judgment is between Appre-
hension 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

* Cf. Arist. Magna Jlloral, i. i : "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.

DE MONARCHIA. 199

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 wdiich 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.*

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
happinessf as men : by it alone we gain happiness
elsewhere as gods. J 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.§ For everything which exists for the sake

* Cf. Purgatorio, xviii. 22. — "Witte. + '■^ Feliciiamur.''

X "■UtDii-" cf. Paradise, v. 19. — WiTTE.
§ I.e. Metaphys. i, 2.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

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 man-
kind into slavery, as is obvious to any who goes
about among them all ; and public power* 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 govern -
ment:t therefore the Philosopher says, in his Politics \%
" 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 ;§ as also

^'' Politizant reges." + " Oblique politisantes."

X Polit. iii. 4. § Ibid. iii. 16, 17.— (W.)

BE MONARCHIA.

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 ^ 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.

Xm. — 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 there-
fore 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,"^ " Everything which becomes

* " Resfecfu via; . . . respcctu tomini"
t Meiaphys. ix. 8.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

actual from being potential, becomes so by means of
something actual of the same kind," and were any-
thing 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 speak-
ing well and doing ill ; forgetting that the hands of
Jacob were more persuasive with his father than his
v/ords, 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."* 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.
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

Ai-ist. Eth. X. I.— (W.)

DE MONARCH/A. 203

false opinions. For Vv'liich reason Galen well says :
" Such as these require double time to acquire
knowledge."* A Monarch then has nothing to tempt
appetite, or, at least, less than any other man, as
we have shown before ; vrhereas other princes have
much ; and appetite is the only corrupter of righteous-
ness, 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 wl'iich 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."t

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,

XIY.— 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

* De cog7iosc. animi moy-bis, c, lo. — ^YITTE.

* Cf. Farad, xiii. 95.— (^Y.)

2 04 DE MONARCHIA.

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 pro-
duced is produced also by A. All additions of this
kind are useless and superfluous : all that is super-
fluous 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 judg-
ments for each particular town are to proceed imme-
diately from him. For municipal laws sometimes fail,

DE MONARCH! A.

and need guidance, as the Philosopher shows in his
fifth book to Nicomachus, when he praises equity.*
For nations and kingdoms and states have, each of
them, certain pecuharities 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.t and suffer cold which is almost
unbearable, from the great inequality of their days and
nights. But the Garamantes need a diftcrent 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 v'iqw to
their peace. And the individual princes must receive
this rule of life or law from him, just as the prac-
tical intellect receives its major premiss from the
speculative intellect, under which it places its own
particular premiss, and then draws its particular

* Eth. V. 14.— (W.)

+ Ptolemy, the mediaeval authority on geography, divided the known
world into Kkifiara, zones of slope toward^ the pole, or belts of latitude,
eight of which from the equinoctial to the mouths of the Tanais and the
Ripha;an mountains. The seventh "clima" passed over the mouths
of the Borysthenes. See Mercator's map in Bertius' Theatrmn Geo-
graphics Veteris (1618), art. "Ptolemy" in Smith's Dictionary of
Biography, p. 577. Dictionary of Antiquities, art. " Clima."

2o6 DE MONARCHIA.

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
him.self 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.

Therefore it is better for the human race to be
ruled by one than by many, and therefore there
should be a Monarch, vvho 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. There-
fore 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.*

* Arist. Categ., e.g.: Priority is said in five ways — I. First in i'/w^'.
2. First in presupposition. 3. First in order. 4. First in excellence.
5. First in logical sequence.

DE MONARCHIA, 207

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
thmgs, that which is most one is best, as the Philo-
sopher holds in the treatise about simple Being. There-
fore 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 Metap/iysics.'^-
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 Avine and oil, are they
multiphed."t

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

* V. Arist. Mdapk. i, 5 ; Et/iics i. 4 ; cf. Ritter and Preller,
Hist. Philos. sec. 105 f Ps. iv, 8 (vulg.).

2o8 DE MONARCHIA,

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 con-
cordant because that they all ascend together towards
thecircumference,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.*

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

* On the scholastic doctrine of forms, v. Thorn, Aquin, Summ.
I. 105, art. 4.

DE MONARCHIA. 209

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.^ And this cannot be unless
there is one prince o^'-er 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.

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

♦ Arist. Eth. x. 5.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

under whom a perfect Monarchy existed, was the
world everywhere quiet. And that then the human
race v;as happy in the tranquilhty 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, v.-hat losses
must thou endure, Avhat 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 under-
standing ; 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 unitv."*

Ps. cxxxii. I.— (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.' " -"
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 Avith 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, with-
out any to Avithstand 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 carcfull}-
and thoroughly examined the matter, when I had

*P3. ii. i-3.-(W.)

P 2

DE MONARCHIA.

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, iji_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 Caesar,
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."

DE MONARCH/A.

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 ignor-
ance from the eyes of those princes who have •\vrongl}-
seized the helm of public government, falsely imput-
ing this thing to the Roman people ; but all men
shall understand that they are free from the yoke
of these usiurpers. The truth of the question can be
made clear not only by the light of human reason,
but also_J)y 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 v;hich he works, so

214 DE MONARCHIA.

wc 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* 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
follovv's 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,t 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 instru-
ment of God's art, which men call nature; for the
material, being merely a possibility, can do nothing of
itself. +

Hence it is apparent that, since all Right § 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

* " Fhiitaji/cm." f "Dei tiattiraufis."

X Witte refers to Parad. xiii. 67, xxix. 32, i, 127-130. Cf.
Thom. Aquin. StimiJi. I., q. 66, art. 1-3; q. 1 10, 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, A'oz'. Org. i. 66. § "Jits."

DE MONARCH/A. 215

saying, "What was made, in Him was life ;"* 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
elsejhaiijhejikeness 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 bv
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.

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." f 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 Vv-hich are made." For
when the seal is out of sight, the wax, which has its

*St. Jchni. 3.— (W.)

\ Eth. i. 7, from Thorn. Aq. Lcct. XI. — (W.)

2i6 DE MONARCHIA.

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.*
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 pre-
ferred 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,"t which two
statements refer to two sorts of nobleness, our own
and that of our ancestors.^

* 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 lieges, § 8, p. 444, ed. Fraticelli.

+ Arist. Pol. iii. 12; Juv. viii. 20. — (W.)

X Witte refers to Dante's commentary on his own Canzone in the
Convito iv. 3, and the Parad. xvi. i.

DE MONARCHIA. 217

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 testi-
monies of the ancients confirm our opinion ; for
Virgil, our divine poet, testifies throughout his ySneid,
that men may ever remember it, that the glorious
king, ^neas, 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." *

For the virtue then of /Eneas himself, hear what
our poet tells us when he introduces Ilioneus in the
first yEneid, pra}ang thus : "^neas 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 yEncid,

* " Sed summa sequar vestigia rerum." Virg. ^n. 1. 343

("fastigia" in all good MSS. and edd.).

2i8 DE MONARCHIA.

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 ^neas ; for there
Virgil says that Misenus " followed as good a man ; "
thus comparing yEneas to Hector, whom* Homer ever
praises above all men, as the Philosopher witnesses in
his Ethics, in vvhat he vv^ites to Nicomachus on habits
to be avoided.

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
jEneid: "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, Vv'ho was Dardanus ; from Africa his grand-
mother Electra, daughter of the great king Atlas, to
both which things the poet testifies in the eighth
^neid, where ^neas 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 yEneid Virgil says that Dardanus drew his

^n. i. 544, vi. 170. //. xxiv. 258, quoted in Aristotle, Ethics,

DE MONARCHIA. 219

origin from Europe. " There is a land which the
Greeks have named Hesperia, an ancient land, strong
and wealthy, where the ^Enotrians 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.*

Likewise I find that by marriage also ^neas 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 cur
poet testifies in the third yEneid, where Andromache
asks ^neas: "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 } " t The
second wife was Dido, the queen and foundress
of Carthage in Africa. That she was the wife of
^neas our poet sings in his fourth ySneid, where he

* ^jz. iii. I, viii. 134, iii. 163 ; Oros. i. 2. — (W.)
tin. 339. The best MSS. of Virgil omit "peperit fumante
Creusa."

DE MONARCHIA.

says of Dido : "No more docs 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 testi-
mony of our poet in his last Aincid, where he intro-
duces Turnus conquered, praying to ^neas thus :
" Thou hast conquered, and the Ausonians have seen
me lift my hands in prayer for mercy ; Lavinia is
thine."* This last wife was from Italy, the noblest
region of Europe.

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 predestina-
tion 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." f And so he proves that

* ^n. xii. 936. — (W.) t Contra Gait. iii. loi.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 221

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."* 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.f

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

* Exod. vii. 12-15. — (W.)

+ Witte refers to the Ep. ad Rcgcs, % 8, for the same thought.

DE MONARCHIA.

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."* And when the Gauls
had taken all the city, and, under cover of the dark-
ness, 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 Avriters 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.t And our poet commemorates
the event in his description of the shield of ^neas 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.''^

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

* Luc. ix. 477.— (W.) + V. Liv. v. 47, and the Conviio, iv. 5-— (^Y.)
X^En. viii. 652. — (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 223

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. =i^

"Was not the escape of Cloelia wonderful, a Vv-oman,
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 ? f

Thus was it fitting that He should work Avho
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, v/hen it
is preserved, preserves society, and when it is destroyed,
destroys society. J The description of Right in the
Digest does not give the essence of right, but only
describes it for practical purposes.§ If therefore our
definition comprehends well the essence and reason of

* Liv. xxvi. II ; Oros. iv. 17.— (W.)

t Liv. ii. 13; Oros. ii. 5.— (W.) % Cf. Aristotle, ^//i:Vj, v. 6.
§ ''Jus est ars boni et Kqui." L. i, fr. Dig. Dejiistitia et lure,
i. i.-(W.)

2 24 DE MONARCHIA.

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, Avhich 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."* 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."t 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.

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

* De Invent, i. 38.— (W.)

t Not Seneca, but Martin, Bp. of Braga, fsSo,— (W.) V. Biog.
Univ.

DE MONARCHIA.

= 25

\vrittcn : " The Roman Empire springs from the
fountain of piety." "i^

But seeing that nothing is known of the intention
of an agent Avho 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 Ojjiciis, will suffice. " So long," he says, " as the
Em.pire of the republic was maintained not by in-
justice, 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 govern-
ment might have been called not so much Empire, as
a Protectorate of the whole world." So wrote Cicero.f

* '■^ Romanum imperium defonte nascilur pietatis." — (Witte.) He
has not been able to trace the saying. t De Off', ii. 8. — (W.)

Q

2 26 DE MONARCHIA.

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.* Well did Cicero, arguing against Epicurus,
in the volume De Finibiis, speak in praise of him,
mindful of this good deed.f "And so," he says, "our
ancestors took Cincinnatus from the plough, and
made him dictator."

Has not Fabricius left us a lofty example of
resisting avarice, when, poor man as he v/as, for the
faith by which he was bound to the republic, he
laughed to scorn the great weight of gold v/hich was
offered him, and refused it, scorning it v.-ith words
which became him well. His story too is confirmed
by our poet in the sixth yEneid,X v/here he speaks of
" Fabricius strong in his poverty."

Has not Camillus left us a memorable example of

* Liv. vi. 28, 29; Oros. ii. 12.— (W.)
t II. 4--(^V.) X VI. S44.-(W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 227

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 y^neid,
where our poet speaks of " Camillus, that restored to
us our standards."*

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."t

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.

» Liv. V. 46; Mn. vi. 826.— (W.) + jEn. vi. S21.— ^W.)

Q 2

2 28 DE MONARCHIA.

Add to these those sacred victims the Decii,

who laid down their Hves by an act of devotion

for the pubHc safety, whom Livy glorifies in his

narrative, not as they deserve, but as he v;as 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,

shovv^ed hovv^ dear was liberty, choosing to pass out

of life a free man, rather than without liberty to

abide in life.* The glory of all these heroes glows

afresh in the words of Cicero in his book Dc Finihus ;

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

* Witte quotes the Conviio, iv. 5, where all these examples are
recounted, almost in the same language. He compares Parad. vi. 46
(Cincinnatus), Purgat. xx. 25 (P'ahricms), Parad. vi. 47 (Decii), Purg. i.
■where Cato guards the approach to Purgatorj'.

DE MONARCHIA. 229

the like in his fourth consulship; nor would his grand-
son, 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
O'fficiis,'^- Cicero says of Cato : " Marcus Cato was
in no different position from his comrades v>'ho in
Africa surrendered to Csesar. The others, had they
slain themselves, would perhaps have been blamed
for the act, for their life was of less consequence,t
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 un-
remitting 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."

VI.— Two things therefore have been made clear:
first, that whoever aims at the good of the state aims
at right; J 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

I. 31 (W.), carelessly quoted. + " Levior" si. ^' lenior."

X ''' Fiiiem juris intcndit."

230 DE MONARCHIA.

right, as vre have made manifest in the preceding
chapter. Therefore in bringing the world into sub-
jection the Roman people acted according to right,
consequently it was by right that they assumed the
dignity of Empire.

We reach this conclusion on grounds which are
manifest to all. It is manifest from this, that who-
soever 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 Avould 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 there-
fore it is impossible that any two things, spoken of
as separate things,* and in so far as they are two,
should have the same end as their aim, for so the
same absurdity f 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

* " Per sc loquendo." + '^ Ittcojivenicns."

DE MONARCH! A. 231

taking to pieces the idea,* 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 drav/n from Aristotle's treatment
of "good counsel" avail anything.-j- He there says :
" It is possible to obtain what is the right result from
a syllogism, which is incorrect, but not by an argu-
ment 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,

* " Construendo et desiniendo." Technical terms of the conditional
iyllogism, constructive and destructive.
+ TLv^ovXia. Ethics, vi. lo.

232 DE MONARCH/A.

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.

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.

DE MOXARCHIA. 233

The Roman people v/as 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 vrould 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 Philo-
sopher, in the second book of Natural Learning,'^
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 pro-
duce many men and set them to act. And besides
the higher influcnce,t the powers and properties
of inferior spheres contribute much to this. And
therefore we see not only that individual men, but

* Arist. Phys. Aicsc. ii. i. — (W.)

t I.e. of the heavens. Witte quotes Farad, viii. 97, Fiirg: xiv. 3S.

234 DE MONARCHIA.

also that certain races are born to govern, and certain
others to be governed and to serve, as the Philosopher
argues in the Politics -j"^^ and for the latter, as he him-
self says, subjection is not only expedient, but just,
even though they be forced into subjection.

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 sulhciently 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 skil-
fully touches on in the sixth yE7icid, where he intro-
duces Anchises prophesying to yEneas, the ancestor of
the Romans : "Others may mould the breathing bronze
more delicately — I doubt jt 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 endow-
ments— to make peace to be the custom of the world ;
to spare thy foes when they submit, and to crush
the proud." t And again, Virgil skilfully notes the

* I. 5, II ; 6, 9.— (W.) + yEn. vi. 848, iv. 227.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 235

appointment of the place, in the fourth JSiieid, when
he brings in Jupiter speaking to Mercury concerning
JEnediS : " 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, tem-
pestuous with wars." It has, therefore, sufficiently
been shown that the Roman people was by nature
ordained to empire. Therefore it was of right that
thqy gained empire, by subduing to themselves the
world.

Vm. — 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 wdiich 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.* Therefore every man
ought to risk himself for his country, as the less
good for the better ; whence the Philosopher says to

♦ Arist. Po/. i. 2, 12.— (W.)

2^,6 DE MONARCHIA.

0

Nicomachus : " The end is desirable, indeed, even for
an individual, but it is better and more divine for a
nation and State."* 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.

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 ;"t ^i^cl 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." J The door of the
tabernacle stands for Christ, who is the door of the
kingdom of heaven, as may be proved from the

* Ethics, i. I. + Cf. Farad, xix. 70.— (W.)

X Heb. ii. 6; Levit. xvii. 3, 4.— (W.).

DE MONARCH/A. 237

Gospel : the killing of animals represents men's
actions.*

But the judfjment 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, some-
times by revelation assisted by a certain kind of trial
or debate. Simple revelation, too, is of two kinds :
either God gives it of his ov^ai 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 v;as 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 :t "When we know not
what we ought to do, this only have we left, to direct
our eyes to Thee."

* 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 irra-
tional 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.' "

+ 2 Chron. xx. 12 (Vulg.).

238 DE MONARCHIA.

Revelation by means of trial is also of two kinds.
It is given either by casting lots, or by combat ; for
"to strive" {ccrtarc), is derived from a phrase which
means " to make certain " {cerium 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 "duellioncs,"
or it is by the contention of many men, each striving
to reach a certain mark first, as happens in the con-
tests of athletes who run for a prize. The first of
these methods was prefigured among the Gentiles
by the contests between Hercules and Antaeus, 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 Aletamorphoses.^

Moreover, it ought not to pass unnoticed concern-
ing these two kinds of strife, that while in the first
each champion may fairly hinder his antagonist, \\\
the second this is not so ; for athletes must not hinder
one another in their strife, though our poet seems to

* Phars. iv. 593; Metam. ix. 183, x. 569.— (W.).

DE MONARCHIA. 239

have thought differently in the fifth ^neid where
Euryahis so receives the prize.* But Cicero has done
better in forbidding this practice in the third book of
the De Officiis, following the opinion of Chrysippus.f
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."

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, v/hich conquered when all
were striving hard for the Empire of the world, con-
quered 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."J It cannot, then, be

* V. 335--(W.) t III. io.-(W.)

X Witte only gives a query (?). The sapng expresses the Ghibelline

view of the relation of the Empire to the Pope ; it may have originated

with the coronation of Charles the Great.

240 DE AIONARCHIA.

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.

The first man who panted for the prize was Ninus,
King of the Assyrians ; but although for more than
ninety years (as Orosius tells*) he, with his royal
consort Semiramis, strove for the Empire of the
world and made all Asia subject to himself, neverthe-
less he never subdued the West. Ovid mentions both
him and his queen in the fourth book of the Meta-
:norpJioscs, when he says, in the story of Pyramus:-}-
" Semiramis girdled the round space with brick-built
walls;" and, "let them come to Ninus' tomb and
hide beneath in its shade."

Secondly, Vesoges, King of Egypt, aspired to this
prize ; but though he vexed the North and South
of Asia, as Orosius relates,! yet he never gained for
himself one-half of the world ; nay, when, as it were,

* I. 4.— (W.) t Mdanu iv. 5S, 8S.— (W.) % Oros. i. 14.— (W.)

DE MONARCH/A. 241

between the judges* and the goal, the Scythians
drov^e him back from his rash enterprise.

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.f

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 : J
" 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.

Besides these kings, and after their times, Alex-
ander, 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

* (<

' AthlothetDs. " The judges or umpires in the Greek games,
whose seats were opposite to the goal at the side of the stadium. Fide
Smith's Dictionary 0/ Anii^uides, s. v. "stadium."

t Oros. ii. 7.— (W.) J F/tars. ii. 692.— (W.)

R

242 DE MONARCHIA.

Roman answer came, he fell in Egypt, as Livy* tells
us, as it were in the middle of the course. Of his
burial there, Lucan speaks in the eighth book of his
Pharsalia,^ v/here he is inveighing against Ptolemy,
King of Egypt : " Thou last of the Lagasan 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 "

" 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 u^neidsdiys-.X "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

* Not Livy. Cf. ix. i8, 3, where, speaking of Alexander and the
Romans, he says : " Quern ne fama quidem ilHs 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 Rojne, 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.

t VIII. 692. X I. 234.— (W.>

DE MONARCHIA. 243

renewed ; over the sea and over the land they shall
hold full sway."* 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,t speaking of the
Roman prince says: "With his sceptre he ruled the
nations, those whom Phcebus 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 Caesar Augustus that all the world
should be taxed ;" from which words we must plainly
understand that the Romans had jurisdiction over the
whole world.

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

I. 109.— (W.) t De Consol. Phil. ii. 6.— (W.)

R 2

244 DE MONARCH/A.

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,^
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 Avay, 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

* Dc Off. i. 12 J De Re Milit. iii. pvl.—iy^.)

DE MONARCHIA. 245

a single combat, forced thereto by a necessity of
justice.

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."*

But, if the rules of single combat be kept when
men are driven by justice to meet together by com-
mon 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 t 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, vrhen the}' sought

* " Imperii ^vVic7," not "corona," in Ck. de Ojff. i. 12. — (W.)

246 DE MONARCHIA.

for a judgment in the fortune of single combat. So
Pyrrhus, noble both in the manners and in the blood
of yEacidae, gave a worthy ans\yer 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."* 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.

* Ennius in Cic. de Off. i. I2 (W.) "War-monger" is Spenser's
word. F. Q. 3, lo, 29.

DE MONARCHIA. 247

But, if men will not receive the truth which v/e
have proved, and object, as they are wont, that all
men are not equal in strength, v/e 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 Antaeus. 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 betvv-een 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, v/hen a quarrel arose about the
settling in Italy of Father ^Eneas, the earliest ancestor
of this people, and when Turnus, King of the Rutuli,
withstood ^neas, 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 jEneid.
And in this combat ^Eneas was so merciful in his
victory, that he v/ould have granted life and peace
to the conquered foe, had he not seen the belt which

243 DE MONARCHIA.

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,* 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.-|-

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 w-ar 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

* ^^ II sacrosanio sesnoy V. Farad, vi. 32. t Liv. i. 24; Oros. ii. 4.

DE AIONARCHIA. 249

his Pharsalia-.'''' "How many companies lay dead by
the Colh'ne gate then, when the headship of the world
and universal empire well-nigh were transferred to
other seatSj and the Samnite heaped the corpses of
Rome beyond the numbers t of the Caudine Forks."

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 judg-
ment 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

* n. 135.
+ " Romanaque Samnis
Ultra Caudinas superavit vulnera furcas."
Another reading is "speravit."

250 DE MONARCHIA.

of man regards these principles : and let them be
silent, content to show forth counsel and judgment
according to the meaning of the lav/.

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 argu-
m.ents which mostly rest on principles of reason ; we
must now make our point clear by arguments based
on the principles of the Christian faith.

XTT- — For it is they Vv'ho 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
allov/ the minister of justice to fulfil his office.

Nor does this impoverishment happen vvithout
the judgment of God. For their possessions do not
afford help to the poor, to whom belongs as their
patrimony the Vvealth 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

DE MONARCHIA. 251

evil : for they were well given, and they are mis-
chievously 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 pro-
positions, that if one is false the other is true. It
is not needful to prove the falsity of the consequent
to a true behever : 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 m.an
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 EtJiics),^' therefore by this he per-
suades us more than if it were merely an approval
in words. But Christ, as Luke who writes His story,

* EtJu X. I.

DE MONARCI-IIA.

says, willed to be born of the Virgin Mary under
an edict of Roman authority, so that in that un-
exampled 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 Caesar, so that He who had been such long
years expected among men should Himself enroll
himself with mortal man.

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 argu-
ment 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 un-
justly ; 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

DE MONARCHIA. 253

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 plea-
sure 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

254 DE MONARCHIA.

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.* Therefore the Israelites said unto
Moses : " Who made thee a judge over us .?"

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 Csesar, whose
vicar was Pontius Pilate, would not have had juris-
diction 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.

* ^^Ab ordinario jiidice."

DE MONARCHIA.

25s

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 be-
ginning and at the end of His Avarfare 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 v/eakener of thine empire,
had never been born, or if his own pious intention had
never deceived him .^*

* Constantine the Great. — ^W.)

BOOK III.

I.—" He hath shut the Hons' mouths and they
have not hurt me, forasmuch as before Him justice
was found in me."* At the beginning of this work
I proposed to examine into three questions, ac-
cording 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 ;" f seeing that
the Philosopher, my instructor in morals, bids me, for
the sake of truth, to put aside what is dearest ; J 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

* Dan. vi. 22, Vulg.— (W.) t Piov. vii. 7. Vulg.— (W.)

t Arist. £i/i. i. 4.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

^57

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 lisLs the wicked and the liar, in the sight of
all the world. Why should I fear, when the Spirit,
which is co-eternal v/ith 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".''*

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 under-
stand 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

Ps. cxii. 7.— (W.)

258 DE MONARCH/A.

in speaking truth, unless we start from a principle ?
For the principle alone is the root of all the proposi-
tions which are the means of proof.

Let us, therefore, start from the irrefragable truth
that that__wliich 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 impos-
sible 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 wiW^ 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

DE AIONARCHIA. 259

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.

Ill— 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.

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26o DE MONARCHIA.

In g-eometiy 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 \\..^ 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.

Now three classes of rnen 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,

* " Scythamm Civilitatcin." Cf. Arist. Ethics, iii. 5, where
TO ^ovXevTov is discussed, and thence come the first and the third
example, a little altered, the Egyptian being substituted for the Spartan-.

DE MONARCHIA. 261

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,*
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 pre-
vail, disparage the power of the Empire. And no
Avonder, 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. ^lay
this wickedness be taken away from the thoughts

* Farad, ix. 133.— (W.)

262 DE MONARCHIA.

of men by those who, antecedently to the traditions
of the Church, have beheved in Christ the Son of
God, whether to come, or present, or as having
ah-eady 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.

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
zvith 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."*

WitJi 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 f 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

* Ps. cxi. 9. Cant. i. 3.— (W.) \ '' Scriptiira:.'"

DE MONARCHIA. 263

fruit, or if he has beheld, he has never tasted
thereof

After the Church are the traditions which they
call Decretals, Avhich, although they are to be vene-
rated 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 trans-
gress 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 them-
selves 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,

2 64 DE MONARCHIA.

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 argu-
ments, 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

DE MONARCHIA. 265

rule the night; this they understand to be an allegory,
for that the lights are the two povvers/i^ 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.

For the disposing of these, and of other like argu-
ments, we must remember the Philosopher's words
in his book on Sophistry, "the overthrow of an
argument is the pointing out of the mistake."t

Error may arise in two ways, either in the matter,
or in the form of an argument ; cither, that is, by
assuming to be true what is false, or by transgressing
the laws of the syllogism. The Philosopher raised ob-
jections 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. J
I use " false " in a large sense, as including the incon-
ceivable,§ 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

* "JKCgiiniiia." \ SoJ^h. El. ii. 3. — (W.)

X Aristotle, F/'.ys. i. 2.— (W.) § "InoJiinabiU."

266 DE MONARCHIA.

been assumed which is either false in itself, or false in
relation to that particular instance. If the assump-
tion 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.

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;-^ that we must
not think that all things, of vv^hich 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 plough-
share that we turn up the earth ; but the other
parts of the plough are also necessary.

On account of the second way in which error
touching the interpretation of mysteries may arise,
Augustine, in his book 'U-oncci'iiing Christia?t doctrme"
speaking of those who wish to find in Scripture some-

* Dante does not quote St. Augustine's words, but gives his
meaning, xvii. 2. — (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 267

thing other than he who wrote the Scripture meant *
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 shov/n 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 Avho 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.

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,

* I- 36, 37. Dante writes: "per gjTum." The Benedictine text
has : "per agrum."

2 68 DE MONARCHIA.

who lias deigned to unfold to us His will through the
pens of many writers.

Having thus first noted these things, I will pro-
ceed, 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 vrays 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 v/hich 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

DE MONARCH/A. 269

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 con-
sciously false, as is the case when we utterly over-
throw 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

2 70 DE MONARCHIA.

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 argu-
ment 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

DE MONARCHIA. 271

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 tlieir 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
efiect 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.

YI. — 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 com.mand, acted in the

2 72 DE MONARCHIA.

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 Avould follow without doubt that
the authority of the Empire is dependent on the
Church, as they say.

But we may answ^er 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 w^ithin 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

DE MONARCHIA. 273

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, there-
fore 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,^!- as
Agathon says ; therefore neither can his Vicar.

Vn.— 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

* As quoted by Aristotle, Ethics, vi. 3.— (W.)

274 DE MONARCHIA.

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 pro-
positions are true, but the middle term in them is
different, and/b/zr terms are introduced, by which the
form of the syllogism is not kept, as is plain from
what is said of " the syllogism simply." * 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.

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

* Arist. Anal. Prior., or rather, the Siwwuilts Logiccc, 1. iv., of
Petrus Hispanus. — (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 275

creation, and of baptism, as is clearly proved, not-
withstanding what* the Master says in his fourth
book.

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 what-
soever 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

* Peter Lombard, "magister sententiarum," iv. dist. 5, f. 2.— (W.)

T 2

276 DE MONARCHIA.

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 suc-
cessor 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 rnust 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

DE MONARCH/A.

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 distributipn of the
termjn^^uestion 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 " v/hatsoever " has onh-
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 ofiice 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

2 78 DE MONARCHIA.

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 interpreta-
tion, 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 mean-
ing 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

DE iMONARCHIA. 279

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 suffi-
ciently manifest ; for He did not say : " Buy, or
get for yourselves, two swords," but rather " twelve
swords," seeing that He spake unto twelve dis-
ciples : " 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

2 So DE MONARCHIA.

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 thought-
less 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 Evan-
gelists 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
Jen.isalem 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
IMoses 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 wdien the disciples were in a ship, in the

DE MONARCHIA. 2S1

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,
w^hen 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 ? "

282 DE MONARCHIA.

It is a pleasure to have pursued this point about
our Chief Shepherd,* 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.

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 w'ere 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 v/hich was

* "Arcliimandrita nostro." Cf. Parad. xi. 09, of St. Francis. — (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 283

Rome, together with many other dignities belonging
to the Empire.* Hence the3L.aj:g.u.e 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.

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
dimity of the Empire was what Constantine could
not alienate, nor the Church receive. And v/hen they
insist, I prove my words as follows : No man on the
strength of the office which is committed to him, may

* On the Donation of Constantine, Witte refers to Inf. xxxviii. 94 ;
xix. 115 ; Purg. xxxii, 124; Farad, xx. 35 ; sitp-a ii. 12.

284 DE MONARCH/A.

do_aughl__Lliat is contrary to that office ; for so one
and the same man, viewed as one man, would be
contrary to himseh'', 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.*

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 hxy than that which is laid, which is Jesus
Christ."t He is the rock on which the Church is
built ; but the foundation of the Empire is human
right. Xow I say that, as the Church may not go con-
trary to its foundation — but must always rest on its
foundation, as the words of the Canticles say : "Who

* Each side in the controversy used the type of the "seamless robe,"
one of the Empire {siip?-a i. 16), the other of the Church ; e.g., in the
Bull of Boniface YIII., 'Tnam Sanctam''-

t I Cor. iii. 11.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 2 85

is she that cometh up from the desert, abounding
in dehghts, leaning on her beloved ?"* — 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.

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,

• Cant. viii. 5.— (W.)

286 DE MONARCHIA.

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,* 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. f
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

* Eth. iv. I. — (W.) + "Dispositio ; dispositiis ; indisposiia."

DE MONARCHIA. 2 87

that prohibition had hcence 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 dis-
pense the fruits of them to the poor of Christ, on
behalf of the Church, as we know the Apostles did.

XI. — Our adversaries further say that the Pope
Hadrian* summoned Charles the Great to his own
assistance t 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

* A.D. 773.— (W.) t ''Advocavit:'

2S8 DE MONARCHIA.

called to their office. From which would follow that
dependence of the Empire on the Church which they
wish to prove.

But to overset their argument, I reply that what
they say is nought ; for a_usyr^tion 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.*

XII. — But from reason they thus argue : they take
the principle laid down in the tenth book of ''PJiilo-
sopliia Prima',' ■\ 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 : there-
fore 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.

* Otto I. (964) deposed Benedict V. and restored Leo VIII.
t Arist. Mctaph. x. i.— (W.)

DE MONARCH/A. 289

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

2 90 DE MONARCHIA.

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 father-
hood, 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,* as may be gathered from
the last book to Nicomachus.f 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 sup-
positions 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

* "Ad existentem maxime tinum in gcitcrc stco."
t Etk. X. 5, 7.-(W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 291

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.

Now it must be understood that the relative is to
the relative as the relation to the relation. If, there-
fore, 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,*
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 Avhom 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.

Xm.— We have now stated and put on one side

" Cum differentialibus suis."

U 2

292 DE MONARCHIA.

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, v/hich 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 ajathority 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 fol-
lowing 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.* 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

* '■^No7t virtiiantc."

DE MONARCHIA. 293

and authority mean the same thhig. 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 impos-
sible 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 argu-
ment is self-evident, and the minor premiss is con-
firmed 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 Czesar'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 Caesar ; " and again by Paul's words
to the Jews of Italy : " But when the Jews spake
against it, I was constrained to appeal unto Czesar ;
not that I had aught to accuse my nation of," but "to
deliver my soul from death." But if Caesar 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

294 DE MONARCHIA.

and to be with Christ," have made an appeal to a
judge not having authority.*

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 offer-
ings 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 com-
mand 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 un-
clean with them, that ye shall be defiled thereby." f
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.

XIV. — Again, if the Church had power to bestow
authority on the Roman Prince, she would have it

* ^'Incompetentem." Acts xxv. lo ; xxvii, 24; xxviii. 19. Phil.
i. 23. -(W.)

t Levit. ii. 11 ; xi. 43. — (W.)

DE MONARCH/A. 295

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, Avhere 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

296 DE MONARCHIA.

such care taken away from the priests of the Old
Testament by the express command of God to
Moses,* and from the priests of the New Testament
by the express command of Christ to His disciples.f
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 watchful-
ness of forethought, and afterwards continued pre-
caution, lest he to whom authority had been given
should leave the straight w-ay.

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." J 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 im-
possible.

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

* Numbers xviii. 20. Cf. Purg. xvi. 131. — (W.)
t Matt. X. 9.— (W.) X Arist Metaph, ix. 8.— (W.)

\

DE MONARCHIA. 297

can doubt ? seeing that not only all the inhabitants
of Asia and Africa, but even the greater number of
Europeans, liold the thought in abhorrence. It is
mere weariness to adduce proofs in matters which
are so plain.

XY. — 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.* Therefore it is not in the number of its
essential powers. For the proof of the minor premiss
Ave must know that the nature of the Church means
the form [or essence] t 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." % 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

* " Vi>-tus auctorizandi regnum nostra: moftalitafis est contra
ziaturani Ecclcsicc.^'

t ''Forma." % Arist. Phys. Attsc. ii. i.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

feed the sheep and the lambs of Christ. And there-
fore 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."*

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."t We must
understand it to mean that, as the pattern of the Omrch,
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.

It belongs, then, to the very form of the Church

Johnxiii. 15 ; xxi. 22; xviii. 36.— (W.) f Ps. xcv. 5.— (W.)

DE MONARCHIA. 299

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 doc-
trine 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 pre-
ceding 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 determi-
nation of the question proposed, Ave have to prove

30O DE MONARCHIA.

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 betv/een things corruptible and
things incorruptible ; and therefore* 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 cor-
ruptible; 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." t

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

* In the De Cans is [v. above, i. Ii), Propos. 9: " Intelligentia
comprehendit generata et naturam, et horizontem naturae, scilicet
animam ; nam ipsa est supra naturam." — (W.)

+ Arist. Dc Anim. ii. 2. — (W.)

DE MONARCHIA.

he alone of all beings participates both in the cor-
ruptible 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 m the
exercise of his natural powers, and which is prefigured
in* the earthly Paradise; and next, the blessedness
of the life eternal, which consists in the fruition of the
sicht of God's countenance, and to which man by his
oCn natural powers cannot rise, if he be not aided by
the divine hght ; and this blessedness is understood
by the heavenly Paradise.

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 m
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 faitn,
hope, and charity. The truth of the first of these
conclusions and of these means is made manifest by

See Purg. xxviil. : and Mr. Longfellow's note ad loc.

302 DE MONARCHIA.

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,*
were restrained in their course by bit and bridle, like
horses and mules.

Therefore man had need of two guides for his
life, as he had a twofold end in life ; vvhereof 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 Avith 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 blandish-
ments 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

^Siia bcsdalitate vagantesy V. Ps. xxxii. lo.

DE MONARCH! A.

earth* 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 vv^ho alone has preordained
this, that by it in His providence He might bind all
things together, each in their own order.

But if this is so, God alone elects, God alone con-
firms : 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 whatsoev^er 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.t

It is therefore clear that the authority of temporal

* Cf. Parad. xxii. 151, "L'ajiiola che si fa tayito fcroci.'"
t V- Hallam, Middle Ages, c. v. Bryce, Roman Empire, c. xiv.
Witte, Prcef. p. xxxiv, xlv.

DE MONARCH! A.

Monarchy comes down, with no intermediate. wilUfrom
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, vv^hether 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, there-
fore, Caesar 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.

1 ? 7 f-f-

CONTENTS

OF

DE MONARCHIA.

BOOK I,

WHETHER A TEMPORAL MONARCTIY IS NECESSARY FOR THE WELL-
BEING OF THE WORLD?
CHAP. I'Af'P-

I.— Introduction. ,.....•• ^11

II. — What is the end of the civil order of mankind ? . . 17S

III. — It is to cause the whole power of the human intellect to

act in speculation and operation . . . . iSo

IV. — To attain this end, mankind needs tmiversal peace . 1S4

V, — When several means are ordained to gain an end, one

of them must be supreme over the others . - . 1S5

VI.— The order which is found in the parts of mankind ought

to be found in mankind as a whole . . . . iSS

VII.— Kingdoms and nations ought to stand in the same re-
lation to the monarch as mankind to God . . . 1S9

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 dcciaion of all

quarrels .■••••••• 19^

X

3o6 CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE

XI. — The world is best ordered when justice is strongest

therein 192

XI T. — r\Ien 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 PA' RIGHT THE
DIGNITY OF EMPIRE?

CHAP. ^'"'^^

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 there-
fore 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

CONTENTS. 307

CHAP. PAGE

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 . . . . .230

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 OK GOD ?

CHAP. PACE

I. — Introduction . . . . . . . .256

11, — God wills not that which is repugnant to the intention

of Nature 257

III. — Of the three classes of our opponents, and of tlie 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

3o8 CONTENTS.

CHAP. PACK

IX. — ^The argument drawn from the two swords . . . 27S

X. — The argument drawn from the donation of Constantine . 2S2

XI. — The argument drawn from the summoning of Charles

the Great by Pope Hadrian ..... 287

XII. — The argument drawn from reason 2SS

XIII. — The authority of the Church is not the cause of the

authority of the Empire 291

XIV. — The Church lias 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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HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, TRAVELS, ETC. 9

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ENGLISH POETS: SELECTIONS, with Criticd Introductions by various
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Vol. II. BKN JONSON to DRYDEN.

Vol. III. ADDISON to BLAKE.

Vol. IV. WORDSWORTH to ROSSETTI.

ENGLISH STATESMEN.— Under the above title Messrs. Macmillan
and Co. beg to announce a series of short biographies, nut designed to be a
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order, and power.

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. I OLIVER CROMWELL.

HENRY II. I WILLIAM in.

EDWARD I. I WALPOLE.

HENRY Vtl. I CHATHAM.

WOLSKY. PITT.

ELIZABETH. I PEEL.

Among the writers will be: —
MR. EDWARD A. FREEM.4.N,
MR. FREDERICK POLLOCK,
MR. J. COTTER ALJRISON,
PROF. M. CREIGHTON,
THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S,

MR. FREDERIC HARRISON.
MR. H. 1). TRAILL,
MR. LESLIE STEPHEN,

AND

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IN SPAIN. By C. M. YoxGE, Author of the " Heir of Redclyffe '"

With Vignette by Holman- Hunt.

CHARLES LAMB'S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Edited by the Rev. A. Ai.n'Ger, M.A., Reader at the Temple.

POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Chosen and Edited, with Preface
by iMatthew Arnold. (.^!so a Large Paper Edition. Crown Svo. cs.)
" A volume, every page of which is weighted with the golden fruit of poetrj'. '
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SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS. Edited by F. T. P.^lgrave.

POEMS FROM SHELLEY. Selected and arranged by Stopford
A. Brooke, RLA. (Also a Large Paper Edition. Crown Svo. 12s. 6d.)
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ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Chosen and Edited by John
Richard Green. M.A., LL.D." _ ^^

" This is a most welcome addition to a most excellent series. — Examiner.

POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and arranged by M.^tthew Arnold.
(Also a Large Paper Edition, Crown Svo.) qs.

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SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF WALTER

SAVAGE LAN DOR. — Arranged and Edited by Professor Sisnev

COLVIN.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI; Letter

to a Friend, &c., and Christian Morals. Edited by W. A. Greenhtll, M.D.
" Dr. Greenhill's annotations display care and research to a degree rare among

English editors. The bibliographical details furni«;hed leave nothing to be

desired." — Athen.eu.m.

THE SPEECHES AND TABLE-TALK OF THE

PROPHET MOHAMMAD.— Chosen and Translated, with an
Introduction and Notes, by Stanley Lane-Poole.

SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S POEMS.— with an Intro-
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LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. — Edited, with Introduction
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Poetical Works.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS.— Reprinted

from the Original Editions, with Notes. By Francis Tu.jner Palgkave.
LYRICAL POEMS. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Selected .and Anno-
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<t*» Ol/iey X'olumes to follozu.

32 MACMILLAN'S CATALOGUE.

Noiu Publishing, in Cmvn %vo. Price 3s. 6d. each.

A SERIES OF SHORT BOOKS ON HIS RIGHTS AND
RESPONSIBILITIES.

Edited by HENRY CRAIK, M.A. (Oxon.); LL.D. (Glasgow).

This series is intended to meet the demand fjr accessible information on the ordi-
nary conditions, and the current terms, of our political life. Ignorance of these not
only takes from the study of history the interest which comes from a contact with
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The series will deal with the details of the machinery whereby our Constitution
works, and the broad lines upon which it has been constructed.

The follonnng Volumes are ready : —

CENTRAL GOVERNMENT. By H. D.Traill, D.C.L., late Fellow
of St. John's College, Oxford.

THE ELECTORATE AND THE LEGISLATURE,

By Spenxer W.\lpole, Author of " The History of England from 1S15."

THE NATIONAL BUDGET; THE NATIONAL DEBT;

TAXES AND RATES. By A. J. Wilson.

THE POOR LAW. By Rev. T. W. Fowle, M.A.

THE STATE AND ITS RELATION TO TRADE. By Sir T.

H. Farrer, Bart.

THE STATE IN RELATION TO LABOUR. By W. Stanley
Jevons, LL.D, F.R.S.

THE STATE AND THE CHURCH. By the Hon. A. Arthur

El.LTOT, M.P.

FOREIGN RELATIONS. By Spenxer Walpole, Author of " The
History of England from 1815."

LOCAL GOVERNMENT. By M. D. Chalmers, M.A.

THE STATE IN ITS RELATION TO EDUCATION.

By Henry Crahc, MA., LL.D.

THE LAND LAWS. By Frederick Pollock, M.A., late Fellow of
Trinity College, Cambridge, Corpus Christi Professor of Jurisprudence in the
University of Oxford.

COLONIES AND DEPENDENCIES.— I. INDIA. ByJ. S.

Cotton- M.A., late Fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. II. THE COLONIES.
By E. J. Payne, M.A., Fellow of University College, Oxford.

JUSTICE AND POLICE. By F. W. Maitland.

Ik Preparation : —

THE PENAL SYSTEM. By Sir Edmund Du Cane, K.C.B.

THE NATIONAL DEFENCES. By Lieut.-Colonel Maurice, R.A.

^ONPON : RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, PRINTERS.

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