EPIGRAM.

Inconstant thou! There ne'er was any
Till now so constant—to so many.

Aubrey de Vere.

DANTE'S PURGATORIO.
CANTO FOURTH.

This Canto, being somewhat abstruse, was passed over at its due place in the series of these translations. As its omission has been regretted by some students of Dante, it has been thought best to publish it now, although the first portion of it may seem a little difficult to any but a mathematical reader. Perhaps its dryness may be somewhat relieved at the close by the humorous picture of the lazy sinner Belacqua, which is the first slight touch of the comic in this most grave comedy, and here for the first time Dante confesses to a smile.

Whene'er the mind, from any joy or pain
In any faculty, to that alone
Bends its whole force, its other powers remain
Unexercised, it seems (whereby is shown
Plain contradiction of th' erroneous view
Which holds within us kindled several souls).
Hence, when we hear or see a thing whereto
The mind is strongly drawn, unheeded rolls
The passing hour; the man observes it not:
That power is one whereby we hear or see,
And that another which absorbs our thought;
This being chained, as 'twere—the former free.

A real experience of this truth had I,
Listening that soul with wonder at such force,
For now the sun full fifty degrees high
Had risen without my noticing his course,
When came we where the spirits, with one voice all,
Cried out to us, "Behold the place ye seek!"
A wider opening oft, in hedge or wall,
Some farmer, when the grape first browns its cheek,
Stops with one forkful of his brambles thrown,
Than was the narrow pass whereby my Guide
Began to climb, I following on alone,
While from our way I saw those wanderers glide.

A man may climb St. Leo, or descend
The steeps of Noli, or Bismantua's height
Scale to the top, and on his feet depend;
Here one should fly! I mean he needs the light
Pinions and plumage of a strong desire,
Under such leadership as gave me hope
And lighted me my way. Advancing higher
In through the broken rock, it left no scope
On either side, but cramped us close; the ledge
O'er which we crept required both feet and hands.
When we had toiled up to the utmost edge
Of the high bank, where the clear coast expands,
"Which way," said I, "my Master, shall we take?"
And he to me, "Let not thy foot fall back;
Still follow me, and for the mountain make,
Until some guide appear who knows the track."
Its top sight reached not, and the hillside rose
With far more salient angle than the line
That from half-quadrant to the centre goes.
Most weary was I: "Gentle Father mine,"
I thus broke silence, "turn and see that if
Thou stay not for me, I remain alone."
"Struggle, my son, as far as yonder cliff,"
He said, and pointed upwards to a zone
Terracing all the mountain on that side.
His word so spurred me that I forced myself
And clambered on still close behind my Guide
Until my feet were on that girdling shelf.

Here we sat down and turned our faces towards
The East, from which point we had made ascent
(For looking back on toil some rest affords);
And on the low shore first mine eyes I bent,
Then raised them sunward, wondering as I gazed
How his light smote us from the left. While thus
I stared, he marked how I beheld amazed
Day's chariot entering 'twixt the North and us.
"Were yonder mirror now," the Poet said,
"That with his light leads up and down the spheres,
In Castor and Pollux, thou wouldst see the red
Zodiac revolving closer to the Bears,
If it swerved nothing from its ancient course;
Which fact to fathom wouldst thou power command,
Imagine, with thy mind's collected force,
This mount and Zion so on earth to stand
That though in adverse hemispheres, the twain
One sole horizon have: thence 'tis not hard
To see (if clear thine intellect remain)
How the Sun's road—which Phaeton, ill-starred,
Knew not to keep—must pass that mountain o'er
On one, and this hill on the other side."
"Certes, my Master,—ne'er saw I before
So clear as at this moment," I replied
(Where seemed but now my understanding maimed),
"How the mid-circle of the heavenly spheres
And of their movements—the Equator named
In special term of art—which never veers
From its old course, 'twixt winter and the Sun,
Yet for the reason thou dost now assign,
Towards the Septentrion from this point doth run,
While to the Jews it bore a South decline.
But if it please thee, gladly would I learn
How far we have to journey; for so high
This hill soars that mine eyes cannot discern
The top thereof." He made me this reply:
"Such is this mountain that for one below
The first ascent is evermore severe,
It grows less painful higher as we go.
So when to thee it pleasant shall appear
That no more toil thy climbing shall attend
Than to sail down the way the current flows,
Then art thou near unto thy pathway's end;
There from thy labor look to find repose.
I know that this is true, but say no more."
And this word uttered, not far off addressed
Me thus a voice: "It may be that before
That pass, thou wilt have need to sit and rest."
At sound thereof we both looked round, and there
Beheld a huge rock, close to our left hand,
Whereof till now we had not been aware.
Thither we toiled, and in its shade a band
Behind it stood with a neglectful air,
As men in idleness are wont to stand.

BELACQUA THE SLUGGARD.

And one was seated, hanging down his face
Between his knees, which he with languid limb,
Looking exhausted, held in his embrace.
"O my sweet Seignior!" I exclaimed, "note him!
Lazier-looking than had laziness been
His sister-born." Turning towards us, at length
He gazed, slow lifting o'er his thigh his chin,
And drawled, "Go up, then, thou who hast such strength."
I knew who that was then; and though the ascent
Had made me pant somewhat, I kept my pace,
Spite of short breath: close up to him I went,
And he droned forth, scarce lifting up his face,
"Hast thou found out yet how the Sun this way
O'er thy left shoulder doth his chariot guide?"
His sloth, and what few words he had to say,
Made me smile slightly, and I thus replied:
"No more, Belacqua, do I mourn thy fate;
But tell me wherefore in this place I see
Thee sitting thus? Dost thou for escort wait,
Or has thy old slow habit seized on thee?"

And he—"O brother! what boots it to climb?
God's Angel sitting at the gate denies
Me way to penance until so much time
Be past as living I beheld the skies.
Outside I must remain here for the crime
Of dallying to the last my contrite sighs,
Unless I happily some help derive
From the pure prayer ascending from a heart
That lives in grace: a prayer not thus alive
Heaven doth not hear: what aid can such impart?"

Now before me the Poet up the height
Began to climb, saying, "Come on, for o'er
This hill's meridian hangs the Sun, and Night
Sets foot already on Morocco's shore."

NOTE.

The Rev. Edward Everett Hale, in a most interesting paper intended for presentation to the American Antiquarian Society, in Boston, makes this record:

"When Columbus sailed on his fourth voyage, he wrote to Ferdinand and Isabella a letter which contains the following statement with regard to the South Sea, then undiscovered, known to us as the Pacific Ocean:

"'I believe that if I should pass under the equator, in arriving at this higher region of which I speak, I should find there a milder temperature and a diversity in the stars and in the waters. Not that I believe that the highest point is navigable whence these currents flow, nor that we can mount there, because I am convinced that there is the terrestrial paradise, whence no one can enter but by the will of God.'

"This curious passage, of which the language seems so mystical, represents none the less the impression which Columbus had of the physical cosmogony of the undiscovered half of the world. It is curious to observe that the most elaborate account of this cosmogony, and that by which alone it has been handed down to the memory of modern times, is that presented in Dante's Divina Commedia, where he represents the mountain of Purgatory, at the antipodes of Jerusalem, crowned by the terrestrial paradise. It is this paradise of which Columbus says, 'No one can enter it but by the will of God.'

"Of Dante's cosmogony a very accurate account is given by Miss Rossetti, in her essay on Dante, recently published, to which she gives the name of 'The Shadow of Dante.' Her statement is in these words:

"'Dante divides our globe into two elemental hemispheres—the Eastern, chiefly of land; the Western, almost wholly of water.'"

It is much easier to praise Mr. Hale's valuable comments than to agree with Miss Rossetti. To us it seems that her confused account lets no light in upon Dante's cosmogony, which was simply that of the age he lived in, poetized after his own fashion. According to the interpretation of The Catholic World's translation, Dante divides our globe into two hemispheres—Northern and Southern. In the story of Ulysses (Inferno, Canto xxvi.) he alludes to a Western hemisphere, and, as far as we remember, nowhere else. Mr. Hale says in conclusion of his able paper, "I am not aware that any of the distinguished critics of Dante have called attention to the fact that so late as the year 1503, a navigator so illustrious as Columbus was still conducting his voyages on the supposition that Dante's cosmogony was true in fact."

This, indeed, is quite curious, but ought not to surprise one who reflects that the cosmography of Columbus was not much advanced from the time of Dante. In this very canto the poet shows that he knew about the variation of the ecliptic and the retrogression of the equinoxes. From his age to that of the great navigator, science had hardly taken a forward step. In fact, before 1300, Dante was acquainted not only with the sphericity of the earth, but with the first law of gravitation—the tendency of things to their centre. Few consider how very slow was the growth of science from that which Dante had learned in Florence, and Columbus had studied in Pavia and Sienna, up to the time of Copernicus, at whom, so late as 1625, Lord Bacon had the hardihood to give this fling: "Who would not smile at the astronomers—I mean, not those carmen which drive the earth about, but the few ancient astronomers, which feign the moon to be the swiftest of the planets in motion, etc.?"

The pages of this magazine will not permit us to prolong an inquiry that may hereafter, and which ought to, be made as to the Ptolemean astronomy of the schools in the age of Dante. The one scholar in this country most capable of such investigation is too busy—we mean Professor Peirce, of the U. S. Coast Survey.—Translator.