It　must　have　been　a　great　solacement　to　Dante；　and　was；　as　we　can　see；　a　proud　thought　for　him　at　times；　That　he；　here　in　exile；　could　do　this　work；　that　no　Florence；　nor　no　man　or　men；　could　hinder　him　from　doing　it；　or　even　much　help　him　in　doing　it。　　He　knew　too；　partly；　that　it　was　great；　the　greatest　a　man　could　do。　　〃If　thou　follow　thy　star；　_Se　tu　segui　tua　stella_；〃so　could　the　Hero；　in　his　forsakenness；　in　his　extreme　need；　still　say　to　himself：　　〃Follow　thou　thy　star；　thou　shalt　not　fail　of　a　glorious　haven！〃　　The　labor　of　writing；　we　find；　and　indeed　could　know　otherwise；　was　great　and　painful　for　him；　he　says；　This　Book；　〃which　has　made　me　lean　for　many　years。〃　　Ah　yes；　it　was　won；　all　of　it；　with　pain　and　sore　toil；not　in　sport；　but　in　grim　earnest。　　His　Book；　as　indeed　most　good　Books　are；　has　been　written；　in　many　senses；　with　his　heart's　blood。　It　is　his　whole　history；　this　Book。　　He　died　after　finishing　it；　not　yet　very　old；　at　the　age　of　fifty…six；broken…hearted　rather；　as　is　said。　　He　lies　buried　in　his　death…city　Ravenna：　　_Hic　claudor　Dantes　patriis　extorris　ab　oris_。　　The　Florentines　begged　back　his　body；　in　a　century　after；　the　Ravenna　people　would　not　give　it。　　〃Here　am　I　Dante　laid；　shut　out　from　my　native　shores。〃
  I　said；　Dante's　Poem　was　a　Song：　　it　is　Tieck　who　calls　it　〃a　mystic　unfathomable　Song；〃　and　such　is　literally　the　character　of　it。　　Coleridge　remarks　very　pertinently　somewhere；　that　wherever　you　find　a　sentence　musically　worded；　of　true　rhythm　and　melody　in　the　words；　there　is　something　deep　and　good　in　the　meaning　too。　　For　body　and　soul；　word　and　idea；　go　strangely　together　here　as　everywhere。　　Song：　　we　said　before；　it　was　the　Heroic　of　Speech！　　All　_old_　Poems；　Homer's　and　the　rest；　are　authentically　Songs。　　I　would　say；　in　strictness；　that　all　right　Poems　are；　that　whatsoever　is　not　_sung_　is　properly　no　Poem；　but　a　piece　of　Prose　cramped　into　jingling　lines；to　the　great　injury　of　the　grammar；　to　the　great　grief　of　the　reader；　for　most　part！　　What　we　wants　to　get　at　is　the　_thought_　the　man　had；　if　he　had　any：　　why　should　he　twist　it　into　jingle；　if　he　_could_　speak　it　out　plainly？　　It　is　only　when　the　heart　of　him　is　rapt　into　true　passion　of　melody；　and　the　very　tones　of　him；　according　to　Coleridge's　remark；　become　musical　by　the　greatness；　depth　and　music　of　his　thoughts；　that　we　can　give　him　right　to　rhyme　and　sing；　that　we　call　him　a　Poet；　and　listen　to　him　as　the　Heroic　of　Speakers；whose　speech　is　Song。　Pretenders　to　this　are　many；　and　to　an　earnest　reader；　I　doubt；　it　is　for　most　part　a　very　melancholy；　not　to　say　an　insupportable　business；　that　of　reading　rhyme！　　Rhyme　that　had　no　inward　necessity　to　be　rhymed；it　ought　to　have　told　us　plainly；　without　any　jingle；　what　it　was　aiming　at。　　I　would　advise　all　men　who　_can_　speak　their　thought；　not　to　sing　it；　to　understand　that；　in　a　serious　time；　among　serious　men；　there　is　no　vocation　in　them　for　singing　it。　　Precisely　as　we　love　the　true　song；　and　are　charmed　by　it　as　by　something　divine；　so　shall　we　hate　the　false　song；　and　account　it　a　mere　wooden　noise；　a　thing　hollow；　superfluous；　altogether　an　insincere　and　offensive　thing。
  I　give　Dante　my　highest　praise　when　I　say　of　his　_Divine　Comedy_　that　it　is；　in　all　senses；　genuinely　a　Song。　　In　the　very　sound　of　it　there　is　a　_canto　fermo_；　it　proceeds　as　by　a　chant。　　The　language；　his　simple　_terza　rima_；　doubtless　helped　him　in　this。　　One　reads　along　naturally　with　a　sort　of　_lilt_。　　But　I　add；　that　it　could　not　be　otherwise；　for　the　essence　and　material　of　the　work　are　themselves　rhythmic。　　Its　depth；　and　rapt　passion　and　sincerity；　makes　it　musical；go　_deep_　enough；　there　is　music　everywhere。　　A　true　inward　symmetry；　what　one　calls　an　architectural　harmony；　reigns　in　it；　proportionates　it　all：　　architectural；　which　also　partakes　of　the　character　of　music。　　The　three　kingdoms；　_Inferno_；　_Purgatorio_；　_Paradiso_；　look　out　on　one　another　like　compartments　of　a　great　edifice；　a　great　supernatural　world…cathedral；　piled　up　there；　stern；　solemn；　awful；　Dante's　World　of　Souls！　　It　is；　at　bottom；　the　_sincerest_　of　all　Poems；　sincerity；　here　too；；　we　find　to　be　the　measure　of　worth。　　It　came　deep　out　of　the　author's　heart　of　hearts；　and　it　goes　deep；　and　through　long　generations；　into　ours。　　The　people　of　Verona；　when　they　saw　him　on　the　streets；　used　to　say；　〃_Eccovi　l'　uom　ch'　e　stato　all'　Inferno_；　See；　there　is　the　man　that　was　in　Hell！〃　　Ah　yes；　he　had　been　in　Hell；in　Hell　enough；　in　long　severe　sorrow　and　struggle；　as　the　like　of　him　is　pretty　sure　to　have　been。　　Commedias　that　come　out　_divine_　are　not　accomplished　otherwise。　　Thought；　true　labor　of　any　kind；　highest　virtue　itself；　is　it　not　the　daughter　of　Pain？　　Born　as　out　of　the　black　whirlwind；true　_effort_；　in　fact；　as　of　a　captive　struggling　to　free　himself：　　that　is　Thought。　　In　all　ways　we　are　〃to　become　perfect　through　_suffering_。〃_But_；　as　I　say；　no　work　known　to　me　is　so　elaborated　as　this　of　Dante's。　　It　has　all　been　as　if　molten；　in　the　hottest　furnace　of　his　soul。　　It　had　made　him　〃lean〃　for　many　years。　　Not　the　general　whole　only；　every　compartment　of　it　is　worked　out；　with　intense　earnestness；　into　truth；　into　clear　visuality。　　Each　answers　to　the　other；　each　fits　in　its　place；　like　a　marble　stone　accurately　hewn　and　polished。　　It　is　the　soul　of　Dante；　and　in　this　the　soul　of　the　middle　ages；　rendered　forever　rhythmically　visible　there。　　No　light　task；　a　right　intense　one：　　but　a　task　which　is　_done_。
  Perhaps　one　would　say；　_intensity_；　with　the　much　that　depends　on　it；　is　the　prevailing　character　of　Dante's　genius。　　Dante　does　not　come　before　us　as　a　large　catholic　mind；　rather　as　a　narrow；　and　even　sectarian　mind：　　it　is　partly　the　fruit　of　his　age　and　position；　but　partly　too　of　his　own　nature。　　His　greatness　has；　in　all　senses；　concentred　itself　into　fiery　emphasis　and　depth。　　He　is　world…great　not　because　he　is　worldwide；　but　because　he　is　world…deep。　　Through　all　objects　he　pierces　as　it　were　down　into　the　heart　of　Being。　　I　know　nothing　so　intense　as　Dante。　　Consider；　for　example；　to　begin　with　the　outermost　development　of　his　intensity；　consider　how　he　paints。　　He　has　a　great　power　of　vision；　seizes　the　very　type　of　a　thing；　presents　that　and　nothing　more。　　You　remember　that　first　view　he　gets　of　the　Hall　of　Dite：　　_red_　pinnacle；　red…hot　cone　of　iron　glowing　through　the　dim　immensity　of　gloom；so　vivid；　so　distinct；　visible　at　once　and　forever！　　It　is　as　an　emblem　of　the　whole　genius　of　Dante。　There　is　a　brevity；　an　abrupt　precision　in　him：　　Tacitus　is　not　briefer；　more　condensed；　and　then　in　Dante　it　seems　a　natural　condensation；　spontaneous　to　the　man。　　One　smiting　word；　and　then　there　is　silence；　nothing　more　said。　　His　silence　is　more　eloquent　than　words。　　It　is　strange　with　what　a　sharp　decisive　grace　he　snatches　the　true　likeness　of　a　matter：　cuts　into　the　matter　as　with　a　pen　of　fire。　　Plutus；　the　blustering　giant；　collapses　at　Virgil's　rebuke；　it　is　〃as　the　sails　sink；　the　mast　being　suddenly　broken。〃　　Or　that　poor　Brunetto　Latini；　with　the　_cotto　aspetto_；　〃face　_baked_；〃　parched　brown　and　lean；　and　the　〃fiery　snow〃　that　falls　on　them　there；　a　〃fiery　snow　without　wind；〃　slow；　deliberate；　never…ending！　Or　the　lids　of　those　Tombs；　square　sarcophaguses；　in　that　silent　dim…burning　Hall；　each　with　its　Soul　in　torment；　the　lids　laid　open　there；　they　are　to　be　shut　at　the　Day　of　Judgment；　through　Eternity。　　And　how　Farinata　rises；　and　how　Cavalcante　fallsat　hearing　of　his　Son；　and　the　past　tense　〃_fue_〃！　　The　very　movements　in　Dante　have　something　brief；　swift；　decisive；　almost　military。　　It　is　of　the　inmost　essence　of　his　genius　this　sort　of　painting。　　The　fiery；　swift　Italian　nature　of　the　man；　so　silent；　passionate；　with　its　quick　abrupt　movements；　its　silent　〃pale　rages；〃　speaks　itself　in　these　things。
  For　though　this　of　painting　is　one　of　the　outermost　developments　of　a　man；　it　comes　like　all　else　from　the　essential　faculty　of　him；　it　is　physiognomical　of　the　whole　man。　　Find　a　man　whose　words　paint　you　a　likeness；　you　have　found　a　man　worth　something；　mark　his　manner　of　doing　it；　as　very　characteristic　of　him。　　In　the　first　place；　he　could　not　have　discerned　the　object　at　all；　or　seen　the　vital　type　of　it；　unless　he　had；　what　we　may　call；　_sympathized_　with　it；had　sympathy　in　him　to　bestow　on　objects。　　He　must　have　been　_sincere_　about　it　too；　sincere　and　sympathetic：　　a　man　without　worth　cannot　give　you　the　likeness　of　any　object；　he　dwells　in　vague　outwardness；　fallacy　and　trivial　hearsay；　about　all　objects。　　And　indeed　may　we　not　say　that　intellect　altogether　expresses　itself　in　this　power　of　discerning　what　an　object　is？　　Whatsoever　of　faculty　a　man's　mind　may　have　will　come　out　here。　　Is　it　even　of　business；　a　matter　to　be　done？　　The　gifted　man　is　he　who　_sees_　the　essential　point；　and　leaves　all　the　rest　aside　as　surplusage：　　it　is　his　faculty　too；　the　man　of　business's　faculty；　that　he　discern　the　true　_likeness_；　not　the　false　superficial　one；　of　the　thing　he　has　got　to　work　in。　　And　how　much　of　_morality_　is　in　the　kind　of　insight　we　get　of　anything；　〃the　eye　seeing　in　all　things　what　it　brought　with　it　the　faculty　of　seeing〃！　　To　the　mean　eye　all　things　are　trivial；　as　certainly　as