A Digressive Anecdote.

17

without delay. So, procuring needle and thread, he seated himself on the mess-table in orthodox tailor fashion and began to sew industriously. While thus engaged, his visiting brother officers surrounded him as interested spectators, till at length one of them, struck by something in the air and attitude of the colonel, jestingly exclaimed, ' Why, colonel, you look like a tailor!' The colonel sewed away in dead silence, but with skill that seemed so remarkable that the officer again ejaculated, Why, colonel, you sew like a tailor!' Still the colonel sewed away without reply, exhibiting so much cleverness in the sartorial art that the by-stander once more broke out, 'Why, damme, he is a tailor! Of course there was a great shout from the colonel's men, who knew all about his avocation, and very soon the cat was out of the bag. Now, my lad, whether you are as accurate in your conclusions as was the colonel's military visitor, I shall neither affirm nor deny; but I do frankly admit that this is not the first time that I have given attention to the subject of which we have been talking this afternoon.'

"You portentous fraud!" I replied, "don't say 'the subject of which we have been talking,' for you very well know that the talk has been like the handle of a jug. Still, I am fast becoming interested in the hobby that I set prancing so unwittingly, and, if your wisdom pleases, would fain hear more of the pedigree of the sonnet-so proceed!"

"To resume, then, where you interrupted me: Dante was less lavish in the use of the sonnet than either Petrarch or Tasso; but this is not remarkable, since he lived (1265–1321) much nearer than they to the period of its first invention, and probably did not become familiar with its rich capabilities till long after he had begun to embalm Beatrice to a 'life beyond

F

life' in his sublime 'Vision,' which then and for many years afterward engaged all his powers, and precluded him from resorting to the sonnet as freely as he might otherwise have done to magnify her virtues and celebrate his love. Still, Dante was quite a prolific sonnet writer; and it is noteworthy that several of his earliest sonnets are in a playful and familiar vein—the most difficult of all to wed successfully to this severe form of verse, and seldom attempted to be so allied by other eminent poets. For, properly, the sonnet is devoted to romantic, inspiring, or ennobling sentiments; and, owing to its brevity and rigid limitation to the unfolding or illustration of a single dominant idea, no space can be allowed in it for the gambols of wit or humor, or for the play of sportive pleasantry. A very agreeable specimen of this familiar style has been placed within reach of English readers by Rev. Henry F. Cary, the able translator of Dante's 'Vision,' who tells us that it was sent by the poet to his friend and preceptor, Brunetto Latini, with a copy of his then newly written 'Vita Nuova,' to which, under the guise of a 'lass of mine,' he alludes in the sonnet. As it is something of a literary curiosity, though far from being rare, I will recite it for your benefit, thus:

"Master Brunetto, this I send entreating

Ye'll entertain this lass of mine at Easter;
She does not come among you as a feaster;
No: she has need of reading, not of eating.
Nor let her find you at some merry meeting,
Laughing amidst buffoons and drollers, lest her
Wise sentence should escape a noisy jester:
She must be wooed, and is well worth the weeting.

If in this sort you fail to make her out,

You have amongst you many sapient men,

All famous as was Albert of Cologne.

Dante's Sonnets.

I have been posed amid that learned rout,

And if they cannot spell her right, why then

Call Master Giano, and the deed is done.'

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"Another example of Dante's familiar sonnet, also translated by Mr. Cary, is keyed in a loftier tone, and veils deep and impassioned feeling beneath its simple dialogue. It was probably written soon after the death of Beatrice, to which is due the exceedingly tender meaning with which it is imbued:

"Came Melancholy to my side one day,

And said: "I must a little bide with thee;"
And brought along with her in company
Sorrow and Wrath. Quoth I to her, "Away:

I will have none of you: make no delay."
And, like a Greek, she gave me stout reply.
Then, as she talk'd, I look'd and did espy
Where Love was coming onward on the way.

A garment new of cloth of black he had,
And on his head a hat of mourning wore;

And he, of truth, unfeignedly was crying.
Forthwith I ask'd: "What ails thee, caitiff lad ?"

And he rejoined: "Sad thoughts and anguish sore,
Sweet brother mine! our lady lies a-dying.":

"Far the larger proportion, however, of Dante's sonnets are in his usual grave and lofty style, and are pregnant with subtle, or figurative, or mystical meaning. For an example of this more elevated kind, one of the finest is that in which he asks the interpretation of a vision that had appeared to him in his sleep:

"To every heart that feels the gentle flame,

To whom this present saying comes in sight,
In that to me their thoughts they may indite,
All health! in Love, our lord and master's name.

Now on its way the second quarter came

Of those twelve hours, wherein the stars are bright,
When Love was seen before me, in such might,
As to remember shakes with awe my frame.
Suddenly came he, seeming glad, and keeping
My heart in hand; and in his arms he had
My Lady in a folded garment sleeping:
He waked her; and that heart all burning bade

Her feed upon, in lowly guise and sad :

Then from my view he turned; and parted, weeping.'

"Well, Professor," I said, "after making due allowance for the destructive effect of even the best translation upon the subtle aroma and delicate bloom of poetry, I must still confess that I am not greatly impressed by those of Dante's sonnets you have repeated. In my uneducated judgment they lack strength and loftiness almost to the verge of being commonplace."

"You are not singular," he replied, "and many persons will agree with you, not only as your criticism applies to Dante's sonnets but to Petrarch's also. Of the two, however, the latter is the most open to it. Many of Dante's sonnets rise very nearly to the majesty of his grand 'Vision,' and none of them are tarnished by affectation or disfigured by the presence of mere conceits. It will reassure your modesty to know that one of the most amiable as well as most acute and scholarly of the English critics of a past generation, Thomas Warton, himself a tasteful poet, was extremely impatient of what he calls 'the metaphysical cast which marks Petrarch and the other Italian poets.' Nevertheless, he is too just to be undiscriminating in his censure, and praises Petrarch's better manner, while he exposes its opposite, by remarking that it is exhibited 'when he descends from his Platonic abstractions, his refinements of passion, and his play upon opposite sentiments into a track of ten

Criticisms of Petrarch's Sonnets.

21

derness, simplicity, and nature.' Warton's estimate of the style of Petrarch's sonnets is a fair exponent of the average opinion of English-speaking scholars and critics. It was certainly the opinion of a much greater poet than Warton-S. T. Coleridge— who, while declaring that 'Petrarch was the final blossom and perfection of the Troubadours,' and 'possessed a true poetic genius,' did not hesitate to jot down in his copy of Petrarch some very severe criticisms, especially of his sonnets and canzones; some of which he pronounces 'ridiculous in the thoughts,' others' faulty,' and others abounding 'in conceits and Petrarchisms.' It must be admitted that his constant iteration of Laura's perfections, in every turn of phrase that ingenuity can suggest, varied by every combination of conceits that art or industry can devise, gives Petrarch's sonnets the appearance of effeminate make-believes. Their loquacity becomes wearisome; their heroics pass for mere feigning; their plaints suggest a surfeit of the luxury of woe; and even Laura herself becomes a tiresome bore. As for sympathy-it is impossible to arouse it for such an abstraction as Petrarch makes her, as impossible as for a disembodied spirit.”

"I know precious little about Petrarch, Professor; but somehow, when I hear a fellow abused like that, I begin to have a warm side for him. I should like to see a 'specimen brick' of his, if you have one at command.”

"I too," he replied, "have a warm side for a wrong-headed but generous-hearted fellow like yourself, and will try to gratify you. How will you have it-in the original or in a translation?"

"Now you are chaffing again, old fellow. You know as well as I do that Hottentot and Italian are all one to me, so let us have it in the vernacular."

"You shall have your wish; and as Warton's rather disen