but passion, and the absence of the superfluous, are the chief
characteristics of his poetry. Fortunately, this sincerity of purpose
and utterance in Dante render him the least pervertible of poets in a
sincere prose translation; and, since I ventured on attempting one, I
have had the pleasure of meeting with an express recommendation of such
a version in an early number of the _Edinburgh Review_.[1]

The abstract of Dante, therefore, in these volumes (with every
deprecation that becomes me of being supposed to pretend to give a
thorough idea of any poetry whatsoever, especially without its metrical
form) aspires to be regarded as, at all events, not exhibiting a false
idea of the Dantesque spirit in point of feeling and expression. It is
true, I have omitted long tedious lectures of scholastic divinity, and
other learned absurdities of the time, which are among the bars to the
poem's being read through, even in Italy (which Foscolo tells us is
never the case); and I have compressed the work in other passages not
essentially necessary to the formation of a just idea of the author.
But quite enough remains to suggest it to the intelligent; and in no
instance have I made additions or alterations. There is warrant--I hope
I may say letter--for every thing put down. Dante is the greatest poet
for intensity that ever lived; and he excites a corresponding emotion
in his reader--I wish I could say, always on the poet's side; but his
ferocious hates and bigotries too often tempt us to hate the bigot,
and always compel us to take part with the fellow-creatures whom he
outrages. At least, such is their effect on myself. Nor will he or his
worshippers suffer us to criticise his faults with mere reference to the
age in which he lived. I should have been glad to do so; but the claims
made for him, even by himself, will not allow it. We are called upon to
look on him as a divine, a prophet, an oracle in all respects for all
time. Such a man, however, is the last whom a reporter is inclined to