righteous judgments of God. Dante had little of the flabby modern sentimentality which regards all sinners as mere victims to be pitied.

CANTOS VII. 100VIII. 64

When we turn to the second class of sinners The Sad, Sullen, punished in this Circle, we find considerable contro- Slothful. versy as to what precisely they are. As the pilgrims skirt the margin of the Marsh, Virgil points out to Dante the bubbles which rise everywhere on the surface of the water, and informs him that they are made by a doleful 'hymn' which souls fixed in the mire below gurgle in their throats:

'Fixed in the slime they say: "Sad were we
In the sweet air which by the sun is gladdened,
Bearing within ourselves the slothful smoke:
Now are we sad in the black mire."'1

Some commentators, on the strength of the words
'slothful smoke' (accidioso fummo), regard the sin as
that of Sloth (Accidia), identifying it with that
punished on the Fourth Cornice of Purgatory.
Others, laying the emphasis on the sadness of these
sinners, take their sin to be, as Dr. Moore says, 'a
type or species of anger, viz., sullen, suppressed, or
sulky anger; a gloomy, resentful, discontented dis-
position, refusing to rejoice in the bright sunshine,
and other occasions of happiness and contentment
in this upper world.' Dr. Moore thinks, I have no
doubt rightly, that Dante had in mind Aristotle's
distinction between sullenness and other forms of
anger of a more explosive kind. It is an anger into
which enter both sloth and sadness, as Dante plainly
indicates. In this, indeed, he is simply following
1 Inf. vii. 117-126.

2 Studies in Dante, second series, 175.

VII. 100

VIII. 64

CANTOS Aquinas: 'Sloth,' he says, 'is a heaviness and sadness, that so weighs down the soul that it has no mind to do anything. It carries with it a disgust of work. It is a torpor of the mind neglecting to set about good. Such sadness is always evil.' He adds that Sloth is a mortal sin because it is contrary to charity for the proper effect of charity is joy in God: while sloth is a sadness at spiritual good, inasmuch as it is divine good.' As the word accidia means, it is the feeling of don't care: a sullen, lazy, angry discontentment which can take an interest in nothing, not even in the shining of the sun. And when we remember where this sin was most prevalent in the Middle Ages, we will not think it an accident that Dante calls the words these sinners gurgle in their throats a 'hymn.' An old commentator remarks shrewdly that priests, whose duty it was to chant hymns in church, were so lazy that they would not even stand to sing praises to God, and that they do not pronounce the words articulately, but, as Dante says, gurgle them in their throats. Bishop Martensen says this weariness of life, called acedia in the Middle Ages, was 'a state of soul that often occurred in monasteries, that is, in such as gave themselves to a one-sidedly contemplative life, without having the power or the calling for it, and who were filled with a disgust of all things, even of existence, while even the highest religious thoughts became empty and meaningless to them." Lecky, in his History of European Morals, affirms that 'most

1 Summa, ii-ii. q. xxxv. a. 1, 3.

2

2 Christian Ethics (Individual), p. 378. See discourse on 'Accidie' in Chaucer's The Parson's Tale.

of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks,' and traces them to this acedia, 'a melancholy leading to desperation.' It is by no means unlikely that this is what Dante hints at in the word 'hymn': it is the somewhat sullen, morose, and melancholy lack of interest in anything, to which men are specially liable who embrace the religious life, without having any true vocation for it.1

CANTOS VII. 100VIII. 64

fixed in the

The punishment which Dante assigns to this sin is Punishment: by no means so arbitrary or fantastic as it may at Mire of Styx. first glance look. On earth they darkened for themselves the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, with 'the slothful smoke' of their sad and sullen temper; and now the 'smoke' has intensified into black mire, in which they are embedded throughout eternity. In other words, a lifelong habit of morose and melancholy refusal to see the sunshine which exists even in the darkest lot, may well become at last the fixed and unalterable temper of the soul. It reminds us of words from the Wisdom of Solomon, which perhaps were in Dante's mind: For the whole world shined with clear light, and none were hindered in their labour: over them only was spread an heavy night, an image of that darkness which should afterward receive them: but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness.'2 We can scarcely doubt that Dante had a personal interest in thus vividly realizing to himself the

1 Alban Butler in his Life of St. Bruno says: 'Gaiety of soul (which always attends virtue) is particularly necessary in all who are called to a life of perfect solitude, in which nothing is more pernicious than sadness.' 2 Chap. xvii. 20, 21.

CANTOS VII. 100VIII. 64

doom of such souls, when we remember that his own circumstances must have been a constant temptation to him to give way to this sad and sullen spirit. Exiled from his native city, accused of a disgraceful crime, learning by long and bitter experience

'how savoureth of salt

The bread of others, and how hard a road

The going down and up another's stairs,' 1

Dante yet seems to have kept within his breast a heart open to the sunshine. Can I not everywhere behold the mirrors of the sun and of the stars?'2 he asks in his letter of indignant refusal to return to Florence on conditions which were an insult to an innocent man. In the Convito, he sets it down as one of the marks of noble Age that it looks back with joy upon an active and well-spent life: 'And the noble soul blesses also at this age the times past, and well may she bless them; because, revolving them in memory, she remembers her upright works, without which she could not come to the port to which she draws near, with so great riches nor with so great gain. And she does as the good merchant, who, when he comes near to his port, examines his cargo, and says, If I had not passed through such a road, I should not have this treasure, and I should not have that wherewith I shall rejoice in my city, to which I am approaching; and therefore he blesses the journey which he has made.'3

1 Par. xvii. 58-60.

2 Epis. ix. 4.

3 Conv. iv. 28.

CHAPTER IX

CIRCLE VI.-THE CITY OF DIS: HERETICS

1. The Narrative

VIII. 65-X

of Intellect.

WE come now to one of the most difficult parts CANTOS of the whole poem,-so difficult, indeed, that Dante interrupts the narrative to warn the reader that it Incontinence needs a sound intellect to discern the doctrine concealed beneath the veil of the mysterious verses.' It may be well, therefore, to have the narrative clearly before our minds before we attempt the interpretation.

Dis.

When they have rid themselves of Filippo Argenti, The City of there smites on Dante's ear a lamentation which causes him to peer eagerly across the Stygian Fen, to discover whence it came. Virgil informs him that they are drawing near to the City of Dis, with its 'sin-laden citizens. Already Dante sees its mosques glowing red-hot in the valley below: the word 'mosques' being chosen probably to indicate that it was a city of infidels. When they come nearer, they find that it is defended by deep moats and walls of iron: the description being obviously taken from that of Tartarus in Book VI. of the Eneid. After a long circuit, their Ferryman lands them at the gates; but their entrance is fiercely opposed by