The Age of Faith

This trash, and trample you pell-mell!⁵⁷

It is some consolation to learn that in the end the God of Love, at the head of his innumerable vassals, storms the tower where Danger, Shame, and Fear (the lady’s hesitations) guard the Rose, and Welcome admits the Lover to the inner shrine, and lets him pluck the image of his dreams. But how can this long-deferred romantic termination wipe out 18,000 lines of peasant realism and goliardic ribaldry?

The three most widely read books in the Western Europe of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were the Romance of the Rose, the Golden Legend, and Reynard the Fox. Reynard began his Latin career as Ysengrinus about 1150, and passed into various vernaculars as Roman de Renart, Reynard the Fox, Reineke de Vos, Reinaert, finally as Goethe’s Reinecke Fuchs. Divers authors contributed some thirty merry tales to the cycle until it totaled 24,000 lines, nearly all devoted to satirizing feudal forms, royal courts, Christian ceremonies, and human frailties through animal analogies.

Renart the fox plays impish tricks on Noble the lion, king of the realm. He scents Noble’s amour with Dame Harouge the leopardess, and by intrigues worthy of Talleyrand he persuades her to play mistress to himself. He propitiates Noble and other beasts by giving each a talisman that tells a husband of his wife’s infidelities. Dreadful revelations ensue; the husbands beat their guilty wives, who flee for refuge to Renart, who gathers them into a harem. In one tale the animals engage in a tournament, in solemn knightly regalia and parade. In La Mort Renart the old fox is dying; Bernard the ass, archbishop of the court, comes to administer the sacraments to him with extreme unction and gravity. Renart confesses his sins, but stipulates that if he recovers his oath of reform is to be held null and void. To all appearances he dies, and the many beasts whom he has cuckolded, beaten, plucked, or cozened gather to mourn him with happy hypocrisy. The archbishop preaches a Rabelaisian sermon over the grave, and reproaches Renart for having considered “anything in season if you could get hold of it.” But when holy water is sprinkled upon him Renart revives, catches Chantecler (who is swinging the censer) by the neck, and bolts into a thicket with his prey. To understand the Middle Ages one must never forget Renart.

The Roman de Renart was the greatest of the fabliaux. A fabliau was a fable of animals satirizing man, usually in octosyllabic verse running from thirty to a thousand lines. Some were as old as Aesop or older; some came from India through Islam. Mostly they lampooned women and priests, resenting the natural powers of the one class and the supernatural powers of the other; besides, ladies and priests had condemned the minstrels for reciting scandalous fabliaux. For the fabliaux were directed to strong stomachs; they appropriated the terminology of taverns and brothels, and gave meter to unmeasured pleasantries. But from their stews Chaucer, Boccaccio, Ariosto, La Fontaine, and a hundred other raconteurs brewed many a startling tale.

The rise of satire lowered the status of minstrelsy. The traveling singers derived their English name from the ministeriales, originally attendants in baronial courts, and their French name of jongleurs from the Latin ioculator, a purveyor of jokes. They filled the functions, and continued the lineage, of Greek rhapsodes, Roman mimes, Scandinavian scalds, Anglo-Saxon glee-men, and Welsh or Irish bards. In the twelfth-century heyday of the romances the minstrels took the place of printing, and kept their dignity by purveying stories occasionally worthy to be classed as literature. Harp or viol in hand, they recited lays, dits or contes (short stories), epics, legends of Mary or the saints, chansons de geste, romans, or fabliaux. In Lent, when they were not in demand, they attended, if they could, a confrèrie of minstrels and jongleurs like that which we know to have been held at Fécamp in Normandy about the year 1000; there they learned one another’s tricks and airs, and the new tales or songs of trouvères and troubadours. Many of them were willing, if their recitations proved too much of an intellectual strain for their audiences, to entertain them with juggling, tumbling, contortions, and rope walking. When the trouvères went about reciting their own stories, and when the habit of reading spread and reduced the demand for reciters, the minstrel became more and more of a vaudevillian, so that the jongleur became a juggler; he tossed knives, pulled Punch and Judy puppets, or displayed the repertoire of trained bears, apes, horses, cocks, dogs, camels, and lions. Some of the minstrels turned fabliaux into farces, and acted them without skimping the obscenities. The Church more and more frowned upon them, and forbade the pious to listen to them, or the kings to feed them; and Bishop Honorius of Autun was of the opinion that no minstrel would be admitted to paradise.

The popularity of the jongleurs and the fabliaux, and the uproarious welcome with which the newly lettered classes, and the rebellious students of the universities, received Jean de Meung’s epic of the bourgeoisie, marked the end of an age. Romance would continue, but it was challenged on every hand by satire, humor, and a realistic earthy mood that laughed at tales of chivalry long before Cervantes was born. For a century now satire would hold the stage, and would gnaw at the heart of faith until all the props and ribs of the medieval structure would crack and break, and leave the soul of man proud and tottering on the brink of reason.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Dante

1265–1321

I. THE ITALIAN TROUBADOURS

IT was at the Apulian court of Frederick II that Italian literature was born. Perhaps the Moslems in his retinue contributed some stimulus, for every literate Moslem versified. Some years before Frederick’s death in 1250, Ciullo d’Alcamo (c. 1200) wrote a pretty “Dialogue Between Lover and Lady”; and Alcamo, in Sicily, was almost wholly a Moslem town. But a more decisive influence came from the troubadours of Provence, who sent their poems, or came in person, to the appreciative Frederick and his cultured aides. Frederick himself not only supported poetry, he wrote it, and in Italian. His prime minister, Piero delle Vigne, composed excellent sonnets, and may have invented that arduous form. Rinaldo d’Aquino (brother to St. Thomas), living at Frederick’s court, Guido delle Colonne, a judge, and Iacopo da Lentino, a notary, in Frederick’s Regno, were among the poets of this “Apulian Renaissance.” A sonnet by Iacopo (c. 1233), a generation before Dante’s birth, has already the delicacy of sentiment and finish of form of the poems in the Vita Nuova:

I have it in my heart to serve God so

That into paradise I shall repair—

The holy place through the which everywhere

I have heard say that joy and solace flow.

Without my lady I were loath to go—

She who has the bright face and the bright hair;

Because if she were absent, I being there,

My pleasure would be less than nought, I know.

Look you, I say not this to such intent

As that I there would deal in any sin;

I only would behold her gracious mien,

And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face,

That so it should be my complete content

To see my lady joyful in her place.¹

When Frederick’s court traveled through Italy he took poets along with his menagerie, and they spread their influence into Latium, Tuscany, and Lombardy. His son Manfred continued his patronage of poetry, and wrote lyrics that Dante praised. Much of this “Sicilian” verse was translated into Tuscan, and shared in forming the school of poets that culminated in Dante. At the same time French troubadours, leaving a Languedoc harried by religious wars, found refuge in Italian courts, initiated Italian poets into the gai saber, taught Italian women to welcome verse eulogies, and persuaded Italian magnates to reward poetry even when addressed to their wives. Some early Tuscan poets carried their imitation of the French troubadours so far as to write in Provençal. Sordello (c. 1200–70), born near Virgil’s Mantua, offended the terrible Ezzelino, fled to Provence, and wrote, in Provençal, poems of ethereal and fleshless love.

Out of this Platonic passion, by a strange marriage of metaphysics and poetry, came the dolce stil nuovo, or “sweet new style” of Tuscany. Instead of the frank sensuality which they found in the Provençal singers, the Italian poets preferred or pretended to love women as embodiments of pure and abstract beauty, or as symbols of divine wisdom or philosophy. This was a new note in an Italy that had known a hundred thousand poets of love. Perhaps the spirit of St. Francis moved these chaste pens, or the Summa of Thomas weighed upon them, or they felt the influence of Arabic mystics who saw only God in beauty, and wrote love poems to the deity.²

A bevy of learned singers constituted the new school. Guido Guinizelli (1230?-75) of Bologna, whom Dante saluted as his literary father,³ rhymed the new philosophy of love in a famous canzone (the Provençal canzo or song) “Of the Gentle Heart,” where he asked God’s pardon for loving his lady so, on the plea that she seemed an embodiment of divinity. Lapa Gianni, Dino Frescobaldi, Guido Orlandi, Cino da Pistoia, spread the new style through northern Italy. It was brought to Florence by its finest pre-Dantean exponent, Guido Cavalcanti (c. 1258–1300), Dante’s friend. By exception among these scholar poets, Guido was a noble, son-in-law of that Farinata degli Uberti who led the Ghibelline faction in Florence. He was an Averroistic freethinker, and played with doubts of immortality, even of God.⁴ He took an active, violent part in politics, was exiled by Dante and the other priors in 1300, fell ill, was pardoned, and died in that same year. His proud, aristocratic mind was well fitted to mold sonnets of cold and classic grace:

Beauty in woman; the high will’s decree;

Fair knighthood armed for manly exercise;

The pleasant song of birds; love’s soft replies;

The strength of rapid ships upon the sea;

The serene air when light begins to be;

The white snow, without wind, that falls and lies;

Fields of all flowers, the place where waters rise;

Silver and gold; azure in jewelry:

Weighed against these the sweet and quiet worth

Which my dear lady cherishes at heart

Might seem a little matter to be shown;

Being truly, over these, as much apart

As the whole heaven is greater than this earth.

All good to kindred creatures cleaveth soon.⁵

Dante learned much from Guido, imitated his canzoni, and perhaps owed to him the decision to write The Divine Comedy in Italian. “He desired,” says Dante, “that I should always write to him in the vernacular speech, not in Latin.”⁶ In the course of the thirteenth century Dante’s predecessors molded the new tongue from rude inadequacy to such melody of speech, such concentration and subtlety of phrase, as no other European vernacular could match; they created a language that Dante could call “illustrious, cardinal, courtly, and curial”⁷—fit for the highest dignities. Beside their sonnets the verses of the Provençaux were inharmonious, those of the trouvères and the minnesingers almost doggerel. Here poetry had become no rhyming rivulet of gay garrulity but a work of intense and compact art as painstakingly carved as the figures on the pulpits of Niccolò Pisano and his son. Partly a great man is great because those less than he have paved his way, have molded the mood of the time to his genius, have fashioned an instrument for his hands, and have given him a task already half done.

II. DANTE AND BEATRICE

In May 1265 Bella Alighieri presented to her husband, Alighiero Alighieri, a son whom they christened Durante Alighieri; probably they took no thought that the words meant long-lasting wing-bearer. Apparently the poet himself shortened his first name to Dante.⁸ His family had a lengthy pedigree in Florence, but had slipped into poverty. The mother died in Dante’s early years; Alighiero married again, and Dante grew up, perhaps unhappily, with a stepmother, a half brother, and two half sisters.⁹ The father died when Dante was fifteen, leaving a heritage of debts.¹⁰

Of Dante’s teachers he remembered most gratefully Brunetto Latini, who, returning from France, had shortened his French encyclopedia, Tresor, into an Italian Tesoretto; from him Dante learned come l’uom s’eterna—how man immortalizes himself.¹¹ Dante must have studied Virgil with especial delight; he speaks of the Mantuan’s bel stilo; and what other student has so loved a classic as to follow its author through hell? Boccaccio tells of Dante being at Bologna in 1287. There or elsewhere the poet picked up so much of the sorry science and miraculous philosophy of his time that his poem became top-heavy with his erudition. He learned also to ride, hunt, fence, paint, and sing. How he earned his bread we do not know. In any case he was admitted to cultured circles, if only through his friendship with Cavalcanti. In that circle he found many poets.

The most famous of all love affairs began when both Dante and Beatrice were nine years old. According to Boccaccio the occasion was a May Day feast in the home of Folco Portinari, one of the leading citizens of Florence. Little “Bice” was Folco’s daughter; that she was also Dante’s Beatrice is probable,¹² but not close enough to certainty to calm the doubts of the meticulous. We know of this first meeting only through the idealized description written by Dante nine years later in the Vita nuova:

Her dress on that day was of a most noble color, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as suited with her very tender age. At that moment I say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulses of my body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these words: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi [Behold a deity stronger than I, who, coming, will rule me]…. From that time forward Love quite governed my soul.¹³

A lad nearing puberty is ripe for such a trembling; most of us have known it, and can look back upon “calf love” as one of the most spiritual experiences of our youth, a mysterious awakening of body and soul to life and sex and beauty and our individual incompleteness, and yet with no conscious hunger of body for body, but only a shy longing to be near the beloved, to serve her, and hear her speak, and watch her modest grace. Give the male soul such sensitivity as Dante’s—a man of passion and imagination—and such a revelation and ripening might well remain a lifelong memory and stimulus. He tells us how he sought opportunities to see Beatrice, if only to gaze unseen upon her. Then he seems to have lost sight of her until, nine years later, when they were eighteen,

it happened that the same wonderful lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white, between two gentle [i.e., highborn] ladies elder than she. And passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed; and by her unspeakable courtesy … she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness…. I parted thence as one intoxicated…. Then, for that I had myself in some sort the art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making a sonnet.¹⁴

So, if we may believe his account, was born his sequence of sonnets and commentaries known as La vita nuova, The New Life. At intervals in the next nine years (1283–92) he composed the sonnets, and later added the prose. He sent one sonnet after another to Cavalcanti, who preserved them and now became his friend. The whole romance is in some measure a literary artifice. The poems are spoiled for our changed taste by their fanciful deification of Love in the manner of the troubadours, by the long scholastic dissertations that interpret them, and by a number mysticism of threes and nines-, we must discount these infections of the time.

Love saith concerning her: “How chanceth it

That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure?”

Then, gazing always, he makes oath: “For sure,

This is a creature of God till now unknown.”

She hath that paleness of the pearl that’s fit

In a fair woman, so much and not more.

She is as high as nature and skill can soar;

Beauty is tried by her comparison.

Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon,

Spirits of love do issue thence in flame,

Which through their eyes who then may look on them

Pierce to the heart’s deep chamber every one.

And in her smile Love’s image you may see;

Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.¹⁵

Some of the prose is more pleasing than the verse:

When she appeared in any place it seemed to me, by the hope of her excellent salutation, that there was no man mine enemy any longer; and such warmth of charity came upon me that most certainly in that moment I would have pardoned whosoever had done me an injury…. She went along crowned and clothed with humility … and when she had gone it was said by many: “This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels of heaven” … I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so very gentle that she bred in those who looked upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech.¹⁶

There is no thought, in this possibly artificial infatuation, of marriage with Beatrice. In 1289 she wedded Simone de’ Bardi, member of a rich banking firm. Dante took no notice of so superficial an incident, but continued to write poems about her, without mentioning her name. A year later Beatrice died, aged twenty-four, and the poet, for the first time naming her, mourned her in a quiet elegy:

Beatrice is gone up into high heaven,

The kingdom where the angels are at peace,

And lives with them, and to her friends is dead.

Not by the frost of winter was she driven

Away, like others, nor by summer heats;

But through a perfect gentleness instead.

For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead

Such an exceeding glory went up hence

That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire,

Until a sweet desire

Entered Him for that lovely excellence,

So that He bade her to Himself aspire,

Counting this weary and most evil place

Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.¹⁷

In another poem he pictured her surrounded with homage in paradise. “After writing this sonnet,” he tells us,

it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision, wherein I saw things which determined me that I would say nothing further of this blessed one until such time as I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I labor all I can, as she well knoweth. Wherefore, if it be His pleasure through Whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which may it seem good unto Him Who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady, to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenance.

So, in the concluding words of his little book, he laid his sights for a greater one; and “from the first day that I saw her face in this life, until this vision” with which he ends the Paradiso, “the sequence of my song was never cut.”¹⁸ Rarely has any man, through all the tides and storms in his affairs, charted and kept so straight a course.

III. THE POET IN POLITICS

However, there were deviations. Some time after Beatrice’ death Dante indulged himself in a series of light loves—“Pietra,” “Pargoletta,” “Lisetta,” “or other vanity of such brief use.”¹⁹ To one lady, whom he names only gentil donna, he addressed love poems less ethereal than those to Beatrice. About 1291, aged twenty-six, he married Gemma Donati, a descendant of the oldest Florentine aristocracy. In ten years she gave him several children, variously reckoned at three, four, or seven.²⁰ Faithful to the troubadour code, he never mentioned his wife or his children in his poetry. It would have been indelicate. Marriage and romantic love were things apart.

Now, perhaps through Cavalcanti’s aid, he entered politics. For reasons unknown to us he joined the Whites or Bianchi—the party of the upper middle class. He must have had ability, for as early as 1300 he was elected to the Priory or municipal council. During his brief incumbency the Blacks or Neri, led by Corso Donati, attempted a coup d’état to restore the old nobility to power. After suppressing this revolt the priors, Dante concurring, sought to promote peace by banishing the leaders of both parties—among them Donati, Dante’s relative by marriage, and Cavalcanti, his friend. In 1301 Donati invaded Florence with a band of armed Blacks, deposed the priors, and captured the government. Early in 1302 Dante and fifteen other citizens were tried and convicted on various political charges, were exiled, and were sentenced to be burned to death if they should ever enter Florence again. Dante fled, and, hoping soon to return, left his family behind him. This exile, with confiscation of his property, condemned the poet to indigent wandering for nineteen years, embittered his spirit, and in some measure determined the mood and theme of The Divine Comedy. His fellow exiles, against Dante’s advice, persuaded Arezzo, Bologna, and Pistoia to send against Florence an army of 10,000 men to restore them to power or their homes (1304). The attempt failed, and thereafter Dante followed an individual course, living with friends in Arezzo, Bologna, and Padua.

It was during the first decade of his exile that he gathered together some of the poems he had written to the gentil donna, and added to them a prose commentary transforming her into Dame Philosophy. The Convivio {Banquet, c. 1308) tells how, in the disappointments of love and life, Dante turned to philosophy for solace; what a divine revelation he found in the seductive study; and how he resolved to share his findings, in Italian, with those who could not read Latin. Apparently he had in mind to write a new Summa or Tesoro, in which each part would pretend to be a commentary on a poem about the beautiful lady; it was a remarkable scheme for redeeming the sensuous with the arid. The little book is a hodge-podge of weird science, farfetched allegories, and snatches of philosophy from Boethius and Cicero. We must mark it as a credit to Dante’s intelligence that after completing three of fourteen intended commentaries he abandoned the book as a total loss.

He took on now the modest task of re-establishing the rule of the Holy Roman emperors in Italy. His experience had convinced him that the chaos and violence of politics in the Italian cities were due to an atomistic conception of freedom—each region, city, class, individual, and desire demanding anarchic liberty. Like Machiavelli two centuries later, he longed for some power that would co-ordinate individuals, classes, and cities into an orderly whole within which men might work and live in security and peace. That unifying power could come either from the pope or from the head of the Holy Roman Empire, to which northern Italy had long been subject in theory. But Dante had just been exiled by a party allied with the papacy; an uncertain tradition says that he had taken part in an unsuccessful embassy from Florence to Boniface VIII; and for a long time the popes had opposed the unification of Italy as a danger to their spiritual freedom as well as their temporal power. The only hope of order seemed to lie in the restoration of Imperial control, in a return to the majestic pax Romana of ancient Rome.

So, at a date unknown, Dante wrote his provocative treatise De monarchia. Writing in Latin as still the language of philosophy, Dante argued that since the appropriate function of man is intellectual activity, and since this can proceed only in peace, the ideal government would be a world state maintaining a stable order and uniform justice over all the earth. Such a state would be the proper image and correlate of the celestial order established throughout the universe by God. Imperial Rome had come nearest to being such an international state; God’s approval of it was made manifest by His choosing to become man under Augustus; and Christ Himself had bidden men accept the political authority of the Caesars. Obviously the authority of the ancient Empire had not been derived from the Church. But the Holy Roman Empire was that older Empire revived. It is true that a pope crowned Charlemagne, and thereby appeared to make the Empire subordinate to the papacy; but the “usurpation of a right does not create a right; if it did, the same method could show the dependency of ecclesiastical authority on the Empire after the Emperor Otto restored Pope Leo and deposed Benedict.”²¹ The right of the Empire to govern was derived not from the Church but from the natural law that social order requires government; and since natural law is the will of God, the state derives its powers from God. It is indeed proper that the emperor should acknowledge the superior authority of the pope in matters of faith and morals; but this does not limit the sovereignty of the state in “the earthly sphere.”²²

The De monarchia, despite a scholastic mechanism of disputation no longer appetizing to the fashions of thought, was a powerful argument for “one world” of government and law. The manuscript was known only to a few during the author’s lifetime. After his death it was more widely circulated, and was used as propaganda by the antipapal Louis the Bavarian. It was publicly burned by order of a papal legate in 1329, was placed on the papal Index of Forbidden Books in the sixteenth century, and was removed from that Index by Leo XIII in 1897.

According to Boccaccio,²³ Dante wrote the De monarchia “at the coming of Henry VI.” In the year 1310 the King of Germany invaded Italy in the hope of re-establishing over all the peninsula except the Papal States that Imperial rule which had died with Frederick II. Dante welcomed him with excited hopes. In a “Letter to the Princes and Peoples of Italy” he called upon the Lombard cities to open their hearts and gates to the Luxembourg “Arrigo” who would deliver them from chaos and the pope. When Henry reached Milan Dante hastened thither and threw himself enthusiastically at the feet of the Emperor; all his dreams of a united Italy seemed near fulfillment. Florence, heedless of the poet, closed her gates against Henry, and Dante publicly addressed an angry letter Scelestissimis Florentines—“to the most criminal Florentines” (March, 1311).

Know ye not God hath ordained that the human race be under the rule of one emperor for the defense of justice, peace, and civilization, and that Italy has always been a prey to civil war whenever the Empire lapsed? You who transgress laws human and divine, you whom the awful insatiability of avarice has led to be ready for any crimes—does not the terror of the second death harass you, that ye, first and alone … have raged against the glory of the Roman prince, the monarch of the earth and the ambassador of God? … Most foolish and insensate men! Ye shall succumb perforce to the Imperial Eagle!²⁴

To Dante’s dismay Henry took no action against Florence. In April the poet wrote to the Emperor like a Hebrew prophet warning kings:

We marvel what sluggishness delays you so long…. You waste the spring as well as the winter at Milan…. Florence (do you perchance know it not?) is the dire evil…. This is the viper … from her evaporating corruption she exhales an infectious smoke, and thence the neighboring flocks waste away…. Up, then, thou noble child of Jesse!²⁵

Florence responded by declaring Dante forever excluded from amnesty and from Florence. Henry left Florence untouched, and passed via Genoa and Pisa to Rome and Siena, where he died (1313).

It was a crowning disaster for Dante. He had staked everything on Henry’s victory, had burned all bridges to Florence behind him. He fled to Gubbio, and took refuge in the monastery of Santa Croce. There, apparently, he wrote much of The Divine Comedy.²⁶ But he had not yet had his fill of politics. In 1316 he was probably with Uguccione della Faggiuola at Lucca; in that year Uguccione defeated the Florentines at Montecatini; Florence recovered, and included Dante’s two sons in a sentence of death—which was never carried out. Lucca revolted against Uguccione, and Dante was again homeless. Florence, in a mood of victorious generosity, and forgetting its forevers, offered amnesty and safe return to all exiles on condition that they pay a fine, walk through the streets in penitential garb, and submit to a brief imprisonment. A friend notified Dante of the proclamation. He replied in a famous letter:

To a Florentine friend: From your letter, which I received with due reverence and affection, I have learned with a grateful heart… how dear to your soul is my return to my country. Behold, then, the ordinance … that if I were willing to pay a certain amount of money, and suffer the stigma of oblation, I should be pardoned, and could return forthwith….

Is this, then, the glorious recall wherewith Dante Alighieri is summoned back to his country after an exile patiently endured for almost fifteen years? … Far be it from a man who preaches justice … to pay his money to those inflicting injustice, as though they were his benefactors. This is not the way to return to my country…. If another way may be found … which does not derogate from the honor of Dante, that will I take with no lagging steps. But if Florence is not to be entered by such a path, then never will I enter…. What! Can I not look upon the face of the sun and the stars everywhere? Can I not under any sky contemplate the most precious truths?²⁷

Probably toward the close of the year 1316 he accepted the invitation of Can Grande della Scala, ruler of Verona, to come and live as his guest. There, apparently, he finished—there he dedicated to Can Grande—the Paradiso of The Divine Comedy (1318). We may picture him at this period—aged fifty-one—as Boccaccio described him in the Vita of 1354: a man of medium height, “somewhat stooped,” walking with grave and measured gait in somber dignity; dark hair and skin, long and pensive face, furrowed projecting brow, stern deep eyes, thin aquiline nose, tight lips, a pugnacious chin.²⁸ It was the face of a spirit once gentle, but hardened to bitterness by pain; the Dante of the Vita nuova could hardly have affected all the tenderness and sensibility there expressed; and something of those qualities appears in the pity with which he hears Francesca’s tale. He was grim and austere as became a defeated exile; his tongue was sharpened by adversity; and he became imperious to cover his fall from power. He prided himself on his ancestry because he was poor. He despised the money-making bourgeoisie of Florence; he could not forgive Portinari for marrying Beatrice to a banker; and he took the only revenge open to him by placing usurers in one of the deepest pits of hell. He never forgot an injury or a slight, and there were few of his enemies who escaped damnation from his pen. He had less use than Solon for those who remained neutral in revolution or in war. The secret of his character was a flaming intensity. “Not by the grace of riches but by the grace of God I am what I am, and the zeal of His house hath eaten me up.”²⁹

He poured all his strength into his poem, and could not long survive its completion. In 1319 he left Verona and went to live with Count Guido da Polenta at Ravenna. He received an invitation from Bologna to come and be crowned poet laureate; he answered no in a Latin eclogue. In 1321 Guido sent him to Venice on a political mission, which failed; Dante returned with a fever caught from the marshes of the Veneto. He was too weak to fight it off, and it killed him on September 14, 1321, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. The Count planned to raise a handsome tomb above the poet’s grave, but it was not done. The bas-relief that stands above the marble coffin today was carved by Pietro Lombardo in 1483. There, as all the world knows, Byron came and wept. Today the tomb lies almost unnoticed around the corner from Ravenna’s busiest square; and its old and crippled custodian, for a few lire, will recite sonorous beauties from the poem that all men praise and few men read.

IV. THE DIVINE COMEDY

1. The Poem

Boccaccio relates that Dante began it in Latin hexameters, but changed to Italian to reach a broader audience. Perhaps the ardor of his feelings affected his choice; it seemed easier to be passionate in Italian than in a Latin so long associated with classic urbanity and restraint. In youth he had restricted Italian to the poetry of love; but now that his theme was the highest philosophy of human redemption through love he wondered dared he speak in the “vulgar” tongue. At some uncertain time he had begun—and then had left unfinished—a Latin essay De vulgari eloquentia (On Vernacular Eloquence), aspiring to win the learned to wider literary use of the vernacular; he had praised the compact majesty of Latin, but had expressed the hope that through the poetry of Frederick’s Regno and the stil nuovo of the Lombard and Tuscan trovatori an Italian language might rise above its dialects ‘to be (as the Convivio put it) “full of the: sweetest and most exquisite beauty.”³⁰ Even Dante’s pride could hardly dream that his epic would not only make Italian a language fit for any enterprise of letters, but would raise it to such dolce bellezza as the world’s literature has seldom known.

Never was a poem more painstakingly planned. A weakness for triads—as reflecting the Trinity—molded its form: there were to be three “canticles,” each of thirty-three cantos, to correspond with the years of Christ’s earthly life; an extra canto in the first canticle would make a neat round hundred; each canto was to be written in groups of three lines; and the second line of each group was to rhyme with the first and third of the next. Nothing could be more artificial; yet all art is artifice, though at its best concealed; and the terza rima or triple rhyme binds each stanza with its successor, and weaves them all into a continued song (canto), which in the original flows trippingly on the tongue, but in translation limps and halts on borrowed feet. Dante in advance condemned all translations of Dante: “Nothing that hath the harmony of musical connection can be transferred from its own tongue to another without shattering all its sweetness and harmony.”³¹*

As number dictated the form, so allegory planned the tale. In his dedicatory epistle to Can Grande,³² Dante explained the symbolism of his canticles. We might suspect this interpretation to be the afterthought of a poet who longed to be a philosopher; but the addiction of the Middle Ages to symbolism, the allegorical sculptures of the cathedrals, the allegorical frescoes of Giotto, Gaddi, and Raphael, and Dante’s allegorical sublimations in the Vita muova and the Convivio suggest that the poet really had in mind the outlines of the scheme that he described in perhaps imaginary detail. The poem, he says, belongs to the genus philosophy, and its concern is morality. Like a theologian interpreting the Bible, he assigns three meanings to his words: the literal, the allegorical, and the mystical.

The subject of this work according to the letter … is the state of souls after death…. But if the work be taken allegorically its subject is Man, in so far as by merit or demerit… he is exposed to the rewards or punishments of justice…. The aim of the whole and the part is to remove those living in this life from a state of misery, and to guide them to a state of happiness.

Otherwise expressed, the Inferno is man passing through sin, suffering, and despair; the Purgatorio is his cleansing through faith; the Paradiso is his redemption through divine revelation and unselfish love. Virgil, who guides Dante through hell and purgatory, stands for knowledge, reason, wisdom, which can lead us to the portals of happiness; only faith and love (Beatrice) can lead us in. In the epic of Dante’s life his exile was his hell, his studies and his writings were his purgation, his hope and love were his redemption and his only bliss. It is perhaps because Dante takes his symbolism most seriously in the Paradiso that this canticle is the hardest to enjoy; for the Beatrice who was a heavenly vision in the Vita nuova becomes in Dante’s vision of heaven a pompous abstraction—hardly a meet fate for such impeccable loveliness. Finally Dante explains to Can Grande why he calls his epic Commedia*—because the story passed from misery to happiness, and because “it is written in a careless and humble style, in the vulgar tongue, which even housewives speak.”³³

This painful comedy, “this book on which I have grown thin through all these years,”³⁴ was the work and solace of his exile, and was finished only three years before his death. It summarized his life, his learning, his theology, his philosophy; if it had also embodied the humor and tenderness and full-blooded sensuality of the Middle Ages it might have been “a medieval synthesis.” Into these hundred brief cantos Dante crowded the science that he had gathered from Brunetto Latini, and perhaps from Bologna; the astronomy, cosmology, geology, and chronology of an age too busy living to be learned. He accepted not only the mystic influences and fatalities of astrology, but all the cabalistic mythology that ascribed occult significance and powers to numbers and the alphabet. The number nine distinguishes Beatrice because its square root is the three made holy by the Trinity. There are nine circles in hell, nine levels in purgatory, nine spheres in paradise. By and large Dante adopts with awe and gratitude the philosophy and theology of Thomas Aquinas, but with no servile fidelity; St. Thomas would have winced at the arguments of the De monarchia, or the sight of popes in hell. Dante’s conception of God as light and love (l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle—“the love that moves the sun and the other stars”)³⁵ is Aristotle carried down through Arabic philosophy. He knows something of al-Farabi, Avicenna, al-Ghazali, Averroës; and though he assigns Averroës to limbo, he shocks orthodoxy by placing the Averroist heretic Siger de Brabant in heaven;³⁶ moreover he puts into the mouth of Thomas words of praise for the one man who had stirred the Seraphic Doctor to theological wrath. Yet Siger seems to have denied that personal immortality on which Dante’s poem rests. History has exaggerated either the heterodoxy of Siger or the orthodoxy of Dante.

Recent studies have stressed Oriental, and especially Islamic, sources for Dante’s ideas:³⁷ a Persian legend of Arda Viraf’s ascension to heaven; the descriptions of hell in the Koran; the story of Mohammed’s trip to heaven; the tour of heaven and hell in Abu-l-Ala al-Ma’arri’s Risalat al-Ghufran; the Futuhat of Ibn Arabi…. In the Risalat al-Ma’arri pictures Iblis (Satan) bound and tortured in hell, and Christian and other “infidel” poets suffering there; at the gate of paradise the narrator is met by a houri or beautiful maiden, who has been appointed his guide.³⁸ In the Futuhat Ibn Arabi (who wrote love poems with pious allegorical interpretations) drew precise diagrams of the hereafter, described hell and heaven as exactly beneath and above Jerusalem, divided hell and heaven into nine levels, and pictured the circle of the Mystic Rose, and choirs of angels surrounding the Divine Light—all as in The Divine Comedy.³⁹ So far as we know, none of these Arabic writings had by Dante’s time been translated into any language that he could read.

Apocalyptic literature describing tours or visions of heaven or hell abounded in Judaism and Christianity, not to speak of the sixth book of Virgil’s Aeneid. An Irish legend told how St. Patrick had visited purgatory and hell, and had seen there tunics and sepulchers of fire, sinners hanging head downward, or devoured by serpents, or covered with ice.⁴⁰ In twelfth-century England a priest-trouvère, Adam de Ros, recounted in a substantial poem St. Paul’s tour of hell under the guidance of the archangel Michael; made Michael expound the gradation of punishments for different degrees of sin; and showed Paul trembling like Dante before these horrors.⁴¹ Joachim of Flora had told of his own descent into hell and ascent into heaven. There were hundreds of such visions and tales. With all this damning evidence it was hardly necessary for Dante to cross linguistic barriers into Islam in order to find models for his Inferno. Like any artist he fused existing material, transformed it from chaos to order, and set it on fire with his passionate imagination and his burning sincerity. He took the elements of his work wherever he could find them—in Thomas and the troubadours, in Peter Damian’s fiery sermons on the pains of hell, in his brooding over Beatrice living and Beatrice dead, in his conflicts with politicians and popes; in the scraps of science that crossed his path; in the Christian theology of the Fall, the Incarnation, sin and grace, and the Last Judgment; in the Plotinian-Augus-tinian conception of the graduated ascent of the soul to union with God; in Thomas’ emphasis on the Beatific Vision as the final and only satisfying goal of man; and out of these he made the poem in which all the terror, hope, and pilgrimage of the medieval spirit found voice, symbol, and form.

2. Hell

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

Che la diritta via era smarrita.

“Midway on the road of our life I found myself in a dark wood, whose direct way was blurred” and lost.⁴² Wandering in this darkness, Dante meets Virgil, his “master and guide, from whom alone I took the beautiful style that has brought me honor.”⁴³ Virgil tells him that the only safe exit from the wood is through hell and purgatory; but if Dante will accompany him through these, he will conduct him to the portals of paradise, “where a worthier than I must lead thee”; indeed, he adds, it is at Beatrice’ command that he has come to the poet’s aid.

They pass through an opening in the earth’s surface to the gates of hell, inscribed with these bitter words:

Per me si va nella città dolente,

Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore,

Per me si va tra la perduta gente.

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore;

Fecemi la divina potestate,

La somma sapienza e il primo amore.

Dinanzi a me non fur cose create,

Se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’ entrate!⁴⁴

“Through me one enters the sorrowful city; through me one enters into eternal pain; through me one enters among the lostrace. Justice moved my high Maker; divine power made me, supreme wisdom, and primeval love. Before me were no things created except eternal ones; and I endure eternally. All hope abandon, ye who enter here!”

Hell is a subterranean funnel, reaching down to the center of the earth. Dante conceives it with a powerful, almost a sadistic, imagination: dark and frightening abysses between gigantic murky rocks; steaming, stinking marshes, torrents, lakes, and streams; storms of rain, snow, hail, and brands of fire; howlirig winds and petrifying cold; tortured bodies, grimacing faces, blood-stilling shrieks and groans. Nearest the top of this infernal funnel are those who were neither good nor bad, and those who were neutral; ignoble irritations punish them; they are bitten by wasps and hornets, gnawed by worms, consumed with envy and remorse. The never neutral Dante scorns them, and makes Virgil say:

Misericordia e giustizia gli sdegna:

Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa—⁴⁵

“Mercy and justice despise them. We do not speak of them, but look and pass on.” The tourists come to the subterranean river Acheron, and are ferried over by old Charon, serving here since Homer’s days. On the farther shore Dante finds himself in limbo, the first circle of hell, where stay the virtuous but unbaptized, including Virgil and all good heathen, and all good Jews except a few Old Testament heroes whom Christ, visiting limbo, released to heaven. Their only suffering is that they eternally desire a better fate, and know that they will never receive it. There in limbo, honored by all its denizens, are great pagan poets—Homer, Horace, Ovid, Lucan; they welcome Virgil, and make Dante the sixth of their tribe. Looking still higher, says Dante,

Vidi il Maestro di color che sanno

Seder tra filosofica famiglia—

“I saw the master of those who know, seated amid the philosophic family”—i.e., Aristotle, surrounded by Socrates, Plato, Democritus, Diogenes, Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, Empedocles, Thales, Zeno, Cicero, Seneca, Euclid, Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Galen, Avicenna, and Averroës “who made the great commentary.”⁴⁶ Obviously, if Dante had had his way, all this noble company, including the Saracen infidels, would have graced paradise.

Virgil now leads him down into the second circle, where carnal sinners are ceaselessly tossed about by furious winds; here Dante sees Paris, Helen, Dido, Semiramis, Cleopatra, Tristan, and Paolo and Francesca. To end a family feud between the Polentas, lords of Ravenna, and the Malatestas, lords of Rimini, the lovely Francesca da Polenta was to wed the brave but deformed Gianciotto Malatesta. The rest of the story is uncertain; a favored version makes Paolo, the handsome brother of Gianciotto, pretend to be the suitor; to him Francesca pledged herself; but on the wedding day she found herself reluctantly marrying Gianciotto. Soon afterward she enjoyed for a moment Paolo’s love; in that moment Gianciotto caught and slew them (c. 1265). Swaying in the wind as a fleshless wraith beside the ghost of her disembodied lover, Francesca da Rimini tells Dante her story:

Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria. …

Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto

Di Lancelotto, come l’amor lo strinse:

Soli eravamo e senza alcun sospetto.

Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse

Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso:

Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso

Esser baciato da cotante amante,

Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,

La bocea mi baciò tutto tremante.

Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse:

Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.

No greater grief than to remember days

Of joy when misery is at hand…. One day

For our delight we read of Lancelot,

How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no

Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading

Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue

Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point

Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,

The wishéd smile, so rapturously kissed

By one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er

From me shall separate, at once my lips

All trembling kissed. The book and writer both

Were love’s purveyors. In its leaves that day

We read no more.⁴⁷

Dante faints with pity at this tale. He wakes to find himself in the third circle of hell, where those who were guilty of gluttony lie in mire under a continuous storm of snow, hail, and dirty water, while Cerberus barks over them and rends them piecemeal with threefold jaws. Virgil and Dante descend into the fourth circle, where Plutus is stationed; here the prodigal and the avaricious meet in conflict, rolling great weights against each other in a Sisyphean war. The poets follow the murky boiling river Styx down into the fifth circle; here those who sinned by wrath are covered with filth, and smite and tear themselves; and those who were sinfully slothful are submerged in the stagnant water of the Stygian lake, whose muddy surface bubbles with their gasps. The wanderers are conveyed across the lake by Phlegyas, and reach in the sixth circle the city of Dis or Lucifer, where heretics are roasted in flaming sepulchers. They descend into the seventh circle; there, under the presidency of the Minotaur, those who committed crimes of violence are perpetually near to drowning in a roaring river of blood; centaurs shoot them with arrows when their heads emerge. In one compartment of this circle are the suicides, including Piero delle Vigne; in another those who committed violence against God or nature or art stand with bare feet on hot sands, while flakes of fire fall upon their heads. Among the sodomites Dante meets his old teacher, Brunetto Latini—a tasteless doom for a guide, philosopher, and friend.

At the edge of the eighth circle a horrible monster appears, who bears the poets down into the pit of usurers. In the upper gulfs of this circle an ingenious diversity of unending pains falls upon seducers, flatterers, and simoniacs. The latter are fixed head downward in holes; only their legs protrude, and flames lick their feet caressingly. Among the simoniacs is Pope Nicholas III (1277–80), whose evil deeds, along with those of other popes, are bitterly denounced; and by a bold fancy Dante pictures Nicholas as mistaking him for Boniface VIII (d. 1303), whose arrival in hell is expected at any hour.⁴⁸ Soon, Nicholas predicts, Clement V (d. 1314) will also come. In the fourth gulf of the eighth circle are those who presumed to foretell the future; their heads are fixed face backward on their necks. From a bridge—“Malebolge” —over the fifth gulf they look down upon public peculators, who swim forever in a lake of boiling pitch. Hypocrites pass continually around the sixth gulf, wearing gilded cloaks of lead. Along the only pathway in that gulf lies Caiaphas, prostrate and crucified, so that all who pass must tread upon his flesh. In the seventh gulf robbers are tormented by venomous snakes; Dante recognizes here several Florentines. From an arch over the eighth gulf he sees flames consuming and reconsuming evil counselors; here is the wily Odysseus. In the ninth gulf scandalmongers and schismatics are torn limb from limb; here is Mohammed, described with appalling ferocity:

As one I marked, torn from the chin throughout,

Down to the hinder passage; ‘twixt the legs

Dangling his entrails hung; the midriff lay

Open to view; and wretched ventricle

That turns the englutted aliment to dross.

Whilst eagerly I fixed on him my gaze,

He eyed me, with his hands laid his breast bare,

And cried: “Now mark how I do rip me; lo!

And is Mohammed mangled. Before me

Walks Ali weeping; from the chin his face

Cleft to the forelock; and the others all,

Whom here thou seest, while they live, did sow

Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.

A friend is here behind, who with his sword

Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again

Each of this ream when we have compassed round

The dismal way; for first our gashes close

Ere we repass him.”⁴⁹

In the tenth gulf of the eighth circle lie forgers, counterfeiters, and alchemists, moaning with varied ailments; a stench of sweat and pus fills the air, and the groans of the sufferers make a terrifying roar.

At last the poets reach the ninth and lowest circle of hell, which, strange to relate, is a vast well of ice. Here traitors are buried in the ice to their chins; tears of pain freeze into a “crystalline visor” over their faces. Count Ugolino della Gherardesca, who betrayed Pisa, is here eternally bound to Archbishop Ruggieri, who imprisoned him with his sons and grandsons and allowed them all to starve to death. Now Ugolino’s head lies upon the Archbishop’s, which it chews forever. At nadir, the center of the earth and the very bottom of the narrowing funnel of hell, the giant Lucifer lies buried to the waist in ice, flapping enormous wings from his shoulders, weeping icy tears of blood from the three faces that divide his head, and chewing a traitor in each of three jaws—Brutus, Cassius, and Judas.

Half the terrors of the medieval soul are gathered into this gory chronicle. As one reads its awful pages the gruesome horror mounts, until at last the cumulative effect is oppressive and overwhelming. Not all the sins and crimes of man from nebula to nebula could match the sadistic fury of this divine revenge. Dante’s conception of hell is the crowning indecency of medieval theology. Classic antiquity had thought of a Hades or Avernus that received all the human dead into a subterranean and indiscriminate darkness; but it had not pictured that Tartarus as a place of torture. Centuries of barbarism, insecurity, and war had to intervene before man could defile his God with attributes of undying vengeance and inexhaustible cruelty.

With relief we learn at the end that Virgil and Dante have passed through the center of the earth, have inverted the direction of their heads and feet, and are moving upward toward the antipodes. With the time-disdaining swiftness of a dream the two poets traverse in two days the diameter of the earth. They emerge in the southern hemisphere on Easter morning, drink in the light of day, and stand at the foot of the terraced mountain which is purgatory.

3. Purgatory

The conception of purgatory is by comparison humane: man may by effort and pain, by hope and vision, cleanse himself of sin and selfishness, and mount step by step to understanding, love, and bliss. So Dante pictures purgatory as a mountainous cone divided into nine levels: an antepurgatory, seven terraces—one for the purgation of each of the Deadly Sins—and, at the summit, the Earthly Paradise. From each level the sinner moves with diminishing pain to a higher level; and at each ascent an angel chants one of the Beatitudes. In the lower stages there are stern punishments for sins shriven and forgiven but not yet atoned for with sufficient penalty; nevertheless, as against hell’s bitter consciousness that suffering will never end, there is here the strengthening certainty that after finite punishment will come an eternity of happiness. A softer mood and a brightening light pervade these cantos, and reveal a Dante learning mildness from his pagan guide.

Virgil, with daubs of dew, washes from Dante’s face the sweat and grime of hell. The sea surrounding the mountain shimmers under the rising sun, as the sin-darkened soul trembles with joy at the coming of divine grace. Here on the first level, in accord with Thomas’ hope that some good heathen might be saved, Dante encounters Cato of Utica, the stern stiff Stoic who, rather than suffer Caesar’s mercy, killed himself. Here, too, is Manfred, Frederick’s son, who fought a pope but loved poetry. Virgil hurries Dante onward with oft quoted lines:

Lascia dir le genti;

Sta come torre ferma che non crolla

Giammai la cima per soffiar de’ venti—

“Let the people talk; stand like a firm tower, which never shakes its top for all the blowing of the winds.”⁵⁰ Virgil is not at home in purgatory; he cannot answer Dante’s questions as readily as in his wonted hell; he feels his lack, and shows at times an irritated wistfulness. He is comforted when they meet Sordello; the poet sons of Mantua fall into each other’s arms, united by the Italian’s affection for the city of his youth. Thereupon Dante breaks out into a bitter apostrophe to his country, summarizing his essay on the need of monarchy:

Ah, slavish Italy! thou inn of grief!

Vessel without a pilot in loud storm!

Lady no longer of fair provinces,

But brothel-house impure! This gentle spirit,

Even from the pleasant sound of his dear land

Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen

With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones

In thee abide not without war; and one

Malicious gnaws another; ay, of those

Whom the same wall and the same moat contain.

Seek, wretched one, around thy seacoasts wide,

Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark

If any part of thee sweet peace enjoy.

What boots it that for thee Justinian [Roman law revived]

The bridle mend if empty be the saddle [without a king]? …

Ah, people, that devoted still should be

And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,

If well thou markedst that which God commands!⁵¹

And as if to point his fondness for kings that can hold a steady rein, he tells how Sordello guides them, at the base of the purgatorial mount, to a lovely sunny valley, flower-strewn and fragrant, where dwell the Emperor Rudolf, King Ottokar of Bohemia, Peter III of Aragon, Henry II of England, Philip III of France.

Conducted by Lucia (symbolizing the light of God’s grace), Dante and Virgil are admitted by an angel to the first terrace of purgatory. Here the proud are punished by carrying on their bent backs each a massive stone; while reliefs on wall and pavement picture famous deeds of humility, and the dire results of pride. On the second terrace the envious, clad in sackcloth, have their eyes repeatedly sewn up with iron threads. On the third terrace anger, on the fourth sloth, on the fifth avarice, endure their appropriate penalties. Here Pope Hadrian V, once covetous of wealth, does penance peacefully, calm in the surety of ultimate salvation. In one of the many delightful episodes that brighten the Purgatorio, the Roman poet Statius appears, and greets the travelers with such joy as seldom moves a poet meeting another poet on the earth. Together the three mount to the sixth terrace, where the sin of gluttony is cleansed; trees dangle sweet-smelling fruit before the penitents, but withdraw them when hands reach out to grasp, while voices in the air recount historic feats of temperance. On the seventh and last terrace are those who sinned by incontinence, but were shriven before death; they are gently singed and purified by flames. Dante has a poet’s sympathy for sins of the flesh, above all when committed by persons of artistic temperament, and therefore especially sensitive, imaginative, and precipitous. Here is Guido Guinizelli; Dante hails him as pater in litteris, and thanks him for “sweet songs which, as long as our language lasts, will make us love the very ink that traced them.”⁵²

An angel guides them through fire, by the last ascent, into the Earthly Paradise. Here Virgil bids him farewell:

My ken

No farther reaches. I with skill and art

Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take

For guide…. Lo! the sun that darts

His beam upon thy forehead, lo! the herb, The arborets and flowers, which of itself

This land pours forth profuse. Till those bright eyes [of Beatrice]

With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste

To succor thee, thou mayst or seat thee down,

Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more

Sanction of warning voice or sign from me.

Free of thine own arbitrament to choose,

Discreet, judicious … I invest thee then

With crown and miter, sovereign o’er thyself.⁵³

Virgil and Statius now behind instead of before him, Dante wanders through the woods and fields, and along the streams, of the Earthly Paradise, breathing the pleasant odor of its pure air, hearing from the trees the songs of “feathered choristers” chanting prime. A lady culling flowers stops her singing to explain to him why this fair country is deserted: it was once the Garden of Eden, but man’s disobedience exiled him and mankind from its innocent delights. To this forfeited Paradise Beatrice descends from heaven, clothed in such blinding radiance that Dante can only feel her presence but not see it.

Albeit my eyes discerned her not, there moved

A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch

The power of ancient love was strong within me.⁵⁴

He turns to address his poet guide, but Virgil has returned to the limbo from which the summons of Beatrice had drawn him. Dante weeps, but Beatrice bids him mourn rather the sins of lust with which, after her death, he tarnished her image in his soul; indeed, she tells him, that dark wood, from which through Virgil she has rescued him, was the life of incontinence wherein, at the mid-point of his years, he had found himself lost, with the right road dimmed. Dante falls to the ground in shame, and confesses his sins. Celestial virgins come and intercede with the offended Beatrice, and beg her to reveal to him her second and spiritual beauty. Not that she has forgotten the first:

Never didst thou spy,

In art or nature, aught so passing sweet

As were the limbs that in their beauteous frame

Enclosed me, and are scattered now in dust.⁵⁵

She relents, and shows her new celestial beauty; but the virgins warn Dante not to gaze upon her directly, but only to look at her feet. Beatrice leads him and Statius (who has completed, after twelve centuries, his term in purgatory) to a fountain from which issue two streams—Lethe (Forget-fulness) and Eunoë (Good Understanding). Dante drinks of Eunoë and is cleansed, and, now regenerate, is “made apt for mounting to the stars.”⁵⁶

It is not true that the Inferno is the only interesting part of The Divine Comedy. There are many arid didactic passages in the Purgatorio, and always a ballast of theology; but in this canticle the poem, freed from the horrors of damnation, mounts step by step in beauty and tenderness, cheers the ascent with nature’s loveliness regained, and faces bravely the task of making the disembodied Beatrice beautiful. Through her again, as in his youth, Dante enters paradise.

4. Heaven

Dante’s theology made his task harder. Had he allowed himself to picture paradise in Persian or Mohammedan style as a garden of physical as well as spiritual delights, his sensuous nature would have found abundant imagery. But how can that “constitutional materialist,” the human intellect, conceive a heaven of purely spiritual bliss? Moreover, Dante’s philosophical development forbade him to represent God, or the angels and saints of heaven, in anthropomorphic terms; rather he visions them as forms and points of light; and the resultant abstractions lose in a luminous void the life and warmth of sinful flesh. But Catholic doctrine professed the resurrection of the body; and Dante, while struggling to be spiritual, endows some denizens of heaven with corporeal features and human speech. It is pleasant to learn that even in heaven Beatrice has beautiful feet.

His plan of paradise is worked out with impressive consistency, brilliant imagination, and bold detail. Following Ptolemaic astronomy, he thinks of the heavens as an expanding series of nine hollow crystal spheres revolving about the earth; these spheres are the “many mansions” of the “Father’s house.” In each sphere a planet and a multitude of stars are set like gems in a diadem. As they move, these celestial bodies, all endowed in gradation with divine intelligence, sing the joy of their blessedness and the praise of their Creator, and bathe the heavens in the music of the spheres. The stars, says Dante, are the saints of heaven, the souls of the saved; and according to the merits that they earned in life, so differently high is their station above the earth, so loftier is their happiness, so nearer are they to that empyrean which is above all the spheres, and holds the throne of God.

As if drawn by the light that radiates from Beatrice, Dante rises from the Earthly Paradise to the first circle of the heavens, which is that of the moon. There are the souls of those who by no fault of their own were forced to violate their religious vows. One such, Piccarda Donati, explains to Dante that though they are in the lowest circle of the heavens, and enjoy a degree of bliss less than that of the spirits above them, they are freed by the Divine Wisdom from all envy, longing, or discontent. For the essence of happiness lies in the joyful acceptance of the Divine Will: la sua volúntate è nostra pace —“His will is our peace.”⁵⁷ This is the basic line of The Divine Comedy.

Subject to a celestial magnetism that draws all things to God, Dante rises with Beatrice to the second heaven, which is the sphere dominated by the planet Mercury. Here are those who on earth were absorbed in practical activity to good ends, but were more intent on worldly honor than on serving God. Justinian appears, and phrases in royal lines the historic functions of the Roman Empire and Roman law; through him Dante strikes another blow for one world under one law and king. Beatrice leads the poet to the third heaven, the circle of Venus, where the Provençal bard Folque foretells the tragedy of Boniface VIII. In the fourth heaven, whose orb is the sun, Dante finds the Christian philosophers—Boethius, Isidore of Seville, Bede, Peter Lombard, Gratian, Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventura, and Siger de Brabant. In a gracious exchange Thomas the Dominican relates to Dante the life of St. Francis, and Bonaventura the Franciscan tells him the story of St. Dominic. Thomas, always a man and mind of some expanse, clogs the narrative with discourses on theological subtleties; and Dante is so anxious to be a philosopher that for several cantos he ceases to be a poet.

Beatrice leads him to the fifth heaven, that of Mars, where are the souls of warriors who died fighting for the true faith—Joshua, Judas Maccabaeus, Charlemagne, even Robert Guiscard, ravager of Rome. They are arranged as thousands of stars in the form of a dazzling cross and the figure of the Crucified; and every star in the luminous emblem joins in a celestial harmony. Ascending to the sixth heaven, that of Jupiter, Dante finds those who on earth administered justice equitably; here are David, Hezekiah, Constantine, Trajan—another pagan breaking into heaven. These living stars are arranged in the form of an eagle; they speak with one voice, discoursing to Dante on theology, and celebrating the praise of just kings.

Mounting what Beatrice figuratively calls the “stairway of the eternal palace,” the poet and his guide reach the seventh heaven of delight, the planet Saturn and its attendant stars. At every ascent the beauty of Beatrice takes on new brilliance, as if enhanced by the rising splendor of each higher sphere. She dares not smile upon her lover, lest he be consumed to ashes in her radiance. This is the circle of monks who lived in piety and fidelity to their vows. Peter Damian is among them; Dante asks him how to reconcile man’s freedom with God’s foresight and consequent predestination; Peter replies that even the most enlightened souls in heaven, under God, cannot answer his question. St. Benedict appears, and mourns the corruption of his monks.

Now the poet floats upward from the circles of the planets to the eighth heaven, the zone of the fixed stars. From the constellation Gemini he looks down and sees the infinitesimal earth, “so pitiful of semblance that it moved my smiles.” A moment of homesickness, even for that miserable planet, might have moved him then; but a glance from Beatrice tells him that this heaven of light and love, and not that scene of sin and strife, is his proper home.

Canto XXIII opens with one of Dante’s characteristic similes:

Even as the bird, who midst the leafy bower

Has in her nest sat darkly through the night

With her sweet brood, impatient to descry

Their wishéd looks, and to bring home their food,

In the fond quest unconscious of her toil;

She, of the time prevenient, on the spray

That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze

Expects the sun, nor ever, till the dawn,

Removeth from the east her eager ken—

So Beatrice fixes her eyes in one direction expectantly. Suddenly the heavens there shine with startling splendor. “Behold,” cries Beatrice, “the triumphant hosts of Christ!”—souls new won for paradise. Dante looks, but sees only a light so full and strong that he is blinded, and cannot tell what passes by. Beatrice bids him open his eyes; now, she says, he can endure her full radiance. She smiles upon him, and it is, he swears, an experience that can never be canceled from his memory. “Why doth my face enamor thee?” she asks, and bids him rather look at Christ and Mary and the apostles. He tries to make them out, but sees merely “legions of splendors, on whom burning rays shed lightnings from above”; while to his ears comes the music of the Regina coeli, sung by heavenly hosts.

Christ and Mary ascend, but the apostles remain behind, and Beatrice asks them to speak to Dante. Peter questions him about his faith, is pleased with his replies, and agrees with him that as long as Boniface is Pope the Apostolic See is vacant or defiled.⁵⁸ There is no mercy in Dante for Boniface.

The apostles vanish upward, and Dante mounts at last, with “her who hath imparadised my soul,” into the ninth and highest heaven. Here in the empyrean there are no stars, only pure light, and the spiritual, incorporeal, uncaused, motionless source of all souls, bodies, causes, motions, light, and life-God. The poet struggles now to achieve the Beatific Vision; but all he sees is a point of light about which revolve nine circles of pure Intelligences—seraphim, cherubim, thrones, dominions, virtues, powers, principalities, archangels, and angels; through these, His agents and emissaries, the Almighty governs the world. But though Dante cannot perceive the Divine Essence, he beholds all the hosts of heaven forming themselves into a luminous rose, a marvel of shimmering lights and diverse hues expanding leaf by leaf into a gigantic flower.

Beatrice leaves her lover now, and takes her place in the rose. He sees her seated on her individual throne, and prays her still to help him; she smiles down upon him, and thereafter fixes her gaze upon the center of all light, but she sends St. Bernard to aid and comfort him. Bernard directs Dante’s eyes to the Queen of Heaven; the poet looks, but discerns only a flaming luster surrounded by thousands of angels clothed in light. Bernard tells him that if he would obtain power to see the heavenly vision more clearly he must join with him in prayer to the Mother of God. The final canto opens with Bernard’s melodious supplication:

Vergine Madre, figlia del tuo Figlio,

Umile ed alta più che creatura—

“Virgin Mother, daughter of thy Son, more humble and exalted than any creature.” Bernard begs her of her grace to enable Dante’s eyes to behold the Divine Majesty. Beatrice and many saints bend toward Mary with hands clasped in prayer. Mary looks for a moment benignly upon Dante, then turns her eyes upon the “Everlasting Light.” Now, says the poet, “my vision, becoming pure, more and more entered the ray of that high light which in itself is Truth.” What else he saw remains, he says, beyond all human speech and fantasy; but “in that abyss of radiance, clear and lofty, seemed, methought, three orbs of triple hue, combined in one.” The majestic epic ends with Dante’s gaze still fixed upon that radiance, drawn and impelled by “the Love that moves the sun and all the stars.”

The Divine Comedy is the strangest and most difficult of all poems. No other, before yielding its treasures, makes such imperious demands. Its language is the most compact and concise this side of Horace and Tacitus; it gathers into a word or phrase contents and subtleties requiring a rich background and an alert intelligence for full apprehension; even the wearisome theological, psychological, astronomical disquisitions have here a pithy precision that only a Scholastic philosopher could rival or enjoy. Dante lived so intensely in his time that his poem almost breaks under the weight of contemporary allusions unintelligible today without a litter of notes obstructing the movement of the tale.

He loved to teach, and tried to pour into one poem nearly all that he had ever learned, with the result that the living verse lies abed with dead absurdities. He weakens the charm of Beatrice by making her the voice of his political loves and hates. He stops his story to denounce a hundred cities or groups or individuals, and at times his epic founders in a sea of vituperation. He adores Italy; but Bologna is full of panders and pimps,⁵⁹ Florence is the favorite product of Lucifer,⁶⁰ Pistoia is a den of beasts,⁶¹ Genoa is “full of all corruption,”⁶² and as for Pisa, “A curse upon Pisa! May the Arno be dammed at its mouth, and drown all Pisa, man and mouse, beneath its raging waters!”⁶³ Dante thinks that “supreme wisdom and primal love” created hell. He promises to remove the ice for a moment from the eyes of Alberigo if the latter will tell his name and story; Alberigo does, and asks fulfillment—“reach hither now thy hand, open my eyes!”—but, says Dante, “I opened them not for him; to be rude to him was courtesy.”⁶⁴ If a man so bitter could win a conducted tour through paradise we shall all be saved.

His poem is none the less the greatest of medieval Christian books, and one of the greatest of all time. The slow accumulation of its intensity through a hundred cantos is an experience that no thorough reader will ever forget. It is, as Carlyle said, the sincerest of poems; there is no pretense in it, no hypocrisy or false modesty, no sycophancy or cowardice; the most powerful men of the age, even a pope who claimed all power, are attacked with a force and fervor unparalleled in poetry. Above all there is here a flight and sustainment of imagination challenging Shakespeare’s supremacy: vivid pictures of things never seen by gods or men; descriptions of nature that only an observant and sensitive spirit could achieve; and little narratives, like Francesca’s or Ugolino’s, that press great tragedies into narrow space with yet no vital matter missed. There is no humor in this man, but love was there till misfortune turned it into theology.

What Dante achieves at last is sublimity. We cannot find in his epic the Mississippi of life and action that is the Iliad, nor the gentle drowsy stream of Virgil’s verse, nor the universal understanding and forgiveness of Shakespeare; but here is grandeur, and a tortured, half-barbaric force that foreshadows Michelangelo. And because Dante loved order as well as liberty, and bound his passion and vision into form, he achieved a poem of such sculptured power that no man since has equaled it. Through the centuries that followed him Italy revered him as the liberator of her golden speech; Petrarch and Boccaccio and a hundred others were inspired by his battle and his art; and all Europe rang with the story of the proud exile who had gone to hell, and had returned, and had never smiled again.

Epilogue

THE MEDIEVAL LEGACY

IT is fitting that we should end our long and devious narrative with Dante; for in the century of his death those men appeared who would begin to destroy the majestic edifice of faith and hope in which he had lived: Wyclif and Huss would preface the Reformation; Giotto and Chrysoloras, Petrarch and Boccaccio would proclaim the Renaissance. In the history of man—so multiple is he and diverse—one mood may survive in some souls and places long after its successor or opposite has risen in other minds or states. In Europe the Age of Faith reached its last full flower in Dante; it suffered a vital wound from Occam’s “razor” in the fourteenth century; but it lingered, ailing, till the advent of Bruno and Galileo, Descartes and Spinoza, Bacon and Hobbes; it may return if the Age of Reason achieves catastrophe. Great areas of the world remained under the sign and rule of faith while Western Europe sailed Reason’s uncharted seas. The Middle Ages are a condition as well as a period: in Western Europe we should close them with Columbus; in Russia they continued till Peter the Great (d. 1725); in India till our time.

We are tempted to think of the Middle Ages as a fallow interval between the fall of the Roman Empire in the West (476) and the discovery of America; we must remind ourselves that the followers of Abélard called themselves moderni, and that the bishop of Exeter, in 1287, spoke of his century as moderni tempores, “modern times.”¹ The boundary between “medieval” and “modern” is always advancing; and our age of coal and oil and sooty slums may some day be accounted medieval by an era of cleaner power and more gracious life. The Middle Ages were no mere interlude between one civilization and another; if we date them from Rome’s acceptance of Christianity and the Council of Nicaea, A.D. 325, they included the final centuries of the classic culture, the ripening of Catholic Christianity into a full and rich civilization in the thirteenth century, and the breakup of that civilization into the opposed cultures of the Renaissance and the Reformation. The men of the Middle Ages were the victims of barbarism, then the conquerors of barbarism, then the creators of a new civilization. It would be unwise to look down with hybritic pride upon a period that produced so many great men and women, and raised from the ruins of barbarism the papacy, the European states, and the hard-won wealth of our medieval heritage.*

That legacy included evil as well as good. We have not fully recovered from the Dark Ages: the insecurity that excites greed, the fear that fosters cruelty, the poverty that breeds filth and ignorance, the filth that generates disease, the ignorance that begets credulity, superstition, occultism—these still survive amongst us; and the dogmatism that festers into intolerance and Inquisitions only awaits opportunity or permission to oppress, kill, ravage, and destroy. In this sense modernity is a cloak put upon medievalism, which secretly remains; and in every generation civilization is the laborious product and precarious obligating privilege of an engulfed minority. The Inquisition left its evil mark on European society: it made torture a recognized part of legal procedure, and it drove men back from the adventure of reason into a fearful and stagnant conformity.

The preponderant bequest of the Age of Faith was religion: a Judaism absorbed till the eighteenth century in the Talmud; a Mohammedanism becalmed after the victory of the Koran over philosophy in the twelfth century; a Christianity divided between East and West, between North and South, and yet the most powerful and influential religion in the white man’s history. The creed of the medieval Church is today (1950) cherished by 330,000,000 Roman, 128,000,000 Orthodox, Catholics; her liturgy still moves the soul after every argument has failed; and the work of the Church in education, charity, and the moral taming of barbaric man left to modernity a precious fund of social order and moral discipline. The papal dream of a united Europe faded in the strife of Empire and papacy; but every generation is stirred by a kindred vision of an international moral order superior to the jungle ethics of sovereign states.

When that papal dream broke, the nations of Europe took essentially the form that they retained till our century; and the principle of nationality prepared to write the political history of modern times. Meanwhile the medieval mind created great systems of civil and canon law, maritime and mercantile codes, charters of municipal freedom, the jury system and habeas corpus, and the Magna Carta of the aristocracy. Courts and curias prepared for states and Church modes and mechanisms of administration employed to this day. Representative government appeared in the Spanish Cortes, the Icelandic Althing, the French Estates-General, the English Parliament.

Greater still was the economic heritage. The Middle Ages conquered the wilderness, won the great war against forest, jungle, marsh, and sea, and yoked the soil to the will of man. Over most of Western Europe they ended slavery, and almost ended serfdom. They organized production into guilds that even now enter into the ideals of economists seeking a middle way between the irresponsible individual and the autocratic state. Tailors, cobblers, and dressmakers, until our own time, practiced their handicrafts in personal shops after the medieval fashion; their submission to large-scale production and capitalistic organization has occurred under our eyes. The great fairs that now and then gather men and goods in modern cities are a legacy of medieval trade; so are our efforts to check monopoly and regulate prices and wages; and nearly all the processes of modern banking were inherited from medieval finance. Even our fraternities and secret societies have medieval roots and rites.

Medieval morality was the heir of barbarism and the parent of chivalry. Our idea of the gentleman is a medieval creation; and the chivalric ideal, however removed from knightly practice, has survived as one of the noblest conceptions of the human spirit. Perhaps the worship of Mary brought new elements of tenderness into the behavior of European man. If later centuries advanced upon medieval morality, it was on a medieval foundation of family unity, moral education, and slowly spreading habits of honor and courtesy-much as the moral life of modern skeptics may be an afterglow of the Christian ethic absorbed in youth.

The intellectual legacy of the Middle Ages is poorer than our Hellenic inheritance, and is alloyed with a thousand occult perversions mostly stemming from antiquity. Even so it includes the modern languages, the universities, and the terminology of philosophy and science. Scholasticism was a training in logic rather than a lasting philosophical conquest, though it still dominates a thousand colleges. The assumptions of medieval faith hampered historiography; men thought they knew the origin and destiny of the world and man, and wove a web of myth that almost imprisoned history within the walls of monastic chronicles. It is not quite true that medieval historians had no notion of development or progress; the thirteenth century, like the nineteenth, was powerfully impressed by its own achievements. Nor were the Middle Ages as static as we once proudly supposed; distance immobilizes motion, assimilates differences, and freezes change; but change was as insistent then as now, in manners and dress, language and ideas, law and government, commerce and finance, literature and art. Medieval thinkers, however, did not attach as much importance as the modern thoughtless to progress in means unaccompanied by improvement in ends.

The scientific legacy of the Middle Ages is modest indeed; yet it includes the Hindu numerals, the decimal system, the conception of experimental science, substantial contributions to mathematics, geography, astronomy, and optics, the discovery of gunpowder, the invention of eyeglasses, the mariner’s compass, the pendulum clock, and—apparently the most indispensable of all—the distillation of alcohol. Arabic and Jewish physicians advanced Greek medicine, and Christian pioneers emancipated surgery from the tonsorial arts. Half the hospitals of Europe are medieval foundations, or modern restorations of medieval establishments. Modern science has inherited the internationalism, and in part the international language, of medieval thought.

Next to moral discipline, the richest portion of our medieval heritage is in art. The Empire State Building is as sublime as Chartres Cathedral, and owes its grandeur to architecture alone—to the stability of its audacious height and the purity of its functional lines. But the union of sculpture, painting, poetry, and music with architecture in the life of a Gothic cathedral gives to Chartres, Amiens, Reims, and Notre Dame a scope and depth of sensuous and spiritual harmony, a wealth and diversity of content and ornament, that never lets our interest sleep, and more fully fills the soul. These portals, towers, and spires, these vaults that made a soaring counterpoint of stone, these statues, altars, fonts, and tombs so fondly carved, these windows that rivaled the rainbow and chastened the sun—one must forgive much to an age that loved so conscientiously the symbols of its faith and the work of its hands. It was for the cathedrals that polyphonic music was developed, and a musical notation and staff; and from the Church the modern drama was born.

The medieval heritage in literature, though it cannot vie in quality with that of Greece, may bear comparison with Rome’s. Dante may stand beside Virgil, Petrarch beside Horace, the love poetry of the Arabs and the troubadours beside Ovid, Tibullus, and Propertius; the Arthurian romances are deeper and nobler than anything in the Metamorphoses or the Heroides, and as graceful; and the major medieval hymns top the finest lyrics of Roman poetry. The thirteenth century ranks with the age of Augustus or of Leo X. Rarely has any century seen so full and varied an intellectual or artistic flowering. A commercial expansion almost as vigorous as that which marked the close of the fifteenth century enlarged, enriched, and aroused the world; strong popes from Innocent III to Boniface VIII made the Church for a century the summit of European order and law; St. Francis dared to be a Christian; the mendicant orders restored the monastic ideal; great statesmen like Philip Augustus, St. Louis, Philip IV, Edward I, Frederick II, Alfonso X raised their states from custom to law, and their peoples to new medieval levels of civilization. Triumphing over the mystical tendencies of the twelfth century, the thirteenth sallied forth into philosophy and science with a zest and courage not surpassed by the Renaissance. In literature the “wonderful century” ran the gamut from Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival to the conception of The Divine Comedy. Nearly all elements of medieval civilization seemed in that century to reach unity, maturity, and culminating form.

We shall never do justice to the Middle Ages until we see the Italian Renaissance not as their repudiation but as their fulfillment. Columbus and Magellan continued the explorations already far advanced by the merchants and navigators of Venice, Genoa, Marseille, Barcelona, Lisbon, and Cadiz. The same spirit that had stirred the twelfth century gave pride and battle to the cities of Renaissance Italy. The same energy and vitality of character that marked Enrico Dandolo, Frederick II, and Gregory IX consumed the men of the Renaissance; the condottieri stemmed from Robert Guiscard, the “despots” from Ezzelino and Pallavicino; the painters walked in the paths opened by Cimabue and Duccio; and Palestrina mediated between Gregorian chant and Bach. Petrarch was the heir of Dante and the troubadours, Boccaccio was an Italian trouvère. Despite Don Quixote romance continued to flourish in Renaissance Europe, and Chrétien de Troyes came to perfection in Malory. The “revival of letters” had begun in the medieval schools; what distinguished the Renaissance was that it extended the revival from Latin to Greek classics, and rejected Gothic to revive Greek art. But Greek sculpture had already been accepted as a model by Niccolò Pisano in the thirteenth century; and when Chrysoloras brought the Greek language and classics to Italy (1393) the Middle Ages had still a century to run.

In Renaissance Italy, Spain, and France the same religion held sway that had built the cathedrals and composed the hymns, with only this difference, that the Italian Church, sharing richly in the culture of the time, gave to the Italian mind a freedom of thought born in the medieval universities, and predicated on the tacit understanding that philosophers and scientists would pursue their work without attempting to destroy the faith of the people.

So it was that Italy and France did not share in the Reformation; they moved from the Catholic culture of the thirteenth century to the humanism of the fifteenth and sixteenth, and thence to the Enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth. It was this continuity, combined with pre-Columbian Mediterranean trade, that gave to the Latin peoples a temporary cultural advantage over northern nations more severely ravaged by religious wars. That continuity went back through the Middle Ages to classic Rome, and through southern Italy to classic Greece. Through Greek colonies in Sicily, Italy, and France, through the Roman conquest and Latinization of France and Spain, one magnificent thread of culture ran, from Sappho and Anacreon to Virgil and Horace, to Dante and Petrarch, to Rabelais and Montaigne, to Voltaire and Anatole France. In passing from the Age of Faith to the Renaissance we shall be advancing from the uncertain childhood to the lusty and exhilarating youth of a culture that married classic grace to barbaric strength, and transmitted to us, rejuvenated and enriched, that heritage of civilization to which we must always add, but which we must never let die.

THANK YOU AGAIN, FRIEND READER.

Bibliographical Guide

to editions referred to in the Notes

Books starred are recommended for further study.

ABBOTT, G. F., Israel in Egypt, London, 1907.

ABBOTT, NABIA, Two Queens of Baghdad, Univ. of Chicago Press, 1946.

*ABÉLAKD, P., Historia Calamitatum, St. Paul, Minn., 1922.

Ouvrages inédits, ed. V. Cousin, Paris, 1836.

ABRAHAMS, I., Chapters on Jewish Literature, Phila., 1899.

Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, Phila., 1896.

ABU BEKR IBN TUFAIL, The History of Hayy ibn Yaqzan, tr. Ockley, N. Y., n.d.

ACKERMAN, PHYLLIS, Tapestry, the Mirror of Civilization, Oxford Univ. Press, 1933.

ADAMS, B., Law of Civilization and Decay, N. Y., 1921.

*ADAMS, H., Mont St. Michel and Chartres, Boston, 1926.

ADDISON, J. D., Arts and Crafts in the Middle Ages, Boston, 1908.

ALI, MAULANA MUHAMMAD, The Religion of Islam, Lahore, 1936.

ALI TABARI, The Book of Religion and Empire, N. Y., 1922.

AMEER ALI, SYED, The Spirit of Islam, Calcutta, 1900.

AMMIANUS MARCELLINUS, Works, Loeb Lib., 1935. 2v.

ANDRAE, TOR, Mohammed, tr. Menzel, N. Y., 1936.

ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE, tr. Ingram, Everyman Lib.

ANGLO-SAXON POETRY, ed. R. K. Gordon, Everyman Lib.

ARCHER, T. A., and KINGSFORD, C L., The Crusades, N. Y., 1895.

*ARISTOTLE, Politics, tr. Ellis, Everyman Lib.

ARMSTRONG, SIR WALTER, Art in Great Britain and Ireland, London, 1919.

ARNOLD, M., Essays in Criticism, First Series, N. Y., n.d. Home Lib.

ARNOLD, SIR T. W., Painting in Islam, Oxford, 1928.

The Preaching of Islam, N. Y., 1913.

and GUILLAUME, A., The Legacy of Islam, Oxford, 1931.

ASHLEY, W. J., Introduction to English Economic History and Theory, N.Y., 1894f. 2v.

ASIN Y PALACIOS, M., Islam and the Divine Comedy, London, 1926.

ASSER OF ST. DAVID’S, Annals of the Reign of Alfred the Great, in Giles, J. A.

*AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE, tr. Mason, Everyman Lib.

AUGUSTINE, ST., The City of God, tr. Healey, London, 1934.

* Confessions, Loeb Lib. 2v.

Letters, Loeb Lib.

AUSONIUS, Poems, Loeb Lib. 2v.

AVERROËS, A Decisive Discourse on … the Relation Between Religion and Philosophy, and An Exposition of the Methods of Argument Concerning the Doctrines of the Faith, Baroda, n.d.

AVICENNA, Canon Medicinae, Venice, 1608.

BACON, ROGER, Opus majus, tr. Burke, Univ. of Penn. Press, 1928. 2v.

BADER, G., Jewish Spiritual Heroes, N. Y., 1940. 3v.

BAEDEKER, K., Northern Italy, London, 1913.

AL-BALADHURI, ABU-L ABBAS AHMAD, Origins of the Islamic State; tr. Hitti, Columbia Univ. Press, 1916.

BARNES, H. E., Economic History of the Western World, N. Y., 1942.

History of Western Civilization, N. Y., 1935. 2v.

BARON, S. W., Social and Religious History of the Jews. Columbia Univ. Press, 1937. 3v.

ed., Essays on Maimonides, Columbia Univ. Press, 1941.

BEARD, MIRIAM, History of the Business Man, N. Y., 1938.

BEBEL, A., Woman under Socialism, N. Y., 1923.

BECKER, C. H., Christianity and Islam, London, 1909.

BEDE, VEN., Ecclesiastical History of England, ed. King, Loeb Lib.

BEER, M., Social Struggles in the Middle Ages, London, 1924.

BELLOC, H., Paris, N. Y., 1907.

BENJAMIN OF TUDELA, Travels; cf. Komroff, M., Contemporaries of Marco Polo.

BEVAN, E. R., and SINGER, C., The Legacy of Israel, Oxford, 1927.

BIEBER, M., History of the Greek and Roman Theater, Princeton Univ. Press, 1939.

AL-BIRUNI, Chronology of Ancient Nations, tr. Sachau, London, 1879.

India, London, 1910. 2v.

BLOK, P. J., History of the People of the Netherlands, N. Y., 1898. 3v.

BOER, T. J. DE, History of Philosophy in Islam, London, 1903.

*BOETHIUS, Consolation of Philosophy, Loeb Lib.

BOISSIER, G., La fin du paganisme, Paris, 1913. 2v.

BOISSONNADE, P., Life and Work in Medieval Europe, N. Y., 1927.

BONAVENTURE, ST., Life of St. Francis, in Little Flowers of St. Francis, Everyman Lib.

BOND, FR., Gothic Architecture in England, London, 1906.

Wood Carving in English Churches, London, 1910. 2v.

BOUCHIER, E. S., Life and Letters in Roman Africa, Oxford, 1913.

BREHAUT, E., An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages, N. Y., 1912.

BRIDGES, J. H., Life and Work of Roger Bacon, London, 1914.

BRIFFAULT, R., The Mothers, N. Y., 1927. 3v.

BRIGHT, W., Age of the Fathers, N. Y., 1903. 2v.

BRITTAIN, A., Women of Early Christianity, Phila., 1907.

BROGLIE, DUC DE, St. Ambrose, London, 1899.

BROWN, P. HUME, History of Scotland, Cambridge Univ. Press, 1929. 3v.

BROWNE, E. G., Arabian Medicine, London, 1921.

Literary History of Persia, Cambridge Univ. Press, 1929. 3v.

BROWNE, LEWIS, ed., The Wisdom of Israel, N. Y., 1945.

BRYCE, JAS., The Holy Roman Empire, N. Y., 1921.

BUKHSH, S. K., The Orient under the Caliphs, translated from A. Von Kremer’s Kulturgeschichte des Orients, Calcutta, 1920.

Studies: Indian and Islamic, London, 1927.

BULLETIN OF THE IRANIAN INSTITUTE, N. Y.

BURTON, SIR R. F., The Jew, the Gypsy, and El Islam, Chicago, 1898.

Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to al-Madinah and Meccah, London, 1893. 2v.

BURY, J. B., History of the Eastern Roman Empire, London, 1912.

History of the Later Roman Empire, London, 1923. 2v.

Life of St. Patrick, London, 1905.

BUTLER, P., Women of Medieval France, Phila., 1908.

CALVERT, A. F., Cordova, London, 1907.

Moorish Remains in Spain, N. Y., 1906.

Seville, London, 1907.

CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT HISTORY, N. Y., 1924. 12v.

CAMBRIDGE MEDIEVAL HISTORY, N. Y., 1924f. 8v.

CAMPBELL, D., Arabian Medicine, London, 1926. 2v.

CAPES, W. W., University Life in Ancient Athens, N. Y., 1922.

CARLYLE, R. W., History of Medieval Political Theory in the West, Edinburgh, 1928. 5v.

CARLYLE, TH., Past and Present, in Works, Collier ed., N. Y., 1901. 20v.

CARTER, T. F., The Invention of Printing in China, N. Y., 1925.

CASSIODORUS, Letters, ed. Hodgkin, London, 1886.

CASTIGLIONE, A., History of Medicine, N. Y., 1941.

CATHOLIC ENCYCLOPEDIA, N. Y., 1912. 16v.

CHAMBERS, E. K., The Medieval Stage, Oxford, 1903. 2v.

CHAPMAN, C. E., History of Spain, founded on the Historia de España of Rafael Altamira, N. Y., 1930.

CHARDIN, SIR J., Travels in Persia, London, 1927.

CHATEAUBRIAND, VICOMTE DE, The Genius of Christianity, Baltimore, n.d.

CLAPHAM, J. H., and POWER, EILEEN, Cambridge Economic History of Europe, Vol. I, Camb. Univ. Press, 1944.

CHRÉTIEN DE TROYES, Arthurian Romances, London, Everyman Lib.

CLAUDIAN, Poems, Loeb Lib. 2v.

CLAVIJO, GONZALEZ DE, Embassy to Tamberlane, 1403-6, N. Y., 1928.

CLAYTON, J., Pope Innocent III and His Times, Milwaukee, 1941.

COLLINGWOOD, R. G., and MYRES, J. L., Roman Britain, Oxford, 1937.

CONNICK, C. J., Adventures in Light and Color, N. Y., 1937.

COULTON, G. G., Chaucer and His England, London, 1921.

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*SPENGLER, O., Decline of the West, N. Y., 1928. 2v.

STEPHENS, W. R., Hildebrand and His Times, London, 1914.

STERLING, M. B., The Story of Parzival, N. Y., 1911.

STEVENS, C. E., Sidonius Apollinaris, Oxford, 1933.

STREET, G. E., Gothic Architecture in Spain, London, 1869.

STRZYGOWSKI, J., Origin of Christian Church Art, Oxford, 1923.

STUBBS, WM., Constitutional History of England, Oxford, 1903. 3v.

STURLUSON, SNORRI, Heimskringla: The Norse Sagas, Everyman Lib.

Heimskringla: The Olaf Sagas, Everyman Lib.

The Younger Edda, in Sigfusson, S.

SUMNER, W. G., Folkways, Boston, 1906.

SYKES, SIR P., History of Persia, London, 1921. 2v.

SYMONDS, J. A., Studies of the Greek Poets, London, 1920.

Introduction to the Study of Dante, London, 1899.

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TAGORE, SIR R., Gitanjali, N. Y., 1928.

TAINE, H., Ancient Regime, N. Y., 1891.

Italy: Florence and Venice, N. Y., 1869.

TALMUD, Babylonian, Eng. tr., London, 1935f. 24v.

TARN, W., Hellenistic Civilization, London, 1927.

TAYLOR, H. O., The Classical Heritage of the Middle Ages, N. Y., 1911.

The Medieval Mind, London, 1927. 2v.

THATCHER, O., and MCNEAL, E., Source Book for Medieval History, N. Y., 1905.

THIERRY, A., History of the Conquest of England by the Normans, London, 1847. 2v.

THOMAS AQUINAS, ST., Summa contra Gentiles, London, 1924. 4v.

Summa theologica, tr. by Dominican Fathers, London, 1920. 22v.

THOMPSON, SIR E., Introduction to Greek and Latin Palaeography, Oxford, 1912.

THOMPSON, J. W., Economic and Social History of the Middle Ages, 300-1300, N. Y., 1928.

Economic and Social History of Europe in the Later Middle Ages, N. Y., 1931.

Feudal Germany, Chicago, 1928.

* The Middle Ages, N. Y., 1931. 2v.

*THORNDIKE, LYNN, History of Magic and Experimental Science, N. Y., 1929f. A work of magnificent scholarship, which illuminates every subject that it touches.

* Short History of Civilization, N. Y., 1926.

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TORNAY, S. C., Averroës’ Doctrine of the Mind, Philadelphia Review, May, 1943.

*TOYNBEE, A. J., A Study of History, Oxford, 1935f. 6v.

TRAILL, H. D., Social England, N. Y., 1902. 6v.

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AL-UTBL, ABUL-NASR, Memoirs of the Emir Sabaktagin and Mahmud of Ghazna, tr. Reynolds, London, 1858.

VACANDARD, E., The Inquisition, N. Y., 1908.

*VAN DOREN, MARK, An Anthology of World Poetry, N. Y., 1928. The best work of its kind.

VASARI, G., Lives of the Painters, Everyman Lib. 3v.

VASILIEV, A., History of the Byzantine Empire, Madison, Wis., 1929. 2v.

VERNADSKY, G., Kievan Russia, Yale Univ. Press, 1948.

VILLARI, P., The Two First Centuries of Florentine History, London, 1908.

*VILLEHARDOUIN, G. DE, Chronicle of the Fourth Crusade, Everyman Lib.

VINOGRADOFF, P., English Society in the Eleventh Century, Oxford, 1908.

VOLTAIRE, Essay on the Manners and Morals of Europe, in Works, Vol. XIII, N. Y., 1901.

VOSSLER, K., Medieval Culture: an Introduction to Dante and His Times, N. Y., 1929. 2v.

*WADDELL, HELEN, Medieval Latin Lyrics, N. Y., 1942.

* The Wandering Scholars, London, 1927.

* Peter Abélard, N. Y., 1933.

WAERN, C., Medieval Sicily, London, 1910.

WALKER TRUST REPORT, The Great Palace of the Byzantine Emperors, Oxford, 1947.

WALSH, J. J., The Popes and Science, N. Y., 1913.

The Thirteenth the Greatest of Centuries. Catholic Summer School Press, 1920.

WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, I Saw the World, tr. Colvin, London, 1938.

Songs and Sayings, tr. Betts, London, n.d.

WAXMAN, M., History of Jewish Literature, N. Y., 1930. 3v.

WEIGALL, A., The Paganism in Our Christianity, N. Y., 1928.

WEIR, T. H., Omar Khayyam the Poet, N. Y., 1926.

WELCH, ALICE, Of Six Medieval Women, London, 1913.

WEST, A. F., Alcuin, N. Y., 1916.

WESTERMARCK, E., Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas, London, 1917f. 2v.

Short History of Marriage, N. Y., 1926.

WHERRY, E. M., Commentary on the Qur’an, with Sale’s tr. and notes, London, 1896. 4v.

WHITE, E. M., Woman in World History, London, n.d.

WICKSTEED, P. H., Dante and Aquinas, London, 1913.

WILLIAM OF MALMESBURY, Chronicle of the Kings of England, London, 1883.

WILLIAM OF TYRE, Godeffroy of Bologne, or the Siege and Conqueste of Jerusalem, tr. Caxton, London, 1893.

WILLOUGHBY, W. W., Social Justice, N. Y., 1900.

WINCKELMANN, J., History of Ancient Art, Boston, 1880. 2v.

WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH, Parzival, tr. Weston, London, 1894. 2v.

WRIGHT, TH., ed., The Book of the Knight of La Tour-Landry, London, 1868.

A History of Domestic Manners and Sentiments in England during the Middle Ages, London, 1862.

YELLIN, D., and ABRAHAMS, I., Maimonides, Phila., 1903.

ZEITLIN, S., Maimonides, N. Y., 1935.

ZIMMERN, H., The Hansa Towns, N. Y., 1889.

Notes

Full titles of works referred to will be found in the Bibliography. Capital Roman numerals, except at the beginning of a note, indicate volumes, followed by page numbers; small Roman numerals indicate “books” (divisions of a text), followed by chapter or verse numbers.

CHAPTER I

1. Ammianus Marcellinus, xxi, 16.

2. Philostorgius, ii, 9, in Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, II, 78.

3. Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History, ii, 3.

4. Lot, Ferdinand, End of the Ancient World, 71; Bury, J. B., History of the Later Roman Empire, I, 87.

5. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 748.

6. Ibid., I, 593.

7. Munro and Sellery, Medieval Civilization, 87, says 30,000; Bury, op. cit., says 70,000.

8. Dudden, F. H., Gregory the Great, I, 129.

9. Duchesne, L., Early History of the Christian Church, II, 127.

10. Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, i, 37-8.

11. Ibid., ii, 7-11.

12. Boissier, G., La Fin du paganisme, I, 68; Duchesne, II, 250.

13. Boissier, op. cit., I, 82.

14. Eunapius, Lives of the Sophists, 487.

15. Capes, W. W., University Life in Ancient Athens, 66.

16. Boissier, I, 178.

17. Wright, W. C., Introd. to Eunapius, p. 333.

18. Cf. Inge, W. R., Philosophy of Plotinus, I, 11.

19. In Murray, A. S., History of Greek Sculpture, I, 100.

20. In Boissier, I, 96.

21. Ammianus, xxii, 5; Duchesne, II, 262.

22. Boissier, I, 102.

23. Socrates, iii, 1.

24. Julian, Letter to the Athenians, 278D-280C; Ammianus, xvi, 11-12.

25. Ammianus, xvi, 53; Duchesne, II, 199.

26. Ammianus, xviii, 1.

27. Ibid., xvi, 10.

28. Boissier, I, 107.

29. Ammianus, xxv, 4.

30. Julian, Misopogon, 338B.

31. Socrates, iii, I; Ammianus, xxii, 4.

32. Misopogon, 340B.

33. Ammianus, xvi, 1.

34. Gardner, Alice, Julian, Philosopher and Emperor, 260.

35. Ammianus, xxii, 7.

36. Eunapius, 477.

37. Julian, Letter 441, in Works, III, 7.

38. Julian, To Edicius, 23, in Works, III.

39. Julian, Against the Galileans, 89A-94A, 106DE, 168B, 351D, 238A, 319D.

40. Julian, To the Cynic Herakleios, 205C.

41. Ibid., 217B.

42. Ibid., 237B.

43. Ammianus, xxii, 12.

44. Lucian, Panegyric, in Boissier, I, 140.

45. Julian, Letter to a Priest, 305B; To Arsacius.

46. Julian, To the High Priest Theodorus, 16.

47. Letter to a Priest, 290D.

48. Ammianus, xxii, 10.

49. Sozomen, v, 5, 18; Julian, Works, III, 41n.

50. In Boissier, I, 122.

51. Julian, Letter 10; Boissier, I, 127.

52. Julian, Misopogon, 368C.

53. Ammianus, xxii, 13.

54. Sozomen, vi, 2.

55. Ammianus, xxv, 3.

56. Milman, H. H., History of Latin Christianity, I, 112; Sihler, E. G., From Augustus to Augustine, 217.

57. Theodoret, iii, 28, in Lecky, W. E. H., History of European Morals, II, 261.

58. Duchesne, II, 268.

CHAPTER II

1. Dopsch, A., Economic and Social Foundations of European Civilization, 89.

2. William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of England, i, 4.

3. Lea, H. C., Superstition and Force, 451.

4. Boissier, II, 180.

5. Rostovtzeff, M., Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire, 479.

6. Dill, S., Roman Society in the Last Century of the Roman Empire, 297.

7. Jordanes, Gothic History, #247.

8. In Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History of the Middle Ages, 106.

9. Jordanes, #26f; Gibbon, III, 38.

10. Ammianus, xxxi, 13.

11. Socrates, iv, 31.

12. Broglie, Duc de, St. Ambrose, 120-4.

13. Gibbon, III, 168.

14. Bury, J. B., History of the Later Roman Empire, I, 129; Gibbon, III, 175.

15. Pirenne, H., Medieval Cities, 36.

16. Louis, Paul, Ancient Rome at Work, 231.

17. Boissier, I, 417; Dill, op. cit., 228, 272.

18. Salvianus, De Gubernatione Dei, v, 28, in Frank, T., Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, III, 260.

19. Boissier, II, 416.

20. Ibid.

21. Louis, Paul, 235.

22. In Hodgkin, T., Italy and Her Invaders, I, 423.

23. Cf. Augustine, Ep. 232.

24. Salvian, iv, 15; vii, passim; and excerpts in Heitland, W. E., Agricola, 423, Boissier, II, 410, 420, and Bury, Later Roman Empire, 307.

25. In Dill, 56.

26. Symmachus, Ep. vi, 42; ii, 46; in Dill, 150.

27. Friedländer, L., Roman Life and Manners under the Early Empire, II, 12.

28. Lot, 178; Dill, 58; Friedländer, II, 29.

29. Ammianus, xiv, 6.

30. Symmachus, Ep. iii, 43.

31. Ammianus, xxii, 10.

32. Ibid., xxi, 1; Thorndike, L., History of Magic and Experimental Science, I, 285.

33. Ammianus, xvi, 1.

34. Macrobius, Opera accedunt integrae, Saturnalia, ad fin.

35. Ibid., i, 11.

36. Claudian, Poems, “On the Consulate of Stilicho,” iii, 130.

37. Voltaire, Works, XIII, 77.

38. Boissier, II, 180.

39. In Shotwell, J. T., and Loomis, R., The See of Peter, 675.

40. Symmachus, Ep. x, 3, in Boissier, II, 224.

41. In Boissier, II, 280.

42. Jordanes, 167f.

43. Procopius, History of the Wars, iii, 3.25.

44. Jordanes, #168.

45. Procopius, iii, 5.

46. Jordanes, #181.

47. Ibid., #254f.

48. Procopius, iii, 4.

49. Gibbon, III, 461; Sihler, 302.

CHAPTER III

1. Paul, I Cor. vii, 32.

2. Gibbon, II, 318; Lecky, History of European Morals, II, 49; Duchesne, II, 189.

3. Robertson, J. M., Short History of Free Thought, 242; Bury, History of the Eastern Roman Empire, 352f..

4. Hefele, C. J., History of the Christian Councils, III, 12.

5. Milman, I, 28If.

6. Davis, H. W. C., Medieval England. 128.

7. Ammianus, xxvii, 3.

8. Gibbon, II, 485n.

9. Ammianus, xxvii, 3; Duchesne, II, 364.

10. Cutts, E. L., St. Jerome, 30f.

11. Jerome, Letters, xxii, 30.

12. Ibid., xxxviii, 3; xxii, 13, 27.

13. Ep. cxvii, 7.

14. Ep. xxii, 14.

15. Ibid.

16. Ep. cvii, 3.

17. Ep. xxii, 21.

18. Ep. xxiii.

19. Adv. Jovin., i, 2.

20. Ep. xxii, 25.

21. Duchesne, III, 74.

22. Ibid., 446.

23. Cutts, 150.

24. Jerome, Ep. lx, 17.

25. Socrates, iv, 30.

26. Broglie, 10-13.

27. Augustine, Confessions, ix, 7.

28. In Davis, W. S., and West, W. M., Readings in Ancient History, II, 297.

29. Guizot, F., History of Civilization, I, 341.

30. Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, 15.

31. Guizot, History of Civilization, II, 69.

32. Duchesne, II, 391.

33. Lecky, Morals, II, 107.

34. Cutts, 137.

35. Lecky, l.c.

36. Ibid., 210.

37. Ibid., 107, 158.

38. Boissier, II, 55.

39. Jerome, Ep. cxxv, 11.

40. Lecky, II, 115.

41. Ibid., 109.

42. Sozomen, vi, 33.

43. Lecky, II, 110; Nöldeke, Th., Sketches from Eastern History, 212f.

44. Lecky, II, 118.

45. Taylor, H. O., Classical Heritage of the Middle Ages, 78.

46. Ibid.; Glover, T. R., Life and Letters in the Fourth Century, 349.

47. In Gibbon, III, 75.

48. Socrates, vi, 3.

49. Bury, Later Roman Empire, I, 138-9.

50. Socrates, vi, 4-5.

51. In Clapham and Power, 116.

52. McCabe, J., St. Augustine and His Age, 228.

53. Ibid., 3c.

54. Augustine, Confessions, ii, 3.

55. Ibid., vi, 3.

56. Augustine, City of God, ii, 14.

57. Confessions, v, 8.

58. Encylopaedia Britannica, II, 682.

59. McCabe, Augustine, 254.

60. Catholic Encyclopedia, II, 88; Augustine, Letters, introd., xvi-xviii.

61. Augustine, Ep. 86.

62. Ep. 93.

63. Ep. 173.

64. Ep. 204.

65. Eps. 103, 133.

66. City of God, v, 9; vi, 22, 27.

67. Sermon 289.

68. Sermon 165.

69. Duchesne, III, 143.

70. Sermon 131.

71. Ep. 181A.

72. Comment, in Joan. Evang., xxix, 6; Sermon 43.

73. In Cambridge Medieval History, I, 581.

74. De Trinitate, i, 1.

75. De vera religione, xxiv, 45.

76. Solil. i, 7.

77. Confessions, xiii, 16.

78. City of God, iv, 27.

80. De libero arbitrio, ii, 16.

81. De Gen. ad litt., vii, 28; De Wulf, History of Medieval Philosophy, I, 118; Catholic Encyclopedia, II, 90.

82. In De Wulf, I, 117.

83. Confessions, Book xi.

84. De Trin., x, 10.

85. Ibid., viii, 6; Confessions, x, 6.

86. De bono conjugali, x; Figgis, J. N., Political Aspects of St. Augustine’s City of God, 76; Lea, H. C., Sacerdotal Celibacy, 47.

87. Confessions, x, 30.

88. Ibid., vii, 14; x, 6, 22; xiii, 9.

89. City of God, vi, 9.

90. Philippians, iii, 20; Ephesians, ii, 19.

91. Figgis, 46.

92. Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, iv, 19.

93. City of God, xv, 1.

94. Ibid., i, 34.

95. Ibid., xix, 7; xx, 9.

96. Boissier, II, 331.

97. Augustine, Letters, p. 38.

98. Comm. on Psalm cxxii.

99. Funk, F. X., Manual of Church History, I, 198.

100. Frazer, Sir J. G., Adonis, Attis, Osiris, 315.

101. Ibid., 306.

102. In Boissier, II, 118.

103. Renan, E., Marc Aurèle, 629.

104. Duchesne, III, 11.

105. Ibid., 16.

106. Lecky, Morals, II, 61.

107. Ibid., 72.

108. Ibid., 83.

109. Ibid., 81.

110. Fisher, H. L., The Medieval Empire, I, 14.

111. Guignebert, C., Christianity Past and Present, 151.

112. Ambrose, Ep. 2, in Boissier, II, 424.

CHAPTER IV

1. Cambridge Ancient History, XII, 287.

2. Haverfield, F., The Roman Occupation of Britain, 220; Home, G., Roman Britain, 104.

3. Quennell, M., Everyday Life in Roman Britain, 103.

4. Mommsen, Th., Provinces of the Roman Empire, I, 211.

5. Bede, Ecclesiastical History, v, 24.

6. Gildas, Chronicle, xxiii; Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, p. 25.

7. Bede, i, 15; Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 26.

8. Collingwood, R. G., and Myres, J., Roman Britain, 320.

9. Geoffrey of Monmouth, British History, vii-xi.

10. William of Malmesbury, Chronicle, 11.

11. Collingwood, 324.

12. Joyce, P. W., Short History of Ireland, 123; Hyde, D., Literary History of Ireland, 77.

13. Hyde, 19.

14. Lecky, Morals, II, 253.

15. Joyce, 123.

16. Briffault, R., The Mothers, III, 230, quoting De Jubainville, Le Droit du roi dans l’épopée irlandaise, in Révue archéologique, XLIII, 332f.

17. Hyde, 71.

18. Ibid., 83.

19. From the seventh-century “Voyage of Brand,” in Hyde, 96f.

20. Bede, i, 13; Bury, J. B., Life of St. Patrick, 54.

21. Duchesne, III, 425.

22. Bury, Patrick, 172.

23. Nennius, History of the Britons, 11, in Giles, Six Old English Chronicles, p. 410.

24. Bury, Patrick, 121.

25. Ausonius, Poems, Commemoratio Professorum Burdigalensium.

26. Waddell, H., Medieval Latin Lyrics, 32.

27. Ausonius, Poems, Parentalia, x.

28. Ibid., Ep. xxii, 23f.

29. Stevens, Sidonius Apollinaris, 68-9.

30. Guizot, History of Civilization, I, 343.

31. Dill, Last Century, 206.

32. Stevens, 134-8.

33. Ibid., 160f.

34. Sidonius Apollinaris, Poems and Letters, Ep. i, 2.

35. In Francke, K., History of German Literature, 10.

36. Sidonius in Lacroix, P., Manners, Customs, and Dress, 514.

37. Gibbon, IV, 65.

38. Gregory of Tours, viii, 9.

39. Lea, Superstition and force, 318.

40. Sophocles, Antigone, 11, 264-7.

41. Gibbon, IV, 70.

42. Schoenfeld, Hermann, Women of the Teutonic Nations, 41; Dill, Roman Society in the Merovingian Age, 47.

43. Salic law, xiv and xli, in Ogg, F., Source Book of Medieval History, 63-5.

44. Schoenfeld, 40.

45. Brittain, A., Women of Early Christianity, 203.

46. Lot, 397.

47. Gregory of Tours, ii, 37.

48. Ibid.

49. Id., ii, 40.

50. II, 43.

51. V, 132-6; vi, 165.

52. Dill, Merovingian Age, 279.

53. Gregory of Tours, vii, 178; x, 246.

54. Id., iv, 100.

55. Michelet, J., History of France, I, 107.

56. Gregory, introd., p. xxii.

57. Gregory, i, 5.

58. II, prologue.

59. Gregory, introd., p. xxiv.

60. Guizot, History of Civilization, I, 58.

61. Lecky, Morals, II, 204.

62. Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, in Brehaut, E., An Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages, 215.

63. Dieulafoy, M., Art in Spain and Portugal, 54.

64. Mahaffy, J. P., Old Greek Education, 52.

65. Thompson, J. W., Economic History of the Middle Ages, 120.

66. Cassiodorus, Letters of, Variae, ii, 27.

67. Procopius, v, 1.26.

68. This survives only as a crude abbreviation by Jordanes.

69. Milman, I, 433.

70. Ibid., 439.

71. In Cassiodorus, Variae, ii, 6; iii, 28.

72. Milman, I, 442.

73. Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy, ii, 3.

74. Ibid., 4.

75. Ibid., iii, 10.

76. Procopius, v, 1.

CHAPTER V

1. Justiniani Institutionum libri quattuor, Introd., I, 63.

2. Procopius, Buildings, i, 7.

3. Procopius, Anecdota, viii, 24.

4. John Malalas in Bury, Later Roman Empire, II, 24.

5. Procopius, Anecdota, xv, 11.

6. Id., History of the Wars, i, 24.

7. Id., Buildings, i, 11.

8. Diehl, C., Byzantine Portraits, 58.

9. Procopius, Anecdota, xi.

10. Ibid., ix, 50.

11. Bury, Later Roman Empire, II, 29.

12. Procopius, Anecdota, xvii, 5.

13. Diehl, Portraits, 70.

14. Bouchier, E., Life and Letters in Roman Africa, 107.

15. Procopius, History of the Wars, iv, 6.

16. Ibid., vii, 1.

17. Ibid., 5-8.

18. Lot, 267.

19. Gibbon, IV, 359.

20. Lot, 267.

21. Justiniani Inst., Proemium.

22. Cod. I, xiv, 34.

23. Cod. IV, xliii, 21.

24. Cod. XI, xlviii, 21; lxix, 4.

25. Bury, Later Roman Empire, II, 406; Milman, I, 501.

26. Procopius, History of the Wars, vii, 32.

27. In Gibbon, V, 43.

28. Procopius, Buildings, i, 1.

CHAPTER VI

1. Frank, Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, IV, 152.

2. Rostovtzeff, M., History of the Ancient World, II, 353-4.

3. Procopius, History, viii, 17.

4. Lopez, R. S., in Speculum, XX, i, 3, 7, 19.

5. Ibid., 10-12.

6. Novella 122 in Bury, Later Roman Empire, II, 356.

7. Dalton, O. M., Byzantine Art, 50.

8. Bury, 357.

9. Diehl, C., Manuel d’art Byzantin, 248.

10. Procopius, Anecdota, xvii, 24.

11. Himes, N., Medical History of Contraception, 92-6.

12. Boissier, La fin du paganisme, I, 168.

13. Gibbon, I, 382.

14. Schneider, H., History of World Civilization, II, 640.

15. Castiglione, A., History of Medicine, 252; Garrison, F. H., History of Medicine, 123.

16. Thorndike, L., History of Magic and Experimental Science, I, 147.

17. O’Leary, D., Arabic Thought, 53.

18. Himes, 95.

19. Thorndike, I, 584.

20. Augustine, Confessions, vii, 6.

21. Heath, Sir T., History of Greek Mathematics, II, 528.

22. Socrates, vii, 15.

23. Lecky, Morals, II, 315.

24. Bury, Later Roman Empire, I, 217.

25. Duchesne, III, 210.

26. Socrates, vii, 15.

27. Gregory Nazianzen, Panegyric on St. Basil, in Monroe, P., Source Book of the History of Education for the Greek and Roman Period, 305.

28. Bury, Later Roman Empire, I, 377.

29. Diehl, Manuel, 218.

30. Higham and Bowra, Oxford Book of Greek Verse, 654.

31. Ibid., 665.

32. Socrates, vii, 48.

33. Procopius, History, viii, 32; v, 3.

34. Winckelmann, J., History of Ancient Art, I, 360-1; Finlay, G., Greece under the Romans, 195.

35. Strzygowski, J., Origin of Christian Church Art, 4-6.

36. Procopius, Buildings, i, 10.

37. Ibid., i, 1.

38. Ibid.

39. Ibid., i, 3.

40. Dalton, 258.

41. Lot, 143.

42. Diehl, Manuel, 249; Dalton, 579; Lot, 146.

43. Boethius, ix.

CHAPTER VII

1. Ammianus, xxii, 6.

2. Ibid.

3. Dhalla, M. N., Zoroastrian Civilization, 371.

4. Rawlinson, G., Seventh Great Oriental Monarchy, 29.

5. Procopius, Persian War, ix, 19.

6. Bury, Later Roman Empire, I, 92.

7. Ammianus, xxiii, 6.

8. Talmud, Berachoth, 8b.

9. Dhalla, 301f.

10. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 188.

11. Macrobius, Saturnalia, vii, 1.

12. Gottheil, R. J., Literature of Persia, I, 159.

13. Firdousi, Epic of the Kings, retold by Helen Zimmern, 191; Sykes, Sir P., History of Persia, I, 466.

14. Gottheil, I, 166.

15. Dhalla, 377.

16. Ibid., 305.

17. Browne, E. G., Literary History of Persia, I, 107.

18. Sarton, G., Introd. to the History of Science, I, 435.

19. Browne, E. G., Arabian Medicine, 23.

20. Dhalla, 354.

21. Ibid., 362.

22. Ibid., 274; Bury, Later Roman Empire, I, 91.

23. Rawlinson, G., Seventh Great Oriental Monarchy, 636.

24. Bright, W., Age of the Fathers, I, 202.

25. Sykes, I, 414.

26. Lowie, R. H., Are We Civilized?, 37.

27. Pope, A. U., Survey of Persian Art, I, 755.

28. Dhalla, 356.

29. Pope, 761.

30. Baron, S. W., Social and Religious History of the Jews, I, 256.

31. Ammianus, xxiii, 6.

32. Pope, 716.

33. Browne, Literary History, I, 127.

34. Ibn Khaldun, Prolégomènes, I, 80. Rawlinson, 61, attributes this saying to Ardashir I.

35. Eunapius, #466.

36. Cambridge Ancient History, XII, 112.

37. Sykes, I, 403.

38. Rawlinson, 141.

39. Browne, Literary History, I, 171. Sykes, I, 449, places this massacre in the early years of Khosru I.

40. Pope, 755.

41. Procopius, History of the Wars, ii, 9.

42. Nöldeke, Th., Geschichte der Perser … aus Tabari, 160, in De Vaux, Les Penseurs de l’Islam, I, 92.

43. Rawlinson, 446.

44. Sykes, I, 460.

45. Procopius, History, i, 26.

46. Mommsen, Provinces, II, 47.

47. Graetz, H., History of the Jews, III, 18.

48. Sykes, I, 480f.

49. Pope, 524.

50. Creswell, K. A., Early Muslim Architecture, I, 101.

51. Dieulafoy, Art in Spain, 13.

52. Ibid.; Pope, A. U., Iranian and Armenian Contributions to the Beginnings of Gothic Architecture, 130.

53. Theophylactus Simocatta in Rivoira, G. T., Moslem Architecture, 114. Herzfeld thought the Ctesiphon palace the work of Shapur I.

54. Gottheil, I, 167.

55. Arnold, Sir T., Painting in Islam, 62.

56. Pope, Survey, I, 717; Dieulafoy, 21.

57. Ackerman, P., in Bulletin of the Iranian Institute, Dec, 1946, p. 42.

58. Pope, A. U., Introd. to Persian Art, 144, 168.

59. Sykes, I, 465.

60. Pope, A. U., Masterpieces of Persian Art, 182.

61. Pope, Introd., 64.

62. Fenollosa, E., Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art, I, 21.

63. Riefstahl, R. M., The Parish-Watson Collection of Mohammedan Potteries, p. viii; Pope, Survey, I, 779; Lot, 141.

64. Sir Percy Sykes in Hammerton, J. A., Universal History of the World, IV, 2318.

65. Examples in Sarre, F., Die Kunst des alten Persien, 143.

66. Pope, Introd., 100.

67. Pope, Survey, I, 775.

68. Dhalla, 273.

69. Sykes, I, 490.

70. Browne, Literary History, I, 194.

71. Sykes, I, 490.

72. Ibid., 498.

CHAPTER VIII

1. Burton, Sir R. F., ed., Thousand Nights and a Night, I, vii.

2. Hell, J., The Arab Civilization, 7; Dawson, Christopher, The Making of Europe, 136.

3. Encyclopaedia Britannica, II, 184.

4. Doughty, Chas., Travels in Arabia Deserta, I, xx.

5. Margoliouth, D. S., Mohammed and the Rise of Islam, 29; Nöldeke, Sketches, 7.

6. Burton, R. F., Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to al-Medinah and Meccah. II, 93.

7. Blunt, Lady A. and Sir W.S., The Seven Golden Odes of Pagan Arabia, 43.

8. Ibid.

9. Koran, ix, 98; tr. and ed. Pickthall, The Meaning of the Glorious Koran. Pickthall’s numbering of the verses differs occasionally from that of other translations.

10. Sale, G., in Wherry, E. M., Commentary on the Qur’an, with Sale’s tr., I, 43.

11. Herodotus, iii, 8.

12. Ali Tabari, Book of Religion and Empire, Prologue, ix; Margoliouth, Mohammed, 59; Muir, Sir W., Life of Mohammed, 512.

13. Browne, E. G., Literary History of Persia, I, 261.

14. al-Tabari, Abu Jafar Muhammad, Chronique, Part III, ch. xlvi, p. 202.

15. Pickthall, p. 2.

16. Browne, Literary History, I, 247.

17. Tisdall, W. S., Original Sources of the Koran, 264, quoting Ibn Ishaq; Lane-Poole, S., Speeches and Table Talk of the Prophet Mohammed, xxiv.

18. Nicholson, R. A., Translations of Eastern Poetry and Prose, 38-40. Cf. Koran, xcvi.

19. Muir, Life, 51.

20. Koran, xliii, 3; lvi, 76; lxxxv, 22.

21. II, 91.

22. Lxxxvii, 6.

23. Ali, Maulana Muhammad, The Religion of Islam, 174.

24. Macdonald, D. B., Religious Attitude and Life in Islam, 42.

25. Margoliouth, Mohammed, 45.

26. Dozy, R., Spanish Islam, 15.

27. Hell, 19.

28. Sale in Wherry, I, 80.

29. al-Baladhuri, Abu-l Abas, Origins of the Islamic State, i, 1.

30. Ameer Ali, Syed, Spirit of Islam, 54.

31. Muir, Life, 214, 234.

32. Ibid., 236.

33. Ibid., 238, quoting traditions.

34. Ibid.

35. Andrae, Tor, Mohammed, 206; Muir, 245f, quoting Ibn Hisham and al-Tabari.

36. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 58f.

37. Muir, 252f.

38. al-Baladhuri, i, 2.

39. Ibid., i, 4.

40. Ameer Ali, 94.

41. Andrae, 238.

42. Koran, ii, 100; Macdonald, D. B., Development of Muslim Theology, Jurisprudence, and Constitutional Theory, 69.

43. Koran, xli, 6.

44. XXXIII, 37.

45. Andrae, 267.

46. Koran, xxxiii, 51.

47. Muir, 77, 244.

48. Koran, xxxiii, 51.

49. Muir, 201.

50. Bukhsh, S. K., Studies, Indian and Islamic, 6.

51. Muir, 511.

52. Lane-Poole, Speeches, xxx.

53. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 110.

54. Bukhsh, Studies, 6.

55. Irving, W., Life of Mahomet, 238.

56. Margoliouth, 105; Irving, 231.

57. Koran, xxxi, 19.

58. Sa’di, Gulistan, ii, 29.

59. Margoliouth, 458.

60. Gibbon, V, 254.

61. Margoliouth, 466.

CHAPTER IX

1. E.g., sura lv.

2. Lane-Poole, Speeches, 180.

3. Koran, xliv, 53; xxxv, 33.

4. XLVII, 15, lxxvi, 14-15.

5. LV, 56-8, lxxviii, 33; xxxvii, 48.

6. LVI, 17; lxxvii, 19.

7. Margoliouth, 69.

8. Koran, xvii, 35; Lane-Poole, 157.

9. Ibid., 158.

10. Ali, Maulana M., Religion of Islam, 587.

11. Lane-Poole, 161, 163.

12. Ibid., 162.

13. Ibid.

14. Ali, Maulana, 390.

15. Koran, lv, 10; iv, 31-2.

16. Ali, Maulana, 655.

17. Koran, xxxiii, 53.

18. Ali, 602.

19. Koran, ii, 232; Ali, 632.

20. Ibid., 684.

21. Pickthall, p. 594n.

22. Lane-Poole, 161.

23. Koran, xxxi, 14; xlvi, 15.

24. Ameer Ali, 183.

25. Lane-Poole, 167.

26. Quoted in Muir, Life, 520.

27. Lane-Poole, 159.

28. Ibid.

29. Sale in Wherry, I, 122.

30. E.g., Deut. xviii, 15-18; Hag. ii, 7; Song of Songs, ii, 3, xxi, 7; John xvi, 12-13.

31. Talmud, Pirke Aboth, ii, 18.

32. Nöldeke, Sketches, 44.

33. Cf. Koran, v, 35 with Talmud, Sanh., ii, 5; Koran, ii, 183 with Ber., i, 2; and Nöldeke, 31.

34. Lane-Poole, xl.

35. Bevan, E. R., Legacy of Israel, 147; Hitti, P. K., History of the Arabs, 125.

36. Baron, S. W., Social and Religious History of the Jews, I, 335-7.

37. Hurgronje, C. S., Mohammedanism, 65

CHAPTER X

1. Cambridge Medieval History, II, 331.

2. Burton, Personal Narrative, I, 149.

3. Finlay, G., Greece under the Romans, 367.

4. Muir, Sir W., The Caliphate, 56.

5. Ibid., 57.

6. Ibid., 198.

7. Hitti, 176.

8. Gibbon, V, 296.

9. Macdonald, Development of Muslim Theology, 23.

10. Hitti, 197.

11. Sykes, Sir P., History of Persia, I, 538.

12. Hell, J., 59-60.

13. Muir, Caliphate, 376; Hitti, 222.

14. Dozy, 161; Hitti, 227.

15. Muir, Caliphate, 428-37; Hitti, 285.

16. Nöldeke, 132.

17. Sa’di, Gulistan, i, 3.

18. Burton, Sir R. F., The Thousand Nights and a Night, I, 186.

19. Palmer, E. H., The Caliph Haroun Alraschid, 30, 78.

20. Arnold, Sir T. W., Painting in Islam, 16.

21. Abbott, Nabia, Two Queens of Baghdad, 183.

22. Muir, Caliphate, 482.

23. Palmer, 221.

24. Ibid., 35; Abbott, 113.

25. Palmer, 81f.

26. Ibn Khaldun, Les Prolégomènes, I, 26.

27. Hitti, 300.

28. Eginhard, Life of Charlemagne, xvi, 3.

29. Palmer, 121.

30. Nicholson, R. A., Translations of Eastern Poetry and Prose, 64.

31. Utbi, Abul-Nasr Muhammad, Historical Memoirs of the Emir Sabaktagin and Mahmud of Ghazni, ch. 50, p. 466.

32. Saladin, H., et Migeon, G., Manuel d’art musulman, I, 441.

CHAPTER XI

1. Lestrange, G., Palestine under the Moslems, quoting Masudi, ii, 438.

2. Hitti, 351.

3. Milman, H. H., History of Latin Christianity, III, 65n.

4. Lane, E. W., Arabian Society in the Middle Ages, 117.

5. Usher, A. P., History of Mechanical Inventions, 128-9.

6. De Vaux, Baron Carra, Les Penseurs d’Islam, I, 8.

7. Barnes, H. E., Economic History of the Western World, 111.

8. Renard, G., Life and Work in Prehistoric Times, 113.

9. Hitti, 344.

10. Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History of the Middle Ages, 373.

11. Ibn Khaldun, Les Prolégomènes, 416.

12. Hitti, 348.

13. Muir, Caliphate, 501.

14. Hitti, 344.

15. Hurgronje, 128.

16. Browne, E. G., Literary History, I, 323.

17. Ibid., 318.

18. Dawson, 158.

19. Browne, I, 323; Muir, Caliphate, 510.

20. Nöldeke, 146-75.

21. Arnold, Painting in Islam, 104.

22. Guillaume, A., The Traditions of Islam, 13.

23. Ibid., 134-8; Becker, C. H., Christianity and Islam, 62.

24. Guillaume, 47-52, 77.

25. Margoliouth, Mohammed, 80.

26. Guillaume, 80.

27. Sykes, I, 521.

28. Andrae, 101.

29. Sale in Wherry, I, 172.

30. Ali, Maulana, 730.

31. Philby, H., A Pilgrim in Arabia, 40.

32. Doughty, I, 59.

33. Burton, Pilgrimage, I, 325.

34. Ali, Maulana, 522.

35. Burton, Pilgrimage, II, 63; Sale in Wherry, I, 185.

36. Graetz, H., History of the Jews, III, 87; Hitti, 234.

37. Lestrange, Palestine, 212; Arnold, Sir T., and Guillaume, A., The Legacy of Islam, 81.

38. Baron, S. W., History, I, 319.

39. Guillaume, 132.

40. Catholic Encyclopedia, VIII, 459.

41. Becker, 32.

42. Hitti, 685; Sarton, G., Introduction to the History of Science, Vol. II, Part I, 80.

43. Westermarck, E., Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas, II, 476.

44. Kremer, A. von, Kulturgeschichte des Orients unter den Khalifen, 52.

45. Abbott, 98.

46. Lane, E. W., Arabian Society, 219-20.

47. Bukhsh, S. K., Studies, 83.

48. Hitti, 239.

49. Ali, Maulana, 390.

50. Lane-Poole, S., Saladin, 247.

51. Macdonald, D. B., Aspects of Islam, 294; Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 362.

52. Müller-Lyer, F., Evolution of Modern Marriage, 42.

53. Lane-Poole, Saladin, 217.

54. Ibid., 251; Sumner, W. G., Folkways, 353.

55. Lane, E. W., Arabian Society, 221.

56. Ibid., 223.

57. Hitti, 342.

58. Bukhsh, Studies, 88.

59. Abbott, 137, 149.

60. Bukhsh, 84.

61. al-Ghazzali, Abu Hamid, Kimiya’e Saadat, tr. as The Alchemy of Happiness by C. Field, 93.

62. Himes, N. E., Medical History of Contraception, 136.

63. Lane-Poole, Saladin, 415.

64. Guillaume, Traditions, 115.

65. Westermarck, Moral Ideas, I, 94.

66. Sale in Wherry, I, 168.

67. Hitti, 338.

68. De Vaux, II, 272f; Chardin, Sir J., Travels in Persia, 198.

69. Muir, Caliphate, 374.

70. Ibid., 519.

71. Lane, Saladin, 285.

72. Bury, J. B., History of the Eastern Roman Empire, 236.

73. Hurgronje, 98.

74. Macdonald, Muslim Theology, 84; Guillaume, 69; Burton, Personal Narrative, I, 148, 167.

75. Arnold and Guillaume, Legacy, 305.

76. Macdonald, Theology, 66.

77. Muir, Caliphate, 170.

78. Lestrange, Palestine, 24.

79. Hitti, 236f.

80. In Lestrange, 120.

81. Ibid., 342.

82. Ibid, 301.

83. Ibid., 295-301, 342, 348, 353, 361, 377.

84. Ibid., 265.

85. Ibid., 237.

86. Creswell, K. A. C., Early Muslim Architecture, I, 137; Rivoira, G. T., Moslem Architecture, 110.

87. Yaqub, ii, 587, in Lestrange, 262.

88. Lane, Saladin, 184.

89. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 339.

90. Baron, I, 320.

91. Abulfeda, in Rowbotham, J. F., The Troubadours and the Courts of Love, 16n.

92. Lestrange, G., Baghdad during the Abbasid Caliphate, 253.

93. Lane, E. W., Arabian Society, 203.

94. Lane-Poole, S., Studies in a Mosque, 185.

CHAPTER XII

1. In Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 331.

2. Lane, Saladin, 86.

3. Lane-Poole, S., Cairo, 183.

4. Hitti, 409.

5. Macdonald, Aspects of Islam, 289, 301.

6. Bukhsh, Studies, 195.

7. Carter, T. F., The Invention of Printing in China, introduction and p. 85; Thompson, Sir E. M., Introduction to Greek and Latin Palaeography, 34; Barnes, Economic History, 113.

8. Bukhsh, 49-50.

9. Ibid., 197.

10. Gibbon, V, 411.

11. Browne, Literary History, I, 275.

12. Pope, Masterpieces of Persian Art, 151.

13. Sarton, I, 662.

14. Gibbon, V, 298.

15. al-Tabari, Chronique, i, 1.

16. Ibid., i, 17.

17. Ibid., i, 118.

18. Sarton, I, 637.

19. De Vaux, I, 78.

20. Ibn Khaldun, I, 78.

21. Sarton, I, 530.

22. Arnold and Guillaume, Legacy, 385.

23. Sarton, I, 602.

24. Bukhsh, 168.

25. De Vaux, II, 76.

26. Ibid., 78.

27. al-Biruni, Abu Rayhan Muhammad, Chronology of Ancient Nations, introd., xiii.

28. al-Biruni, India, I, 3.

29. In Boer, T. J. de, History of Philosophy in Islam, 146.

30. De Vaux, II, 217; Arnold and Guillaume, 395.

31. al-Biruni, India, I, 198.

32. Bukhsh, 181.

33. Sarton, I, 707.

34. Ibid., 693.

35. Lane, Arabian Society, 54n.

36. Ibn Khaldun, III, 250-5.

37. Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History, 358.

38. Grunebaum, G. von, Medieval Islam, 331.

39. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 392.

40. Kellogg, J. H., Rational Hydrotherapy, 1928, 24.

41. Ibid.

42. Lane, Arabian Society, 56.

43. Garrison, F., History of Medicine, 1929, 137.

44. Arnold and Guillaume, 336.

45. Bukhsh, 197.

46. Hitti, 364.

47. Ibid.

48. Campbell, D., Arabian Medicine, 66f.

49. Sarton, I, 609.

50. Ibn Khallikan, Muhammad, Biographical Dictionary, I, 440.

51. Ibid., 443.

52. In Draper, J. W., History of the Intellectual Development of Europe, I, 411.

53. John, i, 1-3.

54. Bukhsh, 59.

55. Boer, 101; Arnold and Guillaume, 255.

56. Aristotle, De Anima, iii, 5.

57. Macdonald, Muslim Theology, 150.

58. Barhebraeus in Grunebaum, 182; Hitti, 353; Muir, Caliphate, 521.

59. In Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 408.

60. Dawson, 155.

61. Ibn Khallikan, III, 308.

62. O’Leary, DeL., Arabic Thought and Its Place in History, 153.

63. Ueberweg, F., History of Philosophy, I, 412.

64. De Vaux, IV, 12-18.

65. Boer, 123.

66. Ibid., 81f.

67. Husik, I., History of Medieval Jewish Philosophy, xxxix.

68. Salibu, D., Étude sur la metaphysique d’Avicenne, 21.

69. Ibid., 106, 114, 121, 151; Hastings, Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics, XI, 275-6; Boer, 136.

70. Salibu, 170; Gruner, O. C., Treatise on the Canon of Medicine of Avicenna, introd., p. 9.

71. Boer, 138-42.

72. Salibu, 208.

73. In Ameer Ali, 395.

74. Boer, 144.

75. al-Baladhuri, i, 6; Bacon, Roger, Opus Maius, tr. R. B. Burke, Vol. I, p. 15.

76. Salibu, 27.

77. Arnold and Guillaume, 311.

78. Avicennae Canon Medicinae, p. 118.

79. In Nicholson, R. A., Mystics of Islam, 7.

80. Ibn Khaldun, III, 106.

81. Browne, Literary History, I, 426.

82. In Hitti, 435.

83. Nicholson, R. A., Studies in Islamic Mysticism, 4-5.

84. Macdonald, Religious Attitude, 169-71; Nicholson, Studies in Mysticism, 78.

85. Ibid., 25.

86. Arnold and Guillaume, 219.

87. Hitti, 438.

88. Browne, II, 261.

89. Nicholson, Studies in Mysticism, 6-21.

90. Id., Translations of Eastern Poetry. 98-100.

91. In Browne, II, 265.

92. Nicholson, Mysticism, 28-31, 38.

93. Browne, I, 404; Dawson, 158.

94. Hitti, 443.

95. Browne, I, 404.

96. al-Masudi, Abu-l Hasan, Meadows of Gold, French tr., IV, 89.

97. Lane-Poole, Cairo, 154.

98. Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Poetry, 48.

99. Id., Translations, 33.

100. Nicholson, R. A., Literary History of the Arabs, 295; Ibn Khallikan, I, 393.

101. De Vaux, IV, 252.

102. Browne, I, 369.

103. Nicholson, Islamic Poetry, 133-7.

104. Rihani, A. F., The Quatrains of Abu’l ’Ala (al-Ma‘arri), vii.

105. Nicholson, Literary History, 319.

106. Id., Islamic Poetry, 148.

107. Ibid., 102, 145; Rihani, 120.

108. Nicholson, Islamic Poetry, 108-10.

109. Ibid., 191-2.

110. Ibid., 121.

111. Id., Translations, 102.

112. Id., Islamic Poetry, 150.

113. Ibid., 160.

114. Ibid., 161-5.

115. Id., Translations, 102.

116. Id., Islamic Poetry, 119.

117. Ibid., 127.

118. Id., Translations, 102.

119. Id., Islamic Poetry, 140.

120. In Browne, II, 120.

121. In Firdousi, The Epic of Kings, retold by Helen Zimmern, 4.

122. Firdousi, The Shah Nameh, in Gottheil, R. J., ed., The Literature of Persia, I, 54.

123. Ibid., 156, tr. Jas. Atkinson. Matthew Arnold has retold the story in Sohrab and Rustum.

124. In Pope, Survey of Persian Art, II, 975.

125. Cf. “The Nazarene Broker’s Story” in Burton, Thousand Nights and a Night, I, 270.

126. Pope, Survey, II, 1439.

127. Lane-Poole, Saladin, 29.

128. Lane, Arabian Society, 54-61.

129. Pope, II, 927; Hell, 109.

130. Creswell, I, 329.

131. In Lane, Arabian Society, 58.

132. Pope, II, 975.

133. Pope, IV, 317-28.

134. Pope, Arthur U., Introduction to Persian Art, 200.

135. Arnold and Guillaume, 117.

136. Pope, II, 1447.

137. Fenollosa, E. F., Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art, I, 21; Pope, Survey, I, 2.

138. Pope, II, 1468.

139. Guillaume, 128.

140. Encyclopaedia Britannica, XV, 654.

141. Ibid.; Hitti, 420.

142. Arnold, Painting in Islam, 85.

143. Ibid., 21.

144. Lane, Arabian Society, 117.

145. Ibid., 15.

146. Hitti, 274.

147. Farmer, H. G., in Arnold and Guillaume, 358.

148. Sa’di, Gulistan, ii, 26.

149. In Arnold and Guillaume, 359.

150. Farmer in Arnold and Guillaume, 367.

151. Ibid., 372.

152. Ibid., 361; Farmer, H. G., History of Arabian Music, 154.

153. Farmer in Arnold and G., 359.

154. Hitti, 214.

155. Farmer, 31.

156. Ibid., 112.

157. Ibid., 60-4; Lane-Poole, Cairo, 156.

158. Farmer, 120.

159. Ibid., 124.

160. Lane, Arabian Society, 172-6.

CHAPTER XIII

1. Gibbon, V, 344.

2. Sarton, I, 466; II (ii), 599.

3. Ueberweg, I, 409.

4. Tarn, W. W., Hellenistic Civilization, 217; Sarton, I, 466.

5. Gibbon, V, 346.

6. Munro, D. C., and Sellery, G. C., Medieval Civilization, 170.

7. Lane-Poole, Cairo, 65.

8. Browne, II, 223.

9. Hitti, 625.

10. Browne, II, 223; Margoliouth, D. S., Cairo, Jerusalem, and Damascus, 46.

11. Nöldeke, 3.

12. Hitti, 626.

13. Arnold and Guillaume, 163.

14. Pope, Arthur U., Iranian and Armenian Contributions to the Beginnings of Gothic Architecture, 237.

15. Lane, Arabian Society, 54f.

16. Lane-Poole, Cairo, 44, 60.

17. Pope, II, 1488.

18. Arnold and Guillaume, 116.

19. Dimand, M. S., Handbook of Muhammadan Art, 255; Arnold, Painting in Islam, 127.

20. Margoliouth, Cairo, 69.

21. Arnold and Guillaume, 333.

22. Arnold, Sir T. W., The Preaching of Islam, 102.

23. Pirenne, Henri, Mohammed and Charlemagne, 160f.

24. Hitti, 605.

25. Waern, Cecilia, Medieval Sicily, 20.

26. Arnold and Guillaume, 241.

27. Waern, 25.

28. Calvert, A. F., Moorish Remains in Spain, 239.

29. al-Maqqari, Ahmed ibn Muhammad, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties in Spain, ii, 146.

30. Ibid., vi, 6.

31. Ibid.

32. Dozy, 458-65.

33. Maqqari, vii, 1.

34. Dozy, 516.

35. Ibid., 522; Calvert, A. F., Seville, 11.

37. Lane-Poole, S., Story of the Moors in Spain, 43.

38. Dozy, 633, 689.

39. Cf. Maqqari, vi, 3.

40. Dozy, 234.

41. Gibbon, V, 376.

42. Chapman, C. E., History of Spain, 50.

43. Ibid., 41; Dozy, 236; Lane-Poole, Moors, 50.

44. Chapman, 41.

45. Clapham, J. H., and Power, E., Cambridge Economic History of Europe, 136; Barnes, Economic History, 114.

46. Clapham, 354-5; Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History, 547.

48. Cambridge Medieval History, III, 432.

49. Pirenne, Jacques, Les grands courants de l’histoire universelle, II, 117.

50. Ibid., 19.

51. Arnold, Preaching, 134; Dozy, 235.

52. Chapman, 49, 58.

53. Dozy, 268.

54. Ibid.

55. Arnold, Preaching, 144.

56. Dozy, 235; Lane-Poole, Moors, 47.

57. Rivoira, Moslem Architecture, 240.

58. Dozy, 278.

59. Ibid., 286.

60. Arnold, Preaching, 141.

61. Dozy, 534.

62. Maqqari, iii, 1.

63. Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History, 549.

64. Maqqari, iii, 2.

65. Ibid., iii, 1.

66. Calvert, Moorish Remains, 189.

67. Calvert, A. F., Cordova, 107.

68. Maqqari, Vol. II, 139-200.

69. Dozy, 455; Chapman, 50.

70. Pirenne, J., II, 20.

71. Maqqari, II, 3.

72. In Dozy, 576.

73. Sarton, I, 713.

74. Dozy, 281.

75. Maqqari, vii, 1.

76. Arnold and Guillaume, 186.

77. Dozy, 326.

78. Ibid.

79. Tr. by Dulcie Smith in Van Doren, Mark, Anthology of World Poetry, 99.

CHAPTER XIV

1. Browne, II, 176.

2. Ibid., 177; Gibbon, V, 17.

3. Browne, II, 190.

4. Marco Polo, Travels, i, 24.

5. Ameer Ali, Spirit of Islam, 313.

6. Hitti, 446.

7. Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History, 391; Arnold, Preaching, 96.

8. William of Tripoli in Lane-Poole, Cairo, 84.

9. Hitti, 679.

10. Adams, Brooks, Law of Civilization and Decay, 128.

11. In Lane-Poole, Cairo, 27.

12. Irving, W., The Alhambra, 47.

13. Lane-Poole, Moors, 225.

14. Pope, Introduction, 30; Pope, Survey, II, 1043.

15. Cf. Migeon, G., Les arts musulmans, II, 11.

16. Fry, Roger, in Persian Art: Souvenir of the Exhibition of Persian Art at Burlington House, xix.

17. Dillon, E., Glass, 165.

18. Lane, Arabian Society, 200.

19. Pope, Masterpieces, 65.

20. Dimand, Handbook, 280.

21. Time Magazine, Jan. 23, 1939.

22. Arnold, Painting, 127.

23. N. Y. Times Book Review, May 19, 1940, p. 2.

24. Bukhsh, 96.

25. Nicholson, Translations, 116.

26. Ibn Khaldun, III, 438.

27. Ibid., 426.

28. Browne, II, 375.

29. Ibid., 392.

30. Sarton, I, 759.

31. Ibid., II (i), 8.

32. Ibid., I, 760.

33. Browne, II, 246.

34. Nicholson, Islamic Poetry, 4-5.

35. Weir, T. H., Omar Khayyam the Poet, 21.

36. Nicholson, Islamic Mysticism, 1.

37. Browne, II, 108.

38. Ibid., 256.

39. Heron-Allen, Edw., in Houtsma, M., ed., Encyclopedia of Islam, III (ii), 988.

40. Weir, 16; Nicholson, Islamic Poetry, 5.

41. Browne, II, 249.

42. Quatrain cxv of the Bodleian MS. in Weir, 36.

43. Weir, 71.

44. In Browne, II, 247.

45. Smith, Margaret, ed., The Persian Mystics: Attar, 20-7.

46. Jalal ud-Din Rumi, Selected Poems from the Divani Shamsi Tabriz, ed. and tr. by R. A. Nicholson, 107.

47. Ibid., 71.

48. Ibid., 47.

49. Sarton, II (ii), 872.

50. Browne, II, 521.

51. Sa’di, Rose Garden, 12.

52. Sa’di, Gulistan, ii, 7.

53. Ibid., iii, 19.

54. In Browne, II, 530.

55. Gulistan, ii, 30.

56. Bustan in Grousset, R., The Civilizations of the East, Vol. I: The Near and Middle East, 272.

57. Gulistan, i, 12.

58. I, 3.

59. II, 27.

60. II, 40.

61. IV, 7.

62. V, 5.

63. V, 4.

64. VII, 2.

65. VII, 4.

66. VIII, 31.

67. VIII, 38.

68. I, 4.

69. V, 8.

70. III, 11.

71. Browne, II, 534.

72. Grunebaum, 39.

73. Sarton, II (i), 12.

74. Ibid., 216.

75. Ibid., 27; II (ii), 632.

76. Ibid., II (i), 31.

77. Margoliouth, Cairo, 220.

78. Sarton, II (ii), 1014.

79. Ibid., II (i), 51; II (ii), 663.

80. Ibid., II (i), 424.

81. Hitti, 686.

82. Sarton, II (i), 232.

83. Garrison, 136.

84. Lestrange, Baghdad, 104.

85. Garrison, 136; Hell, 117; Lane-Poole, Cairo, 34; Margoliouth, Cairo, 124-9; Hitti, 677.

86. Baron, S., ed., Essays on Maimonides, 112.

87. al-Ghazzali, Some Religious and Moral Teachings, 138.

88. al-Ghazzali, Destruction of Philosophy, 155f.

89. Macdonald, Muslim Theology, 239.

90. Asin y Palacios, Miguel, Islam and the Divine Comedy, 273-5.

91. In Sa’di, Gulistan, ii, 25.

92. Muir, Caliphate, 146.

93. Arnold, Painting, 54.

94. Becker, 31.

95. Boer, 175; Duhem, P., Le système du monde, IV, 522, 526; Macdonald, Muslim Theology, 250.

96. Abu Bekr ibn Tufail, History of Hayy ibn Yaqzan, 68.

97. Ibid., 99, 139.

97. In Renan, E., Averroès et l’averroïsme, 16.

99. Sarton, II (i), 305.

100. Averroës, Exposition of the Methods of Argument Concerning the Doctrines of the Faith, 230.

101. Id., A Decisive Discourse on the Relation between Religion and Philosophy, 52.

102. Id., Exposition, 190; Discourse, 50-1; Gilson, E., Reason and Revelation in the Middle Ages, 40f.

103. Averroës, Exposition, 193.

104. Sarton, II (i), 358.

105. Averroës, Discourse, 14.

106. Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, xii, in Renan, 108.

107. Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics, viii, in Renan, 112; Duhem, IV, 549.

108. De Vaux, IV, 70.

109. Commentary on Aristotle’s De Anima, bk. iii, in Renan, 122; Duhem, IV, 573.

110. Destruction of the Destruction, in Renan, 137n.

111. In Renan, 143.

112. Ibid., 146.

113. Arnold and Guillaume, 277-9; Tornay, S. C., Averroës’ Doctrine of the Mind, Philosophical Review, May, 1943, 282n.; De Vaux, IV, 71; Duhem, IV, 566.

114. Bacon, R., Opus maius, i, 6; De Vaux, IV, 87.

115. Renan, 32.

116. In Browne, II, 440.

117. Ibid., 439.

118. Pope, Survey, II, 1542.

119. Lestrange, Baghdad, 350; Browne, II, 460.

120. Cf. Arnold, Painting, 99.

121. Pope, Survey, II, 1044.

122. Burton, Personal Narrative, 90-2.

123. Arnold and Guillaume, 169.

124. Encyclopaedia Britannica, XVIII, 339.

125. Arnold and Guillaume, 121; Pope, Introduction, 241; Encyclopaedia Britannica, XV, 657.

126. Dennis, Geo., Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, I, 37.

127. Browne, II, 432.

128. Arnold and Guillaume, 93.

CHAPTER XV

1. Abbott, G. F., Israel in Egypt, 43.

2. Baron, S., Social and Religious History of the Jews, I, 266; Graetz, H., History of the Jews, II, 566.

3. Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, iii, 20; Julian, Works, III, 51.

4. Abbott, 45.

5. Ammianus Marcellinus, Works, xxiii, 1.

6. Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah, vi, 11-13, in Baron, I, 261.

7. Baron, I, 255.

8. Baeder, Gershom, Jewish Spiritual Heroes, III, 46.

9. Talmud, Yebamoth, 37b.

10. Friedländer, L., Roman Life and Manners under the Early Empire, III, 173.

11. Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, 1916, viii, 1.

12. References to the Mishna will be by tractate, chapter, and section; to the (Babylonian) Gemara by tractate and folio sheet.

13. Baba Kama, 60b.

14. Megilla, 16b.

15. Tanhuma, ed. Buber, Yitro, sect. 7, in Moore, G. F., Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era, II, 242.

16. Menachoth, 99b.

17. Pesikta Rabbati, 10, 4, in Newman, L., and Spitz, S., Talmudic Anthology, 300.

18. Chagiga, 10a.

19. Examples in Moore, I, 259.

20. Berachoth, 6b.

21. Aboda Zara, 3b; Newman, 31.

22. Chagiga, 3b.

23. Succah, 52b.

24. Barachoth, 6a.

25. Aboda Zara, 3b.

26. Mechilta, 65a, on Exod. xix, 18.

27. From Deut. vi, 4.

28. Shebuoth, 77b.

29. Erubin, 18a.

30. Bereshit Rabbah on Gen. xxiii, 9.

31. Berachoth, 6a.

32. Aboda Zara, 5a.

33. Sifre on Deut. 32.

34. Shebuoth, 55a.

35. Midrash Mishle, 28, in Newman, 90.

36. Genesis Rabbah, xlviii, 8.

37. Baba Metzia, 58b.

38. Berachoth, 34a.

39. Ketuboth, 111a.

40. Wayyikra Rabbah, 34, in Newman, 108.

41. Bereshit Rabbah, 44, 1, in Newman, 292.

42. Quoted in Cohen, A., Everyman’s Talmud, 89.

43. Aboda Zara, 20b.

44. Kiddushin, 66d.

45. Shebuoth, 41a.

46. In Cohen, A.. 258.

47. Leviticus xxi, 2-5.

48. Yebamoth, 48b.

49. Ketuboth, 27; Cohen, A., 257.

50. Pesachim, 113a.

51. Shebuoth, 152.

52. Pesachim, 49b.

53. Exod. xxiii, 19; xxiv, 26; Deut. xiv, 21.

54. Nidda, 17.

55. Yoma, 75.

56. Shebuoth, 33.

57. Ibid., 152a.

58. Baba Bathra, 58b.

59. Pesachim, 109a.

60. Berachoth, 55a, 60b.

61. Taanith, 11a.

62. Pesachim, 108.

63. Exod. xii, 13.

64. Megilla on Esther, 7b, in Moore, II, 51.

65. In Oesterley, W. O., and Box, G. H., Short Survey of the Literature of Rabbinical and Medieval Judaism, 149.

66. Kiddushin, 31a; Isaiah vi, 1.

67. Baba Bathra, 8b; Baron, I, 277-8.

68. Berachoth, 10a.

69. Gen. i, 28; Kiddushin, 29b.

70. Genesis Rabbah, lxxi, 6.

71. Yebamoth, 12b; Himes, N. E., Medical History of Contraception, 72.

72. Baba Bathra, 21.

73. Exodus Rabbah, i, 1.

74. Harris, M. H., ed., Hebraic Literature: Translations from the Talmud, Midrashim, and Kabbala, 336.

75. Baba Bathra, 9a.

76. Ketuboth, 50a, 67.

77. Taanith, 22.

78. Ibid., 20b.

79. Graetz, II, 486, 545.

80. Baba Bathra, 9.

81. Gittin, 70a.

82. Chagiga, 16a.

83. Berachoth, 61a.

84. Kiddushin, 29b.

85. Sota, 44a.

86. Taanith, lv, 8.

87. Yebamoth, 63a.

88. Ibid., 65a, 44a.

89. Pesikta Rabbati, 25, 2, in Newman, 3.

90. Berachoth, xxiv, 1.

91. Kiddushin, 4.

92. Yebamoth, xlv, 1; 64b.

93. Gittin, lx, 10.

94. Ketuboth, vii, 6.

95. Cohen, A., 179.

96. Ketuboth, 77a; Neuman, A. A., The Jews in Spain, Philadelphia, 1942, II, 59.

97. Yebamoth, xix, in Baeder, III, 66.

98. Gittin, 90b.

99. Kiddushin, 80b.

100. Nidda, 45.

101. Kiddushin, 49b.

102. Yoma, 83b.

103. Mikvaoth, 9b, in Cohen, A., 170.

104. Hai Gaon in Newman, 540.

105. Yebamoth, 88b.

106. Ketuboth, 47b.

107. Shebuoth, 30b.

108. Erubin, 41b.

109. Baeder, III, 15.

110. Bereshit Rabbah, xvii, 7.

111. Harris, M. H., Hebraic Literature, 340.

112. Pirke Aboth, iv, 1.

113. Ibid., iv, 3.

114. Ibid., i, 17.

115. Ibid., iii, 17.

116. Shemot Rabbah, xxv, 16, in Newman, 397.

117. Menachoth 29b, in Moore, II, 187.

118. Renan, E., Origins of Christianity: The Christian Church, 131; Baron, I, 305-6.

CHAPTER XVI

1. Graetz, III, 308.

2. Abrahams, Israel, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, 219.

3. Benjamin of Tudela, Travels, in Komroff, M., ed., Contemporaries of Marco Polo, 290.

4. Graetz, III, 90. Others date the Gaonate from 589; cf. Oesterley and Box, 209.

5. Graetz, III, 133.

6. Ibid., 148.

7. Druck, D., Yehuda Halevy, 66.

8. Baron, I, 353.

9. Husik, I., History of Medieval Jewish Philosophy, 35, 42f.

10. Maker, H., Saadia Gaon, 279, 291.

11. Benjamin of Tudela, in Komroff, 310.

12. Baron, I, 318.

13. Friedländer, III, 181.

14. Dill, Sir S., Roman Society in Gaul in the Merovingian Age, 246.

15. Graetz, III, 143, 161, 241, 389.

16. Benj. of Tudela, in Komroff, 260.

17. Ibid., 257.

18. Ameer Ali, Syed, The Spirit of Islam, 260.

19. Druck, 26.

20. Dozy, R., Spanish Islam, 597f.

21. Abbott, G. F., 71.

22. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 366.

23. Dozy, 721.

24. Graetz, III, 617.

25. Neuman, A., Jews in Spain, I, 5.

26. Ibid., 164.

27. Ibid., II, 184.

28. Ibid., II, 221; Graetz, III, 281.

29. Neuman, II, 221.

30. Graetz, III, 360f.

31. Baron, II, 37; Graetz, III, 506.

32. Neuman, II, 149.

33. Ibid., 247.

34. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 67.

35. Sholom Asch in Browne, Lewis, ed., The Wisdom of Israel, 698.

36. Baba Kama, 113a.

37. Pirke Aboth, iii, 2.

38. Baron, II, 17.

39. Ibid., 26.

40. Ibid.

41. Bracton, De Legibus, vi, 51, in Baron, II, 24.

42. Pollock, F., and Maitland, F. W., History of English Law before Edward I, I, 455.

43. Cambridge Medieval History, VII, 643.

44. Rickard, T. A., Man and Metals, II, 602.

45. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 241.

46. Rapaport, S., Tales and Maxims from the Talmud, 147.

47. Graetz, III, 229.

48. Arnold, Sir T., and Guillaume, A., The Legacy of Islam, 102.

49. Pirenne, H., Medieval Cities, 258.

50. Baron, II, 8f.

51. Jewish Encyclopedia, IV, 379.

52. Deut. xxiii, 20.

53. Baba Metzia, v, 1-2, 11.

54. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 110.

55. Baron, II, 120.

56. Pirenne, H., Economic and Social History of Medieval Europe, 134.

57. Cambridge Medieval History, VII, 644.

58. Ibid., 646.

59. Neuman, A., I, 202; Lacroix, P., Manners, Customs, and Dress during the Middle Ages, 451.

60. Coulton, G. G., Medieval Panorama, 352.

61. Abbott, Israel, 113.

62. Lacroix, Manners, 451.

63. Ashley, W. J., Introduction to English Economic History and Theory, 202.

64. Abbott, 117.

65. Pollock and Maitland, 451.

66. Cambridge Medieval History, VI, 226.

67. Abbott, 122.

68. Husik, 508.

69. Abbott, 125; Graetz, III, 588.

70. Abbott, 135; Lacroix, Manners, 445.

71. In Foakes-Jackson, F., and Lake, K., Beginnings of Christianity, I, 76.

72. Baba Bathra, 90.

73. Baba Metzia, iv, 3.

74. Baron, I, 277-8; II, 108.

75. Baron, II, 99.

76. Moore, II, 174-5.

77. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 141, 319, 326, 335; Baron, II, 99.

78. Coulton, Panorama, 357.

79. Abrahams, 277.

80. Ibid., 281.

81. Burton, Sir R. F., The Jew, the Gypsy, and El Islam, 128; Baron, II, 169.

82. Abrahams, 331.

83. Baba Kama, 113b.

84. Abrahams, 106.

85. Ibid., 104.

86. Ibid., 90.

87. Baron, II, 112.

88. Abrahams, 166.

89. Kiddushin, 41a; Neuman, II, 21.

90. Ibid.

91. Moore, II, 22.

92. Abrahams, 117.

94. Burton, The Jew, 43.

95. White, E. M., Woman in World History, 176.

96. Abrahams, 155.

97. Brittain, A., Women of Early Christianity, 10.

98. White, 189.

99. Neuman, II, 63.

100. White, 185.

101. Marcus, J., The Jew in the Medieval World, 313.

102. Abrahams, 32.

103. Neuman, II, 153.

104. Baron, I, 288; II, 97.

105. Abrahams, 126.

106. Brittain, 12.

107. Moore, I, 316.

108. Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Book I, tr. Moses, Hyamson, 63a.

109. In Waxman, M., History of Jewish Literature, I, 214.

110. Jewish Encyclopedia, IX, 122.

111. Oxford History of Music, introd. volume, 60.

112. Jewish Encyclopedia, III, 453.

112a. In Zeitlin, S., Maimonides, 44.

113. Baron, II, 83.

114. Lacroix, Manners, 439.

115. Baron, II, 35.

116. Abrahams, 411; Moore, II, 74.

117. Deut. vii, 3; Nehemiah xiii, 25.

118. Klausner, J., From Jesus to Paul, 515.

119. Baron, II, 55.

120. Gittin, 61.

121. Abrahams, 413-4.

122. Ibid., 418.

123. Ibid., 424; Baron, II, 40.

124. Baron, II, 36.

125. Abbott, 93.

126. Coulton, Panorama, 352.

127. Ibid.

128. Graetz, IV, 33.

129. Gregory I, Epistle ii, 6, in Dudden, F. H., Gregory the Great, II, 154.

130. Ep. xiii, 15, in Dudden, II, 155.

131. Belloc, H., Paris, 170.

132. Graetz, III, 421.

133. Coulton, Panorama, 352.

134. Thatcher, O. J., and McNeal, E. H., Source Book of Medieval History, 212.

135. Lea, H. C., History of the Inquisition in the Middle Ages, II, 63.

136. Graetz, III, 563.

137. Ibid., 583.

138. Marcus, 151.

139. Baron, II, 85.

140. Abbott, 51; Jewish Encyclopedia, III, 453.

141. Camb. Med. H., VII, 624; Jewish Encyclopedia, IX, 368.

142. Graetz, III, 299.

143. Ibid., 300.

144. Ibid., 301f; Cambridge Medieval History, V, 275f; VII, 641.

145. Graetz, III, 350; Abbott, 88.

146. Jewish Encyclopedia, IV, 379.

147. Graetz, III, 356.

148. Cambridge Medieval History, VII, 642.

149. Graetz, IV, 35; Jewish Encyclopedia, IX, 358.

150. Abbott, 124.

151. Coulton, Panorama, 359.

152. Cunningham, W., Growth of English Industry and Commerce, 204.

153. Jewish Encyclopedia, IV, 379.

154. Lacroix, Manners, 439; Coulton, 352.

155. Graetz, III, 642; Abbott, 130.

156. Abbott, 131.

157. Ibid., 68.

158. Lacroix, Manners, 447.

159. Abbott, 68.

160. Montesquieu, C. Baron de, The Spirit of Laws, I, xii, 5.

161. Joseph ben Joshua ben Meir, Chronicles, I, 197.

162. Marcus, 24.

163. Graetz, III, 570.

164. Villehardouin, G. de, Chronicles of the Crusades, 148.

165. Abbott, 113.

166. Cambridge Medieval History, VII, 641.

CHAPTER XVII

1. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 210.

2. Sarton, G., Introduction to the History of Science, II (i), 295.

3. Abrahams, I., Chapters on Jewish Literature, 116.

4. Waxman, I, 226.

5. Graetz, III, 269.

6. Gabirol, S. ibn, Selected Religious Poems, tr. Israel Zangwill, 52.

7. Ibid., 30.

8. Abrahams, Literature, 109.

9. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 163.

10. In Wilson, E., ed., Hebrew Literature, 383.

11. Sarton, II(i), 188.

12. Halevi, J., Selected Poems, tr. Nina Salaman, 58.

13. Abbott, 72.

14. Druck, 97.

15. Ibid., 94.

16. Wilson, Hebrew Literature, 365-6.

17. Novella 146 in Burton, The Jew, 105.

18. Graetz, III, 573.

19. Sarton, II(ii), 557.

20. Schechter, S., Studies in Judaism, I, 107.

21. Graetz, III, 604.

22. Sarton, II(i), 145.

23. N. Y. Times, June 2, 1937.

24. Sarton, II (i), 145.

25. Cf. Komroff, M., The Contemporaries of Marco Polo.

26. Husik, 24.

27. Munk, S., Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe, 153.

28. Marcus, 312.

29. Cf. Gabirol, S. ibn, Improvement of the Moral Qualities, tr. Stephen Wise, 4, 27.

30. Gabirol, Fons Vitae, i, 3, in Munk, 6.

31. Halevi, J., Kitab al-Khazari, tr. H. Hirschfeld, i, 116.

32. Ibid., III, 5, 7.

33. Husik, 215.

34. Yellin, D., and Abrahams, I., Maimonides, 11; Zeitlin, Maimonides, 1.

35. Ueberweg, F., History of Philosophy, I, 427.

36. Zeitlin, Maimonides, 5.

37. “Letter of Consolation” in Yellin, 46.

38. Zeitlin, 178.

39. Arnold, Sir T., Preaching of Islam, 421.

40. Baron, S., ed., Essays on Maimonides, 290.

41. Maimonides, Aphorisms, in Thorndike, L., History of Magic and Experimental Science, I, 176.

42. Zeitlin, 172.

43. In Baron, Essays, 288.

44. Zeitlin, 174.

45. Baron, Essays, 284.

46. Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Introd., 4b.

47. Zeitlin, 214.

48. Mishneh Torah, Introd., 16, 3a.

49. In Baron, Essays, 117.

50. Maimonides, Guide to the Perplexed, tr. M. Friedländer, III, xli.

51. Ibid., III, 35, in Baron, Essays, 139.

52. Guide, III, xxxvii, xli; Deut. xxiii, 17; Exod. xxii, 1; xxxi, 15.

53. Mishneh Torah, 40b.

54. Ibid., 59a.

55. Ibid., 54a.

56. Ibid., 53a.

57. Ibid., 53ab.

58. Ibid., 52b.

59. In Baron, Essays, 110.

60. Zeitlin, 132.

61. Guide, I, Introd.

62. Ibid., II, xix; III, xiv.

63. II, Pt. II, Introd. and Prop. xx.

64. Ibid., xxxvi-xlvi.

65. III, xxii.

66. II, xviif.

67. II, xxx.

68. III, x, xii.

69. III, lxx.

70. Zeitlin, 151.

71. Ibid., 103; Baron, Essays, 143.

72. Guide, II, Pt. II, Introd.

73. Baron, Essays, 119-21; Zeitlin, 209.

74. Marcus, 307-9.

75. Spinoza, Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, xv, 4.

76. Roth, L., Spinoza, Descartes, and Maimonides, 66; Baron, Essays, 7.

77. Husik, 302; Graetz, IV, 23.

78. Ibid., III, 631.

79. Neuman, A., II, 122.

80. Ibid., 118; Graetz, IV, 29-41.

81. Jewish Encyclopedia, III, 457, 479.

82. Sarton, II (i), 366.

83. Graetz, IV, 21.

84. Baron, History, II, 136.

85. Ibid., 142.

86. Abrahams, Jewish Life, 143, 157, 193.

87. In Marcus, 314.

CHAPTER XVIII

1. Thompson, J. W., Economic and Social History, 173.

2. Gibbon, IV, 504.

3. Cambridge Medieval History, II, 289.

4. Ibid., IV, 6; Gibbon, V, 142.

5. In Diehl, Manuel, 335.

6. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 115f.

7. Voltaire, Works, XIII, 190.

8. Diehl, Portraits, 159; Bury, Eastern Roman Empire, 169.

9. McCabe, J., Empresses of Constantinople, 174.

10. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 108; Diehl, Portraits, 264.

11. Boissonnade, P., Life and Work in Medieval Europe, 56.

12. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 750.

13. Diehl, Portraits, 236.

14. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 745.

15. Komroff, Contemporaries of Marco Polo, 266.

16. Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 760.

17. Ibid.

18. Clapham and Power, 212.

19. Diehl, Portraits, 153; Gibbon, V, 458; Brittain, Women of Early Christianity, 318.

20. Lopez, R. S., in Speculum, Vol. XX, No. 1, pp. 17-18; Boissonnade, 46-7; Cambridge Medieval History, IV, 761.

21. Boissonnade, 50.

22. Ibid., 51.

23. Castiglione, 254.

24. Bury, Eastern Roman Empire, 436; Grunebaum, Medieval Islam, 54.

25. Psellus, Chronographia, vi, 46.

26. Ibid., v, 25-37.

27. Diehl, Manuel, 405.

28. Luitprand in Grunebaum, 29.

29. Cf. Walker Trust Report, The Great Palace of the Byzantine Emperors, plates 24-37 and 57.

30. The judgment of Kondakof in Diehl, Manuel, 580.

31. Diehl, 500.

32. Ibid., 381.

33. Finlay, Greece under the Romans, 21.

34. Thompson, J. W., Feudal Germany, 458.

35. Kluchevsky, V. O., History of Russia, I, 46; Thompson, Feudal Germany, 456.