Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece, Vol III | Page 8

sails of Genoa
on the sea; And men of Lucca never saw your face. Dogs with a bone
for courtesy are ye: Could Folgore but gain a special grace, He'd have
you banded 'gainst all men that be.
Among the sonnets not translated by Mr. Rossetti two by Folgore
remain, which may be classified with the not least considerable
contributions to Italian gnomic poetry in an age when literature easily
assumed a didactic tone. The first has for its subject the importance of
discernment and discrimination. It is written on the wisdom of what the
ancient Greeks called [Greek: Kairos], or the right occasion in all
human conduct.
Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower; Nor every flower that
blossoms fruit doth bear; Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare; Nor
every stone in earth its healing power: This thing is good when mellow,
that when sour; One seems to grieve, within doth rest from care; Not
every torch is brave that flaunts in air; There is what dead doth seem,
yet flame doth shower. Wherefore it ill behoveth a wise man His truss
of every grass that grows to bind, Or pile his back with every stone he
can, Or counsel from each word to seek to find, Or take his walks
abroad with Dick and Dan: Not without cause I'm moved to speak my
mind.
The second condemns those men of light impulse who, as Dante put it,

discoursing on the same theme, 'subject reason to inclination.'[1]
What time desire hath o'er the soul such sway That reason finds nor
place nor puissance here, Men oft do laugh at what should claim a tear,
And over grievous dole are seeming gay. He sure would travel far from
sense astray Who should take frigid ice for fire; and near Unto this
plight are those who make glad cheer For what should rather cause
their soul dismay. But more at heart might he feel heavy pain Who
made his reason subject to mere will, And followed wandering impulse
without rein; Seeing no lordship is so rich as still One's upright self
unswerving to sustain, To follow worth, to flee things vain and ill.
The sonnets translated by me in this essay, taken together with those
already published by Mr. Rossetti, put the English reader in possession
of all that passes for the work of Folgore da San Gemignano.
[1] The line in Dante runs:
'Che la ragion sommettono al talento.'
In Folgore's sonnet we read:
'Chi sommette rason a volontade.'
On the supposition that Folgore wrote in the second decade of the
fourteenth century, it is not impossible that he may have had
knowledge of this line from the fifth canto of the Inferno.
Since these words were written, England has lost the poet-painter, to
complete whose work upon the sonnet-writer of mediæval Siena I
attempted the translations in this essay. One who has trodden the same
path as Rossetti, at however a noticeable interval, and has attempted to
present in English verse the works of great Italian singers, doing
inadequately for Michelangelo and Campanella what he did supremely
well for Dante, may here perhaps be allowed to lay the tribute of
reverent recognition at his tomb.

THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS
What is the meaning of our English Christmas? What makes it seem so
truly Northern, national, and homely, that we do not like to keep the
feast upon a foreign shore? These questions grew upon me as I stood
one Advent afternoon beneath the Dome of Florence. A priest was
thundering from the pulpit against French scepticism, and exalting the
miracle of the Incarnation. Through the whole dim church blazed altar
candles. Crowds of men and women knelt or sat about the transepts,
murmuring their prayers of preparation for the festival. At the door
were pedlars selling little books, in which were printed the offices for
Christmas-tide, with stories of S. Felix and S. Catherine, whose
devotion to the infant Christ had wrought them weal, and promises of
the remission of four purgatorial centuries to those who zealously
observed the service of the Church at this most holy time. I knew that
the people of Florence were preparing for Christmas in their own way.
But it was not our way. It happened that outside the church the climate
seemed as wintry as our own--snowstorms and ice, and wind and
chilling fog, suggesting Northern cold. But as the palaces of Florence
lacked our comfortable firesides, and the greetings of friends lacked our
hearty handshakes and loud good wishes, so there seemed to be a want
of the home feeling in those Christmas services and customs. Again I
asked myself, 'What do we mean by Christmas?'
The same thought pursued me as I drove to Rome: by Siena, still