"'_Non fu nostra intenzion, ch'a destra mano Dei nostri successor parte sedesse, Parte dall' altra del popol cristiano: Nè che le chiavi, che mi fur concesse Divenisser segnacolo in vessillo, Che contra i battezzati combattessi: Nè ch' io fossi figura di sigillo Ai privilegi venduti e mendaci._' Everything in the poem is a condemnation of this world. A sense of complete isolation has overcome the writer. He stands alone, neither Guelf nor Ghibelline, but a party to himself: the first Italian." He paused, drank a little wine, and smiled tolerantly. "I, too, began life in attaching myself to a party; and when my party was expulsed I became a Florentine, and now, having considered all the cities of Italy, I am an Italian. But the great mass of my countrymen are still as Dante saw them, split up into numerous factions, weak by divisions, a ready prey to any comer." Cromwell stroked his chin meditatively and, discreet, said nothing. "When our dreams have faded, Messer," continued the other, "we can only sit aloof, watching the comedy of life with at best a tolerant contempt, but more often hiding, under a mask of cynicism and sarcasm, the maimed heart that is in us." The other was a little embarrassed, after a moment he spoke quickly. "It seems, to my mind, Messer, that Dante's poem hath no progress, no dramatic progress; beyond the pedestrian interest of the scenes described there is no motion." "Thought can be dramatic as well as action," replied the other; "but I am inclined to agree with you. Consider the poem as a whole system of thought starting from 'the master of those who know' and ending in the beatific vision; consider it, next, as a denunciation of all the lusts and depravity of the world, typified, and made incarnate in historical characters: Francesca, voyaging for ever through the dusky air, on a wind that seems to symbolise her own passion; Ugolino, turning his strong teeth upon that wretched skull: consider, finally, the little illuminations which have made me compare the poem to a missal or a book of hours; the terse phrase, the very simplicity of which bites like an acid, so keen it is. Then, I think, you will see how various was his mind. His poem is like a great life; his words like actions, sometimes terrible and inhuman, sometimes like a mother's tenderness with her child." Cromwell suddenly broke into a smile.