But can this exactitude be achieved without forcing language into such uncongenial forms as to produce an artificial effect, painfully reminding you, at every step, of the labor it cost? And here we come to the question of fact; for if Mr. Longfellow has succeeded, the answer is evident. We purpose, therefore, to take a few test-passages, and, placing the two translations side by side with the original, give our readers an opportunity of making the comparison for themselves. First, however, let us remind the reader that, if it were possible to convey an accurate idea of Dante's style by a single word, that word would be _power_. Whatever he undertakes to say, he says in the form best suited to convey his thought to the reader's mind as it existed in his own mind. If it be a metaphysical idea, he finds words for it which give it the distinctness and reality of a physical substance. If it be a landscape, he brings it before you, either in outline or in detail, either by form or by color, as the occasion requires, but always with equal force. That landscape of his ideal world ever after takes its place in your memory by the side of the landscapes of your real world. Even the sounds which he has described linger in the ear as the types of harshness, or loudness, or sweetness, instantly coming back to you whenever you listen to the roaring of the sea, or the howling of the wind, or the carol of birds. He calls things by their names, never shrinking from a homely phrase where the occasion demands it, nor substituting circumlocution for direct expression. Words with him seem to be things, real and tangible; not hovering like shadows over an idea, but standing out in the clear light, bold and firm, as the distinct representatives of an idea. In his verse every word has its appropriate place, and something to do in that place which no other word could do there. Change it, and you feel at once that something has been lost. Next to power, infinite variety is the characteristic of Dante's style, as it is of his invention. With a stronger individuality than any poet of any age or country, there is not a trace of mannerism in all his poem. The stern, the tender, the grand, simple exposition, fierce satire, and passionate appeal have each their appropriate words and their appropriate cadence. This Cary did not perceive, and has told the stories of Francesca and of Ugolino with the same Miltonian modulation. Longfellow, by keeping his original constantly before him, has both seen and reproduced it. We begin our quotations with the celebrated inscription over the gate of hell, and the entrance of the two poets into "the secret things." The reader will remember that the last three triplets contain a remarkable example of the correspondence of sound with sense.