“And what is it,” said Dante, “which makes them so grievously suffer?”

“Hopelessness of death,” said Virgil.  “Their blind existence here, and immemorable former life, make them so wretched, that they envy every other lot.  Mercy and justice alike disdain them.  Let us speak of them no more.  Look, and pass.”

The companions went on till they came to a great river with a multitude waiting on the banks.  A hoary old man appeared crossing the river towards them in a boat; and as he came, he said, “Woe to the wicked.  Never expect to see heaven.  I come to bear you across to the dark regions of everlasting fire and ice.”  Then looking at Dante, he said, “Get thee away from the dead, thou who standest there, live spirit.”

“Torment thyself not, Charon,” said Virgil.  “He has a passport beyond thy power to question.”

The shaggy cheeks of the boatman of the livid lake, who had wheels of fire about his eyes, fell at these words; and he was silent.  But the naked multitude of souls whom he had spoken to changed colour, and gnashed their teeth, blaspheming God, and their parents, and the human species, and the place, and the hour, and the seed of the sowing of their birth; and all the while they felt themselves driven onwards, by a fear which became a desire, towards the cruel river-side, which awaits every one destitute of the fear of God.  The demon Charon, beckoning to them with eyes like brasiers, collected them as they came, giving blows to those that lingered, with his oar.  One by one they dropped into the boat like leaves from a bough in autumn, till the bough is left bare; or as birds drop into the decoy at the sound of the bird-call.

There was then an earthquake, so terrible that the recollection of it made the poet burst into a sweat at every pore.  A whirlwind issued from the lamenting ground, attended by vermilion flashes; and he lost his senses, and fell like a man stupefied.

A crash of thunder through his brain woke up the pilgrim so hastily, that he shook himself like a person roused by force.  He found that he was on the brink of a gulf, from which ascended a thunderous sound of innumerable groanings.  He could see nothing down it.  It was too dark with sooty clouds.  Virgil himself turned pale, but said, “We are to go down here.  I will lead the way.”

“O master,” said Dante, “if even thou fearest, what is to become of myself?” “It is pity, not fear,” replied Virgil, “that makes me change colour.”

With these words his guide led him into the first circle of hell, surrounding the abyss.  The great noise gradually ceased to be heard, as they journeyed inwards, till at last they became aware of a world of sighs, which produced a trembling in the air.  They were breathed by the souls of such as had died without baptism, men, women, and infants; no matter how good; no matter if they worshipped God before the coming of Christ, for they worshipped him not “properly.”  Virgil himself was one of them.  They were all lost for no other reason; and their “only suffering” consisted in “hopeless desire!”