in which I beheld things that made me
propose unto myself to speak no more of this blessed one, until the
time when I might more worthily treat of her. And that this may come to
pass, I strive with all my endeavour, even as she truly knows it. Thus,
if it should please Him, through whom all things do live, that my life
continue for several more years, I hope to say of her such things as
have never been said of any lady. And then may it please Him, who is the
lord of all courtesy, that my soul shall go forth to see the glory of
its lady, that is to say, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously looks
up into the face of Him, _qui est per omnia saecula benedictus_"

Thus ends the "Vita Nuova;" a book, to find any equivalent for whose
reality and completeness of passion, though it is passion for a woman
whom the poet scarcely knows and of whom he desires nothing, we must go
back to the merest fleshly love of Antiquity, of Sappho or Catullus; for
modern times are too hesitating and weak. So at least it seems; but in
fact, if we only think over the matter, we shall find that in no earthly
love can we find this reality and completeness: it is possible only in
love like Dante's. For there can be no unreality in it: it is a reality
of the imagination, and leaves, with all its mysticism and idealism, no
room for falsehood. Any other kind of love may be set aside, silenced,
by the activity of the mind; this love of Dante's constitutes that very
activity. And, after reading that last page which I have above
transcribed, as those closing Latin words echo through our mind like the
benediction from an altar, we feel as if we were rising from our knees
in some secret chapel, bright with tapers and dim with incense; among a
crowd kneeling like ourselves; yet solitary, conscious of only the glory
we have seen and tasted, of that love _qui est per omnia scecula
benedictus._

III.

But is it right that we should feel thus? Is it right that love,
containing within itself the potentialities of so many things so sadly
needed in this cold real world, as patience, tenderness, devotion, and
loving-kindness--is it right that love should thus be carried away out
of ordinary life and enclosed, a sacred thing for contemplation, in the
shrine or chapel of an imaginary Beatrice? And, on the other hand, is it
right that into the holy places of our soul, the places where we should
come face to face with the unattainable ideal of our own conduct tha