f culture, of wealth,
of learning, loving leisure, attached to his home and country,
accustomed to honor and independence,--doomed to exile, poverty,
neglect, and hatred, without those compensations which men of genius in
our time secure. But I would not attempt to excite pity for an outward
condition which developed the higher virtues,--for a thorny path which
led to the regions of eternal light. Dante may have walked in bitter
tears to Paradise, but after the fashion of saints and martyrs in all
ages of our world. He need but cast his eyes on that emblem which was
erected on every pinnacle of Mediaeval churches to symbolize passing
suffering with salvation infinite,--the great and august creed of the
age in which he lived, though now buried amid the triumphs of an
imposing material civilization whose end is the adoration of the majesty
of man rather than the majesty of God, the wonders of creation rather
than the greatness of the Creator.

But something more was required in order to write an immortal poem than
even native genius, great learning, and profound experience. The soul
must be stimulated to the work by an absorbing and ennobling passion.
This passion Dante had; and it is as memorable as the mortal loves of
Abelard and Heloise, and infinitely more exalting, since it was
spiritual and immortal,--even the adoration of his lamented and
departed Beatrice.

I wish to dwell for a moment, perhaps longer than to some may seem
dignified, on this ideal or sentimental love. It may seem trivial and
unimportant to the eye of youth, or a man of the world, or a woman of
sensual nature, or to unthinking fools and butterflies; but it is
invested with dignity to one who meditates on the mysteries of the soul,
the wonders of our higher nature,--one of the things which arrest the
attention of philosophers.

It is recorded and attested, even by Dante himself, that at the early
age of nine he fell in love with Beatrice,--a little girl of one of his
neighbors,--and that he wrote to her sonnets as the mistress of his
devotion. How could he have written sonnets without an inspiration,
unless he felt sentiments higher than we associate with either boys or
girls? The boy was father of the man. "She appeared to me," says the
poet, "at a festival, dressed in that most noble and honorable color,
scarlet,--girded and ornamented in a manner suitable to her age; and
from that moment love ruled my soul. And after many days had passed, it