fountains, the slim, pale girls who walk arm-in-arm,
smiling faintly, in every Tuscan city at sunset, the flowers by the
wayside, the shepherds of the hills. And he has made Jesus in the image
of his little son; and Madonna is but Lucrezia Buti, whom he kissed into
the world. You may see them to-day if you will go to Prato.

FOOTNOTES:

[135] The occasions are Christmas Day, Easter Day, May 1, August 15, and
September 8.

XXVIII. PISTOJA

If St. Francis of Assisi dreamed his whole life long of the resurrection
of love among men, and in the valleys of Umbria went about like a second
Jesus doing good, with an immense love in his heart singing his Laudes
Creaturarum by the wayside; Dante Alighieri, the greatest poet of his
country, might almost seem to have been overwhelmed with hatred, a
hatred which is perhaps but the terrible reverse of an intolerable love,
but which is an impeachment, nevertheless, not only of his own time, of
the cities of his country, but of himself too, for while he thus sums up
the Middle Age and judges it, he is himself its most marvellous child,
losing himself at last in one of its ideals. St. Francis of Assisi,
concerned only with humanity, has by love contrived the Renaissance of
man, assured as he was by the love of God, His delight in us His
creatures. But for Dante, bitter with loneliness, wandering in the Hell,
the Purgatory, the Paradise of his own heart, any such wide and
overwhelming love might seem to have been impossible. Imprisoned in the
adamant of his personality, he has little but hatred and contempt for
the world he knew so well. How scornful he is! Some secret sorrow seems
to have burnt up the wells of sweetness in his nature, from which he
once drew a love for all mankind. He seems to have gone about hating
people, so that if he speaks of Florence it is with a passionate enmity,
if of Siena with scorn, Pisa has only his contempt, Arezzo is to him
abominable and beastly. He has judged his country as God Himself will
not judge it, and he kept his anger for ever. And since the great
Florentine can bring himself to bid Florence

"Godi, Fiorenza poi che sei si grande
Che per mare, e per terra batti l'ali,
E per l'Inferno il tuo nome si spande,"

it is not wonderful that Pistoja is lost in his scorn. Coming upon Vanni
Fucci continually consumed by the adder, he hears him say

"Ahi Pistoja, Pistoja, che non stanzi
D'incenerarti, si che piu non duri