Dante and Beatrice lived in Florence within fifty yards of each other; they were neighbours from their childhood; they knew the same people, breathed the same air, moved about the same streets,—it was not possible that Beatrice, with all those gentlewomen about her, who sympathised with the young lover's visionary passion, and all those noble young troubadours, Guido and the rest, among whom his sonnets were handed about, should not be aware of the intense yet veiled adoration which followed her wherever she went; but if Dante ever told her of that love, the confession finds no place in the 'Vita Nuova.' There, she is only apparent to us through a haze of distance, passing in subdued angelic glory, bowing her gracious head sometimes, in a greeting which ennobled those who received it, like the salutation of a superior being, but taking no part except this lofty passive one in the course of affairs. The reader is like the populace, which the poet describes as hastening to the corners of the streets to look at her as she passes, saying, "This is no woman, but a beautiful angel." She is entirely raised above even the adoring record of her perfections. That is for the lover, for the spectators, who themselves worship in a far-off degree, but not worthy the look of the most gentle Beatrice. She passes on, "crowned and clothed with humility," always gracious, divinely courteous, but never brought to a standstill, or audibly to us letting drop one of those heavenly utterances which are too delicate for mortal ear. Afterwards she speaks when we reach the loftier regions of spiritual life, but never on earth or in Florence. The tale is of love, but not the love of two hearts approaching each other in a glow of mutual emotion. More deli-
