But this youthful attachment was unfortunate.  Beatrice did not return his passion, and had no conception of its force, and perhaps was not even worthy to call it forth.  She may have been beautiful; she may have been gifted; she may have been commonplace.  It matters little whether she was intellectual or not, beautiful or not.  It was not the flesh and blood he saw, but the image of beauty and loveliness which his own mind created.  He idealized the girl; she was to him all that he fancied.  But she never encouraged him; she denied his greetings, and even avoided his society.  At last she died, when he was twenty-seven, and left him—­to use his own expression—­“to ruminate on death, and envy whomsoever dies.”  To console himself, he read Boethius, and religious philosophy was ever afterwards his favorite study.  Nor did serenity come, so deep were his sentiments, so powerful was his imagination, until he had formed an exalted purpose to write a poem in her honor, and worthy of his love.  “If it please Him through whom all things come,” said Dante, “that my life be spared, I hope to tell such things of her as never before have been seen by any one.”

Now what inspired so strange a purpose?  Was it a Platonic sentiment, like the love of Petrarch for Laura, or something that we cannot explain, and yet real,—­a mystery of the soul in its deepest cravings and aspirations?  And is love, among mortals generally, based on such a foundation?  Is it flesh and blood we love; is it the intellect; is it the character; is it the soul; is it what is inherently interesting in woman, and which everybody can see,—­the real virtues of the heart and charms of physical beauty?  Or is it what we fancy in the object of our adoration, what exists already in our own minds,—­the archetypes of eternal ideas of beauty and grace?  And do all men worship these forms of beauty which the imagination creates?  Can any woman, or any man, seen exactly as they are, incite a love which is kindred to worship?  And is any love worthy to be called love, if it does not inspire emotions which prompt to self-sacrifice, labor, and lofty ends?  Can a woman’s smiles incite to Herculean energies, and drive the willing worshipper to Aonian heights, unless under these smiles are seen the light of life and the blessedness of supernatural fervor?  Is there, and can there be, a perpetuity in mortal charms without the recognition or the supposition of a moral beauty connected with them, which alone is pure and imperishable, and which alone creates the sacred ecstasy that revels in the enjoyment of what is divine, or what is supposed to be divine, not in man, but in the conceptions of man,—­the ever-blazing glories of goodness or of truth which the excited soul doth see in the eyes and expression of the adored image?  It is these archetypes of divinity, real or fancied, which give to love all that is enduring.  Destroy these, take away the real or fancied glories of the soul and mind, and the