upon a rampart which commands the Borgo, where we found frail
canker-roses and yellow amaryllis. Here, perhaps, he may have sat
with ladies--for this was the Marchesa's pleasaunce; or may have
watched through a short summer's night, until he saw that _tremolar
della marina_, portending dawn, which afterwards he painted in the
'Purgatory.'

From Fosdinovo one can trace the Magra work its way out seaward, not
into the plain where once the _candentia moenia Lunae_ flashed sunrise
from their battlements, but close beside the little hills which back
the southern arm of the Spezzian gulf. At the extreme end of that
promontory, called Del Corvo, stood the Benedictine convent of S.
Croce; and it was here in 1309, if we may trust to tradition, that
Dante, before his projected journey into France, appeared and left the
first part of his poem with the Prior. Fra Ilario, such was the good
father's name, received commission to transmit the 'Inferno' to
Uguccione della Faggiuola; and he subsequently recorded the fact of
Dante's visit in a letter which, though its genuineness has been
called in question, is far too interesting to be left without
allusion. The writer says that on occasion of a journey into lands
beyond the Riviera, Dante visited this convent, appearing silent and
unknown among the monks. To the Prior's question what he wanted, he
gazed upon the brotherhood, and only answered, 'Peace!' Afterwards, in
private conversation, he communicated his name and spoke about his
poem. A portion of the 'Divine Comedy' composed in the Italian tongue
aroused Ilario's wonder, and led him to inquire why his guest had not
followed the usual course of learned poets by committing his thoughts
to Latin. Dante replied that he had first intended to write in that
language, and that he had gone so far as to begin the poem in
Virgilian hexameters. Reflection upon the altered conditions of
society in that age led him, however, to reconsider the matter; and he
was resolved to tune another lyre, 'suited to the sense of modern
men.' 'For,' said he, 'it is idle to set solid food before the lips
of sucklings.'

If we can trust Fra Ilario's letter as a genuine record, which is
unhappily a matter of some doubt, we have in this narration not only a
picturesque, almost a melodramatically picturesque glimpse of the
poet's apparition to those quiet monks in their seagirt house of
peace, but also an interesting record of the destiny which presided
over th