part of the "Commedia" which treats of Hell had become famous it
happened one day in Verona, that Dante "passed before a door where
several women were sitting, and one of them, in a low voice, yet not so
but that she was well heard by him and his companion, said to another
woman: 'See that man who goes through Hell and comes back when he
pleases, and brings news of those who are down there!' And then one of
them replied simply: 'Indeed, what you say must be true; for do you not
see how his beard is crisped and his face brown with the heat and smoke
of it?'"[2]

From this close relation between his life and his works, the "Vita
Nuova" has a peculiar interest, as the earliest of Dante's writings,
and the most autobiographic of them in its form and intention. In it we
are brought into intimate personal relations with the poet. He trusts
himself to us with full and free confidence; but there is no derogation
from becoming manliness in his confessions. He draws the picture of a
portion of his youth, and lays bare its tenderest emotions; but he does
so with no morbid self-consciousness, and no affectation. Part of this
simplicity is due, undoubtedly, to the character of the times, part to
his own youthfulness, part to downright faith in his own genius. It was
the fashion for poets to tell of their loves; in following the fashion,
he not only gave expression to real feeling, but claimed his rank among
the poets, and set a new style, from which love-poetry was to take a
fresh date.

This first essay of his poetic powers exhibits the foundation upon
which his later life was built. The figure of Beatrice, which appears
veiled under the allegory, and indistinct in the bright cloud of the
mysticism of the "Divina Commedia," takes her place in life and on the
earth through the "Vita Nuova," as definitely as Dante himself. She is
no allegorized piece of humanity, no impersonation of attributes, but
an actual woman,--beautiful, modest, gentle, with companions only less
beautiful than herself,--the most delightful figure in the midst of the
picturesque life of Florence. She is seen smiling and weeping, walking
with stately maidenly decorum in the street, praying at the church,
merry at festivals, mourning at funerals; and her smiles and tears, her
gentleness, her reserve, all the sweet qualities of her life, and the
peace of her death, are told of with such tenderness and refinement,
such pathetic melancholy, such delicate purity, and