Part 13 (1/2)

Florence within her ancient circle set, Remained in sober, modest quietness.

Nor chains had she, nor crowns, nor women decked In gay attire, with splendid cincture bound, More to be gazed at than the form itself.

Not yet the daughter to the father brought Fear from her birth, the marriage time and dower Not yet departing from their fitting measure.

Nor houses had she, void of household life.

Sardanapalus had not haply shown The deeds which may be hid by chamber walls.

I saw Bellincion Berti go his way With bone and leather belted. From the gla.s.s His lady moved, no paint upon her face.

I saw the Lords of Norti and del Vecchio content, Their household dames engaged with spool and spindle.

The theory of the good old time, we see, is not a modern invention.

Dante inherits the great heart of chivalry, wise before its time in the uplifting of Woman. The wonderful wors.h.i.+p of the Virgin Mother, in which are united the two poles of womanhood, completed the ideal of the Divine Human, and cast a new glory upon the s.e.x. Can we doubt that knight and minstrel found a true inspiration in the lady of their heart? A mere pretence or affection is a poor thing to fight for or to sing for. Men will not imperil their lives for what they know to be a lie.

This newly awakened reverence for woman--shall we call it a race characteristic? It was a golden gift to any race. Plato's deep doctrine that all learning is a reminiscence may avail us in questioning this.

The human race does not carry the bulk of its knowledge in its hand.

Busy with its tools and toys, it forgets its ancestral heirlooms, and leaves unexplored the legacy of the past. But in some mystical way, the treasures lost from remembrance turn up and come to sight again. In the far Caucasus, from which we came, there were glimpses of this ideal wife and mother.

This history, whether real or imaginary, or both, suggests to me the question whether the love which brings together and binds together men and women can in any way typify the supreme affections of the soul? That it was supposed to do so in mediaeval times is certain. The sentimental agonies of troubadours and minstrels make it evident. Even the latest seedy sprout of chivalry, Don Quixote, shows us this. Wis.h.i.+ng to start upon a n.o.ble errand, the succor of oppressed humanity, his almost first requisite is a ”lady of his heart,” who, in his case, is a mere lay figure upon which he drapes the fantastic weaving of his imagination.