me one who has never wronged me； or stirred by a great love for some one whom I shall never see。 There is no mood or passion that Art cannot give us； and those of us who have discovered her secret can settle beforehand what our experiences are going to be。 We can choose our day and select our hour。 We can say to ourselves； 'To… morrow； at dawn； we shall walk with grave Virgil through the valley of the shadow of death；' and lo！ the dawn finds us in the obscure wood； and the Mantuan stands by our side。 We pass through the gate of the legend fatal to hope； and with pity or with joy behold the horror of another world。 The hypocrites go by； with their painted faces and their cowls of gilded lead。 Out of the ceaseless winds that drive them； the carnal look at us； and we watch the heretic rending his flesh； and the glutton lashed by the rain。 We break the withered branches from the tree in the grove of the Harpies； and each dull…hued poisonous twig bleeds with red blood before us； and cries aloud with bitter cries。 Out of a horn of fire Odysseus speaks to us； and when from his sepulchre of flame the great Ghibelline rises； the pride that triumphs over the torture of that bed becomes ours for a moment。 Through the dim purple air fly those who have stained the world with the beauty of their sin； and in the pit of loathsome disease； dropsy…stricken and swollen of body into the semblance of a monstrous lute； lies Adamo di Brescia； the coiner of false coin。 He bids us listen to his misery； we stop； and with dry and gaping lips he tells us how he dreams day and night of the brooks of clear water that in cool dewy channels gush down the green Casentine hills。 Sinon； the false Greek of Troy； mocks at him。 He smites him in the face； and they wrangle。 We are fascinated by their shame； and loiter； till Virgil chides us and leads us away to that city turreted by giants where great Nimrod blows his horn。 Terrible things are in store for us； and we go to meet them in Dante's raiment and with Dante's heart。 We traverse the marshes of the Styx； and Argenti swims to the boat through the slimy waves。 He calls to us； and we reject him。 When we hear the voice of his agony we are glad； and Virgil praises us for the bitterness of our scorn。 We tread upon the cold crystal of Cocytus； in which traitors stick like straws in glass。 Our foot strikes against the head of Bocca。 He will not tell us his name； and we tear the hair in handfuls from the screaming skull。 Alberigo prays us to break the ice upon his face that he may weep a little。 We pledge our word to him； and when he has uttered his dolorous tale we deny the word that we have spoken； and pass from him； such cruelty being courtesy indeed； for who more base than he who has mercy for the condemned of God？ In the jaws of Lucifer we see the man who sold Christ； and in the jaws of Lucifer the men who slew Caesar。 We tremble； and come forth to re…behold the stars。
In the land of Purgation the air is freer； and the holy mountain rises into the pure light of day。 There is peace for us； and for those who for a season abide in it there is some peace also； though； pale from the poison of the Maremma； Madonna Pia passes before us； and Ismene； with the sorrow of earth still lingering about her； is there。 Soul after soul makes us share in some repentance or some joy。 He whom the mourning of his widow taught to drink the sweet wormwood of pain； tells us of Nella praying in her lonely bed； and we learn from the mouth of Buonconte how a single tear may save a dying sinner from the fiend。 Sordello； that noble and disdainful Lombard； eyes us from afar like a couchant lion。 When he learns that Virgil is one of Mantua's citizens； he falls upon his neck； and when he learns that he is the singer of Rome he falls before his feet。 In that valley whose grass and flowers are fairer than cleft emerald and Indian wood； and brighter than scarlet and silver； they are singing who in the world were kings； but the lips of Rudolph of Hapsburg do not move to the music of the others； and Philip of France beats his breast and Henry of England sits alone。 On and on we go； climbing the marvellous stair； and the stars become larger than their wont； and the song of the kings grows faint； and at length we reach the seven trees of gold and the garden of the Earthly Paradise。 In a griffin…drawn chariot appears one whose brows are bound with olive； who is veiled in white； and mantled in green； and robed in a vesture that is coloured like live fire。 The ancient flame wakes within us。 Our blood quickens through terrible pulses。 We recognise her。 It is Beatrice； the woman we have worshipped。 The ice congealed about our heart melts。 Wild tears of anguish break from us； and we bow our forehead to the ground； for we know that we have sinned。 When we have done penance； and are purified； and have drunk of the fountain of Lethe and bathed in the fountain of Eunoe； the mistress of our soul raises us to the Paradise of Heaven。 Out of that eternal pearl； the moon； the face of Piccarda Donati leans to us。 Her beauty troubles us for a moment； and when； like a thing that falls through water； she passes away； we gaze after her with wistful eyes。 The sweet planet of Venus is full of lovers。 Cunizza； the sister of Ezzelin； the lady of Sordello's heart； is there； and Folco； the passionate singer of Provence； who in sorrow for Azalais forsook the world； and the Canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that Christ redeemed。 Joachim of Flora stands in the sun； and； in the sun； Aquinas recounts the story of St。 Francis and Bonaventure the story of St。 Dominic。 Through the burning rubies of Mars； Cacciaguida approaches。 He tells us of the arrow that is shot from the bow of exile； and how salt tastes the bread of another； and how steep are the stairs in the house of a stranger。 In Saturn the soul sings not； and even she who guides us dare not smile。 On a ladder of gold the flames rise and fall。 At last； we see the pageant of the Mystical Rose。 Beatrice fixes her eyes upon the face of God to turn them not again。 The beatific vision is granted to us； we know the Love that moves the sun and all the stars。
Yes； we can put the earth back six hundred courses and make ourselves one with the great Florentine； kneel at the same altar with him； and share his rapture and his scorn。 And if we grow tired of an antique time； and desire to realise our own age in all its weariness and sin； are there not books that can make us live more in one single hour than life can make us live in a score of shameful years？ Close to your hand lies a little volume； bound in some Nile…green skin that has been powdered with gilded nenuphars and smoothed with hard ivory。 It is the book that Gautier loved； it is Baudelaire's masterpiece。 Open it at that sad madrigal that begins
Que m'importe que tu sois sage？ Sois belle！ et sois triste！
and you will find yourself worshipping sorrow as you have never worshipped joy。 Pass on to the poem on the man who tortures himself； let its subtle music steal into your brain and colour your thoughts； and you will become for a moment what he was who wrote it； nay； not for a moment only； but for many barren moonlit nights and sunless sterile days will a despair that is not your own make its dwelling within you； and the misery of another gnaw your heart away。 Read the whole book； suffer it to tell even one of its secrets to your soul； and your soul will grow eager to know more； and will feed upon poisonous honey； and seek to repent of strange crimes of which it is guiltless； and to make atonement for terrible pleasures that it has never known。 And then； when you are tired of these flowers of evil； turn to the flowers that grow in the garden of Perdita； and in their dew…drenched chalices cool your fevered brow； and let their loveliness heal and restore your soul； or wake from his forgotten tomb the sweet Syrian； Meleager； and bid the lover of Heliodore make you music； for he too has flowers in his song； red pomegranate blossoms； and irises that smell of myrrh； ringed daffodils and dark blue hyacinths； and marjoram and crinkled ox…eyes。 Dear to him was the perfume of the bean…field at evening； and dear to him the odorous eared…spikenard that grew on the Syrian hills； and the fresh green thyme； the wine…cup's charm。 The feet of his love as she walked in the garden were like lilies set upon lilies。 Softer than sleep…laden poppy petals were her lips； softer than violets and as scented。 The flame…like crocus sprang from the grass to look at her。 For her the slim narcissus stored the cool rain； and for her the anemones forgot the Sicilian winds that wooed them。 And neither crocus； nor anemone； nor narcissus was as fair as she was。
It is a strange thing； this transference of emotion。 We sicken with the same maladies as the poets； and the singer lends us his pain。 Dead lips have their message for us； and hearts that have fallen to dust can communicate their joy。 We run to kiss the bleeding mouth of Fantine； and we follow Manon Lescaut over the whole world。 Ours is the love…madness of the Tyrian； and the terror of Orestes is ours also。 There is no passion that we cannot feel； no pleasure that we may not gratify