[Manchester—Saturday, 20 July 1872]
Saturday July 20. A sweet cool morning. Yesterday I had no time for real study. My German book has lain open neglected for a day or two—but Lowell’s article on the Shadow of Dante absorbed me for a time. Twice already I have read Dante through and each of those periods are like eras in my life. He is a poet who absorbs the fare of the day. The first time I read the poem was at this old place. I know very little of Italian but the music of the poem sang it into my brain & spirit; I saw his Paradiso in every sunset sky and his lofty lines were never absent that summer from my mind. I used to read the favorite cantos aloud to Jamie at night half in Italian, half in English. It seems but yesterday yet it was nearly ten years ago.
The second time I read the poem was the winter after our last return from Europe. We were in trouble about our affairs, but far worse than that was the trouble I felt about my dear love who seemed breaking in spirit and energy under his afflicting load. I was filled with grief and sadly in need of occupations, all my old habits having been broken up by our long tour. Then for the second time I took Dante and Longfellow’s translation with it and read the two together and all his notes. It was a great feast. I felt as if the poet were leading me through the valley of shadows. I felt a divine presence of the Lord continually by my side but Dante spoke. I was uplifted and forgot my griefs in the exaltation of sorrow. What gratitude I must always feel toward him! If I live I shall re-read the poem I trust with a larger insight before many years but whenever he is read he becomes a part of the moving universe and one of the companions who will never die.
