No biographer of Dante, however, could possibly have compared with Dante himself, and it is much to be lamented that the entire disappearance of what must have been for his time an extensive body of correspondence has deprived us of all autobiographic record except the _Vita Nuova_, which, almost devoid of incident, paints the inner man with lively force. Except Shelley’s _Epipsychidion_, the world has nothing to set beside this dithyrambic of purely Platonic passion. We must recur to it, and need only here fix the death of Beatrice, one of the great landmarks of Dante’s life, at June 9, 1290. Somewhat more than a year afterwards we find Dante moved, as a noble soul might well be, not by the attractions but by the spiritual sympathy of a compassionate lady. It is impossible to entertain the least doubt of the reality of an episode described by himself with such tenderness of self-excuse and poignancy of self-reproach, but to admit it is to admit the actuality of all the rest of the _Vita Nuova_: _The salt stream that did sorrowfully flow, Speeded, ye Eyes, from your deep springs apace, Gave marvel unto all who such long space Beheld you weeping, as yourselves do know. Now fear I that all such ye would forgo, If I upon my own part would be base, And not all shift and subterfuge displace, Reminding you of her who made your woe. Your levity lays load of heavy thought Upon me, sore disquieted with dread Of her who looks on you in wistful wise. By nothing less than Death should you be wrought E’er to forget your Lady who is dead; Thus saith my heart, and afterward it sighs._