through which to obtain an insight into the great poet's mind, than a style which presents no bad idea of a Dante walking on stilts. Sensible of the inadequacy of a rhymeless version, and deterred from grappling with the arduousness of the complicate rhyme of the original, Mr. Wright hit upon a mezzo termine which does great credit to his ingenuity. He adopted a loose terzina, not gracefully interlaced with the endless alternation of rhymes after the manner of Dante, but joining each triplet to the following by a middle rhyme, somewhat after the arrangement of the two tercets at the close of a sonnet. The effect is not quite the same. Each triplet in itself sounds like the Dantesque stanza, but the chain is broken at every link, and the middle rhyme, which was intended to supply the deficiency of connexion, coming as it does at the fourth line, is not quite distinctly audible. With all these imperfections, however, Mr. Wright's contrivance is a great improvement on Cary's intricate and unwieldly blank verse; and so great is the result of these merely material advantages, that we feel disposed to look upon Mr. Wright's performance as a more faithful representation of the manner of the Italian; and especially where the poet's fancy descends to the delineation of gentler objects, especially during the ineffable calmness that pervades the first circles of Purgatory, the smoothness and evenness of Wright's unpretending strain, humouring Dante in his own ways, and closing the sentence with the line, or at least with the stanza, have more of that air of dignity and repose, of that innate grandeur and stillness, which characterise art no less than poetry in the middle ages, and which breathes from the somewhat stiff but solemn spe cimens of early painting and sculpture in Italy. Other attempts at translation of Dante in all possible measure, were made before and after the two above-named literateurs brought their labours to a close. But even the fragments by such poets as Byron and Merivale are not certainly above, and the specimens by Shannon, Dayman, Parsons, and twenty others, are greatly below the standard of the two more industrious and persevering translators. 66 Several of them have, indeed, striven hard to naturalise Dante's metre in their language; and no one flattered himself to have more fully_overcome its horrors than the author of the "Prophecy of Dante." Byron, however, has nothing of Dante, except the three rhymes. His " asthmatic language," as it has been more wittily than reverentially characterised, his frequent breaks and dashes, cutting short every line in the middle, as if he were labouring under a fit of the hiccough, have even less to do with Dante's smooth and equal manner than the "Hebrew Melodies" with the plainness and earnestness of biblical style. Once more in man's frail world! which I have left The weight of clay again-too soon bereft Of the immortal vision And so on, to the end of the chapter, without one stanza, without one line to be read at one breath. But it was not, we suppose, with a view to give their countrymen an adequate idea of the Italian poet, not with a hope to nationalise Dante that the translators have toiled. Literature is the inalienable property of a nation; no poet, perhaps, will admit of a foreign disguise with more reluctance than Dante; for such alone as are willing to look for Dante's spirit in Dante's own verse, are these translations available; the one by Wright especially, on account of its superior terseness and correctness. With such a guidance to bear him through his studies, the Italian scholar will more confidently approach a book which he has hitherto looked upon with no unjustifiable dread: for the reading of Dante is, as we have often repeated, a laborious undertaking; and the "Divine Comedy" is made rather too free with at every young lady's boarding-school: the notes which both translators have judiciously selected, the eloquent introductory discourses by Mr. Wright, and the biographical sketch by Mr. Cary, will contribute to smooth down difficulties even more efficiently than all the lumber of commentaries under which most Italian editions of Dante are groaning. The difficulties of the study of Dante are rarely of a philological cast. Obsolete words are not of more frequent occurrence than in Shakspeare's plays. The expression is always lucid enough where the thought is: and the clearness and obviousness of the thought itself is always commensurate to the degree of information on the part of the reader. XIII. MEANWHILE, though foreign nations have vied with each other in their eagerness to do honour to the "first of the moderns," though Dante, like Homer, is the man of all ages and countries, yet nowhere is his name an object of more profound worship than in his own native land. The Italians have learned to look upon their calamities as the result of their long disregard of the vital lessons conveyed in his inspired strain; they now acknowledge in him a regenerator, a prophet, too long unheeded in time of prosperity, but now hailed as the pyramid, the monumental tower, the land-mark of Italian nationality in ages to come. The outbursts of his patriotic feelings, the episodes of Sordello, of Cacciaquida, and the like, have hallowed the poet's memory in the heart of his countrymen. From the height of prosperity which Italy had reached in the fourteenth century, Dante's boding spirit beheld the abyss of misery into which civil dissensions were ready to plunge her. He anticipated the result of those dire enmities which did not suffer brethren to "abide at peace within the compass of the same walls." He looked forward to the day when republican licentiousness would lead to domestic tyranny; and this again prepare the way for foreign dominion. He mourned over the long period of sorrow in which French and German invaders were to ride rough-shod over a degenerate race, when half-a-score crowned stewards of a foreign despot, were to crush and fetter all thought; and monks and Jesuits to pervert and contaminate it at its very sources-when, as a climax of misery, a mere smile of papal clemency would be hailed as the dawn of a new era, when the patriot victims would stoop to look for redress or regeneration from a power, the very name of which implies enmity to truth and progress, the contrivance of which is the foulest blot on modern civilisation. MARGARET GRAHAM. By G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. AUTHOR OF "DARNLEY," "RICHELIEU," &c. PART THE THIRD. THE LAST TRIAL. СНАР. ХІ. THE RESOURCE FOR DISAPPOINTMENT. WITH the reader's good leave and permission, I will turn awhile to one of whom I have not spoken for some time; namely, Allan Fairfax. I cannot take up his history exactly where I left it, though there is one scene in that history of deep interest, which I should much wish to write even here. The construction of my tale will not let me; but I promise to return to it hereafter, and give its details. I must therefore pass over about a fortnight in silence, and, for the moment, leave the reader's imagination to fill up the interval as it will. It was barely gray daylight, on the morning after the murder of Doctor Kenmore, when some one knocked at the door of Ben Halliday's cottage, and the little boy Charlie, who was already up, opened it, and beheld Mr. Fairfax, with one of the porters of the "White Lion" inn behind him. The young gentleman's face was pale and haggard, his dress not so neat as usual, and there was a look of melancholy wildness about the eyes, which struck even the little boy very much. "Is your father gone to work?" asked Fairfax, as soon as he saw him; "I have come to get my portmanteau, Charlie, and to bid him good-bye, for I am going far over the seas, to the land of lions and tigers.' "Oh! no, father is not gone to work," replied the boy; "he can't go. He's been very ill; and was dying, like, till Dr. Kenmore blooded him." Something almost approaching a groan broke from the lips of Fairfax; but at the same moment Ben Halliday raised his voice, saying in a feeble tone, interrupted by a cough, "Won't you come in, sir ?—my wife will be here in a moment;" and Fairfax entered the cottage, and walked up to the sick man's bed-side without saying a word. For a few moments he remained in silence, gazing at Ben Halliday with an absent look; but then rousing himself, as if by a great effort, he said, "So you are ill, Halliday-what has been the matter?" "Oh! dear, sir, I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Halliday, entering the cottage; 66 my poor husband has been at death's door, with inflam mation of the lungs the doctor says. But he's a deal better now, only the cough is troublesome. All the pain is gone, and he can breathe easy." "It is unfortunate," said Fairfax; "he will be out of work for some time, I am afraid, Mrs. Halliday," and he mused for a minute or two. "Take up that portmanteau, my man," he continued, speaking to the porter, "and carry it down. Let it be put upon the coach with the other things. I will be down almost as soon as you." The man charged his shoulder with the load, and walked then Fairfax sat down for a moment, saying, away; and "I cannot stay now, my good people; but I am very sorry for you, and would willingly do what I can to assist you. Here, Mrs. Halliday; here are five sovereigns to help you through your husband's illness. I am somewhat richer than I was, Halliday, so you must not mind taking it." "Oh! Mr. Fairfax, I cannot indeed," said Ben Halliday; but Fairfax beckoned to the wife, and she, like a wise woman, suffered him to put the money into her hand, thanking him a thousand times for his goodness. Fairfax stayed a few minutes longer, almost all the time plunged in deep thought, and then rose suddenly to depart. "God bless you, sir!" said Ben Halliday, as the young gentleman shook hands with him; and Mrs. Halliday also said "God bless you!" and the boy and girl looked earnestly in his face, as if they would have said the same, but for shyness. But, at the same moment, a head was thrust in at the other door, and a face grinned at him maliciously, while the voice of Tommy Hicks cried, "You have sent away my seat, and I'll spite you if I catch you." Fairfax shook his fist at him; and, bidding the cottagers adieu, took his way back towards the town with hasty strides. "How ill Mr. Fairfax looks," said Mrs. Halliday, speaking to her husband, "and so sad, too." Ben Halliday shook his head, gloomily, and answered, "Ay, 'Bella, there's many a bitter story amongst the rich and the great, as well as among the poor and the lowly. A fine coat often covers a sad heart; and I am afraid Mr. Fairfax has cause to regret that he ever came down to Brownswick. Well, he is a fine, noble gentleman, God bless him!" In the meanwhile, the person they spoke of proceeded on his way till he reached the town of Brownswick, and walked through the streets to the door of the "White Lion," at which was standing the morning coach for London, with the horses being put to. Fairfax saw, though he hardly noticed, a number of groups of the town's-people standing at the corners of the streets, and talking eagerly together. The guard and the coachman, too, as they bustled about round the coach, and in and out of the office, exchanged a number of sentences with a party of idlers who were standing near; but Fairfax heard not a word of what they said; and pausing for an instant at the inn-door, he called for his bill, and paid it without going in, gave waiters, and chambermaid, and boots, the usual fee, and, putting on a thick great coat, which was officiously held for him by several of the people of the inn, he inquired if his luggage had been put up, and then took his place upon the coach-box. In a minute or two the coachman was by his side; two fat, elderly ladies rolled out of the office and into the vehicle; a dull-looking man got upon the top; and away the coach went for London as fast as the four greys could carry Nothing of any kind occurred on the journey which would interest the reader in the slightest manner to repeat. Allan Fairfax arrived in safety, about three o'clock on the following day, at an inn in the giant of cities. it. He instantly set out for the chambers of a lawyer in Gray's Inn, gave a number of directions, signed several papers, and then said, "Now, Mr. Tindle, you must manage all the rest of my affairs yourself, for I shall set out to-morrow morning early for Plymouth. I shall there catch the John Green East-Indiaman-at least, I hope so-and I trust to be in India and with my regiment in a few months." "Dear me, sir, you surprise me," cried the solicitor; "why, when you left London, you intended to sell out; and I can't act in this business, or any other, without a power-of-attorney." "It does not matter, Mr. Tindle," said Fairfax, "all my views are changed. If a power-of-attorney is necessary, you must get it ready directly, and let me have it to-night at the inn where I am staying in the city; I will sign it immediately." "But will you not see your brothers, sir?" asked the solicitor; "I am sure they have acted very handsomely in this business." "When they could not do otherwise," answered Fairfax, bitterly; "you will say, probably, that they might have protracted the affair by a suit-at-law; but I must ever feel, Mr. Tindle, that by affecting to believe there was some ground for my father's wild-I must call it insane notion regarding my birth, and taking advantage of that to deprive me for so long of even an equal share of his property, they dissolved every tie between us. I wish not, in the slightest degree, to have any dispute with them; and trust that, if ever I return from India, we shall live on amicable terms; but I cannot forget the past, and therefore shall go away without seeing them. You may say any thing civil on my part that you like, when you come to wind up the whole affair, but it would be better for me not to see them at present." "But will you not want money, my dear sir ?" inquired the lawyer; money, without which, as you have lately found, nothing is to be done on this earth. I am sure if, under present circumstances, I can be of any service-" 66 No, no," answered Fairfax, "I have enough for the moment. Many thanks to you, however. When the whole is finished, you may pay a thousand pounds into the hands of my agent, as I shall want to buy some horses and other things when I get to Calcutta; and now, pray get the papers ready directly, that there may be no delay, for, signed or not signed, I go at five o'clock to-morrow. And Allan Fairfax went. At Plymouth he caught the vessel he expected to find, embarked, and reached Calcutta in safety. His fellowpassengers remarked how cold, and grave, and disagreeable he was, and his brother-officers, when he rejoined his regiment, observed that Fairfax was sadly changed. The gay, light spirit was gone; the brilliant fancy that played round all things, no longer enlivened his conversation; but stern thought seemed to have taken possession of him, and to hold him bound as in a chain. Always famous for his gallantry, Fairfax was now rash; and in the despatches from one of the many fields which have lately been fought in India, his name was twice marked-once as deserving public thanks for his services against the enemy, and once as severely wounded. There was an eye which read the despatch in England, and a cheek that glowed warmly at the account of his chivalrous daring. But when the list of killed and wounded was read over, and Margaret Graham came |