us no little kindness," and I fear we fared at the Trinacria hotel in a very different way to what the poor apostle did at Melita.

Palermo is situated on the bay of that name, extending for some distance in a curved shape along the beach; behind lies a wide plain thickly planted with orange and lemon groves, bounded by an amphitheatre of hills of a ragged and rocky nature, on which the olive and prickly pear contrast well with the darker tints of green below. It certainly is an extremely picturesque place and presents a most marked foreign and Asiatic appearance. The influence of Greece, Rome, and Carthage once were great there, but these have died out, and the traces of later conquerors, such as the Arab, Norman and Spaniard, take their place in a most striking manner. The two main streets intersect at right angles, and are narrow, with tall houses and projecting balconies of iron, wood and stone. The shops are endless and occupy all the ground floors, even of private houses; and the street is alive with human heads. The first day I was there was the anniversary of the late revolution, and the old town was of course decked out in an extra bright holiday dress. The upper windows all along the streets have a peculiar appearance, they are inhabited throughout by nuns, and accordingly cased over with a projecting bow-shaped grating; looking down the streets one catches a fine view of mountain scenery, which with the strip of deep blue sky over one's head is very effective. The churches are very interesting, especially in point of architecture; and the exterior of the cathedral is delightful to an eye that has been surfeited with the heathenish Italian style this building, erected towards the end of the twelfth century, after the Saracen power had been destroyed by the Normans, is apparently Gothic in architecture, but when you look into it there is a great medley of the Sicilian, Arab and Norman: possibly from the Arabic inscription discovered there it once was a mosque: the exterior is splendid, but the interior is entirely spoilt by whitewash. The Martorana' is a very costly beautiful church, light and elegant, a mixed style of Arab and Norman, rich in marbles and precious stones. There are many others of minor importance, whose chief interest lies in their costly ornaments of lapis-lazuli, verde antique, etc., and I will leave it to guide-books to describe them; but of all the sacred edifices, the little Capella Palatina or Royal Chapel is the most unique and striking, its walls and arches covered with richly coloured mosaic work have the most sombre appearance, and their dimly

lit up gorgeousness a most imposing effect. The many public gardens of Palermo are a pleasant addition to the townan enjoyable retreat from the bustle and noise of the Toledoflowers and eastern shrubs grow there in perfection,—even in the beginning of April they were beautiful. We of course went up Monte Pellegrino and paid a visit to Santa Rosalia, the Patroness Saint of Palermo; on the top of the mountain is a grotto where she lived and died at the early age of sixteen: mass is celebrated there daily, and commanding a perfect view of the bay and town stands a colossal statue of the Saint, covered with a robe of solid gold, her right hand extended as though blessing the fair scene that lies below: her great day is kept in July, when there is a grand procession of all the dignitaries of the church, state officers, and military through the streets of Palermo; a silver statue of the saint is carried in a great triumphal car, seventy feet long and thirty broad, adorned with orange trees and filled with bands of music. An account of different excursions would be uninteresting; but every one should drive up to Monreale and see the splendid Byzantine mosaic work in the cathedral, also pay a visit to the palace of the Zisa, a real Saracenic edifice with its Moorish hall.

The people at Palermo are much more civilized than in the parts we had been in previously, and a railway is actually in construction from Palermo to Catania. The lighting the gas lamps invariably caused a great excitement, a crowd collecting at each one, and gesticulating fiercely when the magic flame appeared.

There are various accounts as to the state of discontent and brigandage in those parts; we saw nothing of the sort, and I am inclined to think that the English papers draw an exaggerated picture; there are many too glad to seize hold of a report and pass it on for fact. Let those who condemn what is going on reflect whether they are not condemning a noble attempt that is being made to promote civilization, education, peace and religion. If good is at work, there must be a conflict with evil; and it is only prejudice and short-sightedness that makes a certain class of people so severe in their censure. Poor fated country! she has known many conquerors and many changes; all who have travelled in her bright sunny land will ever take deep interest in her lot:-may her new government be lasting and prosperous, and a more civilized and enlightened generation steer safely between the Scylla of tyranny and the Charybdis of revolution.

THE PICTURE.

'Tis strange :-sad stories linger in the heart Until their very sadness becomes sweet; E'en as the lineaments of those he loved, Treasured in sacred memories, still heal, With their own sorrowful spell, the aching wound Of one who, in great loneliness of soul, Waits ever for a voice he may not hear, And listens for a step that cannot come.

Ah sad sweet picture! I have gazed on thee,
And pored upon thy tracery, and mused
Upon thy story till the mournful lines

Grew bright with heavenly radiance, and a sense
Of pain not pain, of joy not wholly joy,
Tempered itself within me, and I grew,
Rapt on the past, to love thee reverently.
And surely 'twas an instinct half divine
Guided the hand that wrought material things
To such a wondrous beauty! for the eye,
Clear with a sudden inspiration, bears
Into our inmost hearts the whole sad scene,
With an all-vivid power that fools the ear,
And mocks the art of poets.-

For what words

Can paint the terrible agony, that dwells

In the closed hands and mutely eloquent eyes
Of that grief-stricken Lady and pure wife,

Kneeling beside her lord, 'twixt those stern walls,
To taste the cup of blessing ere he die,

And the sweet bonds be snapt ?-Methinks the rite
Hath lifted for a while her sinking heart,
And, blotting out the page of time, borne up
Her winged soul unto that purer world
Where separation is not, and the voice
Of cruelty vexes not the quiet air,
And love abides, and peace; till, suddenly,
Earth claims her own again, and in the glance,
Sidelong, that fears to move his calm rapt soul,

Dwells all the dear heart-hunger of long years,
Known in one bitter moment,-dwells the woe
And desolation of a breaking heart,

That, breaking, still beats on, each pulse a pang,
That, killing, will not kill.—

But he the while,

With reverent knee and fair untroubled front,
Bends o'er the emblems of His dying love
Who died that death might be the gate of life;
A sweet majestic meekness crowning him
With a divine humility, more grand

Than haughtiest glance shot from the eye of pride.
And if there be some human woe for her

Whose love hath crowned his manhood, lo, his eye
Half pierced, methinks, the dark mysterious veil,
And half the pang sinks in the bright to come,
And the fixed hope of a believing soul

That conquers, and not scorns, the sting of death.
Go, ponder, ye who tell us Love shall die;—
Go, see love stronger at the gates of death,

Strong when man's ruthless voice would bid it cease,-
Strong in the dreadful parting hour to raise
The spirit to those sacred heights, where love
Shall breathe at length its proper air, and drink
Large draughts from the pure fountain whence it flowed
To bless and cheer the parched wastes below.

"C. S."

TRANSLATIONS, NEW AND OLD.

FEW will be found to deny, and fewer still perhaps to explain, the marked inferiority of modern English prose translations from the classical authors of antiquity, to those rich racy works of North and Hobbes, and other authors of the Elizabethan and subsequent age, full of point, force, and vigour, for the most part truthful even to accuracy, at no time false to their author's spirit, or tame or chargeable with weakness, which differ from our present bald and servile copies about as much as a tragedian's verses excel the scholiast's explanations. No doubt such works as Mr. Kennedy's Demosthenes and Davies and Vaughan's rendering of Plato's Republic form striking exceptions to this rule-but translations like these are very rare, and even of these two the latter, graceful and accurate and powerful as it generally is, can certainly not be acquitted of betraying throughout its classical original. The Greek limbs move uneasily cramped and confined under their English dress. Take up even the tenth book, where there is little of that dialogue which gives so wide a scope to untranslatable Greek particles, and read the adventures of Er-you could be under no danger whatsoever of supposing that the narrative sprang originally from an English brain.

What may be the causes of this backward movement, whether it be that the classical authors have now fallen into so great contempt and desuetude that at this time they are not, either in the original languages or in translations, read by any but professed scholars, having come to be regarded merely as convenient machines for educating the young and giving them a somewhat useless but not ungentlemanly occupation, let others determine. It would undoubtedly seem that in the times when Lady Jane Grey read Plato, Catharine Parr is recorded to have written in Latin, and Mrs. Hutchinson to have translated Lucretius, the English people must have fed upon more substantial food than is afforded by the