mains of another American poet, Thomas William Parsons, consists of Dante translations. He was a devoted lover of the great poet all his life; and Oliver Wendell Holmes attributes his facility of style and exquisite literary art to his Dante studies.

Arriving in Italy when seventeen years old, he almost at once became absorbed in the Divine Comedy, and commenced to translate it verse by verse in three-verse rhyme. Later, he adopted the stanza of four verses, already successfully employed by Dryden and by Gray, which, he considered, represented better to the English ear the lingering harmony of the three-rhyme stanza. When he was twenty-four years old, in 1843, Parsons published his translation of the first ten cantos of the Inferno, prefacing it by his Lines on a Bust of Dante, which Longfellow used in his anthology and General Masi has translated into Italian.

Interrupted in his poetic labors, Parsons did not complete his translation of the Purgatorio, and left only a few fragments of his version of Paradiso in limpid, melodious, and tender verse. Longfellow ranked Parsons high for the inspiration, the insight, the splendor, the intuitive comprehension - which seemed almost a direct gift from above that his poetry exhibits.

James Russell Lowell was beyond question the most American of Dante scholars. The fruit of his long study is preserved to us in a clear portrait of Dante, a concise appreciation of what he believed him to be, a record of his life from the critic's point of view. All his studies were original. He compared translations of Dante to wax flowers and remarked:

Those works which deepen and broaden the mind, which sharpen the sense of beauty, and arouse the imagination, are untranslatable and are so in direct ratio to their greatness and power. This is particularly

true of the great poets, the fire of whose genius fuses word and thought in a rich Corinthian metal which no imitation can equal.

He urged his students to confine themselves to the best books when studying any foreign literature, or, better still, to familiarize themselves thoroughly with one great author.

The Divine Comedy has guided me to the little wisdom I possess. No erudition is more sterile than that which has no other end than mere erudition; but from the moment you have an object in view, attention, the mother of memory, is stimulated, and what you learn groups and arranges itself in lucid order. . . . I asked myself, what constitutes the likeness and the unlikeness between Alighieri and the classic writers of antiquity; to what extent, and

how, Dante's work precedes modern litera

ture; how much the latter owes him; how far the Italian language had already, before his day, been refined and adapted to the use of poetry and prose; how far his style was clear or his thought influenced by the authors who preceded him; whether it is a defect or a merit to be thus influenced by the thought of others, by the passions and the prejudices of your period, and of the world; in what degree that freedom of opinion which he exhibits in his references to

religious doctrine is attributable to the humanizing influence of the crusades which broadened the horizon of the Occidental mind and brought it into contact with other races, religions, and social institutions. This and a hundred other questions constantly stimulated my thought and my researches, giving them an interest which undirected study so to speak, impersonal study-would never have possessed.

Lowell loved Dante, not only as a great poet, but also as a consolation and comfort in periods of sorrow. He compared the Divine Comedy to a monument on the boundary line between the ancient and the modern world, to a Christian church with its pagan narthex, with its nave of puri

fication and with its sanctuary. He recognized how, under the touch of the poet's magic, every object was bathed in an ideal light, such as distance adds to things seen in a far landscape. 'His verse is as various as the feeling it conveys: now it has the terseness and edge of steel, and now palpitates with iridescent softness, like the breast of a dove.'

.. Sì lucida e sì tonda,

Che nel suo conio nulla ci s'inforsa, and never the highly ornamented promise to pay, token of insolvency.

Lowell had Dante in mind when he wrote: 'Misfortune makes skeptics of mediocre men'; and, a poet himself, he thus concluded an ode suggested by Giotto's fresco:

Ah! he who follows fearlessly

The beckonings of a poet-heart

Shall wander, and without the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence's walls the bar With which dear sternness holds him far From home and friends, till death's release, And make his only prayer for peace Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war! Charles Eliot Norton succeeded Longfellow and Lowell in the chair of Italian Literature at Harvard University. As early as 1859 he published an

essay on Dante in the Atlantic Monthly. In 1867 he finished the Vita Nuova, which Gabriele Rossetti had started to translate into English. He printed in 1891-92 a prose version of the Divine Comedy, pleasing to read and fulfilling the demands of a realist age.

Norton gave the books which he had used in his study to Harvard College Library, where they form the nucleus of the Dante Society collection. This society has made it possible for Dr. Fay to publish his Concordance.

Other American libraries have important Dante collections. The one at Cornell University is perhaps the richest in the world in cosmopolitan literature relating to the Divine Comedy and its author, and in rare editions. Willard Fiske started this collection, to supply the needs of his students. The University of Pennsylvania has inherited the Italian library of Francis Macauley, which is very rich in old editions.

Lowell asserted that Dante's life and works have a meaning so profound that but few can hope to comprehend it.

The Americans, undaunted by this, are ardent students of his poems, and find them a perennial source of inspiration and insight into higher things.

HARBIN is Russian. In spite of its Chinese flags, its Chinese policemen, with their huge antiquated revolvers, and in spite of the thousands of Chinese who walk its streets and drive its droshkies, Harbin is Russian. Its people are Russian, its stores are Russian, their signs are Russian, its cafés are Russian, and its symphony orchestra is Russian. Yet it belongs to no Russia of to-day.

Here are representatives of every school of thought in and out of Russia. Haughty ex-colonels of the Tsar elbow their way past fevered Bolsheviki. Socialist Revolutionaries argue with Social Democrats. Cadets and peasants have each their own solutions for the grave Russian problems that must be solved in Russia. Though all are represented, the 'right' groups greatly predominate. Here in Manchuria they can indulge to their heart's content in schemes and plots, stories and rumors, hopes and aspirations, and there is none to say them nay. While some of these activities are a very real detriment to the struggling Russian governments, for the most part they are wholly without effect in Russia itself. Upon the world outside, the influence of these groups is out of all proportion to their real importance. For it is from Harbin that much of the 'news' of the Russian Far East is sent to the world's newspapers.

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'It is reported,' and 'We are reliably informed,' serve as passports to carry to the world many a dream, many a thought fathered by a wish, many a groundless rumor, even many a conscienceless fabrication.

Leaving Harbin, all such things as wagons-lits, dining-cars, and other comforts of modern travel are left behind. From now on, the traveler rustles his own hot water, prepares his own meals, washes his own dishes, and makes his own bed with his own bedding. Even so, the trip is far from uncomfortable. The cars are good, clean, and easy-riding compartment sleeping-cars, the provodnik, or guard, is an accommodating fellow, who is quite willing to help out when occasion demands. Good hot meals are served at many of the larger stations, canned food is sold all along the line, and being your own porter for a time is a wholesome experience. The thirty-hour ride to Manchuria Station - Manchuli, as the Chinese call it is made quickly enough.

Manchuli is a typical border town, a sort of cross between a straggling Arizona cow-town and a moving-picture Wild West set, except for the Russians, who don't belong in either. For Manchuli, like Harbin, is a Russian settlement. Nevertheless the Chinese are active in asserting their rule. Passports are demanded on every occasion, and

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baggage is examined even more frequently.

Trains run from Manchuli to Chita only twice a week; so we had to spend two nights and a day in a hotel of which the less said the better. We were glad to leave for the train about three hours before it was scheduled to depart. This time was not too much because again there were passports to be viséd, customs examinations, tickets to be bought, baggage to be put aboard, food to be provided, etc. And if there is anything slower than the Chinese in such matters, it is a combination of Chinese and Russians.

Travel in the Far Eastern Republic comes high. From Manchuria station to Chita, a distance of about 450 versts or 300 miles, the first-class fare is rubles 39.40 gold or about $40 Mex. In addition to this all baggage above ten pounds is three rubles per pood, or about ten cents a pound. The cars are dilapidated, many windows broken, not over-clean, and lack all small equipment. First class closely approximates second in attractiveness, and neither is too far removed from third. Meals and bedding are provided by the traveler himself, and candles take the place of the electric lights which no longer function.

Leaving Manchuria a half hour late in the Chinese expert examination, we start across the beautiful grassy plain in the early evening. It is ideal grazing country and cattle and horses are numerous. At Station 86, merely a siding but the first stop in the territory of the Far Eastern Republic, we come into contact for the first time with officials of the new government on its own soil. They are mostly young men, businesslike and reasonably courteous. Their clothes are in an advanced state of deterioration, as are those of all the people along the way. Passports are quickly examined and we go on.

Matzievskaya is the first real station

on the Siberian side of the line. Just before reaching this place, we saw in the distance a troop of cavalry of the Far Eastern Republic, encamped as outposts against threatened Ungern raids. Many soldiers, in uniform but unarmed, were to be seen about the station.

The roadbed is, for the most part in good condition. The train travels along smoothly, and early morning finds us at Olovyannaya, a picturesque town on the banks of the Onon River. Here at the station are peasant women offering milk, eggs, roast chicken, white and black bread, fish, and sausage, in generous quantities and at reasonable prices. The peasants and country people generally have plenty of food, but they are sadly in need of clothes. Sacks and skirts are wonderful patchworks, and here Joseph's coat would be Ivan's breeches of many colors.

On the station bulletin board was a proclamation of the government reminding the peasants of what they had suffered under the Semionov régime; telling them that the same crowd of robbers are again threatening the peace and security of the people of the Far Eastern Republic; that, if they did attack, the people must stand by the government and the army, the same army that drove them out last year, until the bandits were again driven out and destroyed. This appeal is not without great effect upon the peasants, many of whom were members of the partisan bands that expelled Semionov and his followers last year.

There were evidences that the new nation was not unprepared for an attack from these old enemies. Just above the station was an armored train carrying a 3.7 long-range gun and cars equipped for machine-guns and riflemen. The engine, also armored like a horse in the Middle Ages, was fully coaled, and the fires were going under the boiler. On the next track was a long train, appar

ently of supplies, on the open cars of which were hundreds of reels of barbed wire.

Just a short while before we left, a troop train from Chita pulled in 147 cars, carrying a regiment of about 1000 men with complete field-equipment. There were horses, wagons, carriages, two motor trucks and a passenger automobile. The men were well clothed and well shod, though the most striking characteristic of their uniforms was the lack of uniformity. Their personal equipment was better. This was uniform, and much of it new. All were fully armed.

The democracy of the troops was apparent. The officers wore no distinguishing marks, though some of the higher commanders had fared better as to clothing than the privates. The soldiers were mostly young men, well setup, cheerful, and well behaved. A talk with one of them brought out the opinion that some things were pretty hard just now, but they all understood how things were and knew that the government was doing the best it could; and they were going to stick it out until things were settled and settled right.

There was an absence of military fuss, few salutes, and these apparently between officers only; but when one company formed, the work was promptly and well done. The men showed their thorough training, and the officers know how to handle them. If the new government has many regiments like this, it is entitled to much credit on this count.

As we pulled out of Olovyannaya we passed the railway yards and repair shops. Here we counted over 30 locomotives, of which only a few were in condition to operate. Undoubtedly, many had contributed parts to the few that would run. Here also were over 100 freight cars, some in good condition, some smashed, and some burned

by Semionov's men in their retreat. A very little in the way of spare parts and materials would equip the new republic with a very good working railroad, and yet that little is so hard to get. A start is being made however; for later we saw several cars which had been recently renovated and were in as good condition as could be desired.

From the hills around Olovyannaya the road runs on, across rolling grassy plains, decked with wild flowers, dotted with herds of horses, cattle, and some camels. At Buriatskaya we pick up a second engine, and start over the first spur of the Yablonoi Mountains. Long winding curves, horseshoe curves, and bowknot curves follow one upon another, and we are soon in the forest country that constitutes one of the chief assets of the new republic. From Baikal to Nertchinsk stretch the pine forests from which vast quantities of lumber will soon be shipped to all parts of the world.

From Karimskaya the trip up the Ingoda River to Chita is delightful. The river winds through a fertile valley between heavily wooded hills, and the scene is one of ever-changing beauty. About eight o'clock we could discern against the setting sun the domes and tower of Chita, the capital of the Far Eastern Republic. Much to our disappointment we found that we had anticipated our own telegrams sent from various points along the road, and that our rooms would not be available for two days. We were taken to 'the best hotel in town,' a description which speaks volumes for the others. Our room represented a half-hearted attempt to keep clean a much-worn room and more-worn furniture. Of the beds and other accommodations, let silence speak. Chita's really good hotel is now a charred wreck, its last service having been as domicile for Semionov's general staff.