s advantageously with the brown, brown bride who had supplanted her. If this be a ghost, we do not need be told that she is a woman still.
This touch of nature recalls another.
The Italians claim humor for Dante.
We have never been able to find it, unless it be in that passage (Inferno, XV. 119) where Brunetto Latini lingers under the burning shower to recommend his Tesoro to his former pupil.
There is a comical touch of nature in an author's solicitude for his little work, not, as in Fielding's case, after its, but his own damnation.
We are not sure, but we fancy we catch the momentary flicker of a smile across those serious eyes of Dante's. There is something like humor in the opening verses of the XVI.
Paradise, where Dante tells us how even in heaven he could not help glorying in being gently born,— he who had devoted a Canzone and a book of the Convito to proving that nobility consisted wholly in virtue.
But there is, after all, something touchingly natural in the feeling