Another translation of the _Divine Comedy_ has been made in England. It is by a Mr. C. B. CAYLEY, and is in the original ternary rhyme. From a hasty examination of it we incline to prefer it to Wright's or Carey's; but we have seen no version of DANTE that in all respects satisfies us so well as that of Dr. THOMAS W. PARSONS, of Boston, of which some ten cantos were published a few years ago, and of which the remainder is understood to be completed for the press. Speaking of Dante, reminds us of the fact that Mr. Richard Henry Wilde's elaborate memoir of the great Italian has not yet been printed. Mr. Wilde wrote to us not long before his death that he had been occupying himself in leisure hours with the revision of some of its chapters, and we have no doubt that the work is completed. If so, for the honor of the lamented author, and for the honor of American criticism, it should be given to the public. * * * * * From a forthcoming volume by ALICE CAREY, _Recollections of Our Neighborhood in the West,_ (to be published early in December by J. S. Redfield,) we copy a specimen chapter, under the title of "The Old Man's Death," into another part of this magazine. It has no particular excellence to distinguish it from the rest of the work; indeed it is rather below than above the average of Miss Carey's recent compositions; but we may safely challenge to it the scrutiny of critics capable of appreciating the finest capacities for the illustration of pastoral life. If we look at the entire catalogue of female writers of prose fiction in this country we shall find no one who approaches Alice Carey in the best characteristics of genius. Like all genuine authors she has peculiarities; her hand is detected as unerringly as that of Poe or Hawthorne; as much as they she is apart from others and above others; and her sketches of country life must, we think, be admitted to be superior even to those delightful tales of Miss Mitford, which, in a similar line, are generally acknowledged to be equal to any thing done in England. It is the fault of our literary women that they are commonly careless and superficial, and that in stories, when they attempt this sort of writing, they are for the most part but feeble copyists, without individuality, and without naturalness. We can point to very few exceptions to this rule, but among such exceptions Alice Carey is eminent. The book which is announced by Mr. Redfield is without the tinsel, or sickly sentiment, or impudent smartness, which distinguish some contemporary publications by women, but it will establish for her an enviable reputation as an original and most graphic delineator of at least one class in American society--the middle class, in the rural neighborhoods, with whom rest, in our own as in other countries, the real distinctions of national character, and the best elements of national greatness. * * * * *