Page 42.
The Cedars of Lebanon. There is no evidence that the Cross was built of cedar.
Page 44.
On the First Page of an Album belonging to My Friend Auguste Bressier. Emile Deschamps, like his brother Antoni Deschamps, has paid much attention to foreign literature. His translations from Goethe and Schiller,—'La Cloche,' 'La Fiancée de Corinthe,' 'Le Roi de Thule,' may stand side by side with the admirable originals, and his imitations of the Spanish Ballads are as good as those of Mr. Lockhart. As an original writer, he belongs to the Romantic school founded by Lamartine and Hugo. His complimentary verses in the album of Auguste Bressier, which we give here, are generally considered very happy. Antoni Deschamps, the brother of Emile Descharnps, has not much resemblance to him as a poet. Antoni is stiff, cold, uniform, austere, sometimes sublime, whereas Emile is varied, supple, changing and graceful. Antoni has written little or no prose, Emile has written a great deal of prose as well as verse. Antoni has devoted himself to the poetry of Italy, Emile has fluttered about from the poetry of Germany to the poetry of England, of Italy, and of Spain. Antoni's translation of Dante, in which he has wished to give according to his own expressions 'an idea of the tone and manner of Dante,' is a noble work—a model for all who undertake the work of translation. He abstains from all notes and commentaries, and endeavours to produce with a religious fidelity 'the colour and especially the accent' of the poetry of the great master; and his success is wonderful. His other works are: 'Etudes sur l'Italie,' in which the influence of his attentive study of Dante is always apparent, and 'Elégies,' in which his own private life and its sorrows are laid bare with a power that fascinates, and 'Resignation' (his last work, we believe), a sort of sequel to the 'Elégies,' not unworthy of the fame he had previously won.
Antoni never married—never even fell in love; all his love was for his books; hence a lonely life, a life so forlorn that he seems weary of it. The following verses may give some idea of his feelings. The original has considerable pathos.
'The world for me was as if it were not,
The real, the common, never I sought,
The fanciful for me was all in all,
The rest for the poor and vulgar who crawl;
And now remark, while still, still in my prime,
All pleasure to me seems almost a crime,
Distasteful and weary. Of other clay
I thought I was made exempt from decay,
Formed, vivified, as few spirits have been
With an essence more powerful, subtle and keen
