From Sharpe's Magazine.
YOUNG'S BERANGER.*

extreme difficulty, already adverted to, of adapting inflexible English to the necessities of his peculiar and very independent style, which generally derives half its point and beauty from the use of happy expressions in the vernacular, which it is almost impossible to render effectively in a foreign tongue. The few translators who have ventured on the work hitherto, have succeeded very imperfectly, and none have attempted more than partial selections. We remember but three volumes of such translations;-one by William Anderson, published in Edinburgh; one from the press of Pickering, by the "Author of the Exile of Idria," a poem which never took refuge, to our knowledge, in this country; and another, a Philadelphia collection, issued in a neat volume, in 1844.

To reproduce the lyrics of Beranger, in English verse, is a hard task; as hard as the translation of the "Pickwick Papers" into French Prose, or Burns' Songs, or Elliott's Corn Law Rhymes into French poetry. It is a difficult matter for any one who has not been born and bred under the same sunshine with the author of the "Roi d'Yvetôt" and "Le Violon Brisé," by any process so thoroughly to acclimate himself to his peculiarities of style and felicitous idioms of expression, as to understand their full sense and spirit, much more to clothe them in a foreign dress. It is as hard a matter to make English verse of his songs as it would be to make an Englishman of Beranger himself, that Poet of Grisettes, of La Grande Nation, of French democ- In point of fulness and faithfulness the present racy and Parisian gayety, folly and love au Sixième. translations by Mr. Young far surpass the previous Classic authors of almost any country, who indulge attempts. He has labored evidently to reproduce in an elaborate style, and write for posterity and Beranger as he really is; and to present the academic honors, for aught that appears to the poems which have made him famous, as nearly as contrary in their works, might easily be translated, possible, as they really are. The work shows physically and bodily, as well as in their writings, much diligence, discrimination and poetic power. into foreign parts, without doing much violence to It is uniformly careful in execution, and in the main their habits of thought or nationality of association. very successful. By way of comparison with its But Beranger out of France-away from the predecessors, take that charming song, “Ma vineyards and the vintage-from the tri-color-Vocation," which opens with this simple, compact, from the village fêtes of Passy and Tours-from and touching stanza :

the bachelor convivialities of Paris-would be Beranger no longer. His nationality and his individuality are the life of his poetry and his poetic fame. At home, he is universally known; abroad, hardly at all; nor can his genius be properly estimated from the point of view which our standards of criticism adopt in judging of the merits of works of poetic art.

In fact, there was hardly ever an author whose literary eminence has been so entirely owing to his popularity, in the strictest sense of that much abused term, as Beranger. Without a liberal education, without literary connexions, or any profound study or appreciation, apparently, of the resources of poetry, his natural wit, his lively perceptions of the ludicrous, his strong sympathies with humanity, as such, irrespective of caste or class, and his vivid imagination, have infused into his lyrics the truest poetic spirit, and made them genuine, powerful productions of genius. Their appeal is not to the judgment of critics, but to the sensibilities of every man who reads them. This is a test to which few poets would choose to bring their works; but with Beranger it has been the only test to which he has cared to bring his. He sings to amuse himself, to entertain the public, to please the people; and, strange to say, he succeeds not only in amusing himself, but also in entertaining the public, and pleasing everybody. To object to his morals, or rather his want of them-to criticize his style, or rather his neglect of style-to lament that he should have wasted his life in writing so much that is witty, and so little that is wise-all this makes him none the less the most popular song-writer of the present age.

In spite of his popularity at home, all the greater since the last revolution, which the whole political tendency of his writings helped to bring on, Beranger has been but little studied or appreciated out of France. One principal reason has been the

*Beranger: Two Hundred of his Lyrical Poems done into English Verse." By William Young. New York: Putnam. 1850.

Squalid, faint, and suffering, hurled
Up and down this wheeling world,
Crushed amongst the crowd of men,
Myself too weak to press again;
I breathed a deep and bitter sigh,
That spoke my spirit's misery:

Some God that heard, suggested, "Sing,
And Song shall consolation bring.”

The Philadelphia translator goes beyond this, and undertakes to make a real lyrical affair of it, e. g.:

Cast on this ball, despised, opprest,
No giant at the very best,

I'm stifled by the throng;
Whilst in distress for aid I cry,
A voice within me bids me try

The powers of Lyric song;
Yes! 't is a voice that sweetly cries,
Rise, hapless Beranger, arise,

And strike the lyre!

Mr. Young catches the true spirit of this simple ode for the first time amongst these translators of Beranger :—

Plain, sorry, and sickly,
Adrift on this ball,
Trodden down by the masses
Because I'm so small;
To my lips when a murmur
Will touchingly spring,
God whispers me kindly,
"Sing, little one, sing!"

“Play a tune, we would dance;" but I boldly said, mains to the Lizard and the Land's-End; visiting

the most remarkable places, whether of art or nature, and whether the natural attractions were of the quietly beautiful, the desolate, or the magnificent kind. Mr. Collins, as a pedestrian, was of necessity thrown much among the people; and he has picked up many traits of their character, as well as some curious traditions. There are also matters of a more utilitarian cast, but popularly treated as a mine, the pilchard fishery, an eco

To announce the young bridegroom awaiting the bride, nomical survey of the condition of the poor.

thither; but until the work is unsparingly pruned | against the sea, and which has been so far worked of its weaknesses and verbosities, it will add nothing to the reputation of Mr. Collins.

As an example of the descriptive part of the book, we may take a bit of the descent into Botallack mine.

We are now four hundred yards out under the bottom of the sea, and twenty fathoms or a hundred and twenty feet below the sea level. Coast-trade vessels are sailing over our heads. Two hundred and forty feet beneath us men are at work; and there are galleries deeper yet even below that. The extraordinary position down the face of the cliff, of the engines and other works on the surface at Botallack, is now explained. The mine is not excavated like other mines under the land, but under the sea.

Having communicated these particulars, the miner next tells us to keep strict silence and listen. We obey him, sitting speechless and motionless. If the reader could only have beheld us now, dressed in our copper-colored garments, huddled close together in a mere cleft of subterranean rock, with flame burning on our heads and darkness enveloping our limbs, he must certainly have imagined, without any violent stretch of fancy, that he was looking down upon a conclave of gnomes.

away here that its thickness is limited to an average
of three feet only between the water and the gallery
in which we now stand. No one knows what might
be the consequence of another day's labor with the
pick-axe on any part of it. This information is rather
startling when communicated at a depth of four hun-
dred and twenty feet under ground. We should de-
cidedly have preferred to receive it in the counting-
house.
It makes us pause for an instant, to the
miner's infinite amusement, in the very act of knock-
ing away about an inch of ore from the rock, as a
memento of Botallack. Having, however, ventured,
on reflection, to assume the responsibility of weaken-
ing our defence against the sea by the length and
breadth of an inch, we secure our piece of copper, and
next proceed to discuss the propriety of descending
two hundred and forty feet more of ladders, for the
sake of visiting that part of the mine where the men
are at work.

Two or three causes concur to make us doubt the wisdom of going lower. There is a hot, moist, sickly vapor floating about us, which becomes more oppressive every moment; we are already perspiring at every pore, as we were told we should, and our hands, faces, jackets, and trousers, are all more or less covered with a mixture of mud, tallow, and iron-drip

ly than is exactly desirable. We ask the miner what there is to see lower down. He replies, nothing but men breaking ore with pickaxes; the galleries of the mine are alike, however deep they may go; when you have seen one, you have seen all.

After listening for a few moments, a distant un-pings, which we can feel and smell much more acuteearthly noise becomes faintly audible-a long, low, mysterious moaning, that never changes, that is felt on the ear as well as heard by it; a sound that might proceed from some incalculable distance, from some far invisible height; a sound unlike anything that is heard on the upper ground in the free air of heaven; a sound so sublimely mournful and still, so ghostly and impressive when, listened to in the subterranean recesses of the earth, that we continue instinctively to hold our peace, as if enchanted by it, and think not of communicating to each other the strange awe and astonishment which it has inspired in us both from the very first.

At last the miner speaks again, and tells us that what we hear is the sound of the surf lashing the rocks a hundred and twenty feet above us, and of the waves that are breaking on the beach beyond. The tide is now at the flow, and the sea is in no extraordinary state of agitation; so the sound is low and distant just at this period. But when storms are at their height, when the ocean hurls mountain after mountain of water on the cliffs, then the noise is terrific; the roaring heard down here in the mine is so inexpressibly fierce and awful that the boldest men at work are afraid to continue their labor; all ascend to the surface to breathe the upper air and stand on the firm earth; dreading, though no such catastrophe has ever happened yet, that the sea will break in on them if they remain in the caverns below.

us.

Hearing this, we get up to look at the rock above We are able to stand upright in the position we now occupy; and, flaring our candles hither and thither in the darkness, can see the bright pure copper streaking the dark ceiling of the gallery in every direction. Lumps of ooze, of the most lustrous green color, traversed by a natural network of thin red veins of iron, appear here and there in large irregular patches, over which water is dripping slowly and incessantly in certain places. This is the salt water percolating through invisible crannies in the rock. On stormy days it spirts out furiously in thin contin

uous streams. Just over our heads we observe a wooden plug of the thickness of a man's leg; there is a hole here, and the plug is all that we have to keep

out the sca.

The answer decides us: we determine to get back to the surface.

The book is illustrated by a dozen colored views of the most striking landscapes or features. Their forms are picturesque and truthful-looking; a cold gray predominates in the coloring-the only colors being blue and brown.

From the Journal of Commerce. THE LADder.

[Affectionately inscribed to little Hattle, who has just learned the alphabet.]

BY C. S. PERCIVAL.

A LADDER resting on the earth below,
And towering higher than the angels go,
Receives thy tiny footsteps, mounting slow.
Thy parents, but a little way ascended,
Stoop down to grasp thy eager hands extended;
Mount, darling, by our loving aid befriended!
To lead thee with us on to regions higher,
Our hearts with zeal unwonted doth inspire;
We feel the kindling of a new desire!
A proud incentive, never felt before,
Impels us the lofty steep to soar;
To lead thee with us climbing evermore!
Short is that portion which in time we see;
Beyond, still pointing up eternally,
It rests upon the throne of Deity.

Toilsome and dark the way may often prove, Which up through time ascends; but heavenly love Will bring us light and courage from above. And then, full oft, the holy bliss of knowing, Immense wealth of metal is contained in the roof Shall fill our grateful hearts to overflowing. While earth beneath us less and less is growing, of this gallery, throughout its whole length; but it remains, and will always remain, untouched: the And when, beyond the narrow bounds of time, miners dare not take it, for it is part, and a great We soar and mount the sacred height sublime, part, of the rock which forms their only protection | Ecstatic joy shall swell our choral rhyme!

after our marriage. You will come home, darling, and take off your marriage apparel to appear before him; and as I do not often dine with him, and he never asks for me, I shall not be missed. So say nothing-Nelly's tongue is tied-fear not her. Be patient, beloved one, till you hear from me; bright days are coming, Ruth, and we do not part for long."

Here she wept, oh, so bitterly, I thought she would die. Amazed and trembling, I ventured to ask if she loved Mr. Thomas Erminstoun better than me, for jealousy rankled, and at fourteen I knew nothing of love.

"Love him!" she cried vehemently, clasping her hands wildly; "I love only you on earth, my Ruth, my sister. He is a fool; and I marry him to save you and myself from degradation and misery. He buys me with his wealth. I am little more than sixteen"-she hung down her lovely head, poor thing-" but I am old in sorrow; I am hardened in sin, for I am about to commit a great sin. I vow to love, where I despise; to obey, when I mean to rule; and to honor, when I hold the imbecile youth in utter contempt !"

pasture-land near our home; this stream was frequented by those fortunate anglers only who obtained permission from the lady of the manor to fish in it, and this permit was not lavishly bestowed, consequently our favorite haunt was usually a solitary one. But soon after Gabrielle had completed her sixteenth year we noted a sickly youth, who patiently pursued his quiet sport by the hour together, and never looked round as we passed and repassed him. Some trifling "chance" (as it is called) led to his thanking Gabrielle for assisting to disentangle his line, which had caught amid the willow branches overhanging the water; the same "chance" caused him to observe his beautiful assistant, and I saw his start of surprise and admiration. He was a silly-looking lad, we thought, dressed like a gentleman, and behaving as one; and he was never absent now from the meadows when we were there. He always bowed, and often addressed some passing observation to us, but timidly and respectfully, for Gabrielle was a girl to command both homage and respect. She pitied the lonely, pale young man, who seemed so pleased to find any one to speak to, and exhibited such extraordinary patience and perseverance, for he never caught a fish that Vain were supplications and prayers to wait. we saw. Through the medium of a gossip of Gabrielle led me away to the meadows, where a Nelly, who was kitchen-maid at the principal inn, fly was in waiting, which conveyed us to the we ascertained that our new acquaintance was stay-church. I saw her married; I signed something ing there for his health's benefit, and for the pur- in a great book; I felt her warm tears and empose of angling; that his name was Erminstoun, braces, and I knew that Mr. Thomas Erminstoun only son of the rich Mr. Erminstoun, banker, of kissed me too, as he disappeared with Gabrielle, T. Nelly's gossip had a sister who lived at and the clerk placed me in the fly alone, which put Erminstoun Hall, so there was no doubt about the me down in the same place, in the quiet meadows correctness of the information, both as regarded by the shining water. I sat down and wept till I Mr. Thomas Erminstoun's identity, and the enor- became exhausted. Was this all a dream? Had mous wealth of which it was said his father was Gabrielle really gone? My child-sister married? possessed. The informant added, that poor Mr. Become rich and great? But I treasured her Thomas was a leetle soft, maybe, but the idol of his words, hurried home, and put on my old dark parent; and that he squandered "money like noth- dress; and Nelly said not a word. Mr. Thomas ing, ," "being a generous, open-handed, good young Erminstoun's gold had secured her silence; and gentleman." she was to "know nothing," but to take care of me for the present.

I observed a great change in Gabrielle's manner, after hearing this, towards her admirer-for so he must be termed as admiration was so evident in each word and look; by and by Gabrielle went out alone there was no one to question or rebuke her; and in six weeks from the day that Mr. Thomas Erminstoun first saw her she became his wife. Yes, startling as it appears, it all seemed very natural and simple of accomplishment then; early one brilliant summer morning, Gabrielle woke me, and bade me rise directly, as she wished to confide something of great importance, which was about to take place in a few hours. Pale, but composed, she proceeded to array herself and me in plain white robes and straw bonnets; new, and purely white, yet perfectly simple and inexpensive, though far better than the habiliments we had been accustomed to wear. Gabrielle took them from a box, which must have come when I was sleeping; and when our toilet was completed, I compared her in my own mind to one of those young maidens whom I had seen in the church when bands of fair creatures were assembled for confirmation. She looked not like a bride-there was no blushing, no trembling; but a calm self-possession, and determination of purpose, which awed me.

"My wise little sister Ruth," she said, "I am going to be married this morning to Mr. Thomas Erminstoun, at church. You are my bridesmaid, and the clerk gives me away. I shall not come back here any more, for a chaise and four waits in Yarrow Wood to convey us away directly

Ere my father retired to rest that night, a letter was brought addressed to him. I never knew the contents, but it was from Gabrielle and Gabrielle's husband. I did not see him again for some days, and then he never looked at me; and strange, strange it seemed, Gabrielle had disappeared like a snow wreath, in silence, in mystery; and I exclaimed in agony-" Was there ever anything like this in the world before?"

My father made himself acquainted with the position of the young man whom his daughter had gone off with, and also of the legality of their marriage; that ascertained satisfactorily, he sank into the same hopeless slothfulness and indolence as heretofore, dozing life away, and considering he had achieved a prodigious labor in making the necessary inquiries.

Very soon after this I had my first letter-doubly dear and interesting because it was from Gabrielle. The inn servant brought it under pretext of visiting Nelly, so my father knew nothing about it. Ah, that first letter! shall I ever forget how I bathed it with my tears, and covered it with kisses! It was short, and merely said they were in lodgings for the present, because Mr. Erminstoun had not yet forgiven his son; not a word about her happiness; not a word of her husband; but she concluded by saying, "that very soon she hoped to send for her darling Ruth-never to be parted more."

I know that my guardian angel whispered the