A CURIOSITY OF LITERATURE.

CANADA is happy in the possession of two literatures, each

marked by peculiar characteristics, and both possessing many points of excellence. The French literature of Canada is far more copious, certainly more polished, of older origin and wider range than the English. When those parts of the Dominion now chiefly settled by English-speaking people were a wilderness, the province of Quebec possessed several seats of learning, a gay, and, for those times, a wealthy capital, where the manners of the polished days of Louis IV. lent many charms to social intercourse. While the religious professors were remarkable for their heroism in the cause of Christianity, the Seigneurs who had transferred their fortunes from France to the banks of the St. Lawrence gave a tone of chivalry to a people remarkable to this day for politeness and all the hospitable virtues. Under these favorable circumstances, French Canadian Literature flourished, and asssumed a national character at a time when an English book was a curiosity in Quebec. In its poetry and songs, wedded to music of singular beauty, is French Canadian Literature most remarkable; and it is to be regretted that the great mass of our English speaking fellowcountrymen are ignorant of the richness and variety of the works of French Canadian writers. An effort, however, has been made by several contemporary authors in both languages to introduce, as it were, the two peoples to each other. So far, their success has, of course, been limited; but it may be hoped that the spread of education, the diffusion of wealth, and consequent leisure, will, before many years, lead to a more cordial recognition of the claims of both languages. Amongst those who have endeavoured, and not without success, to unite the two sections through the means of their writers, I may mention the Hon. Mr. Royal, Secretary of State in Manitoba, formerly editor of La Riviere Canadienne, Mr. Benjamin Sulte, Mr. G. T. Lanigan, Mr. Le Moine, Mrs. Carroll Ryan and others, whose translations have appeared during the last ten years in periodicals published in both languages.

In the pursuit of this pleasing task a peculiar circumstance occurred, which affords an instance of a curiosity in translation rather remarkable. Mr. Sulte, in studying Shakespeare, was struck with the beauty of the thought contained in the thirtysecond Sonnet, and made an imitation of it in French, which he

published, overlooking, however, to mention that it was borrowed from Shakespeare, whose Sonnet is as follows:

"If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death with dust my bones shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,—
Compare them with the bettering of the time;
And though they be outstrip'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought,-
And my friend's muse grown with this growing ago
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died, and poets better prove

Theirs for their style, I'll read his for his love.""

Catching the spirit, without imitating the language of this beautiful Sonnet, Mr. Sulte rendered it as below:

Si' la mort, brutale ennemie,
Trauchait le fil de nos amours,

Que mes vers, ces fleurs de ma vie,
Te rappellent nos plus beaux jours.

Tu les jugeras, douce amè,
Sans tout fois les cemparer
A l'œuvre d'un brillant génie
Dont l'art m'aurait pu surpasser.

Et dis: "Sa muse, june encore,
"Comme le fruit tout près d'éclore,
"Je nourrissait pour l'avenir:

"Amour! si la pays honore
"Ses rivaux, fiers de parvenir.

46 'Lisons ses vers en souvenir!"

These lines fell into the hands of Mr. Lanigan, who being touched with the sweetness of the ideas, and believing it original to Mr. Sulte, translated it back into English, giving it a new birth in the following beautiful lines.

Beloved, if death should, in the winter years,
From thy white arms forever sever me,
Then let my love-songs linger in thine ears
And call our young life's summer back to thee.
I would that thou shouldst read them tenderly,
Compare them not, songs of thy worshipper,
With some great man's heart-stirring melody
My humble art can never hope to peer.

།

Sister Helen of St. Augustin.

And say "His muse was young as yet
Like unripe fruit in spring time set,

More years had loaded down the limb.
Love, if his rivals fame have met

And honor never to grow dim,

Read we his songs remembering him.

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In this literary episode, we have a Shakespearian Sonnet reproduced with wonderful beauty and freshness after passing through the unavoidable mists of a foreign translation. Mr. Lanigan's genius unwittingly complimented itself, while paying tribute to that of his friend Mr. Sulte.

Ottawa, August, 1873.

C. R.

DOMINION BALLADS-No. 4.

SISTER HELEN OF ST. AUGUSTIN.

A LADY young and fair to see;—
The old cathedral town of Meaux ;-
A chapel lit up sumptuously.
The lighted tapers all aglow
On altar table, book and bell,
And crucifix and pix and grail,
And vestments gleaming, all to tell
The lady fair would take the veil.

Her robes, of fabric rich and rare,
Diaphonous as golden mists;

Gems lit the lustre of her hair

And shimmered on her neck and wrists;

The bridal veil in filmy furls

Fell to her satined feet adown,

And on the ebon of her curls

The orange wreath sate like a crown.

The colored lights wove warp and woof
Like tapestry o'er each Norman arch,
And far up in the vaulted roof
The music of the bridal march

By unseen choristers was sung,
As like a bride in all her pride
That lady fair and rich and young
Moved stately to the altar's side.

The white-robed boys grouped round the priest, The grey nuns clustered round the bride,

And when the bridal music ceased

And laud of the beatified

Was said and sung, and all the rite
Of marriage, but no marriage bed,
By sacrament and candle light
The lady to the church was wed.

The service o'er, the dying notes

Sank solemn in the cloisters' awe,
As when on summer night there floats
The far voice of Niagara,

Which she had heard as bride and spouse

And, mayhap, in her ear heard now

As refrain to the final vows

That bound the fillet on her brow.

Kind drops welled up in many eyes

When doffed her raiment rich and rare,

She gave as a last sacrifice

The silken treasure of her hair,

Deft severed by the cruel shears

The shining curls fell where she stood,

Thus gave she, without sigh or tears,
The glory of her womanhood.

With steady eye the lady scanned

The book and vows emblazoned there,-
The white pen matched her whiter hand,
The ink not darker than her hair
Nor paper fairer than her fame,-
And-(words she ne'er would write again,)
In small, sharp letters signed her name,
Hélène née Boulée, veuve Champlain.

A WEEK had slipped away pleasantly enough since Phil became

an inmate of the Groves; during this time he had made such progress with his studies, and more especially had proved himself so apt at learning some games and so proficient in others as to have taken great strides towards making his school life pleasant; in other words, he was already becoming very popular with his fellows. Strickland coming at the same time and about the same age, often wondered how it was that Phil was not tormented: he knew or at least his cousin had told him, that on first coming to the school every boy was chaffed more or less, and personal experience amply confirmed it in his case; but to his benighted mind it was hardly clear how Phil escaped; but the fact remained.

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