Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 126.djvu/424

412 he thought, she must have guessed his devotion, expressed in every way but speech. At least, however, he had been spared the humiliation of a confession rejected. And yet, he thought, it would have been sweeter to have been refused by her, than that she should never know my love, my love now to remain a secret forever.

But although the young man had strength of will to hide his grief, and unselfishness enough to feel no anger with the woman who had made such wild work with his heart, life for the time seemed utterly intolerable, especially while the coming wedding was the universal topic of conversation throughout the station. To listen to this was more than he could bear; and obtaining a month's leave, Yorke set out with his tent to pass the time in wandering about the district. The shooting-season and the time for camp-life was over; the harvest had been gathered in, leaving the bare sandy fields a desert; the hot winds blew clouds of stifling dust from morning to sunset, till his tent was like a furnace, and chairs, table, and bed, and even his food, were covered with the loose grit that filled the air; and the antelope which he pursued over the open plains were shy and wild; but he could at any rate tire himself out with walking; the nights in the open air were still cool, and sleep could be courted by sheer force of fatigue. Thus passed the weary time. Fain would he have taken leave for the whole hot season, and spent it wandering amid cool air and new scenes in the Himalayas; but with certain obligations already mentioned to be met shortly, he could not afford to give up the allowance of the two companies which he commanded. Hill-stations and pleasant places, he thought bitterly, were not meant for such as he. More fitting that he should nurse his sorrow in bodily discomfort.

But even in the solitude of his little camp he could not altogether escape contact with the outer world. The occasional messenger who came out from cantonments with his letters brought a newspaper one evening, and spelling through this after his frugal dinner, beginning with the advertisements, as is the wont of solitary travellers in the East, he came upon the following announcement: —

"April 15th, at Mustaphabad, by the Rev. J. Wharton, M.A., Colonel Robert Falkland, C.B., to Olivia, daughter of Archibald Cunningham, Esquire, Civil Service."

So, then, even the last despairing hope must be surrendered which had found a place in his foolish heart during these solitary days, that the whole story of the engagement might prove to be a horrid dream, or that something might happen at the last moment to break off the marriage. Life must now be faced under its new conditions, and it would be mere cowardice to shirk it any longer. So determining, the young man returned to cantonments next morning without waiting for the expiration of his leave, and resumed his place in the regiment.

 

 From Blackwood's Magazine.

Belton. Translation is a very difficult art, and to translate a poem requires a poet. But this is not sufficient. The very selection of words often makes the utmost difference in the colour, spirit, and fragrance of a poem. Goethe is the greatest poet of Germany, and a master in style, as you say; yet see how he translates the "Cinque Maggio" of Manzoni. For instance, you remember this magnificent passage in the original —

Now see what becomes of this last verse in the German by even so skilful a hand as Goethe's: —

Can anything be flatter than this? Think —

becoming —