Concerning the first of these methods, our master Horace has given us this caution; Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus Interpres Nor word for word too faithfully translate, as the earl of Roscommon has excellently rendered it. Too faithfully is, indeed, pedantically: it is a faith like that which proceeds from superstition, blind and zealous. Take it in the expression of sir John Denham to sir Richard Fanshaw, on his version of the Pastor Fido: That servile path thou nobly dost decline, It is almost impossible to translate verbally, and well, at the same time for the Latin (a most severe and compendious language) often expresses that in one word, which the barbarity, or the narrowness, of modern tongues cannot supply in more. It is frequent also, that the conceit is couched in some expression, which will be lost in English, Atque iidem venti vela fidemque ferent. What poet of our nation is so happy as to express this thought literally in English, and to strike wit, or almost sense, out of it? In short, the verbal copier is encumbered with so many difficulties at once, that he can never disentangle himself from all. He is to consider at the same time the thought of his author and his words, and to find out the counterpart to each in another language: and, besides this, he is to confine himself to the compass of numbers, and the slavery of rhyme. It is much like dancing on ropes with fettered legs: a man can shun a fall, by using caution; but the gracefulness of motion is not to be expected: and when we have said the best of it, it is but a foolish task; for no sober man would put himself into a danger for the applause of escaping without breaking his neck. We see Ben Jonson could not avoid obscurity in his literal translation of Horace, attempted in the same compass of lines: nay Horace himself could scarce have done it to a Greek poet: Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio: either perspicuity or gracefulness will frequently be wanting. Horace has, indeed, avoided both these rocks in his translation of the three first lines of Homer's Odyssey, which he has contracted into two, But then the sufferings of Ulysses, which are a considerable part of that sentence, are omitted: [Ὃς μάλα πολλὰ πλάὄχθη.] The consideration of these difficulties, in a servile, literal translation, not long since made two of our famous wits, sir John Denham and Mr. Cowley, to contrive another way of turning authors into our tongue, called, by the latter of them, imitation. As they were friends, I suppose they communicated their thoughts on this subject to each other; and, therefore, their reasons for it are little different; though the practice of one is much more moderate. I take imitation of an author, in their sense, to be an endeavour of a later poet to write like one who has written before him on the same subject: that is, not to translate his words, or to be confined to his sense; but only to set him as a pattern, and to write, as he supposes that author would have done, had he lived in our age, and in our country. Yet I dare not say that either of them have carried this libertine way of rendering authors (as Mr. Cowley calls it) so far as my definition reaches. For in the Pindaric Odes, the customs and ceremonies of ancient Greece are still preserved. But I know not what mischief may arise hereafter from the example of such an innovation, when writers of unequal parts to him shall imitate so bold an undertaking. To add and to diminish what we please, which is the way avowed by him, ought only to be granted to Mr. Cowley, and that too only in his translation of Pindar; because he alone was able to make him amends, by giving him better of his own, whenever he refused his author's thoughts. Pindar is generally known to be a dark writer, to want connection, (I mean as to our understanding) to soar out of sight, and leave his reader at a gaze. So wild and ungovernable a poet cannot be translated literally; his genius is too strong to bear a chain, and Samson like he shakes it off. A genius so elevated and unconfined as Mr. Cowley's was but necessary to make Pindar speak English, and that was to be performed by no other way than imitation, But if Virgil, or Ovid, or any regular intelligible authors, be thus used, it is no longer to be called their work, when neither the thoughts nor words are drawn from the original; but instead of them there is something new produced, which is almost the creation of another hand. By this way, it is true, somewhat that is excellent may be invented, perhaps more excellent than the first design; though Virgil must be still excepted, when that perhaps takes place. Yet he who is inquisitive to know an author's thoughts will be disappointed in his expectation. And it is not always that a man will be contented to have a present made him, when he expects the payment of a debt. To state it fairly: imitation of an author is the most advantageous way for a translator to show himself, but the greatest wrong which can be done to the memory and reputation of the dead. Sir John Denham (who advised more liberty than he took himself) gives his reason for his innovation, in his admirable preface before the translation of the second Æneid. "Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that, in pouring out of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and, if a new spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a caput mortuum." I confess this argument holds good against a literal translation: but who defends it? Imitation and verbal version are in my opinion the two extremes, which ought to be avoided: and therefore, when I have proposed the mean betwixt them, it will be seen how far his argument will reach. No man is capable of translating poetry, who, besides a genius to that art, is not a master both of his author's language and of his own; nor must we understand the language only of the poet, but his particular turn of thoughts and expression, which are the characters that distinguish, and as it were individuate, him from all other writers. When we are come thus far, it is time to look into ourselves, to conform our genius to his, to give his thought either the same turn, if our tongue will bear it, or, if not, to vary but the dress, not to alter or destroy the substance. The like care must be taken of the more outward ornaments, the words. When they appear (which is but seldom) literally graceful, it were an injury to the author that they should be changed: but since every language is so full of its own proprieties, that what is beautiful in one, is often barbarous, nay sometimes nonsense in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a translator to the narrow compass of his author's words. It is enough if he choose out some expression which does not vitiate the sense. I suppose he may stretch his chain to such a latitude; but, by innovation of thoughts, methinks, he breaks it. By this means the spirit of an author may be transfused, and yet not lost: and thus it is plain, that the reason alleged by sir John Denham has no farther force than to expression: for thought, if it be translated truly, cannot be lost in another language; but the words that convey it to our apprehension (which are the image and ornament of that thought) may be so ill chosen, as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native lustre. There is, therefore, a liberty to be allowed for the expression; neither is it necessary that words and lines should be confined to the measure of their original. The sense of an author, generally speaking, is to be sacred and inviolable. If the fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, it is his character to be so; and if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replied, that he receives advantage by this lopping of his superfluous branches; but I rejoin, that a translator has no such right. When a painter copies from the life, I suppose he has no privilege to alter features and lineaments, under pretence that his picture will look better: perhaps the face which he has drawn would be more exact, if the eyes or nose were altered; but it is his business to make it resemble the original. In two cases only there may a seeming difficulty arise; that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial or dishonest: but the same answer will serve for both, that then they ought not to be translated: Et quæ Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas. Thus I have ventured to give my opinion on this subject against the authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their memories; for I both loved them living, and reverence them now they are dead. But if, after what I have urged, it be thought by better judges, that the praise of a translation consists in adding new beauties to the piece, thereby to recompense the loss which it sustains by change of language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time, it seems to me, that the true reason, why we have so few versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close pursuing of the author's sense; but because there are so few, who have all the talents which are requisite for translation, and that there is so little praise, and so small encouragement, for so considerable a part of learning, CANACE TO MACAREUS. EPIST. XI. THE ARGUMENT. Macareus and Canace, son and daughter to Æolus, god of the winds, loved each other incestuously: Canace was delivered of a son, and committed him to her nurse, to be secretly conveyed away. The infant crying out, by that means was discovered to Eolus, who, enraged at the wickedness of his children, commanded the babe to be exposed to wild beasts on the mountains; and withal, sent a sword to Canace, with this message, That her crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this sword she slew herself: but before she died, she writ the following letter to her brother Macareus, who had taken sanctuary in the temple of Apollo. Ir streaming blood my fatal letter stain, Think in this posture thou behold'st me write : O! were he present, that his eyes and hands Than all the raging winds more dreadful, he, The North and South, and each contending blast, Are underneath his wide dominion cast: My cheeks no longer did their colour boast, I knew not from my love these griefs did grow, great. But now my swelling womb heav'd up my breast, To that unhappy fortune was I come, Pain urg'd my clamours, but fear kept me dumb. love. [life; The babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn, High in his hall, rock'd in a chair of state, And, muttering prayers, as holy rites she meant, They flow'd; my tongue was frozen up with fears. His little grand-child he commands away, word His, trembling hands presented me a sword): How could thy infant innocence offend? And faithfully my last desires fulfil, HELEN TO PARIS. EPIST. XVII. THE ARGUMENT. Helen, having received an epistle from Paris, returns the following answer: wherein she seems at first to chide him for his presumption in writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion of her virtue; then owns herself to be sensible of the passion, which he had expressed for her, though she much suspected his constancy; and at last discovers her inclination to be favourable to him: the whole letter showing the extreme artifice of womankind. WHEN loose epistles violate chaste eyes, She half consents, who silently denies. How dares a stranger, with designs so vain, Marriage and hospitable rights prophane ? Was it for this, your fleet did shelter find From swelling seas, and every faithless wind? (For though a distant country brought you forth, Your usage here was equal to your worth.) Does this deserve to be rewarded so? Did you come here a stranger or a foe? Your partial judgment may perhaps complain, And think me barbarous for my just disdain. Iil-bred then let me be, but not unchaste, Nor my clear fame with any spot defac'd. Though in my face there's no affected frown, Nor in my carriage a feign'd niceness shown, I keep my honour still without a stain, Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain. Your boldness I with admiration see; What hope had you to gain a queen like me? Because a hero forc'd me once away, Am I thought fit to be a second prey? Had I been won, I had deserv'd your blame, But sure my part was nothing but the shaine. Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear, I'scap'd unhurt by any thing but fear. Rude force might some unwilling kisses gain; But that was all he ever could obtain. You on such terms would ne'er have let me go; Were he like you, we had not parted so. Untouch'd the youth restor❜d me to my friends, And modest usage made me some amends. 'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed. Did he repent, that Paris might succeed? Sure 'tis some Fate that sets me above wrongs, Yet still exposes me to busy tongues. I'll not complain; for who's displeas'd with love, If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove? But that I fear; not that I think you base, Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face; But all your sex is subject to deceive, And ours, alas, too willing to believe. Yet others yield, and love o'ercomes the best: But why should I not shine above the rest? Fair Leda's story seems at first to be A fit example ready form'd for me. But she was cozen'd by a borrow'd shape, And under harmless feathers felt a rape. If I should yield, what reason could I use? By what mistake the loving crime excuse? Her fault was in her powerful lover lost; But of what Jupiter have I to boast? |