Letters on England [40]
You
remember that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most
tender piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage, and that the
poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that she dies very
unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, two grave-
diggers make a grave, and are all the time drinking, singing
ballads, and making humorous reflections (natural indeed enough to
persons of their profession) on the several skulls they throw up
with their spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is,
that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the reign of
King Charles II., which was that of politeness, and the Golden Age
of the liberal arts; Otway, in his Venice Preserved, introduces
Antonio the senator, and Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the
horrors of the Marquis of Bedemar's conspiracy. Antonio, the
superannuated senator plays, in his mistress's presence, all the
apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite frantic and
out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog, and bites his
mistress's legs, who kicks and whips him. However, the players have
struck these buffooneries (which indeed were calculated merely for
the dregs of the people) out of Otway's tragedy; but they have still
left in Shakspeare's Julius Caesar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers
and cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus and
Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those who have
hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage, and especially on
the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken notice only of his errors; and
that no one has translated any of those strong, those forcible
passages which atone for all his faults. But to this I will answer,
that nothing is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly
impertinences which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a
very difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior
academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent writers,
compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages which display some of
the beauties of great geniuses, are of infinitely more value than
all the idle rhapsodies of those commentators; and I will join in
opinion with all persons of good taste in declaring, that greater
advantage may be reaped from a dozen verses of Homer of Virgil, than
from all the critiques put together which have been made on those
two great poets.
I have ventured to translate some passages of the most celebrated
English poets, and shall now give you one from Shakspeare. Pardon
the blemishes of the translation for the sake of the original; and
remember always that when you see a version, you see merely a faint
print of a beautiful picture. I have made choice of part of the
celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as
follows:-
"To be, or not to be? that is the question!
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die! to sleep!
No more! and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to! 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die! to sleep!
To sleep; perchance to dream! O, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the poor man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles
remember that in the tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice, a most
tender piece, a man strangles his wife on the stage, and that the
poor woman, whilst she is strangling, cries aloud that she dies very
unjustly. You know that in Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, two grave-
diggers make a grave, and are all the time drinking, singing
ballads, and making humorous reflections (natural indeed enough to
persons of their profession) on the several skulls they throw up
with their spades; but a circumstance which will surprise you is,
that this ridiculous incident has been imitated. In the reign of
King Charles II., which was that of politeness, and the Golden Age
of the liberal arts; Otway, in his Venice Preserved, introduces
Antonio the senator, and Naki, his courtesan, in the midst of the
horrors of the Marquis of Bedemar's conspiracy. Antonio, the
superannuated senator plays, in his mistress's presence, all the
apish tricks of a lewd, impotent debauchee, who is quite frantic and
out of his senses. He mimics a bull and a dog, and bites his
mistress's legs, who kicks and whips him. However, the players have
struck these buffooneries (which indeed were calculated merely for
the dregs of the people) out of Otway's tragedy; but they have still
left in Shakspeare's Julius Caesar the jokes of the Roman shoemakers
and cobblers, who are introduced in the same scene with Brutus and
Cassius. You will undoubtedly complain, that those who have
hitherto discoursed with you on the English stage, and especially on
the celebrated Shakspeare, have taken notice only of his errors; and
that no one has translated any of those strong, those forcible
passages which atone for all his faults. But to this I will answer,
that nothing is easier than to exhibit in prose all the silly
impertinences which a poet may have thrown out; but that it is a
very difficult task to translate his fine verses. All your junior
academical sophs, who set up for censors of the eminent writers,
compile whole volumes; but methinks two pages which display some of
the beauties of great geniuses, are of infinitely more value than
all the idle rhapsodies of those commentators; and I will join in
opinion with all persons of good taste in declaring, that greater
advantage may be reaped from a dozen verses of Homer of Virgil, than
from all the critiques put together which have been made on those
two great poets.
I have ventured to translate some passages of the most celebrated
English poets, and shall now give you one from Shakspeare. Pardon
the blemishes of the translation for the sake of the original; and
remember always that when you see a version, you see merely a faint
print of a beautiful picture. I have made choice of part of the
celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, which you may remember is as
follows:-
"To be, or not to be? that is the question!
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die! to sleep!
No more! and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to! 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die! to sleep!
To sleep; perchance to dream! O, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the poor man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Who would fardels bear
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles