Letters on England [49]
than words, should baffle the endeavours of the ablest
translator? But the reason of this is, almost every part of it
alludes to particular incidents. The clergy are there made the
principal object of ridicule, which is understood but by few among
the laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite, and
humour when explained is no longer humour. Whoever sets up for a
commentator of smart sayings and repartees is himself a blockhead.
This is the reason why the works of the ingenious Dean Swift, who
has been called the English Rabelais, will never be well understood
in France. This gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais)
of being a priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in my
humble opinion, the title of the English Rabelais which is given the
dean is highly derogatory to his genius. The former has
interspersed his unaccountably-fantastic and unintelligible book
with the most gay strokes of humour; but which, at the same time,
has a greater proportion of impertinence. He has been vastly lavish
of erudition, of smut, and insipid raillery. An agreeable tale of
two pages is purchased at the expense of whole volumes of nonsense.
There are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste, who
pretend to understand and to esteem this work; for, as to the rest
of the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting touches
which are found in Rabelais and despise his book. He is looked upon
as the prince of buffoons. The readers are vexed to think that a
man who was master of so much wit should have made so wretched a use
of it; he is an intoxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he
was in liquor.
Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequenting the politest
company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the latter, but then
he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the choice, the good
taste, in all which particulars our giggling rural Vicar Rabelais is
wanting. The poetical numbers of Dean Swift are of a singular and
almost inimitable taste; true humour, whether in prose or verse,
seems to be his peculiar talent; but whoever is desirous of
understanding him perfectly must visit the island in which he was
born.
It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr. Pope's works.
He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the most correct poet; and,
at the same time, the most harmonious (a circumstance which redounds
very much to the honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth
to. He has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to the
soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be easily
translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicuous; besides,
most of his subjects are general, and relative to all nations.
His "Essay on Criticism" will soon be known in France by the
translation which l'Abbe de Resnel has made of it.
Here is an extract from his poem entitled the "Rape of the Lock,"
which I just now translated with the latitude I usually take on
these occasions; for, once again, nothing can be more ridiculous
than to translate a poet literally:-
"Umbriel, a l'instant, vieil gnome rechigne,
Va d'une aile pesante et d'un air renfrogne
Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde,
Ou loin des doux raions que repand l'oeil du monde
La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour,
Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a l'entour,
Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine
Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine.
Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent
Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent,
La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose,
Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause.
N'aiant pense jamais, l'esprit toujours trouble,
L'oeil charge, le teint pale, et l'hypocondre enfle.
La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d'elle,
Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle,
Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain,
Et chansonnant les Gens l'Evangile
translator? But the reason of this is, almost every part of it
alludes to particular incidents. The clergy are there made the
principal object of ridicule, which is understood but by few among
the laity. To explain this a commentary would be requisite, and
humour when explained is no longer humour. Whoever sets up for a
commentator of smart sayings and repartees is himself a blockhead.
This is the reason why the works of the ingenious Dean Swift, who
has been called the English Rabelais, will never be well understood
in France. This gentleman has the honour (in common with Rabelais)
of being a priest, and, like him, laughs at everything; but, in my
humble opinion, the title of the English Rabelais which is given the
dean is highly derogatory to his genius. The former has
interspersed his unaccountably-fantastic and unintelligible book
with the most gay strokes of humour; but which, at the same time,
has a greater proportion of impertinence. He has been vastly lavish
of erudition, of smut, and insipid raillery. An agreeable tale of
two pages is purchased at the expense of whole volumes of nonsense.
There are but few persons, and those of a grotesque taste, who
pretend to understand and to esteem this work; for, as to the rest
of the nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting touches
which are found in Rabelais and despise his book. He is looked upon
as the prince of buffoons. The readers are vexed to think that a
man who was master of so much wit should have made so wretched a use
of it; he is an intoxicated philosopher who never wrote but when he
was in liquor.
Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequenting the politest
company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the latter, but then
he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the choice, the good
taste, in all which particulars our giggling rural Vicar Rabelais is
wanting. The poetical numbers of Dean Swift are of a singular and
almost inimitable taste; true humour, whether in prose or verse,
seems to be his peculiar talent; but whoever is desirous of
understanding him perfectly must visit the island in which he was
born.
It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr. Pope's works.
He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the most correct poet; and,
at the same time, the most harmonious (a circumstance which redounds
very much to the honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth
to. He has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to the
soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be easily
translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicuous; besides,
most of his subjects are general, and relative to all nations.
His "Essay on Criticism" will soon be known in France by the
translation which l'Abbe de Resnel has made of it.
Here is an extract from his poem entitled the "Rape of the Lock,"
which I just now translated with the latitude I usually take on
these occasions; for, once again, nothing can be more ridiculous
than to translate a poet literally:-
"Umbriel, a l'instant, vieil gnome rechigne,
Va d'une aile pesante et d'un air renfrogne
Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde,
Ou loin des doux raions que repand l'oeil du monde
La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour,
Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a l'entour,
Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine
Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine.
Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent
Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent,
La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose,
Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause.
N'aiant pense jamais, l'esprit toujours trouble,
L'oeil charge, le teint pale, et l'hypocondre enfle.
La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d'elle,
Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle,
Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain,
Et chansonnant les Gens l'Evangile