Letter 22
Mr. Pope and Some Other Famous Poets
I intended to treat of Mr. Prior, one of the most amiable English poets, whom you saw Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary at Paris in 1712. I also designed to have given you some idea of the Lord Roscommon’s and the Lord Dorset’s muse; but I find that to do this I should be obliged to write a large volume, and that, after much pains and trouble, you would have but an imperfect idea of all those works. Poetry is a kind of music in which a man should have some knowledge before he pretends to judge of it. When I give you a translation of some passages from those foreign poets, I only prick down, and that imperfectly, their music; but then I cannot express the taste of their harmony.
I intended to discuss Mr. Prior, one of the most charming English poets. You saw him in Paris in 1712 as Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary. I also planned to give you some idea of the poetry of Lord Roscommon and Lord Dorset. But I find I would have to write a large volume to do so. Even after much effort and trouble, you would have only an imperfect idea of all those works. Poetry is a kind of music, and a person should know something about poetry before claiming to judge it. When I translate some passages from those foreign poets for you, I merely write down their music, and imperfectly. But I cannot convey the flavor of their harmony.
There is one English poem especially which I should despair of ever making you understand, the title whereof is “Hudibras.” The subject of it is the Civil War in the time of the grand rebellion, and the principles and practice of the Puritans are therein ridiculed. It is Don Quixote, it is our “Satire Menippée” blended together. I never found so much wit in one single book as in that, which at the same time is the most difficult to be translated. Who would believe that a work which paints in such lively and natural colours the several foibles and follies of mankind, and where we meet with more sentiments 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.
There is one English poem I would despair of ever making you understand. Its title is “Hudibras.” Its subject is the Civil War during the great rebellion, and it ridicules the Puritans’ principles and practices. It is Don Quixote and our “Satire Menippée” blended together. I have never found so much wit in a single book. Yet no book is harder to translate. Who would believe that such a vivid, natural portrait of human weaknesses and follies could defeat the best translator? The book seems to contain more ideas than words. But the reason is that almost every passage refers to specific events. The clergy are its main target, but few outside the clergy understand the ridicule. Explaining the jokes would require a commentary, and humour, once explained, is no longer humour. Anyone who sets out to explain witty sayings and sharp replies is himself a blockhead. For the same reason, the works of the brilliant Dean Swift will never be well understood in France. Swift has been called the English Rabelais. Like Rabelais, this gentleman has the honour of being a priest, and, like him, he laughs at everything. But in my humble opinion, calling the dean the English Rabelais is a serious insult to his genius. Rabelais scattered wonderfully lively flashes of humour throughout his bizarrely fantastical and incomprehensible book. But the book contains an even greater share of pointless nonsense. He poured out vast amounts of scholarly learning, obscenity, and dull mockery. To get an entertaining two-page story, the reader must pay with whole volumes of nonsense. Only a few people, all with peculiar tastes, claim to understand and admire his work. The rest of the nation laughs at Rabelais’s amusing passages and despises his book. He is regarded as the prince of buffoons. Readers are annoyed that a man with so much wit should have used it so badly. He is a drunken philosopher who never wrote except when he was drunk.
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.
Dean Swift is Rabelais in his right mind, keeping company with the most refined people. Swift is indeed less merry than Rabelais. But he has all the subtlety, precision, selectiveness, and good taste that our giggling country Vicar Rabelais lacks. Dean Swift’s verse has a distinctive and almost inimitable style. True humor, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his special talent. But anyone who wants to understand him fully must visit the island where 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.
You will find it much easier to get a sense of Mr. Pope’s works. In my opinion, he is the most elegant and precise poet England has ever produced. His verse is also the most musical, a quality that brings great credit to his poetry. He has softened the harsh sounds of the English trumpet into the gentle tones of the flute. His works can be translated easily because they are so clear and easy to understand. Besides, most of his subjects are universal and relevant to all nations.
His “Essay on Criticism” will soon be known in France by the translation which l’Abbé de Resnel has made of it.
His “Essay on Criticism” will soon be known in France through l’Abbé de Resnel’s translation.
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:—
Here is an extract from his poem “Rape of the Lock,” which I have just translated with my usual freedom. For, as I have said before, nothing is more ridiculous than translating a poet literally:
“Umbriel, à l’instant, vieil gnome rechigné, Va d’une aîle pesante et d’un air renfrogné Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde, Où loin des doux raïons que répand l’œil du monde La Déesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son séjour, Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent à l’entour, Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine. Sur un riche sofa derrière un paravent Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent, La quinteuse déesse incessamment repose, Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause. N’aiant pensé jamais, l’esprit toujours troublé, L’œil chargé, le teint pâle, et l’hypocondre enflé. La médisante Envie, est assise auprès d’elle, Vieil spectre féminin, décrépite pucelle, Avec un air devot déchirant son prochain, Et chansonnant les Gens l’Evangile à la main. Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchée Une jeune beauté non loin d’elle est couchée, C’est l’Affectation qui grassaïe en parlant, Écoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant. Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie, De cent maux différens prétend qu’elle est la proïe; Et pleine de santé sous le rouge et le fard, Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art.” “Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. Here, in a grotto, sheltered close from air, And screened in shades from day’s detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head, Two handmaids wait the throne. Alike in place, But differing far in figure and in face, Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed; With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons. There Affectation, with a sickly mien, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride; On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Wrapt in a gown, for sickness and for show.”
“Umbriel, a grumpy old gnome, immediately flies off on heavy wings, scowling and muttering. He seeks the deep cave where the Déesse aux Vapeurs, the goddess of nervous ailments, has made her home. She lives far from the gentle rays of the sun, the world’s eye. The gloomy north winds whistle around her cave. Their unhealthy, dry breath spreads fever and migraine through the surrounding area. Behind a screen, on a luxurious sofa, the moody goddess rests without cease. She keeps far from lights, noise, talkers, and wind. Her heart is heavy with sorrow, though she does not know why. She has never thought, yet her mind is always troubled. Her eyes are heavy, her face pale, and her upper belly swollen. Slanderous Envie sits beside her, an old female ghost, a decrepit unmarried woman. With a devout expression, she tears her neighbors apart. She mocks people in songs while holding the Gospel in her hand. Nearby, a young beauty reclines carelessly on a bed of flowers. She is Affectation, who speaks with an affected lisp, listens without understanding, and turns every glance into a flirtation. She blushes without modesty and laughs at everything without joy. She claims to suffer from a hundred different ailments. Yet beneath her rouge and makeup, she is perfectly healthy. She complains languidly and faints with practiced skill.” “Umbriel was as dark and gloomy a spirit as ever spoiled the fair face of daylight. He descends into the earth’s center, his natural home, to search for the gloomy cave of Spleen. The gnome flies swiftly on his soot-black wings and reaches the dismal chamber in a cloud of vapor. No pleasant breeze reaches this dreary region. The dreaded east wind is the only wind that blows. Here, in a cave sheltered from the air and screened from the hated glare of daylight, Spleen sighs forever. She lies on her sorrowful bed, with Pain beside her and Megrim, the migraine, at her head. Two attendants wait on her throne. They hold equal rank but differ greatly in figure and face. Here stands Ill-nature, like an old unmarried woman, her wrinkled body dressed in black and white. Her hand holds a store of prayers for morning, night, and noon. Her heart is full of vicious satires. There stands Affectation, looking sickly, though her cheeks have the rosy bloom of eighteen. She has practiced her lisp and the coy tilt of her head. She faints theatrically and droops with pride. She sinks onto the rich quilt with a sorrow that suits her looks. Her gown is meant both for sickness and for display.”
This extract, in the original (not in the faint translation I have given you of it), may be compared to the description of la Molesse (softness or effeminacy), in Boileau’s “Lutrin.”
I mean this passage in the original, not the weak translation I have given you. The original may be compared to the description of la Molesse (softness or effeminacy) in Boileau’s “Lutrin.”
Methinks I now have given you specimens enough from the English poets. I have made some transient mention of their philosophers, but as for good historians among them, I don’t know of any; and, indeed, a Frenchman was forced to write their history. Possibly the English genius, which is either languid or impetuous, has not yet acquired that unaffected eloquence, that plain but majestic air which history requires. Possibly too, the spirit of party which exhibits objects in a dim and confused light may have sunk the credit of their historians. One half of the nation is always at variance with the other half. I have met with people who assured me that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward, and that Mr. Pope was a fool; just as some Jesuits in France declare Pascal to have been a man of little or no genius, and some Jansenists affirm Father Bourdaloüe to have been a mere babbler. The Jacobites consider Mary Queen of Scots as a pious heroine, but those of an opposite party look upon her as a prostitute, an adulteress, a murderer. Thus the English have memorials of the several reigns, but no such thing as a history. There is, indeed, now living, one Mr. Gordon (the public are obliged to him for a translation of Tacitus), who is very capable of writing the history of his own country, but Rapin de Thoyras got the start of him. To conclude, in my opinion the English have not such good historians as the French have no such thing as a real tragedy, have several delightful comedies, some wonderful passages in certain of their poems, and boast of philosophers that are worthy of instructing mankind. The English have reaped very great benefit from the writers of our nation, and therefore we ought (since they have not scrupled to be in our debt) to borrow from them. Both the English and we came after the Italians, who have been our instructors in all the arts, and whom we have surpassed in some. I cannot determine which of the three nations ought to be honoured with the palm; but happy the writer who could display their various merits.
I think I have now given you enough examples from the English poets. I have briefly mentioned their philosophers, but I know of no good historians among them. Indeed, a Frenchman had to write their history. Perhaps the English genius, either sluggish or headlong, has not yet developed the natural eloquence that history requires. History calls for a plain yet majestic style. Perhaps, too, partisan feeling, which casts everything in a dim and confused light, has undermined their historians’ credibility. One half of the nation is always at odds with the other half. I have met people who assured me that the Duke of Marlborough was a coward and Mr. Pope a fool. Just so, some Jesuits in France declare that Pascal had little or no genius. And some Jansenists claim that Father Bourdaloüe was nothing but a babbler. The Jacobites regard Mary Queen of Scots as a devout heroine. But the opposing party sees her as a prostitute, an adulteress, and a murderer. So the English have accounts of individual reigns, but nothing that amounts to a history. There is, however, a Mr. Gordon, still living, who is quite capable of writing his own country’s history. The public owes him thanks for a translation of Tacitus. But Rapin de Thoyras beat him to the task. To conclude, I think the English lack historians as good as the French and have no true tragedy. They have several delightful comedies and some wonderful passages in certain poems. And they can boast of philosophers worthy of teaching humanity. The English have benefited greatly from our nation’s writers. Since they have not hesitated to owe us a debt, we should therefore borrow from them. Both the English and we followed the Italians, who taught us all the arts. We have surpassed the Italians in some of those arts. I cannot decide which of the three nations deserves first prize. But fortunate is the writer who could show the different merits of all three.