Literary Notices. 229 walls of every house, from the Bastille to the Madeleine, covered with the marks of musket balls; because I heard in every society of the thousands who had been massacred, and of the tens of thousands who had been déportés. But the untravelled English knew nothing of all this. They accepted his election as the will of the nation; and though they might wonder at your choice, did not presume to blame it." This is about as good an answer to the charge as could be given; but De Tocqueville's reply again has point. "The time at which light broke in upon you is suspicious. Up to the 14th of January, 1858 (the date of the memorable threats towards this country, to which the Volunteer Movement' was our main reply), the oppression under which thirty-four millions of people lay within twenty-four miles of your coast, with whom you are in constant intercourse, was unknown to you. Their ruler insults you, and you instantly discover that he is an usurper and a tyrant. This looks as if the insult, and the insult alone, opened your eyes." De Tocqueville describes the effect upon public opinion of the English mismanagement and misfortunes during the first year of the Crimean War. We believe, however, that they were greatly exaggerated, and the corresponding difficulties of the French army carefully concealed; all that was calculated to depreciate the ally, and by consequence raise the importance of the French in their own eyes was industriously repeated; on which subject we refer our readers to Mr. Kinglake's History of the War. "The English ought to know that what has passed in the Crimea, and is passing there (January, 1855), has sensibly diminished their moral force in Europe. It is an unpleasant truth, but I ought not to conceal it from you. I see proofs of it every day, and I have been struck by it peculiarly in a late visit to Paris, where I saw persons of every rank and of every shade of political opinion. The heroic courage of your soldiers was everywhere and unreservedly praised; but I found also a general belief that the importance of England as a military power had been greatly exaggerated; that she is utterly devoid of military talent, which is shown as much in administration as in fighting; and that even in the most pressing circumstances she cannot raise a large army. Since I was a child I never heard such language. You are believed to be absolutely dependent on us; and in the midst of our intimacy I see rising up a friendly contempt for you, which, if our Governments quarrel, will make a war with you much easier than it has been since the fall of Napoleon. . . . I confess that I saw with great grief the sudden change in the expressions of the majority of the English, a year ago, respecting our Government. It was then ill-consolidated, and in want of the splendid alliance which you offered to it. It was unnecessary that you should praise it in order to keep it your friend. By doing so you sacrificed honourable opinions and tastes without a motive. Now things are changed. After you have lost your only army, and our master has made an alliance with Austria, which suits his feelings much better than yours did, he does not depend on you; you, to a certain extent, depend on him. Such being now the case, I can understand the English thinking it their duty to their country to say nothing that can offend the master of France. I can understand even their praising him; I reproach them only for having done so too soon, before it was necessary." Our last extract is from a remarkable conversation that took place in Paris, between M. de Tocqueville and Mr. Senior, on the 23rd of December, 1851, three weeks, that is to say, after the coup d'état. "How long," I asked, "will this tyranny last?" "It will last," he answered, " until it is unpopular with the mass of the people. At present the disapprobation is confined to the educated classes. We cannot bear to be deprived of the power of speaking or writing. We cannot bear that the fate of France should depend on the selfishness, or the vanity, or the fears, or the caprice of one man, a foreigner by race and by education; and of a set of military ruffians and infamous civilians, fit only to have formed the staff and the privy council of Catiline. We cannot bear that the people which carried the torch of liberty through Europe should now be employed in quenching all its lights. . . . Thirty-seven years of liberty have made a free press and free parliamentary discussion necessaries to us. If Louis Napoleon refuses them, he will be execrated as a tyrant. If he grants them, they must destroy him. We always criticise our rulers severely-often unjustly. It is impossible that so rash and wrong-headed a man, surrounded, and always wishing to be surrounded, by men whose infamous character is their recommendation to him, should not commit blunders and follies without end. They will be exposed, perhaps exaggerated, by the press and by the tribune. As soon as he is discredited, the army will turn against him. It will never support an unpopular despot. I have no fears, therefore, for the ultimate destinies of my country. It seems to me that the Revolution of the 2nd of December is more dangerous to the rest of Europe than to us. That it ought to alarm England much more than France. We shall get rid of Louis Napoleon in a few years, perhaps in a few months; but there is no saying how much mischief he may do in those years, or even in those months, to his neighbours." Certainly M. de Tocqueville did not give the Empire credit by anticipation for an existence of twenty years; but the end he foresaw has arrived. Though political questions occupy the chief place in De Tocqueville's letters and conversations, there is much beside, on literature and general topics, that is extremely interesting. LORD LYTTON'S HORACE. The Odes and Epodes of Horace. A Metrical Translation into English, with Introduction and Commentaries. By Lord Lytton. With Latin Text. New Edition. London: Longmans. 1872. As scholar and poet, Lord Lytton takes high place amongst recent translators of Horace, who form, it need scarcely be said, a very goodly company of literary craftsmen. Though it is doubtless true, in a certain sense, that poetry cannot be translated, such versions as those of the late Mr. Conington, of Mr. Theodore Martin, and of Lord Lytton, will enable the English reader to gain some real insight into the qualities of the best Latin verse. As for Horace, one can hardly say more for his wonderful vitality than that, after all these years, and versions well nigh numberless, it is not labour lost to translate him. He is still the most popular of lyric poets, the friend and favourite not merely of students, but of men of average general culture everywhere, and possesses, if not a throne among the "dii majores," an unchallenged seat among the companions of the library and the fireside. His genius and exquisite skill could not have failed to give high permanent reputation to his writings, but it is the personal qualities of the man, everywhere looking out upon us from his work, that cause the reader to feel something as much like personal affection for him as is possible in the case of one who lived nearly two thousand years ago. And this personal popularity is not difficult to account for. Horace is thoroughly and genially human, and by his frankness seems to say, like Montaigne, "C'est icy un livre de bonne foy, lecteur." Assuredly he is "not too bright or good for human nature's daily food;" but he is full of humour, life, and friendliness. His aspirations are not towards the unattainable, and his likes and dislikes are of the good-natured sensible sort that most people agree with. Still, though essentially good-natured, there is in him a reserve force of indignation; he can be angry when needs be in a key quite beyond men of merely shallow nature, and though claiming often enough to be little better than a trifler, "the idle singer of an empty day," he will now and again, amidst the flow of somewhat average moralising, give utterance to things more spiritual and penetrating than were expected. We know Horace as we know very few authors, ancient or modern, and whom we know so well we cannot help but like. It may be that our friend is not the greatest nor the best of men, but he is at least-our friend; and in literature, as in life, that goes for a good deal. The difficulties of translation, and they are greater and more numerous than those who have not looked into the subject will suppose, reach their height in the case of lyric poetry. Here imperfection of form is fatal. Nothing that may be urged respecting the beauty of the idea will compensate for rough or inferior workmanship. Skill is as requisite as imagination, and the rigorous conditions of style cannot be relaxed. Of Horace it may be said that his style and his inspiration are worthy of each other, if indeed it be a true analysis that distinguishes between them. The qualities of his style are at once the delight and the despair of translators, and make success impossible to any but the most skilled and patient hands. How hard is it, for instance, to do justice to the exquisite felicity of language shown both in the selection and order of words; to avoid amplifying, and so weakening, the terse compactness which only an artist's hand can give to an artist's work; to reproduce in English the elegance or the energy of the Latin; and generally to give, not only the author's meaning, but to give it in the author's way, so as to convey the original impressions to the ear, the taste, and the imagination! And if to all other difficulties that of a shy and subtle metre be added, then indeed must the translator go— "All in quantity, careful of his motion, Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, .... The peculiarity of Lord Lytton's version is the employment of rhymeless metres. "No reasonings, and certainly no examples, in favour of rhymed verse can alter my opinion, formed after long and careful deliberation, that while for the purposes of imitation or paraphrase rhyme may advantageously be employed in selected. specimens of the Odes, it is utterly antagonistic to a faithful translation of them, taken as a whole, whether in substance or in spirit." The only rhymeless metre with which English readers generally are acquainted is the familiar "blank verse," and hence disappointment may be felt by those who fail to accommodate their ear to subtle and unfamiliar metres, such as Lord Lytton uses. A second reading, however, and if it be aloud so much the better, will generally give the reader the metrical key, and put him in a position to judge in some degree of the nature of the experiment. The classical scholar knows how much of musical charm and variety of rhythm may exist without rhyme. The question is, can this be attained in English? Is there any hope of our successfully employing the metres common in Greek and Latin poetry, with such modifications as the genius of our language may demand? Experiments in this direction have been made from time to time with varying success. Amongst the best known is the Ode to Pyrrha, translated by Milton : "What slender youth, bedewed with liquid odours, Pyrrha? for whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden hair?" Most readers of Cowper will have felt the metrical power of those dreadful Sapphics beginning "Hatred and vengeance-my eternal portion Scarce can endure delay of execution Wait with impatient readiness to seize my And again, there is a tender, plaintive music in Charles Lamb's poem : Other examples might be recalled, but these are sufficient to remind the reader that Lord Lytton's attempt is not a new one, though perhaps no one else has given it so exhaustive a trial. What are the prospects of really naturalising this kind of verse among us? Our own opinion is, that the classical metres are not likely, in the full sense of the term, to be naturalised in English literature, yet they may be happily employed upon occasion, more especially in compositions intended for those who have some acquaintance with classical literature. Of the English hexameter, for instance, we generally feel compelled to say, as Jeffrey said of the Excursion, "this will never do;" and yet Mr. Kingsley in his Andromeda, and Mr. Clough in the Bothie of Tober-na-Voilich, have justified the experiment by succeeding. The precise task which Lord Lytton set before himself he has admirably accomplished. His metres are not, of course, reproduction foot by foot of the Horatian metres; they are, so to speak, renderings of them in thoroughly sympathetic manner, according to the capabilities of the English language. Here are two specimens of Alcaics, which we quote as illustrations of metre, at the same time inviting attention to the closeness and felicity of translation. The first is the Ninth Ode of the First Book : "Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum Flumina constiterint acuto," &c. "See how white in the deep-fallen snow stands Soracte! Halting mute in the gripe of the frost. "Thaw the cold; more and more on the hearth heap the fagots- In the great Sabine two-handled jar. "Leave the rest to the gods, who can strike into quiet Till there stir not a leaf on the ash. "Shun to seek what is hid in the womb of the morrow; "While the hoar-frost morose keeps aloof from thy verdure. Each in turn has its own happy hour: "Now for thee the sweet laugh of the girl, which betrays her Or the finger's not obstinate hold." |