it would be much better, I knew, to avoid it when possible, as it tends to weaken expression. I soon, however, began to experience the difficulty of my task; but not to be put down by trifles, I pursued my undertaking, which at every step grew more and more irksome, as the poetic ardour, and pleasing novelty, gradually wore away. However I succeeded, by dint of downright labour, nay, perfect mill-horse-work, in the completion of seventy-six lines of the original, which I had dilated into eighty of mine. This brought me down to "Le pere des Bourbons du rein des immortels, Resolved no more to yield what I considered the superiority of the English language on the point of conciseness, I laboured for an hour to reduce this to an English couplet, but, alas, in vain; and here my translative muse broke down upon the road, in utter despair of ever getting over the remaining 2000 lines. On casting my eye back on this unfortunate failure, I have ruminated on the causes which might have led to it; still unwilling to tax my own irresolution, or want of perseverance, as the true one. And that cause I think I have found in the difference in the mechanical construction, or framework of the poetry of the two nations. Although there are writers who have contended for the superiority of the English language, in force and beauty, there are few, I believe, who have ever advanced, as a general rule, that our language was so concise, that it could always express as much in ten syllables as the French could in twelve; and yet, until this be attained, the idea of rendering French verse into English, with any of the beauty or force of the original, must be abandoned. The French heroic measure, which is used by them in their tragedies, as well as their other serious poems, and which may be called their only national measure, consists of six feet, whereas that of the English consists of only five. And when we consider how necessary it is in poetry, that the sound and sense should act together, to produce any brilliant effect; and how much that sound, especially in English metrical verse, should answer to the couplet, we need not, I think, seek further for a cause of my own failure, and for the absence of English metrical translations of the French poets. This cause, which operates against our translations, has a contrary effect in favour of the French, and accordingly we find that most of our celebrated poets have been translated by the French; Milton's Paradise Lost, and Young's Night's Thoughts, have both had this honour, and even Shakspeare has been burlesqued by them. But as an English translation must ever bear the marks of a compression or contraction, so, on the other hand, a French one must savour of diffuseness; and, indeed, what can be more tame, than the translation of that fine opening of Satan's address to the sun, in the Paradise Lost! O thou that with surpassing glory crown'd, Toi dont le front brillant fait pâlir les étoiles : The latter is mere milk-and-water to the cream of the former. And although there are but six lines of the French, and seven of the English, yet it will easily be observed how this is managed, when only half the substance of the original is in fact, translated. Never were two languages, I believe, less adapted for translation, the one from the other, than the French and English; they are even more at variance than the manners of the people, of whose characteristics they seem to bear strong marks. The one is bold and vigorous, the other weak and effeminate; while the coarseness of the former is opposed by the smoothness of the latter. Nature seems to have marked these nations for eternal opposition; and wars and customs have cemented the bonds of enmity. May civilization and liberality polish away the rust of prejudice and national jealousy, but which, I fear, is doomed to continue until the nations themselves shall be laid "Beneath the lumber of demolished worlds." How a translation of the Henriade into English blank verse might answer, I have some doubts-not so much from the difficulty of the task, or the nature of the verse, but from the nature of the public before whom it must appear, and the difficulty of finding readers who would honour any epic poem of the present day with any thing beyond a perusal, for the express purpose of condemnation; not doubting but that many would take that liberty without the trouble of perusing it at all. But not intending to enter into the minutiae of the French verse, or to take any enlarged view of translation in general, I believe I have now said all, and perhaps more than I had at first intended, and so take my leave of the subject, with giving my advice to young poets, not to attempt to compress a line of French heroic metre into an English one; and to consider well before they commence a blank verse translation, whether they have plenty of time to spare, and might not apply it to better purposes. EDDA SAXON PURSUITS.* H. THE ancient Saxons placed their chief pleasure in a future life, in active military employments, and the joys of wine and company. "Tell me," says Gangler in the Edda, "how do the heroes divert themselves when they are not drinking?" "Every day, (replies Har,) they take their arms, as soon as they are dressed, and entering the lists, fight till they cut one another in pieces. This is their diversion. But, no sooner does the hour of repast approach, than they remount their steeds all safe and sound, and return to drink in the palace of Odin." Horses are never omitted in the Celtic mythology. Thus Gray: "Up rose the king of men with speed, * Magnet, No 2. p. 21. "Her skill embraces all the cooking art, THE ACCOMPLISHED COOK, Canto 184. My Aunt Martha is a notable housewife. She is continually bustling about; and call when you will, she is always in a fidget. She is a wonderful economist, and so deeply is she read in culinary science, that she is actually in treaty with a bookseller in The Row, for the publishing of a work on Domestic Cookery, which, I have little doubt, will eclipse every other of its kind. Yea, the defunct, but immortal Mrs. Rundell herself, to whom Blackwood has lately assigned the enviable office of chief turnspit the gods, may hide her diminished head, when the collected recipes of my Aunt Martha shall edify the present race, and add new vigour to the rising generation. Then shall the half-pay sub. be taught to feast his hungry family with luxuries, of which, in moments of their greatest longing, they never dreamed. Poor lean authors shall no longer to "Pine on weak tea, thin broth, or pickled herring,” but fatten on sixpence per diem; and half-starved paupers shall club their pence together, and sit down and make them merry. Nor is the genius of my aunt confined to the larder or the kitchen, her economy is universal; it embraces, not only every possible household expenditure, but pervades all her thoughts, words, and actions. Nay, I have even heard it confidently asserted, that nocturnal visions of well-saved eatables are continually flitting before her view when she seeks repose from her daily exertions; and there is, I know, a tradition in our family which says, that my aunt, when a child, wept bitterly for an entire afternoon, not at the diabolical doings of Jack the Giant Killer, or the lamentable history of Little Red Riding-hood, but in consequence of her father's cook having spoiled a fillet of veal by over-roasting it; so early did she feel the ruling passion of her life! She is, in truth, the most saving, bustling little body within the bills of mortality. In summer she rises with the lark; and then, if haply returning from a gay carouse, you should chance to refresh your eyes with a view of Covent Garden market, "Where Flora and Pomona heap their sweets, On many a tempting stall; where early peas, (A morsel sweet, with duck of tender age,) Pay their first visit to the greedy town," you cannot fail to light upon my Aunt Martha. But lest you should, by possibility, mistake her, I shall now, my gentle reader, present her to thy mental vision:-imagine, then, a staid, active, fussy little woman, with a deal of bustle in her gait, and of self-satisfaction in her look. A small black beaver hat, with a broad velvet band, and a cut-steel buckle (a time-out-of-mind concern), adorn her pericranium; and her principal habiliment is a well-saved family relic of the last century, which partakes equally of the ancient mantle and modern pelisse, and was known in the days of hoops and stomachers by the appellation of a blue Joseph (a term, for the derivation of which I am going to submit a query to Mr. Urban, of the Gentleman's Magazine), a coloured silk handkerchief is tied (a la Belcher) around her neck; and a pair of water-proof boots, of serviceable thickness, complete her foraging attire. Thus accoutred, with old Philip at her heels, in his livery of grey, with a basket under one arm, and his mistress's umbrella under the other, she sallies forth to market when the early rays of the sun are slumbering on Saint Paul's cupola, and drowsy watchmen, as they toddle to their homes, cry "past five o'clocka lovely morning." As to matters of an intellectual nature, my aunt never troubles her head about them. Le savoir vivre is her great study. Not that I would have it inferred that she is a disciple of Epicurus, and studies the good things of this world for her own gratification; on the contrary, she is rather abstemious in her personal appetite; and as to expensive dishes, it is one of her standard maxims, that le coût fait perdre et goût, the price destroys the flavour. She despises every science but that of domestic economy, and every book that does not include that topic. She admits, to be sure, that the powers of steam are wonderful in their application; but she thinks that the waste of coal, that exorbitant, but necessary article in modern house-keeping, is by no means commensurate with the utility of the invention. Her objections to gas are of the same nature. Her opinion of the great men of the age, is generally expressed with a view to their domestic habits; and thus she maintains, that Louis of France is the greatest monarch in the universe, because, it is said, he personally inspects the arrangements of the royal kitchens, and combines in his august person the wisdom of a king, and the science of a cook! (Credite posteri!) A certain parliamentary economist has also the good fortune of standing high in my Aunt Martha's estimation: she considers him to be the first statesman of the day, and only second in value to the never-to-be-too-much extolled Count Rumford, whose essays she delights to study. To the poor my aunt is a second Lady Bountiful; and indeed her theories for the feeding of a starving population, leave even those of the Count at an immeasurable distance; what a reduction in the poor-rates would ensue, if ministers were to act according to my aunt's suggestions! Nor does she confine her views to mere theory: twice in the week, at an early hour in the morning, her door is crowded with hungry candidates for the soup of her manufacture. In vain the Mendicity Society have remonstrated againsta practice so much in opposition to the spirit of their institution; she turns a deaf ear to their representations, and seems to despise their threats. Determined in her resolution to do good on her own account, unshackled by the rules of others, she continues to distribute her buckets of broth to those whose necessities shall lead them to her door. But let it not be supposed, that even the commendable spirit, which urges her charitable purpose, has tempted her for a moment to overlook the ruling principle of all her actions-economy. Its spirit is infused into the broth, whose very essence savours of frugality; but, for me to detail the various ingredients of which it is composed, or the process adopted in the production of a beverage at once so cheap and exhilarating, would be a vain and presumptuous task: besides, as the subject of poor broth is ably and amply treated in my aunt's forthcoming system, I should but forestall the surprise and pleasure of the public, were it even in my power to do sufficient justice to this important portion of her work. Another most excellent point in my Aunt Martha's character, is her skill in making a bargain. She can snuff a cheap auction at any given distance; and thither, be it fair or foul, posts the indefatigable spinster. Indeed, her face is as well known amongst salesmen and auctioneers, as that of Mr. Rothschild in Change Alley; and her speculations on household utensils are nearly as extensive as those of the great money-broker in the funds. She fancies she possesses an almost intuitive knowledge of the intrinsic value of every possible commodity, and thus she considers it impracticable for Christian or Jew to over-reach her in a purchase. My own belief in her infallibility, however, was, I own, considerably shaken a short time ago, when chance led me to an auction room, where I discovered my aunt contending with all her wit, to outbid a group of puffers by whom she was surrounded; and, maugre the repeated winks of her dutiful nephew, she was, in my private opinion, most egregiously duped, although she carried off her various purchases with the air of one who had just achieved a victory. In this way her store-rooms are filled with the fruits of her bargain-hunting, and she has actually been obliged to build an out-office for the reception of sundry dozens of chairs and tables, book-cases, looking glasses, old pictures, anda long list of et ceteras too numerous to mention; all which are likely to descend to her next of kin, as the mouldering relics of her economical genius. But I fear, Mr. Merton, you begin to think that I already occupy enough of your valuable paper, I shall therefore take my leave for the present; and, should my Aunt Martha's portrait, unfinished as it is, afford entertainment to your readers, I shall take an early opportunity of presenting you with some more of my family pictures; for, to say the truth, I have descended from a stock of oddities. BEN. BRUSH, THE LAMENT OF OLD AGE. DISTRACT with pain, bow'd down by age, I travel, faint and broken-hearted. Oh! that to spurn this mortal clay To my impatient soul were giv'n! It longs to soar away-away Far as the boundless realms of Heav'n. But ah! on Death I call ip vain : From all my woes, from all my pains, One only hope, one joy remains ;- Φευ. |