princely in the mind. In what then consists this peculiar difficulty of translation? Not in its concerns with the genius or the judgement separately; not in its claims upon the imagination, or its exercise of the memory; but in that equal tribute it exacts from all the powers of the intellect, in that poise and equilibrium of the faculties it requires, which holds them all in reciprocal dependence; in its calls for genius, but genius yoked to discretion; in its calls for prudence, but prudence informed with vivacity; in that rigour of its demands, which requires an assemblage of qualities, that rarely conspire, which requires ambition with moderate pretensions, emulation without the wish to surpass, freedom tempered with reserve, and spirit exercised to forbearance.

This speculative difficulty of translation has produced those defects in practice, which might have reasonably been expected. In its earlier efforts, we behold a tameness and servility which disappoint us of all the genius of the original; by its idolatrous adherence to forms and symbols, it lost sight of the true objects of its adoration-the spirit and divinity itself. Of this character are the attempts of Ben Jonson, Hobbes, Holiday, and others. Then followed a crowd of slovenly translators, whose pride seemed to consist in familiarising their originals, by coarse and ordinary expressions, content with a loose display of their meaning, without caring about the quality of the medium through which their sense was conveyed. Such are the versions of Echard and Estrange, whose productions may be studied with advantage by those whose business is with the vulgar combinations of the language, with sordid witticisms and proverbial buffoonery. In the cohort of licen tious translators who followed, and who may justly

be said to be above their profession, Dryden appears

at their head,

by merit rais'd

To that bad eminence.

Franchised by nature, and endued with that grace of manner by which some men are privileged above rules, he felt that he could adventure in poetry beyond any other writer of his age. Unhappily he carried this habitual carelessness into the province of translation, where it could not but work considerable mischief, and overthrow the very principle and purpose of his labours; where it was a breach of literary trust, and a violation of that faith to which he pledged himself by the undertaking. He complains, indeed, of the insufficiency of our language, which was unable to supply what the original exacted in the grace and splendour of diction; and repines at the difficulty which grew upon him, of making new words and phrases, to correspond with the unwearied variety of his author's language: but this plea, which is doubtful as far as it goes, can never excuse his violations of that first and fundamental law of his original, which enjoined a chaste severity, and an uniform elevation of style.

I do not know how a man can reasonably complain, with the Paradise Lost in his hands, of the want of strength, or variety, or majesty, in our language. We have words in abundance for high and low occasions, for grave and mirthful topics: a wardrobe furnished for every character, whether we act the prince or the mountebank, the hero or the harlequin. Yet, true as this observation may be, of the language in general, it is a misfortune inherent in translation, that no language can furnish, for every particular phrase, a phrase of corresponding

dignity; for every particular word, a word of similar energy. Some sentences must unavoidably lose a proportion of their value, for the want of adequate expressions; and the force of a passage must frequently be reduced by words of inferior sound. But where there is a prevailing character in the original, whatever that character may be, such is the versatile capability of our language, that the English trans lator is inexcusable if he fail in the ultimate resem1 blance, and lose sight of the leading excellence, of his model.

Languages are not always in unison, and their chords will not always afford corresponding effects of sound; an irremediable defect attached to translation, in respect to single words, which no arts of combination can supply, and no subsequent compensations redeem. When the harassed army of the Greeks, under the conduct of Xenophon, after innumerable sufferings and fatigues, had gained the heights of the Carduchan mountains, the sea, suddenly bursting upon their view, gave them a prospect of their homes, and, in a moment, filled their hearts with a thousand tender hopes and recollections; they saw before them the sweet reward of all their toils; and already their fancies regaled them with the joyful congratulations of their wives, and the lisping welcomes of their children: “ θαλατία! θαλατία !” broke involuntarily from the lips of those who were foremost, and the sound ran increasing from the van of the army; presently those who were behind took it up, till at length it spread from battalion to battalion, till it reached the ears of Xenophon, who was bringing up the rear of his troops. Now what sort of figure will the words, "the sea! the sea!" make in place of “ θαλατία ! θαλατία!” Not all the echoes of a thousand hills, or the union of a million of voices,

could give it an equal effect; and here we must confess, that there is no force of mind in the translator, which can compensate for the defect in his language.

But, as certain words, in certain languages, have sounds which cannot be imitated, so have they meanings which cannot be transplanted. If any man of knowledge and research, equal to the undertaking, were to set himself the task of collecting those words, in different languages, which are most untranslatable into others; the adoption of such words, instead of the multiplication of our synonimous terms, might be a real accession of literary wealth, and, by saving the necessity of circumlocutions, would bring with it very material advantages in respect to brevity of phrase, and simplicity of expression. In the course of such an inquiry, he would often fall upon very pleasing discoveries of the strong connection between language and manners, and might discern, through this medium, many of the distinguishing features of ancient and modern times. Thus sentiment" is a word of modern origin, and explains in a manner, by its date, an effect of the Gothic institutions of chivalry. In the Latin word "orbitas," for which we can find no corresponding term, we perceive some intimation of the consequence and immunities which were gained among the Romans by a numerous progeny. The complexional peculiarities of the English have produced a variety of appropriate words, such as "comfortable," humour," and a hundred others; of which quality are, "appétissant,"-" piquant,'" 66 naïveté,"- -" ennui," in the French.

But it is not in single words only, that one language bids defiance to another; they are as often irreconcileable in their combinations; and there are sentiments in every language which can neither be

literally nor virtually translated. That accidental force which is communicated to words by those circumstances and incidents, those trivial localities which leave their impressions on a language long after they expire themselves, impart also to certain phrases an untranslatable quality, an essential inherent virtue, which baffles imitation. Thus, in some writers, who are most intimately acquainted with the secret resources of their language, we observe a delicacy which will not bear removal, a vivacity which dies in the handling, a charm which fades with exposure. This is that curiosa felicitas by which Horace is distinguished above other writers, and which adheres to the language as a painting to its canvas. Who can express, in other words, the "strenua inertia,” the “facili sævitia," the "simplex munditiis,” and a hundred other phrases of that most exquisite poet? They are among the arα signμɛva, once said and never to be said again,

It is flattering to our natures to find excuses for human failures, and to lodge the blame rather with the instruments with which we work, than with ourselves. In the business of translation, we are sure that no perfection of intellect can remedy or supply the deficiencies of language; yet, in the specimens which our country's literature exhibits, we perceive a sufficient number of errors, for which no reason can be given, but the false taste, ignorance, or pride of translators. It may be fairly attributed to one of these causes, when we see an author's meaning grossly mistaken, a new dress given to his sentiments, or new sentiments substituted in their place. Thus, I lose my patience, when I see what was meant metaphorically by the author, interpreted literally by his translator; or a thought cast into a metaphor, which was simply intended. This is only warrant