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 a la main.
Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchee Une jeune beaute non loin d'elle est couchee,C'est l'Affectation qui grassaie en parlant,Ecoute sans entendre,et lorgne en regardant.
Qui rougit sans pudeur,et rit de tout sans joie,De cent maux differens pretend qu'elle est la proie;Et pleine de sante 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."This extract,in the original (not in the faint translation I have given you of it),may be compared to the deion 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 Bourdaloue 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.
