It is by no means my design to swell the volume, or detain the
reader from the pleasure he may reasonably expect in the perusal of
this work: I say _reasonably_, because the author is a writer of great
reputation. My sole intention is to give a concise account of my
conduct in the execution of this arduous task; and to anticipate such
accusations as may naturally be expected from some readers: I mean
those who are but imperfectly acquainted with the French language, or
who happen to entertain improper ideas of translation in general.
If I had chosen to preserve the original title, it would have stood
thus: _Julia, or the New Eloisa_, in the general title-page; and in
the particular one, _Letters of two Lovers, inhabitants of a small
village at the foot of the Alps, collected and published,_ &c.
Whatever objection I might have to this title, upon the whole, my
principal reason for preferring the name of Eloisa to that of Julia,
was, because the public seemed unanimous in distinguishing the work by
the former rather than the latter, and I was the more easily
determined, as it was a matter of no importance to the reader.
The English nobleman who acts a considerable part in this romance, is
called in the original, Lord Bomston, which I suppose Mr. Rousseau
thought to be an English name, or at least very like one. It may
possibly sound well enough in the ears of a Frenchman; but I believe
the English reader will not be offended with me for having substituted
that of Lord B---- in its room. It is amazing that the French
novelists should be as ignorant of our common names, and the titles of
our nobility, as they are of our manners. They seldom mention our
country, or attempt to introduce an English character, without
exposing themselves to our ridicule. I have seen one of their
celebrated romances, in which a British nobleman, called the Duke of
_Workinsheton_, is a principal personage; and another, in which the
one identical lover of the heroine is sometimes a Duke, sometimes an
Earl, and sometimes a simple Baronet; _Catombridge_ is, with them, an
English city: and yet they endeavour to impose upon their readers by
pretending that their novels are translations from the English.
With regard to this _Chef d’oeuvre_ of Mr. Rousseau, it was received
with uncommon avidity in France, Italy, Germany, Holland, and, in
short, through every part of the Continent where the French language
is understood. In England, besides a very considerable number first
imported, it has been already twice reprinted; but how much soever the
world might be delighted with the original, I found it to be the
general opinion of my countrymen, that it was one of those books which
could not possibly be translated with any tolerable degree of justice
to the author: and this general opinion, I own, was my chief motive
for undertaking the work.
There are, in this great city, a considerable number of industrious
labourers, who maintain themselves, and perhaps a numerous family, by
writing for the booksellers, by whom they are ranged in separate
classes, according to their different abilities; and the very lowest
class of all, is that of _Translators_. Now it cannot be supposed that
such poor wretches as are deemed incapable of better employment, can
be perfectly acquainted either with their own or with any other
language: besides, were they ever so well qualified, it becomes their
duty to execute as much work, in as little time, as possible; for, at
all events, their children must have bread: therefore it were
unreasonable to expect that they should spend their precious moments
in poring over a difficult sentence in order to render their version
the more elegant. This I take to be the true reason why our
translations from the French are, in general, so extremely bad.
I confess, the idioms of the two languages are very different, and
therefore that it will, in some instances, be impossible to reach the
sublime delicacy of expression in an elegant French writer; but in
return, their language is frequently so vague and diffuse, that it
must be entirely the fault of the English translator if he does not
often improve upon his original; but this will never be the case,
unless we sit down with a design to translate the _ideas_ rather than
the _words_ of our author.
Most of the translations which I have read, appear like a thin gauze
spread over the original: the French language appears through every
paragraph; but it is entirely owing to the want of bread, the want of
attention, or want of ability in the translator. Mr. Pope, and some
few others, have shewn the world, that not only the ideas of the most
sublime writers may be accurately expressed in a translation, but that
it is possible to improve and adorn them with beauties peculiar to the
English language.
If in the following pages, the reader expects to find a servile,
literal, translation, he will be mistaken. I never could, and never
will, copy the failings of my author, be his reputation ever so great,
in those instances where they evidently proceed from want of
attention. Mr. Rousseau writes with great ease and elegance, but he
sometimes wants propriety of thought, and accuracy of expression.
As to the real merit of this performance, the universal approbation it
has met with is a stronger recommendation than any thing I could say
in its praise.