and guided his pen. While translations in general could not pretend to
the strength and universality of appeal which belonged to the Bible,
nevertheless taken in the mass and judged only by the comment associated
with them, they suggest a varied public and a surprising contact with
the essential interests of mankind. The appeals on title pages and in
prefaces to all kinds of people, from ladies and gentlemen of rank to
the common and simple sort, not infrequently resemble the calculated
praises of the advertiser, but admitting this, there still remains much
that implies a simple confidence in the response of friendly readers.
Rightly or wrongly, the translator presupposes for himself in many cases
an audience far removed from academic preoccupations. Richard Eden,
translating from the Spanish Martin Cortes' _Arte de Navigar_, says,
"Now therefore this work of the Art of Navigation being published in our
vulgar tongue, you may be assured to have more store of skilful
pilots."[276] Golding's translations of Pomponius Mela and Julius
Solinus Polyhistor are described as, "Right pleasant and profitable for
Gentlemen, Merchants, Mariners, and Travellers."[277] Hellowes, with an
excess of rhetoric which takes from his convincingness, presents
Guevara's _Familiar Epistles_ as teaching "rules for kings to rule,
counselors to counsel, prelates to practise, captains to execute,
soldiers to perform, the married to follow, the prosperous to prosecute,
and the poor in adversity to be comforted, how to write and talk with
all men in all matters at large."[278] Holland's honest simplicity gives
greater weight to a similarly sweeping characterization of Pliny's
_Natural History_ as "not appropriate to the learned only, but
accommodate to the rude peasant of the country; fitted for the painful
artisan in town or city; pertinent to the bodily health of man, woman,
or child; and in one word suiting with all sorts of people living in a
society and commonweal."[279] In the same preface the need for replying
to those who oppose translation leads Holland to insist further on the
practical applicability of his matter. Alternating his own with his
critics' position, he writes: "It is a shame (quoth one) that _Livy_
speaketh English as he doth; Latinists only owe to be acquainted with
him: as who should say the soldier were to have recourse to the
university for military skill and knowledge, or the scholar to put on
arms and pitch a camp. What should _Pliny_ (saith another) be read in
English and the mysteries couched in his books divulged; as if the
husbandman, the mason, carpenter, goldsmith, lapidary, and engraver,
with other artificers, were bound to seek unto great clerks or linguists
for instructions in their several arts." Wilson's translation of
Demosthenes, again, undertaken, it has been said, with a view to rousing
a national resistance against Spain, is described on the title page as
"most needful to be read in these dangerous days of all them that love
their country's liberty."[280]
Naturally enough, however, especially in the case of translations from
the Latin and Greek, the academic interest bulks largely in the
audience, and sometimes makes an unexpected demand for recognition in
the midst of the more practical appeal. Holland's _Pliny_, for example,
addresses itself not only to peasants and artisans but to young
students, who "by the light of the English ... shall be able more
readily to go away with the dark phrase and obscure constructions of the
Latin." Chapman, refusing to be burdened with a popular audience, begins
a preface with the insidious compliment, "I suppose you to be no mere
reader, since you intend to read Homer."[281] On the other hand, the
academic reader, whether student or critic, is, if one accepts the
translator's view, very much on the alert, anxious to confer the English
version with the original, either that he may improve his own knowledge
of the foreign language or that he may pick faults in the new rendering.
Wilson attacks the critics as "drones and no bees, lubbers and no
learners," but the fault he finds in these "croaking paddocks and
manifest overweeners of themselves" is that they are "out of reason
curious judges over the travail and painstaking of others" instead of
being themselves producers.[282] Apparently there was little fear of the
indifference which is more discouraging than hostile criticism, and
though, as is to be expected, it is the hostile criticism that is most
often reflected in prefaces, there must have been much kindly comment
like that of Webbe, who, after discussing the relations of Phaer's
_Virgil_ to the Latin, concludes, "There is not one book among the
twelve which will not yield you most excellent pleasure in conferring
the translation with the copy and marking the gallant grace which our
English speech affordeth."[283]
Such encouragements and incentives are enough to awaken the envy of the
modern translator. But the sixteenth century had also its peculiar
difficulties. The English language was neither so rich in resources nor
so carefully standardized as it has become of later times. It was often
necessary, indeed, to defend it against the charge that it was not equal
to translation. Pettie is driven to reply to those who oppose the use of
the vernacular because "they count it barren, they count it barbarous,
they count it unworthy to be accounted of."[284] Chapman says in his
preface to _Achilles' Shield_: "Some will convey their imperfections
under his Greek shield, and from thence bestow bitter arrows against the
traduction, affirming their want of admiration grows from the defect of
our language, not able to express the copiousness (coppie) and elegancy
of the original." Richard Greenway, who translated the _Annals_ of
Tacitus, admits cautiously that his medium is "perchance not so fit to
set out a piece drawn with so curious a pencil."[285] One cannot,
indeed, help recognizing that as compared with modern English
Elizabethan English was weak in resources, limited in vocabulary, and
somewhat uncertain in sentence structure. These disadvantages probably
account in part for such explanations of the relative difficulty of
translation as that of Nicholas Udall in his plea that translators
should be suitably recompensed or that of John Brende in his preface to
the translation of Quintus Curtius that "in translation a man cannot
always use his own vein, but shall be compelled to tread in the author's
steps, which is a harder and more difficult thing to do, than to walk
his own pace."[286]
Of his difficulties with sentence structure the translator says little,
a fact rather surprising to the modern reader, conscious as he is of the
awkwardness of the Elizabethan sentence. Now and then, however, he hints
at the problems which have arisen in the handling of the Latin period.
Udall writes of his translation of Erasmus: "I have in some places been
driven to use mine own judgment in rendering the true sense of the book,
to speak nothing of a great number of sentences, which by reason of so
many members, or parentheses, or digressions as have come in places, are
so long that unless they had been somewhat divided, they would have been
too hard for an unlearned brain to conceive, much more hard to contain
and keep it still."[287] Adlington, the translator of _The Golden Ass_
of Apuleius, says, "I have not so exactly passed through the author as
to point every sentence exactly as it is in the Latin."[288] A comment
of Foxe on his difficulty in translating contemporary English into Latin
suggests that he at least was conscious of the weakness of the English
sentence as compared with the Latin. Writing to Peter Martyr of his
Latin version of the controversy between Cranmer and Gardiner, he says
of the latter: "In his periods, for the most part, he is so profuse,
that he seems twice to forget himself, rather than to find his end. The
whole phrase hath in effect that structure that consisting for the most
part of relatives, it refuses almost all the grace of translation."[289]
Though the question of sentence structure was not given prominence, the
problem of rectifying deficiencies in vocabulary touched the translator
very nearly. The possibility of augmenting the language was a vital
issue in the reign of Elizabeth, but it had a peculiar significance
where translation was concerned. Here, if anywhere, the need for a large
vocabulary was felt, and in translations many new words first made their
appearance. Sir Thomas Elyot early made the connection between
translation and the movement for increase in vocabulary. In the
_Proheme_ to _The Knowledge which maketh a wise man_ he explains that in
_The Governor_ he intended "to augment the English tongue, whereby men
should ... interpret out of Greek, Latin, or any other tongue into
English."[290] Later in the century Peele praises the translator
Harrington,
... well-letter'd and discreet,
That hath so purely naturalized
Strange words, and made them all free denizens,[291]
and--to go somewhat outside the period--the fourth edition of Bullokar's
_English Expositor_, originally designed to teach "the interpretation of
the hardest words used in our language," is recommended on the ground
that those who know no language but the mother tongue, but "are yet
studiously desirous to read those learned and elegant treatises which
from their native original have been rendered English (of which sort,
thanks to the company of painful translators we have not a few) have
here a volume fit for their purposes, as carefully designed for their
assistance."[292]
Whether, however, the translator should be allowed to add to the
vocabulary and what methods he should employ were questions by no means
easy of settlement. As in Caxton's time, two possible means of acquiring
new words were suggested, naturalization of foreign words and revival of
words from older English sources. Against the first of these methods
there was a good deal of prejudice. Grimald in his preface to his
translation of Cicero's _De Officiis_, protests against the translation
that is "uttered with inkhorn terms and not with usual words." Other
critics are more specific in their condemnation of non-English words.
Puttenham complains that Southern, in translating Ronsard's French
rendering of Pindar's hymns and Anacreon's odes, "doth so impudently rob
the French poet both of his praise and also of his French terms, that I
cannot so much pity him as be angry with him for his injurious dealing,
our said maker not being ashamed to use these French words, _freddon_,
_egar_, _suberbous_, _filanding_, _celest_, _calabrois_, _thebanois_ and
a number of others, which have no manner of conformity with our language
either by custom or derivation which may make them tolerable."[293]
Richard Willes, in his preface to the 1577 edition of Eden's _History of
Travel in the West and East Indies_, says that though English literature
owes a large debt to Eden, still "many of his English words cannot be
excused in my opinion for smelling too much of the Latin."[294] The list
appended is not so remote from the modern English vocabulary as that
which Puttenham supplies. Willes cites "_dominators_, _ponderous_,
_ditionaries_, _portentous_, _antiques_, _despicable_, _solicitate_,
_obsequious_, _homicide_, _imbibed_, _destructive_, _prodigious_, with
other such like, in the stead of _lords_, _weighty_, _subjects_,
_wonderful_, _ancient_, _low_, _careful_, _dutiful_, _man-slaughter_,
_drunken_, _noisome_, _monstrous_, &c." Yet there were some advocates of
the use of foreign words. Florio admits with mock humility that he has
employed "some uncouth terms as _entraine_, _conscientious_, _endear_,
_tarnish_, _comport_, _efface_, _facilitate_, _amusing_, _debauching_,
_regret_, _effort_, _emotion_, and such like," and continues, "If you
like them not, take others most commonly set by them to expound them,
since they were set to make such likely French words familiar with our
English, which may well bear them,"[295] a contention which modern usage
supports. Nicholas Udall pronounces judicially in favor of both methods
of enriching the language. "Some there be," he says, "which have a mind
to renew terms that are now almost worn clean out of use, which I do not
disallow, so it be done with judgment. Some others would ampliate and
enrich their native tongue with more vocables, which also I commend, if
it be aptly and wittily assayed. So that if any other do innovate and
bring up to me a word afore not used or not heard, I would not dispraise
it: and that I do attempt to bring it into use, another man should not
cavil at."[296] George Pettie also defends the use of inkhorn terms.
"Though for my part," he says, "I use those words as little as any, yet
I know no reason why I should not use them, for it is indeed the ready
way to enrich our tongue and make it copious."[297] On the whole,
however, it was safer to advocate the formation of words from
Anglo-Saxon sources. Golding says of his translation of Philip of
Mornay: "Great care hath been taken by forming and deriving of fit names
and terms out of the fountains of our own tongue, though not altogether
most usual yet always conceivable and easy to be understood; rather than
by usurping Latin terms, or by borrowing the words of any foreign
language, lest the matters, which in some cases are mystical enough of
themselves by reason of their own profoundness, might have been made
more obscure to the unlearned by setting them down in terms utterly
unknown to them."[298] Holland says in the preface to his translation of
Livy: "I framed my pen, not to any affected phrase, but to a mean and
popular style. Wherein if I have called again into use some old words,
let it be attributed to the love of my country's language." Even in this
matter of vocabulary, it will be noted, there was something of the
stimulus of patriotism, and the possibility of improving his native
tongue must have appealed to the translator's creative power. Phaer,
indeed, alleges as one of his motives for translating Virgil "defence of
my country's language, which I have heard discommended of many, and
esteemed of some to be more than barbarous."[299]
Convinced, then, that his undertaking, though difficult, meant much both
to the individual and to the state, the translator gladly set about
making some part of the great field of foreign literature, ancient and
modern, accessible to English readers. Of the technicalities of his art
he has a good deal to say. At a time when prefaces and dedications so
frequently established personal relations between author and audience,
it was natural that the translator also should take his readers into his
confidence regarding his aims and methods. His comment, however, is
largely incidental. Generally it is applicable only to the work in hand;
it does not profess to be a statement, even on a small scale, of what
translation in general ought to be. There is no discussion in English
corresponding to the small, but comprehensive treatise on _La maniere de
bien traduire d'une langue en autre_ which Etienne Dolet published at
Lyons in 1540. This casual quality is evidenced by the peculiar way in
which prefaces in different editions of the same book appear and
disappear for no apparent reason, possibly at the convenience of the
printer. It is scarcely fair to interpret as considered, deliberate
formulation of principles, utterances so unpremeditated and fragmentary.
The theory which accompanies secular translation is much less clear and
consecutive than that which accompanies the translation of the Bible.
Though in the latter case the formulation of theories of translation was
almost equally incidental, respect for the original, repeated
experiment, and constant criticism and discussion united to make certain
principles take very definite shape. Secular translation produced
nothing so homogeneous. The existence of so many translators, working
for the most part independently of each other, resulted in a confused
mass of comment whose real value it is difficult to estimate. It is true
that the new scholarship with its clearer estimate of literary values
and its appreciation of the individual's proprietary rights in his own
writings made itself strongly felt in the sphere of secular translation
and introduced new standards of accuracy, new definitions of the
latitude which might be accorded the translator; but much of the old
freedom in handling material, with the accompanying vagueness as to the
limits of the translator's function, persisted throughout the time of
Elizabeth.
In many cases the standards recognized by sixteenth-century translators
were little more exacting than those of the medieval period. With many
writers adequate recognition of source was a matter of choice rather
than of obligation. The English translator might make suitable
attribution of a work to its author and he might undertake to reproduce
its substance in its entirety, but he might, on the other hand, fail to
acknowledge any indebtedness to a predecessor or he might add or omit
material, since he was governed apparently only by the extent of his own
powers or by his conception of what would be most pleasing or edifying
to his readers. To the theory of his art he gave little serious
consideration. He did not attempt to analyse the style of the source
which he had chosen. If he praised his author, it was in the
conventional language of compliment, which showed no real discrimination
and which, one suspects, often disguised mere advertising. His estimate
of his own capabilities was only the repetition of the medieval formula,
with its profession of inadequacy for the task and its claim to have
used simple speech devoid of rhetorical ornament. That it was nothing
but a formula was recognized at the time and is good-naturedly pointed
out in the words of Harrington: "Certainly if I should confess or rather
profess that my verse is unartificial, the style rude, the phrase
barbarous, the metre unpleasant, many more would believe it to be so
than would imagine that I thought them so."[300]
This medieval quality, less excusable later in the century when the new
learning had declared itself, appears with more justification in the
comment of the early sixteenth century. Though the translator's field
was widening and was becoming more broadly European, the works chosen
for translation belonged largely to the types popular in the Middle Ages
and the comment attached to them was a repetition of timeworn phrases.
Alexander Barclay, who is best known as the author of _The Ship of
Fools_, published in 1508, but who also has to his credit several other
translations of contemporary moral and allegorical poems from Latin and
French and even, in anticipation of the newer era, a version of
Sallust's _Jugurthine War_, offers his translations of _The Ship of
Fools_[301] and of Mancini's _Mirror of Good Manners_[302] not to the
learned, who might judge of their correctness, but to "rude people," who
may hope to be benefited morally by perusing them. He has written _The
Ship of Fools_ in "common and rural terms"; he does not follow the
author "word by word"; and though he professes to have reproduced for
the most part the "sentence" of the original, he admits "sometimes
adding, sometimes detracting and taking away such things as seemeth me
unnecessary and superfluous."[303] His contemporary, Lord Berners,
writes for a more courtly audience, but he professes much the same
methods. He introduces his _Arthur of Little Britain_, "not presuming
that I have reduced it into fresh, ornate, polished English, for I know
myself insufficient in the facundious art of rhetoric, and also I am but
a learner of the language of French: howbeit I trust my simple reason
hath led me to the understanding of the true sentence of the
matter."[304] Of his translation of Froissart he says, "And in that I
have not followed mine author word by word, yet I trust I have ensued
the true report of the sentence of the matter."[305] Sir Francis Bryan,
under whose direction Berners' translation of _The Golden Book of Marcus
Aurelius_ was issued in 1535, the year after its author's death,
expresses his admiration of the "high and sweet styles"[306] of the
versions in other languages which have preceded this English rendering,
but similar phrases had been used so often in the characterization of
undistinguished writings that this comment hardly suggests the new and
peculiar quality of Guevara's style.
As the century advanced, these older, easier standards were maintained
especially among translators who chose material similar to that of
Barclay and Berners, the popular work of edification, the novella, which
took the place of the romance. The purveyors of entertaining narrative,
indeed, realized in some degree the minor importance of their work as
compared with that of more serious scholars and acted accordingly. The
preface to Turbervile's _Tragical Tales_ throws some light on the
author's idea of the comparative values of translations. He thought of
translating Lucan, but Melpomene appeared to warn him against so
ambitious an enterprise, and admitting his unfitness for the task, he
applied himself instead to this translation "out of sundry
Italians."[307] Anthony Munday apologizes for his "simple translation"
of _Palmerin d'Oliva_ by remarking that "to translate allows little
occasion of fine pen work,"[308] a comment which goes far to account for
the doubtful quality of his productions in this field.
Even when the translator of pleasant tales ranked his work high, it was
generally on the ground that his readers would receive from it profit as
well as amusement; he laid no claim to academic correctness. He
mentioned or refrained from mentioning his sources at his own
discretion. Painter, in inaugurating the vogue of the novella, is
exceptionally careful in attributing each story to its author,[309] but
Whetstone's _Rock of Regard_ contains no hint that it is translated, and
_The Petit Palace of Pettie his Pleasure_ conveys the impression of
original work. "I dare not compare," runs the prefatory _Letter to
Gentlewomen Readers_ by R. B., "this work with the former Palaces of
Pleasure, because comparisons are odious, and because they contain
histories, translated out of grave authors and learned writers; and this
containeth discourses devised by a green youthful capacity, and
repeated in a manner extempore."[310] It was, again, the personal
preference of the individual or the extent of his linguistic knowledge
that determined whether the translator should employ the original
Italian or Spanish versions of some collections or should content
himself with an intermediary French rendering. Painter, accurate as he
is in describing his sources, confesses that he has often used the
French version of Boccaccio, though, or perhaps because, it is less
finely written than its original. Thomas Fortescue uses the French
version for his translation of _The Forest_, a collection of histories
"written in three sundry tongues, in the Spanish first by Petrus Mexia,
and thence done into the Italian, and last into the French by Claudius
Gringet, late citizen of Paris."[311] The most regrettable latitude of
all, judging by theoretic standards of translation, was the careless
freedom which writers of this group were inclined to appropriate.
Anthony Munday, to take an extreme case, translating _Palmerin of
England_ from the French, makes a perfunctory apology in his Epistle
Dedicatory for his inaccuracies: "If you find the translation altered,
or the true sense in some place of a matter impaired, let this excuse
answer in default in that case. A work so large is sufficient to tire so
simple a workman in himself. Beside the printer may in some place let an
error escape."[312] Fortescue justifies, adequately enough, his omission
of various tales by the plea that "the lack of one annoyeth not or
maimeth not the other," but incidentally he throws light on the practice
of others, less conscientious, who "add or change at their pleasure."