account of the troubles in James the IId's reign, was prevented by the
gout, of which he was so impatient, that he admitted a repellent
application from a French empyric, by which his distemper was driven
up into his bowels, and put an end to his life, in 1684.
Mr. Fenton has told us, that the moment in which he expired, he cried
out with a voice, that expressed the most intense fervour of devotion,
My God! my father, and my friend!
Do not forsake me, at my end.
Two lines of his own version of the hymn, Dies iræ, Dies illa.
The same Mr. Fenton, in his notes upon Waller, has given Roscommon a
character too general to be critically just. 'In his writings, says
he, we view the image of a mind, which was naturally serious and
solid, richly furnished, and adorned with all the ornaments of art and
science; and those ornaments unaffectedly disposed in the most regular
and elegant order. His imagination might have probably been fruitful
and sprightly, if his judgment had been less severe; but that severity
(delivered in a masculine, clear, succinct stile) contributed to make
him so eminent in the didactical manner, that no man with justice can
affirm he was ever equalled by any of our nation, without confessing
at the same time, that he is inferior to none. In some other kinds of
writing his genius seems to have wanted fire to attain the point of
perfection: but who can attain it?'
From this account of the riches of his mind, who would not imagine
that they had been displayed in large volumes, and numerous
performances? Who would not, after the perusal of this character, be
surprized to find, that all the proofs of this genius, and knowledge
and judgment, are not sufficient to form a small volume? But thus it
is, that characters are generally written: We know somewhat, and we
imagine the rest. The observation that his imagination would have
probably been more fruitful and sprightly, if his judgment had been
less severe; might, if we were inclined to cavil, be answer'd by a
contrary supposition, that his judgment would have been less severe,
if his imagination had been more fruitful. It is ridiculous to oppose
judgment and imagination to each other; for it does not appear, that
men have necessarily less of the one, as they have more of the other.
We must allow, in favour of lord Roscommon, what Fenton has not
mentioned so distinctly as he ought, and what is yet very much to his
honour, That he is perhaps the only correct writer in verse before
Addison; and that if there are not so many beauties in his
composition, as in those of some of his contemporaries, there are at
least fewer faults. Nor is this his highest praise; for Mr. Pope has
celebrated him as the only moral writer in Charles the IId's reign.
Unhappy Dryden--in all Charles's days,
Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays.
Mr. Dryden speaking of Roscommon's essay on translated verse, has the
following observation: 'It was that, says he, that made me uneasy,
till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and
of reducing the speculation into practice. For many a fair precept in
poetry, is like a seeming demonstration in mathematics: very specious
in the diagram, but failing in mechanic operation. I think I have
generally observed his instructions. I am sure my reason is
sufficiently convinced both of their truth and usefulness; which in
other words is to confess no less a vanity, than to pretend that I
have at least in some places made examples to his rules.'
This declaration of Dryden will be found no more than one of those
cursory civilities, which one author pays to another; and that kind of
compliment for which Dryden was remarkable. For when the sum of lord
Roscommon's precepts is collected, it will not be easy to discover how
they can qualify their reader for a better performance of translation,
than might might have been attained by his own reflexions.
They are however here laid down:
'Tis true composing is the nobler part,
But good translation is no easy art:
For tho' materials have long since been found,
Yet both your fancy and your hands are bound;
And by improving what was writ before,
Invention labours less, but judgment more.
Each poet with a different talent writes,
One praises, one instructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er aspire to epic bays
Nor lofty Maro stoop to lyric lays.
Examine how your humour is inclin'd,
And watch the ruling passion of your mind.
Then seek a poet, who your way does bend.
And chuse an author, as you chuse a friend.
United by this sympathetic bond,
You grow familiar, intimate, and fond;
Your thoughts, your words, your stiles, your souls agree,
No longer his interpreter, but he.
Take then a subject, proper to expound
* * * * *
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice,
For men of sense, despise a trivial choice:
And such applause, it must expect to meet
As would some painter busy in the street;
To copy bulls, and bears, and every sign
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.
Take pains the genuine meaning to explore,
There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar:
Search every comment, that your care can find.
Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind.
Yet, be not blindly guided by the throng,
The multitude is always in the wrong.
When things appear unnatural, or hard,
Consult your author, with himself compar'd.
Who knows what blessings Phæbus may bestow,
And future ages to your labours owe?
Such secrets are not easily found out,
But once discovered leave no room for doubt.
Truth stamps conviction in your ravish'd breast,
And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.
They who too faithfully on names insist;
Rather create, than dissipate the mist:
And grow unjust by being over nice,
(For superstition, virtue turns to vice)
Let Crassus ghost, and Labienus tell
How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell,
Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame,
That few know Pacorus, or Monæses name.
And 'tis much safer to leave out than add
* * * * *
Abstruse and mystic thoughts, you must express, }
With painful care, but seeming easiness; }
For truth shines brightest, thro' the plainest dress, }
Your author always will the best advise,
Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.
Nothing could have induced us to have laboured thro' so great a number
of cold unspirited lines, but in order to shew, that the rules which
my lord has laid down are meerly common place, and must unavoidably
occur to the mind of the most ordinary reader. They contain no more
than this; that the author should be suitable to the translator's
genius; that he should be such as may deserve a translation; that he
who intends to translate him, should endeavour to understand him; that
perspicuity should be studied, and unusual or uncouth names, sparingly
inserted; and that the stile of the original should be copied in its
elevation and depression. These are the common-place rules delivered
without elegance, or energy, which have been so much celebrated, but
how deservedly, let our unprepossess'd readers judge.
Roscommon was not without his merit; he was always chaste, and
sometimes harmonious; but the grand requisites of a poet, elevation,
fire, and invention, were not given him, and for want of these,
however pure his thoughts, he is a languid unentertaining writer.
Besides this essay on translated verse, he is the author of a
translation of Horace's Art of poetry; with some other little poems,
and translations published in a volume of the minor poets.
Amongst the MSS. of Mr. Coxeter, we found lord Roscommon's translation
of Horace's Art of Poetry, with some sketches of alterations he
intended to make; but they are not great improvements; and this
translation, of all his lordship's pieces, is the most unpoetical.
Footnote:
1. Fenton.
END of the SECOND VOLUME.