Authors of moderate capacity have unceasingly harassed the public; and
have at length been remembered only by the number of wretched volumes
their unhappy industry has produced. Such an author was the Abbé de
Marolles, otherwise a most estimable and ingenious man, and the
patriarch of print-collectors.
This Abbé was a most egregious scribbler; and so tormented with violent
fits of printing, that he even printed lists and catalogues of his
friends. I have even seen at the end of one of his works a list of names
of those persons who had given him books. He printed his works at his
own expense, as the booksellers had unanimously decreed this. Menage
used to say of his works, "The reason why I esteem the productions of
the Abbé is, for the singular neatness of their bindings; he embellishes
them so beautifully, that the eye finds pleasure in them." On a book of
his versions of the Epigrams of Martial, this critic wrote, _Epigrams
against Martial._ Latterly, for want of employment, our Abbé began a
translation of the Bible; but having inserted the notes of the
visionary Isaac de la Peyrere, the work was burnt by order of the
ecclesiastical court. He was also an abundant writer in verse, and
exultingly told a poet, that his verses cost him little: "They cost you
what they are worth," replied the sarcastic critic. De Marolles in his
_Memoirs_ bitterly complains of the injustice done to him by his
contemporaries; and says, that in spite of the little favour shown to
him by the public, he has nevertheless published, by an accurate
calculation, one hundred and thirty-three thousand one hundred and
twenty-four verses! Yet this was not the heaviest of his literary sins.
He is a proof that a translator may perfectly understand the language of
his original, and yet produce an unreadable translation.
In the early part of his life this unlucky author had not been without
ambition; it was only when disappointed in his political projects that
he resolved to devote himself to literature. As he was incapable of
attempting original composition, he became known by his detestable
versions. He wrote above eighty volumes, which have never found favour
in the eyes of the critics; yet his translations are not without their
use, though they never retain by any chance a single passage of the
spirit of their originals.
The most remarkable anecdote respecting these translations is, that
whenever this honest translator came to a difficult passage, he wrote in
the margin, "I have not translated this passage, because it is very
difficult, and in truth I could never understand it." He persisted to
the last in his uninterrupted amusement of printing books; and his
readers having long ceased, he was compelled to present them to his
friends, who, probably, were not his readers. After a literary existence
of forty years, he gave the public a work not destitute of entertainment
in his own Memoirs, which he dedicated to his relations and all his
illustrious friends. The singular postscript to his Epistle Dedicatory
contains excellent advice for authors.
"I have omitted to tell you, that I do not advise any one of my
relatives or friends to apply himself as I have done to study, and
particularly to the composition of books, if he thinks that will add to
his fame or fortune. I am persuaded that of all persons in the kingdom,
none are more neglected than those who devote themselves entirely to
literature. The small, number of successful persons in that class (at
present I do not recollect more than two or three) should not impose on
one's understanding, nor any consequences from them be drawn in favour
of others. I know how it is by my own experience, and by that of several
amongst you, as well as by many who are now no more, and with whom I was
acquainted. Believe me, gentlemen! to pretend to the favours of fortune
it is only necessary to render one's self useful, and to be supple and
obsequious to those who are in possession of credit and authority; to be
handsome in one's person; to adulate the powerful; to smile, while you
suffer from them every kind of ridicule and contempt whenever they shall
do you the honour to amuse themselves with you; never to be frightened
at a thousand obstacles which may be opposed to one; have a face of
brass and a heart of stone; insult worthy men who are persecuted; rarely
venture to speak the truth; appear devout, with every nice scruple of
religion, while at the same time every duty must be abandoned when it
clashes with your interest. After these any other accomplishment is
indeed superfluous."