Letters concerning the English Nation/Letter XXII

by Voltaire

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LETTER XXII.

ON

Mr. POPE,

And some other Famous

POETS.

I Intended to treat of Mr. Prior, one of the most amiable English Poets, whom you saw Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary at Paris in 1712. I also design'd to have given you some Idea of the Lord Roscommon's and the Lord Dorset's Muse; but I find that to do this I should be oblig'd to write a large Volume, and that after much Pains and Trouble you wou'd have but an imperfect Idea of all those Works. Poetry is a kind of Music, in which a Man should have some Knowledge before he pretends to judge of it. When I give you a Translation of some Passages from those foreign Poets, I only prick down, and that imperfectly, their Music; but then I cannot express the Taste of their Harmony.

There is one English Poem especially which I should despair of ever making you understand, the Title whereof is Hudibras. The Subject of it is the Civil War in the Time of the Grand Rebellion; and the Principles and Practice of the Puritans are therein ridicul'd. 'Tis Don Quixot, 'tis our ^[1] Satyre Menippée blended together. I never found so much Wit in one single Book as in that, which at the same Time is the most difficult to be translated. Who wou'd believe that a Work which paints in such lively and natural Colours the several Foibles and Follies of Mankind, and where we meet with more Sentiments than Words, should baffle the Endeavours of the ablest Translator? But the Reason of this is; almost every Part of it alludes to particular Incidents. The Clergy are there made the principal Object of Ridicule, which is understood but by few among the Laity. To explain this a Commentary would be requisite, and Humour when explain'd is no longer Humour. Whoever sets up for a Commentator of smart Sayings and Repartees, is himself a Blockhead. This is the Reason why the Works of the ingenious Dean Swift, who has been call'd the English Rabelais, will never be well understood in France. This Gentleman has the Honour (in common with Rabelais) of being a Priest, and like him laughs at every Thing. But in my humble Opinion, the Title of the English Rabelais which is given the Dean, is highly derogatory to his Genius. The former has interspers'd his unaccountably-fantastic and unintelligible Book, with the most gay Strokes of Humour, but which at the same Time has a greater Proportion of Impertinence. He has been vastly lavish of Erudition, of Smut, and insipid Raillery. An agreeable Tale of two Pages is purchas'd at the Expence of whole Volumes of Nonsense. There are but few Persons, and those of a grotesque Taste, who pretend to understand, and to esteem this Work; for as to the rest of the Nation, they laugh at the pleasant and diverting Touches which are found in Rabelais and despise his Book. He is look'd upon as the Prince of Buffoons. The Readers are vex'd to think that a Man who was Master of so much Wit should have made so wretched a Use of it. He is an intoxicated Philosopher, who never writ but when he was in Liquor.

Dean Swift is Rabelais in his Senses, and frequenting the politest Company. The former indeed is not so gay as the latter, but then he possesses all the Delicacy, the Justness, the Choice, the good Taste, in all which Particulars our giggling rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The poetical Numbers of Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable Taste; true Humour whether in Prose or Verse, seems to be his peculiar Talent, but whoever is desirous of understanding him perfectly, must visit the Island in which he was born.

'Twill be much easier for you to form an Idea of Mr. Pope's Works. He is in my Opinion the most elegant, the most correct Poet; and at the same Time the most harmonious (a Circumstance which redounds very much to the Honour of this Muse) that England ever gave Birth to. He has mellow'd the harsh Sounds of the English Trumpet to the soft Accents of the Flute. His Compositions may be easily translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicuous; besides, most of his Subjects are general, and relative to all Nations.

His Essay on Criticism will soon be known in France, by the Translation which l'Abbé de Renel has made of it.

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, à l'instant, vieil Gnome rechigné,
Va d'une aîle pesante & d'un air renfrogné
Chercher en murmurant la Caverne profonde,
Où loin des doux raïons que répand l'œil du monde
La Déesse aux vapeurs a choisi son séjour,
Les tristes Aquilons y siflent à l'entour,

Et le soufle mal sain de leur aride haleine
Y porte aux environs la fievre & la migraine.
Sur un riche Sofa derriere un Paravent
Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs & du vent,
La quinteuse Déesse incessamment repose,
La cœur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause.
N'aiant pensé jamais, l'esprit toûjours troublé,
L'œil chargé, le teint pâle, & l'hypocondre enflé.
La medisante Envie, est assise auprès d'elle,
Vieil spectre féminin, décrépite pucell,
Avec un air devot déchirant son prochain,
Et chansonnant les Gens l'Evangile à la main.
Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchée
Une jeune Beauté non loin d'elle est couchée,
C'est l'Affectation qui grassaïe en parlant,

Ecoute sans entendre, & lorgne en regardant.
Qui rougit sans pudeur, & rit de tout sans joïe,
De cent maux différens, prétend qu'elle est la proïe;
Et pleine de santé sous le rouge & le fard,
Se plaint avec molesse, & 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 chearful Breeze this sullen Region knows,
The dreaded East is all the Wind that blows.

Here, in a Grotto, shelter'd close from Air,
And screen'd 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 diff'ring far in Figure and in Face,
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient Maid,
Her wrinkled Form in black and white array'd;
With Store of Prayers for Mornings, Nights, and Noons,
Her Hand is fill'd; her Bosom with Lampoons.
There Affectation, with a sickly Mein,
Shows in her Cheek the Roses of eighteen,
Practis'd 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 compar'd to the Description 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 French Man was forc'd to write their History. Possibly the English Genius, which is either languid or impetuous, has not yet requir'd that unaffected Eloquence, that plain but majestic Air which History requires. Possibly too, the Spirit of Party which exhibits Objects in a dim and confus'd Light, may have sunk the Credit of their Historians. One half of the Nation is ways at Variance with the other half. I have met with People who assur'd 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 Bourdaloüe 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 Murtherer. 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 Publick are oblig'd 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 Englsh 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 reap'd 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 Inftructors in all the Arts, and whom we have surpass'd in some. I cannot determine which of the three Nations ought to be honour'd with the Palm; but happy the Writer who could display their various Merits.

1. A Species of Satyr in Prose and Verse written in France in 1594, against the Chiefs of the League at that Time. This Satyr which is also call'd Catholicon d'Espagne, was look'd upon as a Master-piece. Rapin, Le Roi, Pithou, Passerat, and Chrêtien, the greatest Wits of that Age, are the Authors of it; and 'twas entitled Ménippêe, from Menippus, a cynical Philosopher, who had written Letters fill'd with sharp, satyrical Expressions, in Imitation of Varro, who compos'd Satyrs which he entitled Satyræ Menippeæ.