looked about, and behold I saw a farre off a shadowed valley adjoyning nigh unto a wood, where amongst divers other hearbes and pleasant verdures, me thought I saw divers flourishing Roses of bright damaske colour; and said within my beastiall mind, Verily that place is the place of Venus and the Graces, where secretly glistereth the royall hew, of so lively and delectable a floure': here are no exotic words, no long-sought images; the rare effect is attained by a harmony, which not even the sternest simplicity can impoverish. Or take a passage in another key: 'In the meane season while I was fed with dainty morsels, I gathered together my flesh, my skin waxed soft, my haire began to shine, and was gallant on every part, but such faire and comely shape of my body, was cause of my dishonour, for the Baker and Cooke marvelled to see me so slick and fine, considering I did eat no hay at all. True, the word 'slick' (aptly suggested by nifore) is, so to say, a high light; but the beauty still depends upon the rhythm, to which Adlington's ear is ever attuned. In brief, whatever defects of scholarship and restraint mar the translation, it remains a model of that large, untrammelled prose which, before the triumph of common-sense, seemed within the reach of all. But is it not the strangest paradox of literary history that they who lived in the golden age of translation sought their original at second hand, or fumbled for their meaning in the dark?
One advantage at least was enjoyed by Adlington. He studied Apuleius in the native Latin, using, we may believe, the famous folio of 1500 (cum Beroaldt commentariis), prefaced by that Vita Lucit Apuleii summatim relata, which he paraphrased in English with his accustomed inaccuracy.
