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The Iliad and Odyssey of Homer, translated into_English_Blank Verse, by W. Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq. 2 vols. 4to. London, 1791.

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The inherent difficulties in translation are those attendant upon the difference of mental associations, habits, and manners between the nations who spoke the language of the original and those for whose benefit the translator is employed. The accidental difficulties are those which belong to the inferior power in the language of the translation, to its being ill adapted for the particular subject, or to its being formed on more or less different principles of construction from that in which the sentiments of the original are expressed. Another accidental difficulty, and one of more common occurrence in this useful and delightful art than is usually supposed, is, that wrong notions of the nature, and false estimates of the designs of the works to be translated, are frequently made by even enlightened authors, who consequently transfer their ideas in a spirit foreign from that which animated their first production. The more common obstacle which lies in the way of a good translation is the rare chance of meeting an individual with a similar turn of mind to that of the original author; with taste and genius to relish his beauties, and with industry and skill enough to complete with success a just transfer of his excellencies. All the difficulties which have been mentioned must naturally exist in greater force in translation from works written in a dead i language, formerly spoken by people whose name alone remainsa mighty shadow indeed, but not such as we can ever form a close and intimate acquaintance with. Numberless associations and allusions, which in old times cast a living light of beauty over national poetry, must now in many cases have faded, and in many others become totally withered and sapless. Numberless expressions of thought, which then carried an air of dignity or tenderness with them, must now have lost all the flush and animation of life. Many, perhaps, mere phrases that fell upon the ear of the Greek with a spell and a power, have lost all their charm upon a modern listener. Many customs which formerly were considered decorous, and even dignified or delicate, have now become ludicrous; and when introduced in scenes of pathos or solemnity, strike the mind with no other ideas than those of ridicule and contempt. That in short which is termed the genius of a people, and which most of all shews itself in its poetry, grows with their growth, and is moulded into their shape, is confined within the same bounds, adapted to the same soil, and becomes unfitted to bear any other clime. It is a native plant, not to be removed; or if the care of a dexterous hand succeed in retaining its life in an alien land, but a frail and sickly existence is preserved, which it drags on deprived of most of its

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former beauties, and enjoying none in their original vigour and perfection.

To the translator, who is himself a poet, and no other ought to attempt the translation of poetry, two modes suggest themselves of performing his task. The one of adhering closely to the language of the original, and thus presenting a faithful but faded copy of its various merits. The translator after this plan transfers sentence after sentence, image after image, as exactly as he is able, in the manner, style, and order of his author. He gives all the meaning which met the ear of the Greek or Roman, for instance; but does he give all that met the mind ?— The other is a bolder task that of endeavouring with the materials of the original to build a poem, which shall have upon his countrymen a similar and equal effect with that which the original produced upon its natural auditors. This we do not hesitate to say is the best and only true method of translation. It is certainly a far more difficult task than the other, and requires powers of a much higher order; but the excellence of a translation so executed, would we think fully repay the difficulty and labour of the undertaking. The principal means which poetry uses in order to excite pleasure, is to rouse the slumbering imagination, by presenting before its vision attractive images, whether of the beautiful or the sublime. But how can this end be attained, when much of the materials of poetry, in their transfer from one language to another, is commonly stripped of all which made them interesting and attractive. When many of the objects which nearly made the staple of the poet's subject and illustration, though perfectly familiar to him and his readers, are probably totally unknown, or but dimly seen by the readers of the translation. Those ideas, which are images of the sublime and the beautiful in one country, are often either valueless or totally out of the experience of another; and it frequently happens, that that which the poet intended for the illustration and adorning of his meaning to his countrymen involves his sense in far greater obscurity to the foreigner.

These are reasons, perhaps, which may be thought to authorize greater liberties in translation than have ever yet been taken. It may however be alleged, on the contrary, that man and nature are the same all over the world, and that these are the genuine materials for the true poet. The assertion, however specious at first sight, is mixed with no small portion of error. The face of nature is very different in all countries; but this would have no considerable influence upon the question, if though the features of different countries were essentially unlike, yet they were not so unlike, but that they could be recognized and admired by the indwellers of another part of the earth. Such however is the variation, that that which is held beautiful in one quarter

of the globe, is despised in another-that that which is luxurious or delicate to one nation, is elsewhere vulgar, oppressive, and disgusting. The breeze which carries a cooling delight to the Italian, brings frost or rain to the Englishman, who but too commonly places his happiness in swallowing liquid fire in the shape of cordials, while the former is ransacking the recesses of his mountains for ice. Man, too, is said to be as invariable as nature; and so he is in some sense. In all climates and in all ages he is animated by the same passions, touched by the same sorrows, elevated by the same joys, and endowed with the same natural appetites. Yet so modified is he by external circumstances, that the language of human sentiment is very far indeed from being an universal tongue. It is true, there are the same feelings in the human being in all lands, but it is by very different roads that access is found to them. It is not an uncommon thing to find that that which would be the most powerful appeal to the heart of an inhabitant of one land, is unintelligible to that of another. An Englishman cannot understand the effect, which the action of Themistocles would have upon the royal chief, at whose hearth he took refuge when pursued by his inveterate enemies, the Lacedemonians. To make a similar appeal, as was lately done by a fallen monarch, was cold and pedantic, savouring much of learning, but very little of feeling. The rite has lost its charmthe hearth is no longer the sacred emblem of hospitality, nor are its ornaments the solemn pledges by which to assure safety and protection. Poetry is the power which touches the various keys of association, as deposited in the cells of memory. These associations are the remains of experience,-like the latest and tenderest tints with which the setting sun streaks the horizon. An entirely different course of experience produces an entirely different train of association. What can be more foreign from each other than the objects and their associations which excited terror, compassion, or courage in the mind of a Greek; and those which now rouse, soften, or spur on the feelings of a modern. The Greek was a predestinarian, and awaited the day of fate he was deterred from the commission of evil through a superstitious dread of the sacred furies—his courage was animated by oracles, and confirmed by a strong persuasion that due sacrifice would secure to him the sure protection of some of the various gods who peopled his creed. It is needless to contrast the moral state of the man of the present day. But such considerations as these may serve to shew how improbable it is that a close version of poetry addressed to the ancients, should be felt in all its vigour by a modern. The truth is, that all translation to compass its end should become what is called imitation, and that every classical poem should not be turned into, but re-written in English. We venture to assert that the beauties of the

Satires of Horace were never truly felt by a mere English reader, except in the imitations of Pope; and we fear that unless Homer has been or may be stripped of his Grecian costume, and assume a genuine English garb, to use the language of Dryden, that a translation of his poems will be no more like the original, than the dead carcase to the living body. This is the spirit in which Chapman is said to have performed his great task by an eminent living critic, whose words we cannot do better than quote before we proceed to give specimens of this excellent old poet, and compare him with more modern and better known authors who have followed him in the undertaking.

"He would have made a great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shewn himself to be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation, as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses re-written. The earnestness and passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a reader of more modern translations. It is almost Greek zeal ; for the honor of his heroes is only paralleled by that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sate down to paint the acts of Sampson against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chapman's translations being read, is their unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural, and the most violent and forced expressions. He seems to grasp whatever words come first to hand during the impetus of inspiration, as if all other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion, (the all in all in poetry) is every where present, raising the low, dignifying the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved by words or in spite of them, be disgusted, and overcome their disgust."*

Were we to take the principles of translation, which we have thrown out in the commencement of this article, as a test to try the merits of the different versions of Homer, we should probably conclude, that no adequate idea of the real Homer could through any of them be conveyed to the English reader. If, however, there are any poems, which would not lose all or the greater part of their value in a close translation, they are the Iliad and Odyssey. In the case of these celebrated works, more has been lost than gained, such has been the character of their translators, and such is the character of the poetry, by a departure from a literal version. All has not been done, and the half measures which have been taken, have been more injurious than beneficial.

* Lamb's Specimens, p. 98.

There is a heartiness and simplicity in the poems of Homer, which even a verbal translation must in some measure communicate; but which a periphrastic and laboured version might easily smother with a weight of extraneous sentiment, or drown in a sea of words. There is, moreover, such a quantity of individuality of character, of lively action, and of spirited debate in his poems, that a mere word-for-word translation would be read with interest, but which a ponderous mass of phrase would be very likely to overlay and destroy. And for this reason, though we in fact are of opinion that the Iliad and Odyssey have never yet been translated, we still think that such versions as exist, are able to convey a very fair idea of their true nature. Far before the rest in this respect, we place Chapman; and on the ground of the merits, which we find so ably stated to our hands, in the quotation already made from Mr. Lamb's excellent Specimens of the old drama.

To this extract, we will only add a caution, lest the reader, who might be, by such an eulogium, induced forthwith to betake himself to the perusal of Chapman's version, should find himself, at first, grievously disappointed. The truth is, that the study of our oldest and best writers requires a species of apprenticeship; and the inexperienced reader must be for some time inured to the rugged phrase, the uncouth spelling, and the inartificial and often prosaic metres of many of the most valuable and essentially poetical works in the language. It is thus, with Master Chapman.- His exterior is coarse and repelling; he speaks with a harsh though powerful voice, and his gait is none of the gentlest. They, however, who will have patience, and bear with him for a time, will find him prove a most valuable acquaintance. The rugged husk conceals a most sweet kernel. In the guise of a rude and unlettered clown, there lurks the spirit and fire of a hero, which, ever and anon, shew themselves in a speech of true nobleness, or act of dignified demeanour.

When Pope asked Dr. Bentley, "how he liked his Homer?" the Doctor said, "it is a very pretty poem, Mr. Pope; but do not call it Homer." Pope himself, who was indebted to Chapman's translation, observes, that it is "something like what Homer himself would have writ, before he arrived to years of discretion." Both of these judgments contain a good deal of truth; but who would not rather be like Homer in his youth, than unlike him altogether? The truth is, there is a quaintness and antique asperity about the metre of Chapman, which the ear of Pope could not be supposed to relish; and though he had sufficient discrimination to discover "the daring fiery spirit that animates his translation," the taste for genuine simplicity and undignified nature had not then begun to be duly