Part 8 (1/2)
T_hen we drop from the heights atmospheric_ T_o Herrick_, O_r we pour the Greek honey, grown blander_, O_f Landor_,
O_r our cosiest nook in the shade is_ W_here Praed is_, O_r we toss the light bells of the mocker_ W_ith Locker_.
O_ the song where not one of the Graces_ T_ightlaces_,-- W_here we woo the sweet Muses not starchly_, B_ut archly_,--
W_here the verse, like a piper a-Maying_ C_omes playing_,-- A_nd the rhyme is as gay as a dancer_ I_n answer_,--
I_t will last till men weary of pleasure_ I_n measure!_ I_t will last till men weary of laughter_ ...
A_nd after!_
Whatever we may say of the indebtedness of things like these to the letter of the ancient poet, we must acknowledge them all alike as examples of the dynamic power of Horace.
_ii_. CREATION
But there are other examples whose character as literary creation is still farther beyond question. Such a one, to mention one brilliant specimen in prose, is the letter of Andrew Lang to Horace. In verse, Austin Dobson again affords one of the happiest examples:
TO Q.H.F.
”H_oratius Flaccus_, B.C. 8,”
T_here's not a doubt about the date_,-- Y_ou're dead and buried_: A_s you observed, the seasons roll_; A_nd 'cross the Styx full many a soul_ H_as Charon ferried_, S_ince, mourned of men and Muses nine_, T_hey laid you on the Esquiline_.
A_nd that was centuries ago!_ Y_ou'd think we'd learned enough, I know_, T_o help refine us_, S_ince last you trod the Sacred Street_, A_nd tacked from mortal fear to meet_ T_he bore Crispinus_; O_r, by your cold Digentia, set_ T_he web of winter birding-net_.
O_urs is so far-advanced an age!_ S_ensation tales, a cla.s.sic stage_, C_ommodious villas!_ W_e boast high art, an Albert Hall_, A_ustralian meats, and men who call_ T_heir sires gorillas!_ W_e have a thousand things, you see_, N_ot dreamt in your philosophy_.
A_nd yet, how strange! Our ”world,” today_, T_ried in the scale, would scarce outweigh_ Y_our Roman cronies_; W_alk in the Park,--you'll seldom fail_ T_o find a Sybaris on the rail_ B_y Lydia's ponies_, O_r hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed_, O_gling some unsuspecting maid_.
T_he great Gargilius, then, behold!_ H_is ”long-bow” hunting tales of old_ A_re now but duller_; F_air Neobule too! Is not_ O_ne Hebrus here,--from Aldershot?_ A_ha, you colour!_ B_e wise. There old Canidia sits_; N_o doubt she's tearing you to bits_.
A_nd look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind_, C_omes dear Maecenas, half behind_ T_erentia's skirting_; H_ere's Pyrrha, ”golden-haired” at will_; P_rig Damasippus, preaching still_; A_sterie flirting_,-- R_adiant, of course. We'll make her black_,-- A_sk her when Gyges' s.h.i.+p comes back_.
S_o with the rest. Who will may trace_ B_ehind the new each elder face_ D_efined as clearly_; S_cience proceeds, and man stands still_; O_ur ”world” today's as good or ill_,-- A_s cultured_ (_nearly_), A_s yours was, Horace! You alone_, U_nmatched, unmet, we have not known_.
But it is not only to comparatively independent creation that we must look. The dynamic power of Horace is to be found at work even in the translation of the poet. The fact that he has had more translators than any other poet, ancient or modern, is itself an evidence of inspirational quality, but a greater proof lies in the variety and character of his translators and the quality of their achievement. A list of those who have felt in this way the stirrings of the Horatian spirit would include the names not only of many great men of letters, but of many great men of affairs, whose successes are to be counted among examples of genuine inspiration. Translation at its best is not mere craftsmans.h.i.+p, but creation,--in Roscommon's lines,
'T_is true, composing is the n.o.bler Part_, B_ut good Translation is no easy Art_.
Theodore Martin's rendering of I. 21, _To a Jar of Wine_, already quoted in part, is an example. Another brilliant success is Sir Stephen E. De Vere's I. 31, _Prayer to Apollo_, quoted in connection with the poet's religious att.i.tude. No less felicitous are Conington's spirited twelve lines, reproducing III. 26, _Vixi puellis_:
VIXI PUELLIS NUPER IDONEUS
F_or ladies' love I late was fit_, A_nd good success my warfare blest_; B_ut now my arms, my lyre I quit_, A_nd hang them up to rust or rest_.
H_ere, where arising from the sea_ S_tands Venus, lay the load at last_, L_inks, crowbars, and artillery_, T_hreatening all doors that dared be fast_.
O_ G.o.ddess! Cyprus owns thy sway_, A_nd Memphis, far from Thracian snow_: R_aise high thy lash, and deal me, pray_, T_hat haughty Chloe just one blow!_
To translate in this manner is beyond all doubt to deserve the name of poet.
We may go still farther and claim for Horace that he has been a dynamic power in the art of translation, not only as it concerned his own poems, but in its concern of translation as a universal art. No other poet presents such difficulties; no other poet has left behind him so long a train of disappointed aspirants. ”Horace remains forever the type of the untranslatable,” says Frederic Harrison. Milton attempts the _Pyrrha_ ode in unrhymed meter, and the light and bantering spirit of Horace disappears. Milton is correct, polished, restrained, and pure, but heavy and cold. An exquisite _jeu d'esprit_ has been crushed to death: