1822. sentiment and knowledge. No one, whose character deserves respect, walks into the fields with a Catullus or Anacreon in his pocket; but the works of Horace are our friends and companions: " Delectant domi, non impediunt foris; peregrinantur, rusticantur." Needs there any more be said to account for the constant supply of competitors for the Horatian wreath? A library, a good deal better furnished than the Radcliff, might be constructed out of the versions of Horace alone.* A cavilling critic somewhere remarks, "Horace wo have none." It might with far more justice be affirmed, "Horace we have much." That we have any one single and entire version of him, completely adequate in all respects, and realizing the ideal standard of what every man conceives a translation of Horace ought to be, it would not merely be too much to assert, but extraIn every transvagant to suppose. lation, even the most successful, there must be a falling off; there must be inequalities; there must be *These are a few of them. moments of weariness, exhaustion, In the clear heaven of thy brow We speak only of those which we have seen. III. All the Odes and Epodes. By Henry Rider. 1638. IV. Odes of Horace, the best of Lyric Poets, containing much morality and sweet ness. By Sir Thomas Hawkins. 1638. V. Poems of Horace paraphrased. By several Persons. Edited by H. Brome. 1630. VII. Odes, Satires, and Epistles. Done into English by Thomas Creech. 1688. IX. Odes of Horace. By Henry Coxwell, Gent. Oxford. 1718. X. Horace's Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry. Done into English by S. Dunster, DD. Prebendary of Sarum. 1719. XI. Odes and Satyrs. By the most eminent hands (Rochester, Roscommon, Cowley, Otway, Prior, Dryden, &c.) Tonson. 1730. XII. Odes, Epodes, and Carmen Seculare. By Mr. Wm. Oldisworth. 1737 (sometimes spelt Oldsworth). XIII. A Translation of the Odes and Epodes. Attempted by T. Hare, AB. Master XIV. Odes of Horace, disposed according to chronologic order. By P. Sanadon, with 1750. XVII. Works of Horace in Prose. By Christopher Smart, AM. 1762. XVIII. Works of Horace. By Mr. Duncombe, Sen. J. Duncombe, and other hands, with Imitations. 1767. XIX. Translation of Horace's Epistle to the Pisos, with Notes. By George Colman. XX. Odes, Epodes, and Carmen Seculare. By William Bescawen, Esq. 1793. pieces. The fastidiously undervalued To seek its dam, affrighted flees She starts and quivers, pants and heaves. In the following stanza there is a very great resemblance to the manner of Dryden: iii. 29. Happy the mortal who can say, 'Tis well, for I have liv'd to-day. To-morrow let black clouds and storms arise, Or let the sun exert his beaming power, Nothing can interrupt my bliss, I seized and have enjoy'd my hour: The gods themselves, howe'er they smile or frown, Cannot recall what's past, for that is all my own. But it is high time to attend Mr. Wrangham. We remember the publication of a sermon, to which the worthy author had annexed an essay on the virtues of tar-water. In like manner, the literary lucubrations of Mr. Wrangham seem rather contrasted than consistent. He published, we believe, in 1816, a volume of sermons, and tacked on to them some of Virgil's Bucolics. "There is" nothing "in this more than natural:" since, in our country, no man is thought qualified for a degree in theology who is not an adept in Horace and Virgil. A political journalist, meaning to praise the clergy, spoke of them as men who liked their "pint of port, and quoted Horace." He might have said, "translated." Mr. Wrangham modestly observes, that if asked by the public the rather pozing question, (as we think it) "quid habes illius?"-he shall console himself with the reflection, that "in proportion as success is honourable, failure is venial." But he does not tell us why a respectable clerical gentleman cannot leave this world without translating Horace at all. It is ominous to stumble at the threshold: but we feel curious to know what the Epodes have done that they should not be allowed the place which they held, when we ourselves were at school, among the Lyrics of Horace? Before we got to the version itself, we were also a little staggered by the information that the translator had "adopted several of the Horatian inversions, and almost invariably preserved his lyrical implications of one stanza with another.""If wrong," he says, "he errs with scholars and poets: with Sherburn, and Holyday, and Sandys, and May:" that is, with writers of remote date, a formal system and an obsolete style, who, with all their raciness of expression and truth of feeling, cramped their native vein and their native tongue, by an unnecessary and technical exactness. As to inversion, he that professes to deal in it professes to make the language walk upon its head. We were much afraid that Mr. Wrangham would give us English Sapphics and Alcaics: but so far from this, he appears to have been too busy with the collocation of words and distribution of commas to notice the numbers at all. If there is any one thing more than another that contributes to that delightful_variety which we have remarked in Horace, it is the diversity of his measures. How can any writer entertain a hope of having conveyed to English readers a just impression of the lyrical genius of Horace, when he has "done" the lyrics of Horace into the metre of Gay's Fables? It is quite useless to insist on the resource derived from the use of diversified metres, namely, the power of adapting the rhythmical expression to the peculiar character of the subject. Of this advantage, Mr. Wrangham has voluntarily deprived himself: he has put himself into a child's go-cart, and keeps trundling about with the conscious air of imagining himself in the chariot described by Propertius, à me Nata coronatis Musa triumphat equis. Let Mr. Wrangham's version from Od. vii. b. 1, be compared with that of Francis. 1822. Comrades, where fortune, kinder she guides; The same your augur and your guide the same. Francis. Again let us parallel, with a writer already quoted, the passage, b. 1, od. xxxv. With massive nails in front of thee Where'er thou lead'st thy awful train, Bandusia, we are put off with "cool As a proof of our kindly dispo- The plummet and the wedge, the emblems striking. of her power: And eager Hope still guard thy way. We shall say nothing of the merits of the version; but looking to the metre alone, is it not obvious, that a writer, who doggedly confines himself to namby-pamby, must be left behind in the race by every versifier who expatiates in bold and unshackled numbers? Mr. Wrangham "ventures to claim It feels its heart's fond purpose fail, 66 Fond dupe, he hopes-so sweet that kiss! For the "fontibus integris," i. 26, we have only "gushing springs ; and for the " frigus amabile of ODE XXIV. 1. When one so loved, so valued, dies, Not to the shade would blood return, Upon the whole, we feel ourselves compelled, however unwillingly, to refer this last of the third centenary of Horatian interpreters to a passage of his adopted poet: Phœbus volentem-loqui In future, when we wish to call DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS. In a Letter to B. F. Esq. at Sydney, New South Wales. My dear F.-When I think how welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange one to which you have been transplanted, I feel some compunctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed, it is no easy effort to set about a correspondence at our distance. The weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that one's thoughts should live so far. It is like writing for posterity; and reminds me of one of Mrs. Rowe's superscriptions, "Alcander to Strephon, in the shades." Cowley's PostAngel is no more than would be expedient in such an intercourse. One drops a pacquet at Lombard-street, and in twenty-four hours a friend in Cumberland gets it as fresh as if it came in ice. It is only like whispering through a long trumpet. But suppose a tube let down from the moon, with yourself at one end, and the man at the other; it would be some baulk to the spirit of conversation, if you knew that the dialogue exchanged with that interesting theosophist would take two or three revolutions of a higher luminary in its passage. Yet for aught I know, you may be some parasangs nigher that primitive idea-Plato's man-than we in England here have the honour to reckon ourselves. Epistolary matter usually compriseth three topics; news, sentiment, and puns. In the latter, I include all non-serious subjects; or subjects serious in themselves, but treated after my fashion, non-seriously.--And first, for news. In them the most desirable circumstance, I suppose, is that they shall be true. But what security can I have that what I now send you for truth shall not be fore you get it unaccountably turn into a lie? For instance, our mutual friend P. is at this present writing my Now-in good health, and enjoys a fair share of worldly reputation. You are glad to hear it. This is natural and friendly. But at this pre sent reading-your Now-he may possibly be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in reason ought to abate something of your transport (i. e. at hearing he was well, &c.), or at least considerably to modify it. I am going to the play this evening, to have a laugh with Joey Munden. You have no theatre, I think you told me, in your land of d-d realities. You naturally lick your lips, and envy me my felicity. Think but a moment, and you will correct the hateful emotion. Why, it is Sunday morning with you, and 1823. This confusion of tenses, this grand solecism of two presents, is in a degree common to all postage. But if I sent you word to Bath or the Devises, that I was expecting the aforesaid treat this evening, though at the moment you received the intelligence my full feast of fun would be over, yet there would be for a day or two after, as you would well know, a smack, a relish left upon my mental palate, which would give rational encouragement to you to foster a portion at least of the disagreeable passion, which it was in part my intention to produce. But ten months hence your envy or your sympathy would be as useless as a passion spent upon the dead. Not only does truth, in these long intervals, un-essence herself, but (what is harder) one cannot venture a crude fiction for the fear that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. What a wild improbable banter I put upon you some three years since-of Will Weatherall having married a servant-maid ! I remember gravely consulting you how we were to receive her-for Will's wife was in no case to be rejected; and your no less serious replication in the matter; how tenderly you advised an abstemious introduction of literary topics before the lady, with a caution not to be too forward in bringing on the carpet matters more within the sphere of her intelligence; your deliberate judgment, or rather wise suspension of sentence, how far jacks, and spits, and mops, could with propriety be introduced as subjects; whether the con scious avoiding of all such matters in discourse would not have a worse look than the taking of them casually in our way; in what manner we should carry ourselves to our maid Becky, Mrs. William Weatherall being by; whether we should show more delicacy, and a truer sense of respect for Will's wife, by treating Becky with our customary chiding before her, or by an unusual deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a humble station. There were difficulties, I remember, on both sides, which you did me the favour to state with the precision of a lawyer, united to the tenderness of a friend. I laughed in my sleeve at your solemn pleadings, when lo while I was valuing my self upon this flam put upon you in New South Wales, the devil in England, jealous possibly of any liechildren not his own, or working after my copy, has actually instigated our friend (not three days since) to the commission of a matrimony, which I had only conjured up for your diversion. William Weatherall has married Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear F., that news from me must become history to you; which I neither profess to write, nor indeed care much for reading. No person, under a diviner, can with any prospect of veracity conduct a correspondence at such an arm's length. Two prophets, indeed, might thus interchange intelligence with effect; the epoch of the writer (Habbakuk) falling in with the true present time of the receiver (Daniel); but then we are no prophets. Then as to sentiment. It fares little better with that. This kind of dish, above all, requires to be served up hot; or sent off in water-plates, that your friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If it have time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. I have often smiled at a conceit of the late Lord C. It seems that travelling somewhere about Geneva, he came to some pretty green spot, or nook, where a willow, or something, hung so fantastically and invitingly over a stream-was it?or a rock?--no matter-but the stilness and the repose, after a weary journey 'tis likely, in a languid mo ment of his Lordship's hot restless life, so took his fancy, that he could imagine no place so proper, in the event of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all very natural and excusable as a sentiment, and shows his character in a very pleasing light. But when from a passing sentiment it came to be an act; and when, by a positive testamentary disposal, kis remains were actually carried all that way from England; who was there, some desperate sentimentalists excepted, that did not ask the question, Why could not his Lordship have found a spot as solitary, a nook as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, with a stream as emblematic to his purpose, in Surry, in Dorset, or in Devon? Conceive the sentiment hoarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House (startling the tide waiters with the novelty), hoisted into a ship. Conceive it pawed about and handled between the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians-a thing of its delicate texture-the salt bilge wetting it till it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Suppose it in material danger (mariners have some superstition about sentiments) of being tossed over in a fresh gale to some propitiatory shark (spirit of Saint Gothard, save us from a quietus so foreign to the deviser's purpose!) but it has happily evaded a fishy consummation. Trace it then to its lucky landing-at Lyons shall we say?-I have not the map before me jostled upon four men's shoulders -baiting at this town-stopping to refresh at t'other village-waiting a passport here, a licence there; the sanction of the magistracy in this district, the concurrence of the ecclesiastics in that canton; till at length it arrives at its destination, tired out and jaded, from a brisk sentiment, into a feature of silly pride or tawdry senseless affectation. How few sentiments, my dear F., I am afraid we can set down, in the sailor's phrase, as quite sea-worthy. Lastly, as to the agreeable levities, which, though contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly epistle your puns and small jests are, I apprehend, extremely circumscribed in their sphere of action. They are so far from a capacity of being packed up and sent beyond sea, they will |