might surely have been bettered; and in the same ode a line in the stanza already quoted above, Latius regnes avidum domando Spiritum, is translated, “Wider thy realm a greedy soul subjected,” which would be scarcely intelligible without the Latin. “Bosom more seen through than glass” is by no means the neatest possible equivalent for per lucidior vitro, and such expressions as “closed gates of Janus vacant of a war,” “lest thou owe a mock,” “but me more have stricken with rapture,” are scarcely English.
Nevertheless, with all its faults and shortcomings, Lord Lytton’s essay is in some respects the most interesting translation of Horace that has yet appeared, and may pioneer the way to more fortunate results in the same direction. It has, at least, the raison d’être which Mr. Matthew Arnold denies to such translations as Wright’s and Sotheby’s Homer; it has a distinct and novel method of its own, and does not simply repeat the method and renew the faults and virtues of any predecessor. The American edition, it is worthy of remark, is printed in the old-fashioned way, with the Latin text to face the English—an innovation, or, more properly, a renovation, which will no doubt be welcome to lovers of the Venusian, whose love has outlived their memory, and who, though loyal to the spirit of our poet, are no longer so familiar with his letter as in the days, the far-off sunny days, when Horace was the heaviest task that life had yet laid upon us.
We have dwelt upon this subject at somewhat greater length than we intended; for to us it is full of a fascination we should be glad to hope we had made our readers in some sort share. But it has also a practical side which the most fanatical opponent of the classics, the most zealous upholder of utilitarian education, must recognize and admit. As a means of training in English composition, as an aid to discover the resources of our own tongue, there is no better practice than translating Horace into English verse, with due attention to his epithets. That, perhaps, may serve in some degree to reconcile the practical mind to his retention in the modern curriculum, even though Homer be kicked out of doors and Virgil sent flying through the window; for a practical man is none the worse equipped for business in being able to say what he means in “good set phrase.” To be sure it does not ask the pen of an Addison to write an order for a “hnd. trces. lard,” but we dare say if Mr. Richard Grant White were called upon to make out a bill of lading, he would do it none the worse for knowing all about the English language that is worth knowing, if not more than is worth telling. There are mysteries in our English speech that the Complete Letter-Writer, or even the “editorials” of the daily newspaper, do not quite explore, and some of these our old friend Horace may help us to find out. Fas est ab hoste doceri.
THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN.
CONCLUSION.
Father Maurice sped upon his journey to Moynalty Castle. The dinner hour was eight o’clock, but he had delayed so long with his guest that it took the little pony her “level best” to do the seven miles within the necessary time.
“Av we wor wanst beyant the Mouladharb berrin’ groun’ I wudn’t care a thraneen; but sorra a step the little pony’ll pass it afther dark,” observed Murty Mulligan, bestowing a liberal supply of whip upon the astonished nag, whose habit it was to proceed upon her travels at her own sweet will, innocent of lash, spur, or admonition.
“Tut, tut! Nonsense, Murty! Push on.”
“It’s thruth I’m tellin’ yer riverince. We’re at it. See that, now—curse of Crummell on her! she won’t put wan foot afore the other,” adding, in a whisper full of consternation: “Mebbe she sees ould Casey, that was berried a Munda. He was a terrible naygur—”