The true result to be aimed at, where we propose anything beyond the communication of bare fact, is to produce upon the mind of the English reader, so far as possible, the same impression which the original author produced upon the minds of those for whom he wrote. The rule I have just condemned does not lead to the accomplishment of this aim, but, so far as it is practicable at all, its effect is to translate the author, not his work, to give an imitation, not a copy, of the original; whereas it is the characteristic of a perfect translation, that it, for the time, transforms the reader into the likeness of those for whom the story, the ballad, or the ode, was first said or sung.1
The very supposition, that a genial writer could have acquired his special intellectual manhood in any but his native land, involves an absurdity, for it divests him of his nationality, which is as essentially a part of him as the fleshly organs wherewith he takes into his being the world around him, and reproduces it to the consciousness or the imagination of his readers. Shakespeare is often cited as an instance of genius too universal to bear the stamp of a national mint, and doubtless it is true that in him, more than in any other name known in literature, the man predominated over the citizen; but if we compare his works with whatever else modern humanity has produced, we shall find, if not positive internal evidence of his birthright, at least abundant negative proof that in no land save England could that mighty imagination have assumed the form and proportions to which it grew.
The rule I have here laid down, though very general in its application, has, like most of the principles of literary composition, its exceptions. In the wide differences of culture, of opinion, and of sentiment, which exist between different nations, it may happen that a diction appropriate to the subject as viewed by those for whom a particular work of imaginative art is written may be quite unsuited to the tastes and intellectual habits of a contemporaneous people, equally, though differently cultivated. In such cases a master of the art of translation will select the dialect best adapted to express to his public the conceptions of the author, though it may be that of another century much inferior in grammatical refinement. The fine ballad of 'Lenore' by Bürger, already quoted as an example of imitative felicity of sound, affords a good illustration. Tales of this sort are no longer current in England, and of course the modern English dialect has not been employed to embody them. They belong to earlier English literature, and they are far more effective recited in the language employed when they were a part of a living mythology than when clothed in the critical, sceptical dress of a modern magazine. Taylor, therefore, judged wisely in translating the ballad into the simpler dialect in which it would have been told and understood when the superstitions of the middle ages, if they did not form articles of religious belief, were still constantly exciting the imaginations of the English people. I even doubt whether he has taken too great a licence in carrying back the date of the story from the days of the Battle of Prague, an event unknown in English traditionary lore, to the more familiar age of the Lion-hearted Richard's crusade against the Paynim in the Holy Land. Compare these two stanzas of Taylor, in the English ballad verse, with a more literal version in the metre of the original:--
"He went abroade with Richard's host
The Paynim foes to quell;
But he no word to her had writt,
An he were sick or well.
.........................
She bet her breast and wrang her hands
And rollde her tearlesse eye,
From rise of morne till the pale stars
Againe did fleck the sky."
"He'd gone with Fred'ric's host to wield
The sword on Prague's dread battle-field;
Nor had he sent to tell
If he were sick or well.
.........................
She wrung her hands and beat her breast,
Until the sun sank down to rest,
'Till o'er the vaulted sphere
The golden stars appear."
"And bold traitors to God . . shall be accursed by the terrible word of God, and cast out into outer darkness, where is frost and gnashing of teeth."
The imagination of the Northman, whose life was an almost perpetual shiver, would be more readily excited by the idea of suffering from cold, than of exposure to torment by fire, an element which to him was always a beneficent agent.
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