Letter XXII - Page 2

but when he was in liquor.

Dean Swift is Rabelais in his senses, and frequenting the politest company. The former, indeed, is not so gay as the latter, but then he possesses all the delicacy, the justness, the choice, the good taste, in all which particulars our giggling rural Vicar Rabelais is wanting. The poetical numbers of Dean Swift are of a singular and almost inimitable taste; true humour, whether in prose or verse, seems to be his peculiar talent; but whoever is desirous of understanding him perfectly must visit the island in which he was born.

It will be much easier for you to form an idea of Mr. Pope's works. He is, in my opinion, the most elegant, the most correct poet; and, at the same time, the most harmonious (a circumstance which redounds very much to the honour of this muse) that England ever gave birth to. He has mellowed the harsh sounds of the English trumpet to the soft accents of the flute. His compositions may be easily translated, because they are vastly clear and perspicuous; besides, most of his subjects are general, and relative to all nations.

His "Essay on Criticism" will soon be known in France by the translation which l'Abbe de Resnel has made of it.

Here is an extract from his poem entitled the "Rape of the Lock," which I just now translated with the latitude I usually take on these occasions; for, once again, nothing can be more ridiculous than to translate a poet literally:-

"Umbriel, a l'instant, vieil gnome rechigne, Va d'une aile pesante et d'un air renfrogne Chercher en murmurant la caverne profonde, Ou loin des doux raions que repand l'oeil du monde La Deesse aux Vapeurs a choisi son sejour, Les Tristes Aquilons y sifflent a l'entour, Et le souffle mal sain de leur aride haleine Y porte aux environs la fievre et la migraine. Sur un riche sofa derriere un paravent Loin des flambeaux, du bruit, des parleurs et du vent, La quinteuse deesse incessamment repose, Le coeur gros de chagrin, sans en savoir la cause. N'aiant pense jamais, l'esprit toujours trouble, L'oeil charge, le teint pale, et l'hypocondre enfle. La medisante Envie, est assise aupres d'elle, Vieil spectre feminin, decrepite pucelle, Avec un air devot dechirant son prochain, Et chansonnant les Gens l'Evangile a la main. Sur un lit plein de fleurs negligemment panchee Une jeune beaute non loin d'elle est couchee, C'est l'Affectation qui grassaie en parlant, Ecoute sans entendre, et lorgne en regardant. Qui rougit sans pudeur, et rit de tout sans joie, De cent maux differens pretend qu'elle est la proie; Et pleine de sante sous le rouge et le fard, Se plaint avec molesse, et se pame avec art."

"Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,