VOLUME II - BOOK VIII - CHAPTER V

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Chapter V - Comments upon authors.

Having left Amelia in as comfortable a situation as could possibly be

expected, her immediate distresses relieved, and her heart filled with

great hopes from the friendship of the colonel, we will now return to

Booth, who, when the attorney and serjeant had left him, received a

visit from that great author of whom honourable mention is made in our

second chapter.

Booth, as the reader may be pleased to remember, was a pretty good

master of the classics; for his father, though he designed his son for

the army, did not think it necessary to breed him up a blockhead. He

did not, perhaps, imagine that a competent share of Latin and Greek

would make his son either a pedant or a coward. He considered

likewise, probably, that the life of a soldier is in general a life of

idleness; and might think that the spare hours of an officer in

country quarters would be as well employed with a book as in

sauntering about the streets, loitering in a coffee-house, sotting in

a tavern, or in laying schemes to debauch and ruin a set of harmless

ignorant country girls.

As Booth was therefore what might well be called, in this age at

least, a man of learning, he began to discourse our author on subjects

of literature. "I think, sir," says he, "that Dr Swift hath been

generally allowed, by the critics in this kingdom, to be the greatest

master of humour that ever wrote. Indeed, I allow him to have

possessed most admirable talents of this kind; and, if Rabelais was

his master, I think he proves the truth of the common Greek proverb--

that the scholar is often superior to the master. As to Cervantes, I

do not think we can make any just comparison; for, though Mr. Pope

compliments him with sometimes taking Cervantes' serious air--" "I

remember the passage," cries the author;

"O thou, whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff,

or Gulliver; Whether you take Cervantes' serious air, Or laugh and

shake in Rabelais' easy chair--"

"You are right, sir," said Booth; "but though I should agree that the

doctor hath sometimes condescended to imitate Rabelais, I do not

remember to have seen in his works the least attempt in the manner of

Cervantes. But there is one in his own way, and whom I am convinced he

studied above all others--you guess, I believe, I am going to name

Lucian. This author, I say, I am convinced, he followed; but I think

he followed him at a distance: as, to say the truth, every other

writer of this kind hath done in my opinion; for none, I think, hath

yet equalled him. I agree, indeed, entirely with Mr. Moyle, in his

Discourse on the age of the Philopatris, when he gives him the epithet

of the incomparable Lucian; and incomparable, I believe, he will

remain as long as the language in which he wrote shall endure. What an

inimitable piece of humour is his Cock!" "I remember it very well,"

cries the author; "his story of a Cock and a Bull is excellent." Booth

stared at this, and asked the author what he meant by the Bull? "Nay,"

answered he, "I don't know very well, upon my soul. It is a long time

since I read him. I learnt him all over at school; I have not read him

much since. And pray, sir," said he, "how do you like his Pharsalia?

don't you think Mr. Rowe's translation a very fine one?" Booth

replied, "I believe we are talking of different authors. The

Pharsalia, which Mr. Rowe translated, was written by Lucan; but I have

been speaking of Lucian, a Greek writer, and, in my opinion, the

greatest in the humorous way that ever the world produced." "Ay!"

cries the author, "he was indeed so, a very excellent writer indeed! I

fancy a translation of him would sell very well!" "I do not know,

indeed," cries Booth. "A good translation of him would be a valuable

book. I have seen a wretched one published by Mr. Dryden, but

translated by others, who in many places have misunderstood Lucian's

meaning, and have nowhere preserved the spirit of the original." "That

is great pity," says the author. "Pray, sir, is he well translated in

the French?" Booth answered, he could not tell; but that he doubted it

very much, having never seen a good version into that language out of

the Greek." To confess the truth, I believe," said he, "the French

translators have generally consulted the Latin only; which, in some of

the few Greek writers I have read, is intolerably bad. And as the

English translators, for the most part, pursue the French, we may

easily guess what spirit those copies of bad copies must preserve of

the original."

"Egad, you are a shrewd guesser," cries the author. "I am glad the

booksellers have not your sagacity. But how should it be otherwise,

considering the price they pay by the sheet? The Greek, you will

allow, is a hard language; and there are few gentlemen that write who

can read it without a good lexicon. Now, sir, if we were to afford

time to find out the true meaning of words, a gentleman would not get

bread and cheese by his work. If one was to be paid, indeed, as Mr.

Pope was for his Homer--Pray, sir, don't you think that the best

translation in the world?"

"Indeed, sir," cries Booth, "I think, though it is certainly a noble

paraphrase, and of itself a fine poem, yet in some places it is no

translation at all. In the very beginning, for instance, he hath not

rendered the true force of the author. Homer invokes his muse in the

five first lines of the Iliad; and, at the end of the fifth, he gives

his reason:

[Greek]

For all these things," says he, "were brought about by the decree of

Jupiter; and, therefore, he supposes their true sources are known only

to the deities. Now, the translation takes no more notice of the [Greek]

than if no such word had been there."

"Very possibly," answered the author; "it is a long time since I read

the original. Perhaps, then, he followed the French translations. I

observe, indeed, he talks much in the notes of Madam Dacier and

Monsieur Eustathius."

Booth had now received conviction enough of his friend's knowledge of

the Greek language; without attempting, therefore, to set him right,

he made a sudden transition to the Latin. "Pray, sir," said he, "as

you have mentioned Rowe's translation of the Pharsalia, do you

remember how he hath rendered that passage in the character of Cato?--

_----Venerisque huic maximus usus

Progenies; urbi Pater est, urbique Maritus._

For I apprehend that passage is generally misunderstood."

"I really do not remember," answered the author. "Pray, sir, what do

you take to be the meaning?"

"I apprehend, sir," replied Booth, "that by these words, _Urbi Pater

est, urbique Maritus_, Cato is represented as the father and husband

to the city of Rome."

"Very true, sir," cries the author; "very fine, indeed.--Not only the

father of his country, but the husband too; very noble, truly!"

"Pardon me, sir," cries Booth; "I do not conceive that to have been

Lucan's meaning. If you please to observe the context; Lucan, having

commended the temperance of Cato in the instances of diet and cloaths,

proceeds to venereal pleasures; of which, says the poet, his principal

use was procreation: then he adds, _Urbi Pater est, urbique Maritus;_

that he became a father and a husband for the sake only of the city."

"Upon my word that's true," cries the author; "I did not think of it.

It is much finer than the other.--_Urbis Pater est_--what is the

other?--ay--_Urbis Maritus._--It is certainly as you say, sir."

Booth was by this pretty well satisfied of the author's profound

learning; however, he was willing to try him a little farther. He

asked him, therefore, what was his opinion of Lucan in general, and in

what class of writers he ranked him?

The author stared a little at this question; and, after some

hesitation, answered, "Certainly, sir, I think he is a fine writer and

a very great poet."

"I am very much of the same opinion," cries Booth; "but where do you

class him--next to what poet do you place him?"

"Let me see," cries the author; "where do I class him? next to whom do

I place him?--Ay!--why--why, pray, where do you yourself place him?"

"Why, surely," cries Booth, "if he is not to be placed in the first

rank with Homer, and Virgil, and Milton, I think clearly he is at the

head of the second, before either Statius or Silius Italicus--though I

allow to each of these their merits; but, perhaps, an epic poem was

beyond the genius of either. I own, I have often thought, if Statius

had ventured no farther than Ovid or Claudian, he would have succeeded

better; for his Sylvae are, in my opinion, much better than his

Thebais."

"I believe I was of the same opinion formerly," said the author.

"And for what reason have you altered it?" cries Booth.

"I have not altered it," answered the author; "but, to tell you the

truth, I have not any opinion at all about these matters at present. I

do not trouble my head much with poetry; for there is no encouragement

to such studies in this age. It is true, indeed, I have now and then

wrote a poem or two for the magazines, but I never intend to write any

more; for a gentleman is not paid for his time. A sheet is a sheet

with the booksellers; and, whether it be in prose or verse, they make

no difference; though certainly there is as much difference to a

gentleman in the work as there is to a taylor between making a plain

and a laced suit. Rhimes are difficult things; they are stubborn

things, sir. I have been sometimes longer in tagging a couplet than I

have been in writing a speech on the side of the opposition which hath

been read with great applause all over the kingdom."

"I am glad you are pleased to confirm that," cries Booth; "for I

protest it was an entire secret to me till this day. I was so

perfectly ignorant, that I thought the speeches published in the

magazines were really made by the members themselves."

"Some of them, and I believe I may, without vanity, say the best,"

cries the author, "are all the productions of my own pen! but I

believe I shall leave it off soon, unless a sheet of speech will fetch

more than it does at present. In truth, the romance-writing is the

only branch of our business now that is worth following. Goods of that

sort have had so much success lately in the market, that a bookseller

scarce cares what he bids for them. And it is certainly the easiest

work in the world; you may write it almost as fast as you can set pen

to paper; and if you interlard it with a little scandal, a little

abuse on some living characters of note, you cannot fail of success."

"Upon my word, sir," cries Booth, "you have greatly instructed me. I

could not have imagined there had been so much regularity in the trade

of writing as you are pleased to mention; by what I can perceive, the

pen and ink is likely to become the staple commodity of the kingdom."

"Alas! sir," answered the author, "it is overstocked. The market is

overstocked. There is no encouragement to merit, no patrons. I have

been these five years soliciting a subscription for my new translation

of Ovid's Metamorphoses, with notes explanatory, historical, and

critical; and I have scarce collected five hundred names yet."

The mention of this translation a little surprized Booth; not only as

the author had just declared his intentions to forsake the tuneful

muses; but, for some other reasons which he had collected from his

conversation with our author, he little expected to hear of a proposal

to translate any of the Latin poets. He proceeded, therefore, to

catechise him a little farther; and by his answers was fully satisfied

that he had the very same acquaintance with Ovid that he had appeared

to have with Lucan.

The author then pulled out a bundle of papers containing proposals for

his subscription, and receipts; and, addressing himself to Booth,

said, "Though the place in which we meet, sir, is an improper place to

solicit favours of this kind, yet, perhaps, it may be in your power to

serve me if you will charge your pockets with some of these." Booth

was just offering at an excuse, when the bailiff introduced Colonel

James and the serjeant.

The unexpected visit of a beloved friend to a man in affliction,

especially in Mr. Booth's situation, is a comfort which can scarce be

equalled; not barely from the hopes of relief or redress by his

assistance, but as it is an evidence of sincere friendship which

scarce admits of any doubt or suspicion. Such an instance doth indeed

make a man amends for all ordinary troubles and distresses; and we

ought to think ourselves gainers by having had such an opportunity of

discovering that we are possessed of one of the most valuable of all

human possessions.

Booth was so transported at the sight of the colonel, that he dropt

the proposals which the author had put into his hands, and burst forth

into the highest professions of gratitude to his friend; who behaved

very properly on his side, and said everything which became the mouth

of a friend on the occasion.

It is true, indeed, he seemed not moved equally either with Booth or

the serjeant, both whose eyes watered at the scene. In truth, the

colonel, though a very generous man, had not the least grain of

tenderness in his disposition. His mind was formed of those firm

materials of which nature formerly hammered out the Stoic, and upon

which the sorrows of no man living could make an impression. A man of

this temper, who doth not much value danger, will fight for the person

he calls his friend, and the man that hath but little value for his

money will give it him; but such friendship is never to be absolutely

depended on; for, whenever the favourite passion interposes with it,

it is sure to subside and vanish into air. Whereas the man whose

tender disposition really feels the miseries of another will endeavour

to relieve them for his own sake; and, in such a mind, friendship will

often get the superiority over every other passion.

But, from whatever motive it sprung, the colonel's behaviour to Booth

seemed truly amiable; and so it appeared to the author, who took the

first occasion to applaud it in a very florid oration; which the

reader, when he recollects that he was a speech-maker by profession,

will not be surprized at; nor, perhaps, will be much more surprized

that he soon after took an occasion of clapping a proposal into the

colonel's hands, holding at the same time a receipt very visible in

his own.

The colonel received both, and gave the author a guinea in exchange,

which was double the sum mentioned in the receipt; for which the

author made a low bow, and very politely took his leave, saying, "I

suppose, gentlemen, you may have some private business together; I

heartily wish a speedy end to your confinement, and I congratulate you

on the possessing so great, so noble, and so generous a friend."

Read next: VOLUME II#BOOK VIII#CHAPTER VI

Read previous: VOLUME II#BOOK VIII#CHAPTER IV

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