The
wits of Charles's time had seldom more than slight and superficial
views; and their care was to hide their want of learning behind the
colours of a gay imagination; they, therefore, translated always with
freedom, sometimes with licentiousness, and, perhaps, expected that
their readers should accept sprightliness for knowledge, and consider
ignorance and mistake as the impatience and negligence of a mind too
rapid to stop at difficulties, and too elevated to descend to
minuteness.
Thus was translation made more easy to the writer, and more delightful
to the reader; and there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have found
their advocates. The paraphrastick liberties have been almost
universally admitted; and Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, and who
had no need of any excuse to pass slightly over obscurities, is the only
writer who, in later times, has attempted to justify or revive the
ancient severity.
There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. Dryden saw very early that
closeness best preserved an author's sense, and that freedom best
exhibited his spirit; he, therefore, will deserve the highest praise,
who can give a representation at once faithful and pleasing, who can
convey the same thoughts with the same graces, and who, when he
translates, changes nothing but the language[1].
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