y of
thought, it will come out diminished in its integrity, or will appear,
bereft of its primitive properties as a mere element in some new
combination. Our channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps; and that the
transferred material may preserve its pleasant sharpness, we may need
to throw in a little extra acid. Too often the mere differences between
English and Italian prevent Dante's expressions from coming out in Mr.
Longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired as in the instance just
cited. But these differences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in the
very structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with equally
profound nuances in the composition of human thought. The causes which
make dolente a solemn word to the Italian ear, and dolent a queer word
to the English ear, are causes which have been slowly operating ever
since the Italian and the Teuton parted company on their way from
Central Asia. They have brought about a state of things which no cunning
of the translator can essentially alter, but to the emergencies of which
he must graciously conform his proceedings. Here, then, is the sole
point on which we disagree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we have
for thinking that he has not attained the fullest possible measure of
success. Not that he has made a "realistic" translation,--so far we
conceive him to be entirely right; but that, by dint of pushing sheer
literalism beyond its proper limits, he has too often failed to be truly
realistic. Let us here explain what is meant by realistic translation.

Every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation of
an ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or some
unconscious instinct of literary criticism. As is the critical spirit of
an age, so among other things will be its translations. Now the critical
spirit of every age previous to our own has been characterized by its
inability to appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygone
times. In the seventeenth century criticism made idols of its ancient
models; it acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set them
up as exemplars for the present and all future times to copy. Let the
genial Epicurean henceforth write like Horace, let the epic narrator
imitate the supreme elegance of Virgil,--that was the conspicuous idea,
the conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criticism. It overlooked
the differences between one age and another. Conversely, when it brou