The Press.
London, England, 1858-06-19 00:00:00

THE PRESS, JUNE 19, 1858.

There is a sort of sentimental melancholy which gathers
over the mind of one who surveys the scene of some great
nation's bygone glory, now, it may be, strewn only with
wreck of departed greatness. When the traveller visits
those countries with which from childhood his mind has
been accustomed to associate everything that is noble and
elevated in humanity; when he surveys around him the
indications of former majesty and power, now long past
away, or inspects those exquis.te remains on which human
genius and art had lavished ell their splendour, now rudely
marred and defaced and hastening t, inevitable decay—
there is a certain pensive sadness which not unnaturally
passes over the mind, and to which many 'MVO given ex-
pression. But surely an emotion of a far deeper kind may
well be called forth in the thoughtful mind when contem-
plating the mournful word and spiritual degradation of
humanity, as enntrasted with the glory of its original
structure, and the splendours of that destiny for which it
was created? What are the most exquisite productions of
human thought and toil compared with that work on which,
even in its ruins, the impress of Omnipotence may be
traced? What is the destruction of the noblest fabrics
reared by human hand, in comparison with the dishonour
and desecration of the temple of the Holy Ghost ? What
are the overshadowing of all earthly greatness, and the
extinction of all material glory, in contrast with the
spiritual and eternal ruin of the soul of man ? Even the
body, the mere tabernacle in which the soul resides—even
the human body, that fabric so curiously and wonderfully
wrought by the hand of God, so marred and diahononred
by the effects of tin—even that, a work which only Deity
could create, is a work over whose ruin even Deity might
mourn. Yet every sickbed by which Jesus stood, and every
sufferer's cry He heard, and every bier and grave to which
His steps were led, were to His eye the ruthless tiestruc•
tion of another and another glorious work of God—the
proofs of the triumph of the destroyer over the results of
infinite wisdom and skill.

But the destruction of the body is insignificant in com-
parison with the rain of the soul. The former is but the
dissolution of a thing of material elements, the latter is
the deforming and corrupting of a thing ready in the image
of God, partaker of a divine nature, and destined for His
service and glory for ever. The former is but the breaking
up of insensate matter ; the latter is the reducing to impurity
and wretchedness, a thing that shall survive in the con-
sciousness of its misery when the material universe shall
have passed away.
Shall we wonder, then, that the Creator of sncli a work
as this—so noble, so deathless, so divine, should have ex-
perienced bitter grief for its ruin ? When Jesus walked
our world, His eye, we may well believe, was not arrested
by the bustle and importance of Its outward scenes and
interests. From all mere external things His observation
was ever diverted to what from all outer eyes was hidden,
the awful mystery and moral deformity of the secret world
of souls. Could a human being for a single week be in-
vested with a mysterious power of seeing into the hearts
of those around him, and detecting all the feelings and
motives that are working beneath the breasts of his fellow-
men, doubtless, even to man's imperfect moral sensibility,
the disclosures thus made would be too horrible for en-
durance, and the fatal power of inspectim world be gladly
resigned. But that which would be intolerable even to a
fallen and imperfect being was a spectacle from which the
eye of the pure and holy Jesus could never for a moment
escape. All hearts were unveiled to him. He surveyed
not merely the forms and countenances of human heirgs
a thousand indications tell us that He knew what was
in man "—that He read their souls. And everywhere as He
looked He saw that soul that had sprung a pure, holy,
happy thing from His hands, now filled with selfishness
and pride, and envy and impurity, and all ungodliness ;
that soul that had been destined for the companionship of
God and angels, now ripening for the blackness of dark-
ness for ever ! And can we doubt that His was an anguish
at tht sight iota which no finite mind can enter? He could
feel for external snfferings. He looked up to heaven and
sighed for the deaf. He wept, and groaned in spirit for
the dead. But what were external suffering and death to
this? To Him the world was strewn with a more awful
than material desolation—with the wreck of spiritual

grandeur, the memorials of lost and ruined souls. " 0
my Father," we almost hear Him exclaim, " is this the
world over which the morning stars sang together, and
all the sons of God shouted fur joy !"

These are the entrancing and inspiring topics
which every preacher has at his command. The
whole Bible is full of germs of thought, lifting
us above the present moment and the present
scene, and raising us to " high and heavenly
places." And if man is to be moved,—if the
',pulpit is to show any power of moving him, it
must be in this way that emotion is to be ex-
cited, and the heart really stirred. Hints for the
guidance of our conduct, and cautions against
"evil communications" and dangerous habits,
may be proper and unobjectionable, but they will
leave the congregation asleep : and then the
inquiry will again be propounded, " Why has the
pulpit, in our day, so little power?"

The Odes of Horace. Translated by Lord
Ravensworth. London : Upham and Beet.
THE present age is one of material progress; the
genius of it is essentially mechanical, secular,
and worldly. And men in their all-absorbing
desire to accumulate the conveniences of life, and
to advance the limits of human power over
nature, are likely to forget or despise those
elegant arts and :accomplishments which form

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the most graceful embellishments and the
sweetest delights of civilization. In an age when
nobles are chairmen of railways, and men of the
highest rank speculate in stock—when peers
turn mechanics, and the Exchange is a stepping-
stone to the House of Lords—in an age of almost
universal admiration and worship of Mammon,
it is plain that the study of ancient classical
literature is likely to be neglected, or disparaged,
as unprofitable and useless. Yet sure we are
that the wisdom, the enlightenment, the enlarged
views, the real power of a great and civilized
nation, are intimately connected—nay, indis-
solubly bound up—with a knowledge ofthe mag-
nificent and unrivalled literature of antiquity.
Gainsayers may sneer as they please ; but the
difference between a man who is distinguished
by a love for ancient literature, and a man whose
acquaintance with letters is confined to a know-
ledge of modern works, is the difference between
a man of superior and one of inferior cultivation
and refinement. Believing, as we do most
sincerely, that we are in danger of seeing ancient
literature thrown into the shade, and believing
as we do that the degradation of classical studies
would be a heavy national calamity—would
lower us as a thinking, enlightened, intellectual
people—we hail with unfeigned delight the ap-
pearance of Lord Ravensworth's translation of the
Odes of I lorace. To translate those incomparable
works was a bold and adventurous undertaking ;
but Lord Ravensworth has performed it with
remarkable and singular felicity of success.
He has written the only translation of llorace's
Odes at all worthy of the name. His transla-
tions are what they ought to be,—not mere bald
interpretations in rhyme, but elegant and beauti-
ful poems. Who will not thank Lord Ravens-
worth for giving him renewed and improved
pleasure in reading Horace ? What writer is
there, whether ancient or modern, whom we love
as we love Ilorace ? how does the music of his
verse, of marvellous structure, ever linger in our
ears ! Almost every stanza is an inspiration.
What artificial refinement, yet what natural case
and simplicity, there is in his diction ! One can
only describe his poetry by contradictions; for
his graces baffle systematic description, as his
wonderful variety of' subject and style admits not
of regular method or rule. how gentle is
Horace ! yet how wise ! how affectionate !
learned, without a scrap of pedantry ; tender
even to tears, yet a bold, vigorous, energetic
patriot. And, then, what a gentleman he is !
how perfect are his manners! What a companion
he must have been ! how guileless, yet bow
witty ! What a treat it must have been for a man
of understanding to take a stroll in the " evening
Forum" arm in arm with Horace, and to hear
his humorous and acute remarks on the extra-
ordinary variety of characters with which that
strange place abounded ! Perhaps, too, he would
drop in at Cinara's, and musically, playfully,
repeat the last ode he had composed in her
honour.

But we are straying too far with the pleasant
little Venusian poet ; and we are forgetting his
translator.

Lord Ravensworth has justly and deservedly
surpassed all rivals in his work, because he has
brought the qualities requisite for its accomplish-
ment in far greater perfection and abundance
than any predecessor. It is not sufficient for the
translator of llorace to be a scholar and a man
of taste : he must be a poet. And Lord Ravens-
worth has proved himself to be the master of
great and varied power of poetic expression. lie
is endowed with a just and delicate perception of
the niceties of melodious versification ; so that
there really is not a single inharmonious line in
his whole volume. His translations represent
the meaning of the original with remarkable
accuracy; and the "observations" which tbllow
a considerable number of the Odes prove him to
possess critical and discriminating judgment in
scholarship. Ile appears to have composed his
translations when he "was in the vein ;" for the
work has been more or less going on in his mind
for the last forty years. And this is undoubtedly
the right way to produce good poetry—not to
work at it as a task, but to do it according as
inclination may lead, or opportunity offer. We
do not know that any one ode is much better
translated than another : we might quote a
sample almost at random. We will take, how-
ever, the eleventh ode of the second book. There
is a pleasant mixture of serious solemnity of