letters to dead authors-第10部分

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Qu'il　soit　le　mieux　rente　de　tous　les　beaux…esprits。


This；　you　would　avow；　was　your　offence；　and　perhaps　you　were　not　altogether　mistaken。　　Yet　posterity　declines　to　read　a　line　of　yours；　and；　as　we　think　of　you；　we　are　again　set　face　to　face　with　that　eternal　problem；　how　far　is　popularity　a　test　of　poetry？　　Burns　was　a　poet：　　and　popular。　　Byron　was　a　popular　poet；　and　the　world　agrees　in　the　verdict　of　their　own　generations。　　But　Montgomery；　though　he　sold　so　well；　was　no　poet；　nor；　Sir；　I　fear；　was　your　verse　made　of　the　stuff　of　immortality。　　Criticism　cannot　hurt　what　is　truly　great；　the　Cardinal　and　the　Academy　left　Chimene　as　fair　as　ever；　and　as　adorable。　　It　is　only　pinchbeck　that　perishes　under　the　acids　of　satire：　　gold　defies　them。　　Yet　I　sometimes　ask　myself；　does　the　existence　of　popularity　like　yours　justify　the　malignity　of　satire；　which　blesses　neither　him　who　gives；　nor　him　who　takes？　　Are　poisoned　arrows　fair　against　a　bad　poet？　　I　doubt　it；　Sir；　holding　that；　even　unpricked；　a　poetic　bubble　must　soon　burst　by　its　own　nature。　　Yet　satire　will　assuredly　be　written　so　long　as　bad　poets　are　successful；　and　bad　poets　will　assuredly　reflect　that　their　assailants　are　merely　envious；　and　（while　their　vogue　lasts）　that　the　purchasing　public　is　the　only　judge。　　After　all；　the　bad　poet　who　is　popular　and　〃sells〃　is　not　a　whit　worse　than　the　bad　poets　who　are　unpopular；　and　who　deride　his　songs。

Monsieur；

Votre　tres…humble　serviteur；　&c。



LETTERTo　Sir　John　Maundeville；　Kt。　　（OF　THE　WAYS　INTO　YNDE。）



Sir　John；Wit　you　well　that　men　holden　you　but　light；　and　some　clepen　you　a　Liar。　　And　they　say　that　you　never　were　born　in　Englond；　in　the　town　of　Seynt　Albones；　nor　have　seen　and　gone　through　manye　diverse　Londes。　　And　there　goeth　an　old　knight　at　arms；　and　one　that　connes　Latyn；　and　hath　been　beyond　the　sea；　and　hath　seen　Prester　John's　country。　　And　he　hath　been　in　an　Yle　that　men　clepen　Burmah；　and　there　bin　women　bearded。　　Now　men　call　him　Colonel　Henry　Yule；　and　he　hath　writ　of　thee　in　his　great　booke；　Sir　John；　and　he　holds　thee　but　lightly。　　For　he　saith　that　ye　did　pill　your　tales　out　of　Odoric　his　book；　and　that　ye　never　saw　snails　with　shells　as　big　as　houses；　nor　never　met　no　Devyls；　but　part　of　that　ye　say；　ye　took　it　out　of　William　of　Boldensele　his　book；　yet　ye　took　not　his　wisdom；　withal；　but　put　in　thine　own　foolishness。　Nevertheless；　Sir　John；　for　the　frailty　of　Mankynde；　ye　are　held　a　good　fellow；　and　a　merry；　so　now；　come；　let　me　tell　you　of　the　new　ways　into　Ynde。

In　that　Lond　they　have　a　Queen　that　governeth　all　the　Lond；　and　all　they　ben　obeyssant　to　her。　　And　she　is　the　Queen　of　Englond；　for　Englishmen　have　taken　all　the　Lond　of　Ynde。　　For　they　were　right　good　werryoures　of　old；　and　wyse；　noble；　and　worthy。　　But　of　late　hath　risen　a　new　sort　of　Englishman　very　puny　and　fearful；　and　these　men　clepen　Radicals。　　And　they　go　ever　in　fear；　and　they　scream　on　high　for　dread　in　the　streets　and　the　houses；　and　they　fain　would　flee　away　from　all　that　their　fathers　gat　them　with　the　sword。　　And　this　sort　men　call　Scuttleres；　but　the　mean　folk　and　certain　of　the　baser　sort　hear　them　gladly；　and　they　say　ever　that　Englishmen　should　flee　out　of　Ynde。

Fro　Englond　men　gon　to　Ynde　by　many　dyverse　Contreyes。　　For　Englishmen　ben　very　stirring　and　nymble。　　For　they　ben　in　the　seventh　climate；　that　is　of　the　Moon。　　And　the　Moon　（ye　have　said　it　yourself；　Sir　John；　natheless；　is　it　true）　is　of　lightly　moving；　for　to　go　diverse　ways；　and　see　strange　things；　and　other　diversities　of　the　Worlde。　　Wherefore　Englishmen　be　lightly　moving；　and　far　wandering。　　And　they　gon　to　Ynde　by　the　great　Sea　Ocean。　　First　come　they　to　Gibraltar；　that　was　the　point　of　Spain；　and　builded　upon　a　rock；　and　there　ben　apes；　and　it　is　so　strong　that　no　man　may　take　it。　　Natheless　did　Englishmen　take　it　fro　the　Spanyard；　and　all　to　hold　the　way　to　Ynde。　　For　ye　may　sail　all　about　Africa；　and　past　the　Cape　men　clepen　of　Good　Hope；　but　that　way　unto　Ynde　is　long　and　the　sea　is　weary。　　Wherefore　men　rather　go　by　the　Midland　sea；　and　Englishmen　have　taken　many　Yles　in　that　sea。

For　first　they　have　taken　an　Yle　that　is　clept　Malta；　and　therein　built　they　great　castles；　to　hold　it　against　them　of　Fraunce；　and　Italy；　and　of　Spain。　　And　from　this　Ile　of　Malta　Men　gon　to　Cipre。　And　Cipre　is　right　a　good　Yle；　and　a　fair；　and　a　great；　and　it　hath　4　principal　Cytees　within　him。　　And　at　Famagost　is　one　of　the　principal　Havens　of　the　sea　that　is　in　the　world；　and　Englishmen　have　but　a　lytel　while　gone　won　that　Yle　from　the　Sarazynes。　　Yet　say　that　sort　of　Englishmen　where　of　I　told　you；　that　is　puny　and　sore　adread；　that　the　Lond　is　poisonous　and　barren　and　of　no　avail；　for　that　Lond　is　much　more　hotter　than　it　is　here。　　Yet　the　Englishmen　that　ben　werryoures　dwell　there　in　tents；　and　the　skill　is　that　they　may　ben　the　more　fresh。

From　Cypre；　Men　gon　to　the　Lond　of　Egypte；　and　in　a　Day　and　a　Night　he　that　hath　a　good　wind　may　come　to　the　Haven　of　Alessandrie。　　Now　the　Lond　of　Egypt　longeth　to　the　Soudan；　yet　the　Soudan　longeth　not　to　the　Lond　of　Egypt。　　And　when　I　say　this；　I　do　jape　with　words；　and　may　hap　ye　understond　me　not。　　Now　Englishmen　went　in　shippes　to　Alessandrie；　and　brent　it；　and　over　ran　the　Lond；　and　their　soudyours　warred　agen　the　Bedoynes；　and　all　to　hold　the　way　to　Ynde。　For　it　is　not　long　past　since　Frenchmen　let　dig　a　dyke；　through　the　narrow　spit　of　lond；　from　the　Midland　sea　to　the　Red　sea；　wherein　was　Pharaoh　drowned。　　So　this　is　the　shortest　way　to　Ynde　there　may　be；　to　sail　through　that　dyke；　if　men　gon　by　sea。

But　all　the　Lond　of　Egypt　is　clepen　the　Vale　enchaunted；　for　no　man　may　do　his　business　well　that　goes　thither；　but　always　fares　he　evil；　and　therefore　clepen　they　Egypt　the　Vale　perilous；　and　the　sepulchre　of　reputations。　　And　men　say　there　that　is　one　of　the　entrees　of　Helle。　　In　that　Vale　is　plentiful　lack　of　Gold　and　Silver；　for　many　misbelieving　men；　and　many　Christian　men　also；　have　gone　often　time　for　to　take　of　the　Thresoure　that　there　was　of　old；　and　have　pilled　the　Thresoure；　wherefore　there　is　none　left。　　And　Englishmen　have　let　carry　thither　great　store　of　our　Thresoure；　9；000；000　of　Pounds　sterling；　and　whether　they　will　see　it　agen　I　misdoubt　me。　　For　that　Vale　is　alle　fulle　of　Develes　and　Fiendes　that　men　clepen　Bondholderes；　for　that　Egypt　from　of　olde　is　the　Lond　of　Bondage。　　And　whatsoever　Thresoure　cometh　into　the　Lond；　these　Devyls　of　Bondholders　grabben　the　same。　　Natheless　by　that　Vale　do　Englishmen　go　unto　Ynde；　and　they　gon　by　Aden；　even　to　Kurrachee；　at　the　mouth　of　the　Flood　of　Ynde。　　Thereby　they　send　their　souldyours；　when　they　are　adread　of　them　of　Muscovy。

For；　look　you；　there　is　another　way　into　Ynde；　and　thereby　the　men　of　Muscovy　are　fain　to　come；　if　the　Englishmen　let　them　not。　　That　way　cometh　by　Desert　and　Wildernesse；　from　the　sea　that　is　clept　Caspian；　even　to　Khiva；　and　so　to　Merv；　and　then　come　ye　to　Zulfikar　and　Penjdeh；　and　anon　to　Herat；　that　is　called　the　Key　of　the　Gates　of　Ynde。　　Then　ye　win　the　lond　of　the　Emir　of　the　Afghauns；　a　great　prince　and　a　rich；　and　he　hath　in　his　Thresoure　more　crosses；　and　stars；　and　coats　that　captains　wearen；　than　any　other　man　on　earth。

For　all　they　of　Muscovy；　and　all　Englishmen　maken　him　gifts；　and　he　keepeth　the　gifts；　and　he　keepeth　his　own　counsel。　　For　his　lond　lieth　between　Ynde　and　the　folk　of　Muscovy；　wherefore　both　Englishmen　and　men　of　Muscovy　would　fain　have　him　friendly；　yea；　and　independent。　　Wherefore　they　of　both　parties　give　him　clocks；　and　watches；　and　stars；　and　crosses；　and　culverins；　and　now　and　again　they　let　cut　the　throats　of　his　men　some　deal；　and　pill　his　country。　Thereby　they　both　set　up　their　rest　that　the　Emir　will　be　independent；　yea；　and　friendly。　　But　his　men　love　him　not；　neither　love　they　the　English；　nor　the　Muscovy　folk；　for　they　are　worshippers　of　Mahound；　and　endure　not　Christian　men。　　And　they　love　not　them　that　cut　their　throats；　and　burn　their　country。

Now　they　of　Muscovy　ben　Devyls；　and　they　ben　subtle　for　to　make　a　thing　seme　otherwise　than　it　is；　for　to　deceive　mankind。　　Wherefore　Englishmen　putten　no　trust　in　them　of　Muscovy；　save　only　the　Englishmen　clept　Radicals；　for　they　make　as　if　they　loved　these　Develes；　out　of　the　fear　and　dread　of　war　wherein　they　go；　and　would　be　slaves　sooner　than　fight。　　But　the　folk　of　Ynde　know　not　what　shall　befall；　nor　whether　they　of　Muscovy　will　take　the　Lond；　or　Englishmen　shall　keep　it；　so　that　their　hearts　may　not　enduren　for　drede。　　And　methinks　that　soon　shall　Englishmen　and　Muscovy　folk　put　their　bodies　in　adventure；　and　war　one　with　another；　and　all　for　the　way　to　Ynde。

But　St。　George　for　Englond；　I　say；　and　so　enough；　and　may　the　Seyntes　hele　thee；　Sir　John；　of　thy　Gowtes　Artetykes；　that　thee　tormenten。　　But　to　thy　Boke　I　list　not　to　give　no　credence。



LETTERTo　Alexandre　Dumas



Sir；There　are　moments　when　the　wheels　of　life；　even　of　such　a　life　as　yours；　run　slow；　and　when　mistrust　and　doubt　overshadow　even　the　most　intrepid　disposition。　　In　such　a　moment；　towards　the　ending　of　your　days；　you　said　to　your　son；　M。　Alexandre　Dumas；　〃I　seem　to　see　myself　set　on　a　pedestal　which　trembles　as　if　it　were　founded　on　the　sands。〃　　These　sands；　your　uncounted　volumes；　are　all　of　gold；　and　make　a　foundation　more　solid　than　the　rock。　　As　well　might　the　singer　of　Odysseus；　or　the　authors　of　the　〃Arabian　Nights；〃　or　the　first　inventors　of　the　stories　of　Boccaccio；　believe　that　their　works　were　perishable　（their　names；　indeed；　have　perished）；　as　the　creator　of　〃Les　Trois　Mousquetaires〃　alarm　himself　with　the　thought　that　the　world　could　ever　forget　Alexandre　Dumas。

Than　yours　there　has　been　no　greater　nor　more　kindly　and　beneficent　force　in　modern　letters。　　To　Scott；　indeed；　you　owed　the　first　impulse　of　your　genius；　but；　once　set　in　motion；　what　miracles　could　it　not　accomplish？　　Our　dear　Porthos　was　overcome；　at　last；　by　a　super…human　burden；　but　your　imaginative　strength　never　found　a　task　too　great　for　it。　　What　an　extraordinary　vigour；　what　health；　what　an　overflow　of　force　was　yours！　　It　is　good；　in　a　day　of　small　and　laborious　ingenuities；　to　breathe　the　free　air　of　your　books；　and　dwell　in　the　company　of　Dumas's　menso　gal