The Golden Ass of Apuleius is, so to say, a beginning of modern literature. From this brilliant medley of reality and romance, of wit and pathos, of fantasy and observation, was born that new art, complex in thought, various in expression, which gives a semblance of frigidity to perfection itself. An indefatigable youthfulness is its distinction. As it was fresh when Adlington translated it “out of Latin” three centuries since, so it is familiar today, and is like to prove an influence tomorrow. Indeed, it is among the marvels of history that an alien of twenty-five and Apuleius was no more when he wrote his Metamorphoses should have revolutionised a language not his own, and bequeathed us a freedom which, a thousand times abused, has never since been taken away.

A barbarian born, a Greek by education, Apuleius only acquired the Latin tongue by painful effort. Now, a foreigner, not prejudiced by an inveterate habit of speech, seldom escapes a curiosity of phrase. Where the language is the same, whether written or spoken, art is wont to lapse into nature. But there was no reason why Apuleius, who could not but be conscious of his diction, should ever deviate from artifice. His style, in truth, he put on as a garment, and it fitted the matter without a crease. His exotic vocabulary was the fruit of the widest research. He ransacked the ancient plays for long-forgotten words. He cared not where he picked up his neologisms, so they were dazzling and bizarre. Greece, his own Carthage, the gutters of Rome, contribute to the wealth of his diction, for he knew naught of that pedantry which would cramp expression for authority’s sake. The literary use of slang was almost his own invention. He would twist the vulgar words of every day into quaint, unheard-of meanings, nor did he ever deny shelter to those loafers and footpads of speech which inspire the grammarian with horror. On every page you encounter a proverb, a catchword, a literary allusion, a flagrant redundancy. One quality only was distasteful to him: the commonplace. He is ever the literary fop, conscious of his trappings and assured of a handsome effect. In brief, he belonged to the African School, for which elaboration was the first and last law of taste. He may even have been a pupil of Fronto, the prime champion of the elocutio novella, the rhetorician who condemned Cicero in that he was not scrupulous in his search for effect, and urged upon his pupils the use of insperata atque inopinata verba. No wonder poor Adlington, whose equipment of Latin was of the lightest, hesitated for a while! No wonder he complained that “the Author had written his work in so dark and high a style, in so strange and absurd words, and in such new invented phrases, as he seemed rather to set it forth to show his magnificence of prose, than to participate his doings to others!” But the difficulty is not invincible; and the adventurous have their reward. The prose sparkles with light and colour. Not a page but is rich inlaid with jewels of fantastic speech. For Apuleius realised centuries before Baudelaire that a vocabulary is a palette, and he employed his own with incomparable daring and extravagance.

Though his style be personal, the machinery of his story is frankly borrowed. The hero who, transformed by magic to an ass, recovers human shape by eating roses was no new invention. He had already supplied two writers with a motive; and the learned have not decided whether it was from Lucian (so-called) or from Lucius of Patrae that Apuleius got his inspiration.1 But a comparison of the Latin, version with its Greek forerunner, commonly attributed to Lucian, proves the debt a feather’s weight. Whatever Apuleius conveyed, he so boldly changed and elaborated, as to make the material his own. His method is a miracle of simplicity. He accepts the Λοὐκιος ἣ Ὄνος as a framework, sometimes following it word for word, yet decorating it with so lavish an array of phrases, tricking it out with episodes so fertile and ingenious, as to force you to forget the original in the copy. Only in a single incident does his fancy lag behind. His hero’s interview with the serving-maid is chastened and curtailed. The professionally elaborate detail, wherewith Lucian enhances this famous episode, is touched by Apuleius with a light and summary hand. But elsewhere he appropriates to adorn. Though again and again the transference is verbal, the added ornament is entirely characteristic, and it is as unjust to charge the author with plagiarism as it were to condemn the Greek tragedians for their treatment of familiar themes. Indeed the two writers approach the matter from opposite points of view. Lucian’s austere concision is purely classical. He has a certain story to present, and he reaches the climax by the shortest possible route. The progress is interrupted neither by phrase nor interlude, and at the end you chiefly admire the cold elegance, wherewith the misfortunes of Lucius are expressed, so to say, in their lowest terms. Apuleius, on the other hand, is unrestrainedly romantic. He cares not how he loiters by the way; he is always ready to beguile his reader with a Milesian story⁠—one of those quaint and witty interludes, which have travelled the world over, and become part, not merely of every literature, but of every life. Our new fashion of analysis, our ineradicable modesty, have at last denied them literary expression, and today they eke out a beggarly and formless existence by the aid of oral tradition. But time was they were respectable as well as joyous. What reproach is attached to the “Widow of Ephesus,” who has wandered from Petronius even unto Rabelais? To what admirable purpose is the Sermo Milesius handled in the Decamerone, to which Apuleius himself contributed one delectable tale! Did not the genius of Balzac devise a monument proper to its honourable antiquity in the Contes Drolatiques? And yet the second century was its golden age, and none so generously enhanced its repute as Apuleius. His masterpiece, in truth, is magnificently interlaced with jests, sometimes bound to the purpose of the story by the thinnest of thin threads, more often attached merely for their own or for ornament’s sake. But not only thus is he separate from his model. Though he is romantic in style and temper alike⁠—and romanticism is an affair of treatment rather than of material⁠—he never loses touch with actuality. He wrote with an eye upon the realities of life. Observation was a force more potent with him than tradition. If his personages and incidents are wholly imaginary, he could still give them a living semblance by a touch of intimacy or a suggestion of familiar detail. Compare his characters to Lucian’s, and measure the gulf between the two! Lucian’s Abroea is a warning voice⁠—that, and no more. Byrrhena, on the other hand, is a great lady, sketched, with a quick perception of her kind, centuries before literature concerned itself with the individual. And is not Milo, the miser, leagues nearer the possibility of life than Hipparchus? Even Palaestra, despite the ingenuity of one episode, is not for an instant comparable in charm and humour to Fotis, most complaisant of serving-maids. Nor is it only in the portrayal of character that Apuleius proves his observation. There are many scenes whose truthful simplicity is evidence of experience. When Lucius, arrived in Hypata, goes to the market to buy him fish, he encounters an old fellow-student Pythias by name already invested with the authority and insignia of an aedile. Now he, being a veritable jack-in-office, is enraged that Lucius has made so ill a bargain, and overturning his fish, bids his attendants stamp it under foot, so that the traveller loses supper and money too. The incident is neither apposite nor romantic; it is no more Milesian than mystical; but it bears the very pressure of life, and you feel that it was transferred straight from a notebook. Again, where shall you find a franker piece of realism than the picture of the mill, whereto the luckless ass was bound? Very ugly and evil-favoured were the men, covered only with ragged cloths; and how horrible a spectacle the horses, with their raw necks, their hollow flanks, their broken ribs!

The Greek author, disdaining atmosphere, is content to set out his incidents in a logical sequence. Apuleius has enveloped his world of marvels in a heavy air of witchery and romance. You wander with Lucius across the hills and through the dales of Thessaly. With all the delight of a fresh curiosity you approach its far-seen towns. You journey at midnight under the stars, listening in terror for the howling of the wolves, or the stealthy ambush. At other whiles, you sit in the robbers’ cave, and hear the ancient legends of Greece retold. The spring comes on, and “the little birds chirp and sing their steven melodiously.” Secret raids, ravished brides, valiant rescues, the gayest of intrigues⁠—these are the diverse matters of this many-coloured book. The play of fancy, the variety of style, the fertility of resource are inexhaustible. Mythology is lifted into life, and life itself transformed to mystery at the wizard’s touch. The misery and terror of the ass’ life are intercepted by the story of Cupid and Psyche, set forth with rare beauty and distinction of style. And yet this interlude, exquisitely planned and phrased, which suggested a worthless play2 to Tom Heywood, and has been an inspiration to many poets from Mrs. Tighe to Mr. Bridges, is the one conspicuous fault of the book. Admirable in itself, it is out of proportion as well as out of key, and though you turn to it again and again for its own sake, you skip it industriously when it keeps you from robbery and witchcraft. But the most remarkable characteristic of The Golden Ass is the ever-present element of sorcery, of the “macabre” as Mr. Pater calls it. Grim spectres and horrid ghosts stalk through its pages. The merriest Milesian jest turns sudden to the terror of death and corruption. The very story which Boccaccio borrowed is shifted by Apuleius to a weird conclusion. The baker, having most wittily avenged his wife’s deceit, is lured into a chamber by a meager, ragged, ill-favoured woman, her hair scattering upon her face, and when the servants burst open the door to find their master, behold! no woman, but only the baker hanging from a rafter dead! And where for pure horror will you match Meroe’s mutilation of Socrates? Secretly the witch attacks him in his sleep, drives her sword deep into his neck, and dragging out his heart, stops the wound with a sponge. Aristomenes, unwilling witness of the cruelty, half believes it a dream, and gladly they resume the journey, until, when Socrates goes to the river to drink, the sponge falls out and with it the last, faint pulse of life. Again, when Thelyphron watches in the chamber of the dead, lest witches should bite off morsels of the dead man’s face, and, falling asleep at sight of a weasel, loses his ears and nose, who so callous as to feel no shudder of alarm? But the most terrific apparition of all is the obscene priest of the Syrian goddess, with his filthy companions carrying the divine image from village to village, and clanging their cymbals to call the charitable. This grimy episode, with its sequent orgies, is related with an incomparably full humour which, despite its oriental barbarity, is unmatched in literature.

Indeed there is scarce a scene without its ghostly enchantment, its supernatural intervention. And herein you may detect the personal predilection of Apuleius. The infinite curiosity wherewith Lucius pries into witchcraft and sorcery was shared by his author. The hero transformed suffered his many and grievous buffetings because he always coveted an understanding of wizardry and spells; and Apuleius, in an age devoted to mysticism, was notorious for a magicmonger. Seriously it was debated, teste St. Augustine, whether Christ or he wrought the greater marvels: and though the shape wherein the romance is cast induced a confusion of author and hero, it is recorded that Apuleius was a zealous magician, and doubtless it is himself, not Lucius, he pictures in his last book among the initiate. In the admirable description of Isis and her visitation, as of the ceremonies wherein he was admitted to the secret worship of the goddess, he departs entirely from his Greek original. Here, indeed, we have a fragment of autobiography. When in 158 AD, at the dramatic moment of an adventurous career, Apuleius delivered his Apology⁠—pro se de magia before Claudius Maximus, he confessed that he had been initiated into all the sacred rites of Greece, and had squandered the better part of a comfortable fortune in mysticism and the grand tour. The main accusation was that he had won his wife a respectable and wealthy widow by magic arts. He was also charged with other acts of witchcraft and enchantment. Thattus, it was said, and a freeborn woman had swooned in his presence: a piece of superstition which reminds you of Cotton Mather. But, replied Apuleius, with excellent humour and a scepticism worthy of Reginald Scot, they were epileptics, who could stand in the presence of none save a magician. In brief, we cannot appreciate The Golden Ass, until we realise the modern spirit of curiosity which possessed its author. The lecturer’s fame well-nigh outran the writer’s. Apuleius travelled the length of civilised Africa with his orations, as the popular lecturer of today invades America; and the majesty of Asclepius, a favourite subject, was an excellent occasion for his familiar mysticism. He had been as intimately at home in the nineteenth century as in the second. Were he alive today Paris would have been his field, and he the undisputed master of decadence and symbolism. The comparison is close at all points. Would he not have delighted in the Black Mass, as celebrated on the heights of Mont Paniasse? Like too many among the makers of modern French literature he was an alien writing an alien tongue. His curiosity of diction, his unfailing loyalty to speech, his eager search after the strange and living word, his love of an art which knows no concealment⁠—these qualities proclaim the decadent. And that symbolist is wayward indeed who finds not matter for his fancy in the countless stories, which a perverse ingenuity has twisted a hundred times into allegory.

Such the author and his book. And when William Adlington, in the untried youth of English prose, undertook the translation of The Golden Ass, you would have thought no apter enterprise possible. Primitive and decadent approach art in the same temper. Each is of necessity inclined to euphuism. In the sixteenth century the slang, the proverb, the gutter phrase, which Apuleius brought back to the Latin tongue were not yet sifted from English by the pedantry of scholars. But William Adlington, though an Elizabethan, was something of a purist. To be sure, he was unable to purge his diction of colour and variety, and his manner was far better suited to the rendering of Apuleius than the prose of today, which has passed through the sieve of the eighteenth century. But with an excellent modesty he pleads acceptance for his “simple translation.” Though he applauds the “frank and flourishing style” of his author, “as he seems to have the Muses at his will to feed and maintains his pen,” he uses of deliberation “more common and familiar words”⁠—the phrase proves the essential recognition of his own style⁠—“fearing lest the book should appear very obscure and dark, and thereby consequently loathsome to the reader.” Indeed, he elected to translate the one book of the world which demanded the free employment of strange terms, and set himself incontinent to avoid slang and to simplify redundancies. And his restraint is the more unexpected when you recall the habit of contemporary translators. Barnaby Rich studded Herodotus thick with colloquialisms and fresh-minted words. Philemon Holland made no attempt to chasten his vocabulary. But Adlington, his opportunity being the higher, fell the more marvelously below it. For the most part, then, you will ransack his version in vain for obsolete words or exotic flowers of speech. And yet not even his love of simplicity has kept his vocabulary entirely pure. Again and again a coined phrase, a strange form shows, like a dash of colour, upon his page. “The roperipe boy”⁠—thus he renders puer ille peremptor meus by a happy inspiration, which Apuleius himself might envy. Fresh and unhackneyed is “the gleed of the sun” for jubaris orb. How exquisitely does “a swathell of red silk” represent russea fasceola! “Traffe or baggage” is more pleasantly picturesque than sarcinam vel laciniam, and one’s heart rejoices to hear a churl styled “a rich chuff.” Again, “ungles” is far more expressive, if less common, than “claws;” and who would write “niggardly” when “niggish” is ready to his hand? And is not “a carrion stink” a high-sounding version of fetore nimio? To encounter so sturdy and wholesome a phrase as “I smelling his crafty and subtle fetch” though it be a poor echo of ego perspiciens malum istum verberonem blaterantem et inconcinne causificantem⁠—is to regret the impoverishment of our English tongue. But not often are we rejoiced by the unexpected, and for the most part Adlington is a scrupulous critic of his diction. As he makes no attempt to represent in English his author’s vocabulary, so is he wont to shirk the imagery, and curtail the redundancy affected by Apuleius, repressing the hyperbolical ostentations of his original, save only when he indulges in exaggerations of his own. When the miserable Thelyphron is protecting a dead man from the witch women, thus does Apuleius, with his admirable sense of words, enhance the horror of crawling minutes: cum ecce crepusculum et nox provecta et nox altior et dein concubia altiora; et jam nox intempesta for which Adlington writes in all brevity “midnight.” Apuleius again has a dozen fantastical notions of the dawn, and Adlington cuts them all down to the colourless level of “when morning was come.” Thus even does he reduce so garishly purple a piece of imagery as: Commodum punicantibus phaleris Aurora roseum quatiens lacertum caelum inequitabat. When the thieves return to their den after the sack of Milo’s house, and sit them down to revelry, Apuleius surpasses even his own habit of opulent description. Estur ac potatur⁠—thus he writes incondite pulmentis acervatim, panibus aggeratim, poculis agminatim ingestis. “Cups in battalions!” ’Tis a pretty conceit, and for Adlington it means no more than “they drank and eat exceedingly.” But having accustomed you to a chaste severity of language, he will break out suddenly into a decorative passage, for which the Latin gives no warrant. “Moreover there beg diverse that will cast off their partlets, collars, habiliments, fronts, cornets, and krippins”: thus he turns a perfectly simple sentence⁠—lacinias omnes exuunt, amicula dimovent⁠—proving his quietude of phrase the effect of design rather than of necessity. So also he is wont to clip and crop his author’s metaphors. “While I considered these things” is a withered, nerveless rendering of cum isto cogitationis solo luctuarem; yet is it entirely characteristic of his method. Indeed, from beginning to end he treats his author with the freest hand, and never permits the form and colour of the Latin to interrupt his conception of English prose.

But if he sacrificed something by too scrupulous a restraint, he sacrificed still more by his scanty knowledge of Latin. Scholarship was as little fashionable in Tudor England as pedantry, the defect corresponding to its quality; and Adlington laid no claim to profound erudition. He did but purpose “according to his slender knowledge (though it were rudely, and far disagreeing from the fine and excellent doings nowadays),” to translate “the delectable jests of Lucius Apuleius into our vulgar tongue.” Nor is the confession of “slender knowledge” a mere parade of modesty: it is wholly justified by the event. To compile a list of errors were superfluous. In truth there is no page without its blunder, though, as we shall presently see, the translator commonly manages to tumble not only into sense but into distinction. Now and again the mistakes are so serious as to pervert the meaning, and then one regrets that Adlington was not more wisely guided. For instance, the servants of Philebus, the priest of the Syrian goddess, are called puella by Apuleius in contempt of their miserable profession, and the translator impenetrably obscures the episode by rendering the word “daughters” without a hint of explanation. Still, all are not so grave, though you are constantly driven to wonder at the ingenuity of error. When Byrrhena, in her panegyric of Hypata, tells Lucius that there the merchant may encounter the bustle of Rome, the quiet visitor enjoy the peace of a country-house, Adlington thus heroically misses the mark: “When the Roman merchants arrive in this city they are gently and quietly entertained, and all that dwell within this province (when they purpose to solace and repose themselves) do come to this city!” Verily there is magnificence (of a kind) in such confusion; and how shall one reproach a translator, upon whom accuracy sets so light a burden? Again, with a sublime recklessness Adlington perverts extorta dentibus ferarum trunca calvaria into “the jawbones and teeth of wild beasts,” not pausing to consider the mere formality of grammatical concord. And when Fotis relates how Pamphiles, having failed to advance her suit by other arts (quod nihil etiam tune in suos amores ceteris artibus promoveref), designs to assume the shape and feathers of a bird, Adlington so carelessly confounds cause and effect as to say that the transformation was intended “to work her sorceries on such as she loved.” Tune solus ignoras longe faciliores ad expugnandum domus esse majores? asks one of the robbers; and Adlington, with the twisted cleverness of a fourth form boy, extorts therefrom this platitude: “Why are you only ignorant that the greater the number is, the sooner they may rob and spoil the house?” When one of Psyche’s wicked sisters threatens to go hang herself if Psyche prove the mother of a god (si divini puelli⁠—quod absit⁠—haec mater audierit, statim me laqueo nexili suspendam), “if it be a divine babe,” says the sister in the translation, “and fortune to come to the ears of the mother (as God forbid it should) then may I go and hang myself:” thus ignorant was our Englishman of the commonest idiom. Once, at the marriage of Charite good fortune seemed to wait upon the ass, and his mistress promised him hay enough for a Bactrian camel (faenum camelo Bactrinae sufficiens): a promise misinterpreted by a masterpiece of grotesquerie into “she would call me her little camel.” With his very easy baggage of Latin, the translator lost the point of every Sprichwort, and turned the literary allusion into nonsense. In the phrase non cervam pro virgine sed hominem pro homine, the reference to Iphigenia is patent, and yet our excellent Adlington gets no nearer the truth than “not a servant for his maidens, but rather an ass for himself.”

So much must be said in dispraise of what after all is a masterpiece of prose. The translator, said Dr. Johnson, “is to exhibit his author’s thoughts in such a dress as the author would have given them had his language been English.” Now, Adlington has failed, with the rest of the world, to reach this high standard. Under no conceivable circumstances could Apuleius have written in his terms and with his significance. For the perfect translation a knowledge of two languages is necessary. The modern translator is commonly endowed with a complete apprehension of Latin or Greek, and is withal lamentably ignorant of English. Adlington, on the other hand, was sadly to seek in Latin, but he more than atoned for his slender knowledge by an admirable treatment of his own language. Though he abandoned the colour and variety of Apuleius, he turned his author into as handsome a piece of prose as you are like to meet. From the first page to the last you will not find a trace of foreign idiom. The result is not so much a fine translation as a noble original, fitted to endure by its vigorous diction and excellent rhythm. The manner is perfectly adapted to narration, and there are few can handle a story with better delicacy and point. The style, if simple for its age, has all the distinction of simplicity. The cadences are a perpetual pleasure to the ear. There is a stateliness, a dignity of effect, which proves that the prose of the authorised version was no invention, but a growth. Though Adlington does not pretend to echo the locutions of Apuleius, he is, after his own method, a master of phrase, “Girded with her beautiful scarf of love”⁠—is it not an exquisite idea? How more nearly or more adroitly would you turn tamen nisi capillum distinxerit than in these terms: “if her hair be not curiously set forth?” If only the modern translator dared to represent ementita lassitudo by “feigned” and coloured weariness, there were hope that his craft might rise above journeywork. Who would complain that the original was embroidered when it is to such admirable purpose as: “Thus she cried and lamented, and after she had wearied herself with sorrow and blubbered her face with tears, she closed the windows of her hollow eyes, and laid her down to sleep.” Here is prose, ever vivid and alert, ever absolved from the suspicion of the stereotyped phrase. In Adlington’s day “good taste” had not banned freshness and eccentricity from the language. A century later it had been impossible to translate glebosa camporum into “cloggy, fallowed fields;” yet this is Adlington’s expression, and it may be matched or bettered on every page. Above all, his work is distinguished by that sustained nobility of rhythm which makes the Tudor prose the best of good reading. “And while I considered these things, I looked about, and behold I saw afar-off a shadowed valley adjoining nigh unto a wood, where amongst diverse other herbs and pleasant verdures, me thought I saw; diverse flourishing Roses of bright damask colour; and said within my bestial mind, Verily that place is the place of Venus and the Graces, where secretly glistereth the royal hue, of so lively and delectable a flower”: here are no exotic words, no long-sought images; the rare effect is attained by a harmony, which not even the sternest simplicity can impoverish. Or take a passage in another key: “In the mean season while I was fed with dainty morsels, I gathered together my flesh, my skin waxed soft, my hair began to shine, and was gallant on every part, but such fair and comely shape of my body, was cause of my dishonour, for the baker and cook marvelled to see me so slick and fine, considering I did eat no hay at all.” True, the word “slick” (aptly suggested by nitore) is, so to say, a highlight; but the beauty still depends upon the rhythm, to which Adlington’s ear is ever attuned. In brief, whatever defects of scholarship and restraint mar the translation, it remains a model of that large, untrammelled prose which, before the triumph of common sense, seemed within the reach of all. But is it not the strangest paradox of literary history that they who lived in the golden age of translation sought their original at second hand, or fumbled for their meaning in the dark?

One advantage at least was enjoyed by Adlington. He studied Apuleius in the native Latin, using, we may believe, the famous folio of 1500 (Cum Beroaldi Commentariis), prefaced by that “Vita Lucii Apuleii Summatim Relata,” which he paraphrased in English with his accustomed inaccuracy. Howbeit, he did not “so exactly pass through the author, as to point every sentence according as it is in Latin:” for so, he adds, “the French and Spanish translators have not done.” Nor is there any doubt that he attempted to amend his ignorance of Latin by the aid of a French version. It is some proof of the early popularity of The Golden Ass that Spain, Italy, and France had each its translation into the vulgar tongue, before Adlington undertook the work. In 1522 there appeared a tiny quarto versions bearing this legend upon its titlepage: “Lucius Apuleius de Lasne dore⁠ ⁠… On les vend a Paris en la grand rue St. Jacques, Par Philippe le noir.” It was by one Guillaume Michel; and though before the English translation was a-making there had appeared another version by Georges de la Bouthiere (Lyons, 1553), adorned with cuts in the manner of Bernard Salmon, the earlier book was a guide, and too often a blind guide, unto Adlington’s footsteps. The Frenchman, indeed, was the riper scholar, but not only did ne indulge the tiresome habit of commenting by the way, and without warning, upon his text, but he was also guilty of the most ingenious blunders, which Adlington, as though his own errors were not sufficient, too readily followed. A comparison of the versions sets the matter beyond uncertainty. If again and again the same inaccuracy glares in English and French, it is obvious that the one was borrowed from the other. At the very outset there is a clear clue. Guillaume Michel, according to his habit of expansion, paraphrases haec me suadente in half a dozen lines; and Adlington, turning his invigilant eye from the Latin, is guilty of the like unwarranted prolixity. Moreover, when Apuleius by a quip says of Meroe, sic reapse nomen ejus tune Jubulis Socratis convenlre sentiebam, you are puzzled by the ingenuity of Adlington’s rendering: “being so named because she was a taverner,” until you turn to the French and find in taverniere the source of error. Again, Diophanes, the magician in Milo’s story, is consulted by a certain merchant, Cerdo by name. (The Latin is unmistakable: Cerdo quidam nomine negotiator.) Now, Adlington boldly translates “a certain cobbler,” and instantly the Frenchman’s quelque savatier explains the blunder. Toutfoys mon cheval et tautre beste lasne de Milo ne me voulurent souffrir avec eulx paistre: so Michel at the beginning of the Fourth Book. And thus Adlington: “but mine own horse and Milo’s ass would not suffer me to feed there with them, but I must seek my dinner in some other place.” The renderings agree precisely in a gross inaccuracy, and the Latin nec me cum asino vel equo meo compascuus coetus attinere potuit adhuc insolitum alioquin prandere foenum is involved enough to explain Adlington’s reliance upon the French. Another passage is even more convincing. Ad quandam villam possessoris beati pervemunt, writes Apuleius, whom Adlington translates: “we fortuned to come to one Britunis house”; nor would it appear who this Britunis might be, unless you turned to Michel’s French and read, en aucun village chiez ung rich laboureur nomme Brulinus. This strange correspondence in error might be enforced by countless examples. But by this it is evident that, although Adlington did not, like Angel Day, Sir Thomas North, George Nichols (translator of Thucydides), render his author from the French openly and without shame, he consulted the French as well as the Latin, and fared rather the worse therefor.

If for a judgment of Adlington the writer there is ample material, of Adlington the man we know nothing more than he vouchsafes himself. That six editions appeared in some seventy years is proof of the book’s popularity. But its only mention is in the Register of the Stationers’ Company, where it figures “In the entering of copies” between the 22nd July 1565 and the 22nd July 1566⁠—something earlier than the date of the dedication. “Wekes. Received of Henry Wekes,” thus it runs, “for his license for printing of a book entitled The Whole Book of Lucius Apuleius of Ye Golden Ass, six shillings and eight pence.” The epistle dedicatory to Thomas, Earl of Sussex, is dated “from University College in Oxenford, the 18th of September, 1566.”3 But whether or no he was a graduate of that seat of learning is still uncertain. His name does not appear in the Register of the University, and in vain you consult the common sources of information. He presents his book to his patron in the customary terms of extravagant eulogy: “The which if your honourable Lordship shall accept,” writes he of his Apuleius, “and take in good part, I shall not only think my small travel and labour well employed, but shall also receive a further comfort to attempt some more serious matter.” If the serious matter were ever attempted, its very gravity has sunk it out of knowledge: unless, indeed, he be the author of that very rare and exceeding obvious tract in verse, entitled, A Special Remedy Against the Force of Lawless Love.4 This was published in 1579, and ascribed upon the titlepage to W. A. As the agreement of name and date is perfect, so also the tone of the preface corresponds precisely with Adlington’s admonition to the reader of The Golden Ass. When the “friendly Reader” of the Special Remedy is warned how “like unto a beast love transformeth a man, during the which nothing can be exercised in mind, nothing by reason or study of mind can be done,” you are forthwith reminded of Adlington and of Lucius changed to an ass. The verses are properly forgotten, but by his own confession we know him subject to an invincible morality which, ill according with his century, drove him perchance to undertake this enterprise gloomy enough for oblivion. Lector intende: laetaberis⁠—such is the bidding of Apuleius. And Adlington apologises that “although the matter seem very light and merry, yet the effect thereof tendeth to a good and virtuous moral,” just as the author of the Special Remedy remarks with Plinie, “there is no book so simple, but that therein is somewhat worthy the noting.” As though the Milesian tale were judged, not by its pleasantry and delight, but by the quality of its moral sustenance! But Adlington was of those who would allegorise both mythology and romance. “The fall of Icarus is an example to proud and arrogant persons, that weeneth to climb up to the heavens;” and further, he holds that “by Midas is carped the foul sin of avarice.” And, as if to excuse the translation of a “mere jest and fable,” he addresses to the reader a most solemn homily, setting forth the example of Nebuchadnezzar and upholding the efficacy of prayer. “Verily under the wrap of this transformation is taxed the life of mortal men,” thus he writes in the proper spirit of the divine; concluding that “we can never be restored to the right figure of ourselves, except we taste and eat the sweet rose of reason and virtue, which the rather by mediation of prayer we may assuredly attained.” Nor is this the mere perversion of ingenuity. His prudery is perfectly sincere. In many places he is inclined, by a modest suppression, to mitigate the gaiety of the Apuleian narrative. But only once does he completely sacrifice his author’s effect to his own scruples; and the restrained nobility of his prose more than atones for lack of scholarship and a prudish habit of mind. The lapse of three centuries has left his book as fresh and living as its original, and withal as brave a piece of narrative as the literature of his century has to show.