ńňđ. 5
(âńĺăî 8)



the papacy, and interprets the Italian wars as examples of ‘God’s just judge-
ments’ (Godes rechtveerdige oordeelen). Printed marginalia reinforce the reli-
gious message, introducing references to God where the text does not. The
notorious character-sketch of Alexander VI appears with a marginal gloss
noting that the pope’s behaviour was far from the perfection St Paul wanted
to see in a bishop, while in book four, in which Guicciardini discusses the
Papal States, the marginalia turn into miniature essays on the early Church,
something that would interest Dutch Calvinist readers of the time.
The fate of the censored passages of Guicciardini’s history makes another
vivid illustration of cultural translation. The original – posthumous –
edition of the Storia d’Italia, published in Florence (1561–4), was not a
complete text. Certain cuts were made by Bartolomeo Concini, secretary
to the Duke of Tuscany. As a result the book made its first appearance
minus an important ‘digression’ on the origins of the temporal power of
the popes, as well as certain critical remarks on papal conclaves and an
unflattering portrait of Leo X. By contrast, the still more pungent portrait
of Alexander VI was retained in the first edition, although it disap-
peared from the Spanish translation by Florez de Benavides (1581), whether
for religious or for ‘national’ reasons (since Alexander, originally Rodrigo
Borja, was a Spaniard).
The first translators, including some Protestants, were apparently
unaware that the text from which they were working had been cut.
Hence the first editions of the Latin version by Celio Secundo Curio, a
Piedmontese Protestant refugee to Switzerland (1566), the French version
by Jerome de Chomedey, a conseiller in the Parlement of Paris (1568), and
the English version made – from the French – by Sir Geoffrey Fenton
(1579) all lacked the censored passages.
Fenton was a little behind the times, since by 1579 it had become public
knowledge that the text of the first Italian edition was incomplete, and at
least one copy of the original manuscript was in circulation (the Latin
version published at Frankfurt in 1609 claims to be taken ‘ex autographo
florentino’). The offending passage about the temporal power was pub-
lished separately (in Latin and French as well as the original Italian) in Basel
in 1569 by Pietro Perna, the Italian Protestant refugee who had published
Curio’s translation, and again in London (this time with the addition of
an English version) in 1595. It was restored in later editions of the French
and English translations (in English, beginning with the third edition of
1595), in the Dutch translation of 1599 (with a note saying that the passage
was omitted from the Italian edition) and also in an Italian edition
published in Geneva in 1621. Between 1602 and 1739 the text was reprinted
separately at least eleven times in one or more of the four languages
mentioned. Rarely has a censored text achieved such a wide circulation,
especially in translation.
Although Guicciardini did write these passages, we may still say that
their appearance in print reveals a Protestant reading of his work. He wrote
in the 1530s and died in 1540, at a time when it still seemed as if the split
between Catholics and Protestants might be repaired. Appearing a gener-
ation later, with the special emphasis given by separate publication, the
critique of papal power was perceived as much more radical. One might say
that Protestant readers began to view Guicciardini as an ally.


This is also what happened in the case of Paolo Sarpi, notoriously described
by Bossuet in his Histoire des variations des Eglises protestantes (1688) as
‘Protestant habille en moine’ with ‘un coeur calviniste’. Even the first
Italian edition of Sarpi’s Historia del Concilio Tridentino (1619) was ‘trans-
lated’ in the sense of published abroad, in London, after the manuscript
had been smuggled out of Venice via the British embassy (an unusually
dramatic book history).12 In the paratexts of the first edition the Historia
was reframed as a Protestant work, or at least as one more violently and
openly anti-papal than the text itself.
For example, the title-page drew attention to ‘the artifices of the court of
Rome to prevent the spread of true doctrines and the reform of the Church’
(l’artifici della corte di Roma per impedire che ne la verita de dogmi se
Yates (1944); Burke (1967).
Translating histories 137
palesasse, ne la riforma del Papato e della Chiesa si trattasse). There was also a
dedication to James I by yet another Italian refugee, Marco Antonio De
Dominis, formerly Archbishop of Split but by this time Dean of Windsor.
The dedication referred to ‘free spirits’ who were aware of ‘the deceits and
tricks’ (le frodi et inganni) of the court of Rome, its ‘diabolical inventions
and stratagems’ (inventioni e stratagemi diabolici).
Some index entries supported this message. Winston Churchill was not
the first person to use the index of a book – in his case the history of the
Second World War – as a polemical weapon (‘Baldwin, Stanley, confesses
to putting party above country’). The Dutch translation of Guicciardini,
discussed above, includes an index entry under P, ‘Pope squeezes a lot of
money out of the Jubilee’ (Paus vischt groot ghelt uit de Jubelee), and another
under G, pointing to Guicciardini’s critical discussion of the rise of the
Papal States.
In Sarpi’s case this idea was taken still further. For example, the index to
the first French translation includes entries on ‘Reformation frivole de Pie
IV’, ‘Servitude du concile par les commandements de Rome’ and
‘Usurpation et artifice notable de Rome’. The Latin translation includes
entries such as ‘Paulus III se Concilii cupientissimum simulate’ (Paul III
pretended enthusiasm for the Council), ‘Translationi Concilii color quer-
itus’ (the search for an excuse to move the Council) and ‘Valdenses per
multa secula soli pontificiae tyrannidi contrarii’ (the Waldensians, for
many centuries the only opponents of papal tyranny). The English trans-
lation is cool by contrast, although we do find an entry under ‘Paul III’,
‘His chiefest virtue was dissimulation.’ The index to the mid-eighteenth-
century German translation is also a mild one, except where Cardinal
Sforza Pallavicino, who wrote against Sarpi, is concerned.
Sarpi himself preferred the language of irony and insinuation to direct
statement, and the debate over his religious attitudes still continues, but it
is particularly interesting in this context to note that the author was
embarrassed by the way in which his book was reframed in the first edition
in order to appeal to Protestant readers. Sarpi’s secretary Micanzio wrote to
De Dominis complaining of ‘that inappropriate title-page and that terri-
ble, scandalous dedication’ (quel titolo impropriissimo e quella dedica terrible
e scandalosa).13
Sarpi himself, hearing that Jean Diodati, a Calvinist of Italian origin
who lived and taught in Geneva, was planning to publish a second edition
of the history, wrote to ask him to omit the dedication, which is also absent
Bianchi-Giovini (1836), vol. II, 308.
from the English translation of the history, published in 1620.14 It is worth
noting that the subtitle of the English translation is milder than that of the
first Italian edition, referring simply to ‘the practices of the court of Rome,
to hinder the reformation of their errors, and to maintain their greatness’.15
The German translation of 1620, on the other hand, included the
‘scandalous’ dedication and, if anything, sharpened the language of the
title-page: ‘Darinn alle Rancke un(d) Practicken entdecht warden/mit wel-
¨ ¨
chen der Bapst und der Romische Hoff den Keyser und die Stande des
Reichs wegen dess begerten Concilii eine lange Zeit geaffet’ (the reference to
‘making apes of’ the Estates of the Holy Roman Empire is interesting as an
attempt to demonstrate the book’s relevance for the German public).
Some other early readers reacted in a similar way. The French scholar
Pierre Dupuy, for instance, wrote to his friend William Camden that the
book would have been better without the dedication and the subtitle
(Utinam abesset praefatio et etiam pars ultima tituli). Another French
scholar, Nicolas Claude Peiresc, also writing to Camden, agreed, calling
it a pity that the editor was not as moderate as the author but unable
‘s’abstenir non seulement de l’arraisonnement qu’il a ajoute au titre, et des
´ `
mots piquants et partiaux qu’il a entrelace en l’indice des matieres, mais
aussi de son epˆtre liminaire’.
´ı 16

The intentions of De Dominis (as of Sarpi himself) may have been
ecumenical rather than Protestant, but they were understood to be
Protestant by the Englishmen most involved with the publication of the
history, Archbishop George Abbot, the diplomat Sir Dudley Carleton and
the lawyer Sir Nathaniel Brent (a client of Abbot).
The paratextual message was driven home in the translations of the
Historia that appeared in the Protestant world in the seventeenth century,
including the English translation (1620) by Brent, the anonymous German
translation of 1620, the anonymous Latin translation (also 1620), actually
made by Sir Adam Newton, Dean of Durham, the French translation by
Diodati (1621) and the Dutch translation of 1621 by a certain Marcus de
The Dutch translation, which is limited to the first five books of the
history, includes a long prefatory letter to the States-General commenting
on the persecution of Protestants in the Netherlands in the time of Charles
V and criticizing the pope, or more exactly what the writer calls the two
popes (the second one being the general of the Jesuits). There is no index

Malcolm (1984), 57, 126. 15 Viallon and Dompnier (2002), xliv–li.
13 July 1619; quoted in Vivanti (1974), xci.
Translating histories 139
but the strong language of the English title-page is retained and the English
dedication by De Dominis is translated. Generally speaking the translation
itself is faithful: it is by contrast the marginalia that gave Sarpi a Protestant
flavour. They emphasize papal deceits and do not so much summarize as
moralize, with a regular use of exclamation marks, especially when com-
menting on papal hypocrisy.
One Catholic translation requires to be mentioned here, because it is an
anti-papal one (though the author added to the text a declaration of his
Catholicism). The version of Sarpi by Amelot de la Houssaye was pub-
lished in France in 1683, just after the famous assertion of independence by
the French (‘Gallican’) Church in the Four Articles of 1682. The book
contains anti-papal and anticlerical index entries as well as marginalia that
are sometimes so long that they wind around the page. Under the entry
‘Moines’, for example, we find ‘Envieux les uns les autres’ and ‘comment ils
s’enrichissent’, while a marginal note compares one pope with Tiberius
(Houssaye was a great admirer of Tacitus) on account of his skill in
dissimulation: ‘Plus ce pape tenoit le concile en brassiere, plus il affectoit
de paroitre populaire dans son discours.’
The tradition of publishing the History in Protestant countries contin-
ued into the eighteenth century. The French translation of Sarpi published
in 1736 appeared in London, the work of Pierre-Francois Le Courayer, a
priest who left France following his defence of the validity of Anglican
orders and was given a pension by the British government. This edition is
also noteworthy for its visual paratexts, an allegorical frontispiece including
an old man with a lantern and a vignette of the attempt by the court of
Rome to assassinate Sarpi in Venice. Other works by Sarpi on the Venetian
interdict, on the history of benefices and on the Inquisition were presented
in a similar way in their various translations.
As in the case of Guicciardini, these many versions of Sarpi have never
been examined in as much detail as they deserve, although the controversies
about them (in particular about the three French translations) suggest the
potential interest of such a study.17 In his preface, Houssaye, for instance,
accused Diodati of failing to understand both Italian and French, and
declared that ‘ceux qui confronteront nos deux traductions croiront quasi
que nous avons traduit deux different auteurs’. Le Courayer repeats this
criticism of Diodati and adds his own of Houssaye. These controversies
make very clear how small details may make a great contribution to a book’s
effect. Details that, as we have seen, were not always provided by the author.
A beginning has been made by Viallon and Dompnier (2002).


1. Jose de Acosta, Historia natural y moral, Italian (Galucci) 1591; Dutch (Linschoten)
1598; German 1598; French (Regnault) 1598; English (E. Grimestone) 1604.
2. Luis de Avila, Commentario, Italian, French, Flemish, Latin, English (Wilkinson)
all 1555.
3. Philippe de Commynes, Memoires, Italian (Raince) 1544, (Conti) 1612; Latin
(Sleidan) 1545–8, (Barthius) 1629; English (Danett) 1596, (Uvedale) 1712;
Dutch (Kiel) 1612, (Haes) 1757; German (Klosemann) 1643; Spanish (Rizo)
1625; Swedish (Schroder) 1624.
4. Enrico Caterina Davila, Guerre, French (Baudoin) 1644; English (Cotterell
and Aylesbury) 1647; Spanish (Varen de Soto) 1651; Latin (Cornazanus) 1735;
English (Farnesworth) 1758.
5. Paolo Giovio, Historia sui temporis, French (Sauvage) 1550, (Parq-Champenois)
1555; Italian (Domenichi) 1555; Spanish (Villafranca) 1562; German (Forberger
and Haluerius) 1570; Dutch (Heyns) 1604.
6. Francesco Guicciardini, Storia d’Italia, Latin (Curio) 1566; French (J. Chomedey)
1568; German (Forberger) 1574; English (G. Fenton) 1579; Spanish (Florez de
Benavides) 1581; Dutch 1599; Spanish (epitome, Nato) 1683; English (Goddard)
1735; French (Favre) 1738.
7. Fernao Lopes de Castanheda, Descobrimento, French (Grouchy) 1553; Spanish
1554; Italian (Ulloa) 1577; English (N. Lichefield) 1582; Dutch (Hoogstraten)
8. Niccolo Machiavelli, Historia Fiorentina, French (Brinon) 1577; English
(Bedingfield) 1595; Latin (Turler) 1610; English (M. K.) 1674; French 1694;
Dutch (Ghys) 1703.
9. Louis Maimbourg, Croisades, Dutch (Broeckhuizen) 1683; Italian (Emiliano)
1684; English (Nalson) 1685; Polish (Andrzej) 1707; Latin (Wietrowski) 1723;
German 1776.
10. Martino Martini, De bello tartarico, German (Paullinus) 1654; French (Girault)
1654; Dutch (GLS) 1655; English 1654; Italian (Latini) 1654; Spanish (Aguilar y
˜ ´
Zuniga) 1665; Portuguese (Gomez Carneiro) 1657; Danish, Swedish
(Nidelberg) 1674.
11. Samuel Pufendorf, Einleitung, Swedish (P. Brask) 1680; German 1682; Dutch
(Vries) 1684; French (Rouxel) 1685; Latin 1687; English (Bohun) 1695; Russian.
12. Paolo Sarpi, Historia del Concilio di Trento, English (Brent) 1620; Latin
(Newton) 1620; Dutch (Rogeau) 1621; French (Diodati) 1621; French
(Houssaie) 1683; French (Le Courayer) 1736; German 1620? (Rambach) 1761.
13. Paolo Sarpi, Beneficii, English (Denton) 1681; Latin (Caffa) 1681; French
(Houssaie) 1685; German 1688; English (Jenkyns) 1727.
14. Johann Sleidan, Quatuor imperia, German (Koch) 1557; English (Wythers)
1563, (Darcie) 1627; French (Le Prevost) 1557; Dutch 1583; Swedish 1610.
15. Johann Sleidan, Commentaria, Dutch (Deleen) 1558; English (Daus) 1560,
(Bohun) 1689; French (Le Prevost) 1557, (Le Courayer) 1767; German
(Pantaleon) 1557; Italian 1557; Swedish (E. Schroder) 1675.
Translating histories 141
16. Antonio de Sol´s, Conquista, French (S. de Broe) 1691; Italian 1699; English
(Townsend) 1724; Danish (Lang) 1747; German 1750.
17. Famiano Strada, De bello belgico, Italian (Papini and Segneri) 1638–; Flemish
(van Aelst) 1645; French (Du Ryer) 1644; English (Stapylton) 1650–, (Lancaster)
1656; Spanish (Novar) 1681; Polish (Poszakowski).
18. Polydore Vergil, Inventores, French (Michel) 1521, (Belleforest) 1582; Italian
(Lauro) 1543, (Baldelli) 1587; German (Tatius) 1544; English (Langley) 1546;
Polish 1608?


1569 Loci duo . . . quae ex ipsius historiarum libris iii et iv non leguntur, Basel
(Latin, Italian, French)
1595 Two discourses of Master Frances Guicciardin, which are wanting in the thirde
and fourth bookes of his Historie, London (English, Latin, Italian, French)
1602 Francisci Guicciardini loci duo, s. l. (perhaps Geneva) (Latin, Italian,
1609 ‘Discursus de ortu pontifici imperii’, in Monita politica, Frankfurt (Latin,
Italian, French)
1609 Paralipomena quae ex ipsius Historiarum libris iii, iv et x in exemplaribus
hactenus impressis non leguntur, Frankfurt (Latin)
1618 Guicciardini, History of Italy, London, ‘with restitution of a digression
towad the end of the 4th booke, effaced out of all the Italian and Latine
copies in all the late editions’
1629 ‘A part of the Historie of Francis Guicciardine, stolen out of his third
Booke concerning Pope Alexander the sixt’, ‘A second place conteining a
large discourse by what meanes the Popes of Rome attained to that greatnesse
which they now enjoy’ and ‘A part of the histoire of Francis Guicciardine
stolen out of his tenth Booke’ (English)
c. 1650 ‘De origine secularis potestatis in romana ecclesia’, in H. Conring, De
imperio romano, Lyon (Latin)
1663 ‘Paralipomena’, repr. A. Wicquefort (ed.), Thuanus restitutus, Amsterdam
(Latin, Italian, French)
1684 ‘F. G. Historia Papatus’, in J. H. Heidegger, Historia Papatus, Amsterdam
1705 ‘Guicciardini’s account by what means the popes usurped their temporal
power’, in The Present State of Europe, London (English)
1712 The History of the Papacy wrote by Francesco Guicciardini . . . which was
fraudulently left out of the 4th book of his history, London (English)
1739 Deux passages tres importants dans l’histoire de Francois Guicciardini, The
Hague (Italian)

The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the
periodical: a study in cultural translation
Maria Lucia Pallares-Burke

The fortunes of the English Spectator (1711–14) and its followers, in Europe
and elsewhere, may be said to represent one of the most successful enter-
prises of both literal and cultural translation in the history of printed
communication. Its study provides a vivid illustration of the problems
and dilemmas of what was known in the eighteenth century as good and
bad imitation, while we now describe it as cultural translation – in other
words, the adaptation of a text to new contexts. A daily paper published
intermittently between 1711 and 1714, The Spectator was not the first
periodical to be edited by the English men of letters Joseph Addison and
Richard Steele. They had already collaborated on The Tatler, which
appeared three times a week between 1709 and 1711. Its name means
‘someone who gossips’, and indicates the conversational tone as well as
the topicality of the paper.
However, it was in The Spectator that they found the formula for both
national and international success. Even the beginning of this trend gives
testimony that The Spectator, the so-called original model of the Spectator
genre of journalism, did not involve a complete break with older trends, as
is usually presented; it involved, in fact, a work of cultural translation and is
best described as the culmination of tendencies in the history of the
seventeenth-century press. So, this essay will start by going back to the
periodical traditions which the spectator model followed, and then will
show how the journal was itself a creative adaptation of earlier periodical
traditions, political, learned and fashionable – the Gazette, the Mercure
galant and the Journal des savants.
The second part, which deals with the Spectator’s imitations, will focus on
a case study of the Spectator genre of journalism, the work of Jacques-Vincent
Delacroix. Since Delacroix was one of the most, if not the most tireless,
convinced and persistent of the followers of the English model of journalism,
his work not only illuminates the history of the Spectator genre, but also gives
some insights into the debate on cultural translation that it provoked.
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 143

A brief survey of the development of the European periodical press testifies
to the important role it played in the process of cultural exchange and to
the cultural and literal translations that it involved. Between c. 1450 and
c. 1600 the news entered print in ‘occasional’ rather than periodical form,
via proclamations and pamphlets of various kinds, whether they were
concerned with battles, natural disasters, or religious changes such as the
Protestant Reformation.1
Then, in the first decade of the seventeenth century, in Germany, we see
what may be called the invention of the news-sheet, news-book or period-
ical, in the sense of a series of texts published at regular intervals, whether
annually, quarterly, monthly, weekly, bi-weekly or even daily, in order to
offer new information to readers (hence the term ‘news’). Issues were
generally numbered so that readers would know whether or not they had
missed one. The print run of seventeenth-century news-sheets was gener-
ally around 1,500 copies and one press could produce 600 in a day.2
The wars of the period – the Dutch war for independence from Spain
(1568–1648), the Thirty Years’ War in Central Europe (1618–48), the
English Civil Wars (1642–51) and so on – doubtless boosted the sales of
this new form of literature. It normally took the form of a number of
reports from different cities – Venice, Rome, Paris, Vienna, London and so
on, situated on the major postal routes. By the 1660s there were about fifty
European newspapers, published in Latin, Italian, French, English,
German, Dutch and Danish. Most were monolingual but in the 1660s
Georg Greflingen of Hamburg published news in German, French, Italian
and English. One of the most famous periodicals of the eighteenth century,
best known as the Gazette de Leyde, published in French in the Dutch
Republic from 1677 to 1811, was originally entitled ‘Traduction libre des
gazettes flamandes et autres’ (Free translation of Flemish and other gaz-
ettes), making available to French readers news that would not normally be
published in France itself.
One newspaper often appropriated material from another. For example,
a study of the transmission of the news of the events of 1669 shows that one
paper, published in Copenhagen, regularly borrowed from others pub-
lished in Hamburg a few days earlier.3 However, the editor selected
information that would appeal to his Danish target audience as well as

1 2 3
Seguin (1964). Schroder (1995), 5: cf. Raymond (1996). Ries (1977).
translating from German into Danish. In that sense we might speak of the
cultural and well as the literal translation of the news.
The rise of the periodical and of the market for periodicals led to
increasing specialization by function. Three different kinds of periodical
developed, specializing in different kinds of information: political, social
and scholarly.4
Take the case of France. Political information was to be found in the
Gazette, founded in 1631 by Theophraste Renaudot. Published with the
assistance and according to the requirements of the government, this
journal appeared twice a week and presented brief and impersonal accounts
of major political events, national and international. It was edited in Paris
but also published in the provinces. There were rival papers, such as the
weekly Nouvelles ordinaires, but the support of the government ensured the
success of the Gazette.5
In the second place, social information could be found in the Mercure
galant, founded in 1672, which appeared every month and offered news of
the court and the world of fashion (in interior decoration as well as in
clothes), as well as stories and competitions (to solve enigmas, for example,
or to write verses on a particular theme), for a wider and especially a female
readership. This journal too was financed by the French government, but
unlike the Gazette it did not give the impression of being official, thus
making its regular praises of King Louis XIV more persuasive.6
In the third place, scholarly information was provided by the Journal des
savants. The first issue, published on Monday 5 January 1665, contained a
note from the printer about the policy of the journal: ‘Le dessein de ce
journal estant de faire savoir ce qui se passe de nouveau dans la Republique
des Lettres’ (The aim of this journal being to make known what is new in
the Republic of Letters), and it would contain four kinds of items: summa-
ries of new books, obituaries of scholars, accounts of experiments and
decisions of legal tribunals. The last feature may seem odd today but
reflects the fact that many French scholars of the time were lawyers or
had been trained to be lawyers. The plan was for the journal to appear
weekly before the news went out of date (‘parce que les choses vieilliroient
trop’). In practice, however, the Journal des savants appeared once a fort-
night. The subjects discussed included literature, church history, coins and
medals, and natural philosophy.7
All three models were imitated outside France, thus illustrating the
process of cultural exchange. For example, the Gazette model was adopted
4 5 6 7
Sgard (1991). Feyel (2000). Dotoli (1983); Vincent (1979). Morgan (1929).
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 145
in the England of Charles II and the Russia of Peter the Great as well as in
Spain. In London, it appeared twice a week and was edited by an under-
secretary of state. A French translation of the London Gazette was published
from 1666 to 1705, while in the mid-eighteenth century the Gazette of
St Petersburg appeared in French and German as well as in Russian.
The Mercure galant might be described as the first women’s magazine,
even if it was also read by men. The first volume appeared in English
translation, as ‘The Mercury-Gallant’, in 1673. This enterprise was not
continued but a number of the main features of the French journal were
imitated by English competitors such as the Athenian Mercury, produced
by the English bookseller John Dunton and targeting women as well as
men, with special ‘Ladies issues’ and a short-lived sister journal, The Ladies’
Mercury. Some of the special features have survived in women’s magazines
to this day, notably the love stories, news about the latest fashions, com-
petitions and letters from readers, sometimes taking their problems to the
‘agony column’.8 Journals specializing in fashion appeared somewhat later,
among them the Courrier de la mode (1768– ) and the Cabinet des modes
(1785– ).9
As for the Journal des savants model, it was followed in a long series of
European learned journals. Among the most important of these was the
Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London, which began
publication in 1665 and paid more attention than the French journal to
natural philosophy. Another major periodical was the Acta eruditorum
(1682– ), produced in Leipzig in Latin for an international learned public,
and including more material on the humanities than its London compet-
itor and less material on belles-lettres than its rival in Paris.10
Most famous of all, there was the Nouvelles de la republique des lettres
(1684– ) edited by the French critic Pierre Bayle from his place of exile in
Rotterdam and aimed at general readers as well as scholars.11 Its rival was
the Bibliotheque universelle et historique, edited in Amsterdam from 1686
onwards by the Swiss Protestant exile Jean Leclerc, which justified its
existence on the grounds that rival editors did not know enough foreign
languages and promised accounts of ‘discoveries’ in humanities as well as in
mathematics and medicine. In 1687 and 1688, some of the book reviews
that appeared in the Bibliotheque were written by John Locke.
In all these scholarly journals one of the most important features was a
new literary genre, the book review, an invaluable aid to selection and

8 9 10
McEwen (1972); Berry (2003). Roche (1989). Laeven (1986).
On Bayle, Labrousse (1963–4).
discrimination at a time when readers risked drowning in the ‘deluge’ of
new publications (this vivid image comes from the pen of a seventeenth-
century librarian). While the early seventeenth century was the crucial
moment for the development of the news-sheet, the late seventeenth
century was the formative period for the more substantial monthly or
quarterly journal.
These periodicals both drew on and contributed to the process of inter-
national collaboration. The editors depended on scholarly informants from
different countries. Books published in one language were often summarized
at length in another, offering a temporary substitute for translation. There
were plans to translate some of the journals themselves, and for a few years
the Transactions of the Royal Society of London was made available in Latin to
the many scholarly readers of the time who did not know English.
Bayle’s career is a good example of the importance of the great
Huguenot diaspora for the rise of both journalism and translation in the
late seventeenth century. After the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in
1685, 2 million French Protestants faced the alternatives of conversion to
Catholicism or expulsion from France. Of the 200,000 who chose expul-
sion, there were many Calvinist ministers. They tended to migrate to
Protestant cities such as Amsterdam, London or Berlin. The supply of
ministers in these places far exceeded the demand, and it was necessary for
most of the new arrivals to find an alternative occupation. Highly articulate
as many of them were, a literary career was an obvious choice, whether
as authors, editors or translators, or in the new profession of ‘journalist’
(a word that was just coming into use at this time in French and English).12
Translation was another of their main activities, and French culture was
spread in the Dutch Republic, Britain and Prussia, and English culture in
France, thanks to the efforts of Huguenots such as Abel Boyer, translator of
Racine into English; Pierre Coste, most famous for his translation of Locke
into French; Pierre Des Maizeaux, who translated Bayle into English; and
David Mazel, who translated Gilbert Burnet and John Tillotson into


Many of the features of the periodicals mentioned above could be found in
the short-lived but extremely influential journal The Spectator, which
Yardeni (1985), 201–7.
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 147
stands out as a creative adaptation of earlier periodical traditions, political,
learned and fashionable. One may say that this early eighteenth-century
periodical effectively founded a new genre of journalism by drawing on the
three models already in existence, thus combining elements that used to be
separated, as well as adding something of its own.
To start with, Joseph Addison and Richard Steele, the main authors,
were both involved in the politics of their day, and their journal made
comments on politics, claiming, as the name ‘spectator’ implied, to stand
above party and present an ‘impartial’ view in the age of the great conflict
between the Whigs and the Tories. Like the Mercure galant and other social
journals, The Spectator also offered information about the latest fashions
and trends, though it wrote from a more detached and critical viewpoint
than its predecessors, as in the famous example of the article on the use of
the fan (no. 102), which appealed to so many writers outside Britain,
including faraway Brazil.13 Like the Athenian Mercury, it continued the
traditions of encouraging and discussing letters from its readers. Finally,
like some of the learned periodicals, The Spectator frequently discussed
literature, science and philosophy, although – as the statement of intent
published in the first issue made very clear – the aim of the editors was to
bring down philosophy ‘from heaven to earth’ and to appeal to a non-
academic public, female as well as male. Here too it offered both informa-
tion and critical comment.
This creative synthesis might be viewed, therefore, as a cultural trans-
lation of earlier traditions and genres into a form appropriate for certain
kinds of English reader at the beginning of the eighteenth century. It was
an instant success, selling about 4,000 copies a day, while its transforma-
tion into book form occurred at a time when the daily issues were still
coming out.
However, what is truly remarkable about this journal is that although it
was written day by day and was addressed to the concerns of people living
in a certain place at a certain time, its appeal turned out to be much wider,
crossing frontiers and even centuries, as the great number of translations
and imitations testifies. Addison and Steele’s journalism was also trans-
lated, so to speak, into other genres, since The Spectator is widely recog-
nized as having made an important contribution to what literary critics
describe in retrospect as the tradition of the English essay. These two
journalists have turned, therefore, into ‘classics’. One might even say that

The Spectator, 1711, no. 102; on the adaptations made by the Brazilian follower O carapuceiro (1837),
Pallares-Burke (1994a).
posterity has ‘translated’ them into classics. Whether he would have been
pleased by this fate or not, Addison’s literary reputation has long rested on
his articles for The Spectator rather than on more ambitious works such as
his tragedy, Cato.
The success story of The Spectator on the Continent starts with the literal
translations – never complete, but only partial.14 They were pioneered by
the French in 1714, followed by the Germans, the Dutch, the Swedes, the
Italians, the Portuguese and the Russians.15 The journal went through no
less than eighteen editions in the Netherlands, fourteen in France and four
in Germany, and it became the object of what contemporaries themselves
described as a ‘cult’.
The reason for this huge appeal is clearly stated by the first translator,
who raised the issue: why translate? Spelling it out in the preface to Le
spectateur ou le Socrate moderne, ou l’on voit un portrait na¨f des moeurs de ce
siecle (1714), he proudly placed himself in the position of mediator between
Great Britain and ‘foreign countries’ and argued that it was a work worth
translating because it could be meaningful for other readers other than for
the ones originally intended. He was moved, he confessed, by the ambition
that the translation would be followed elsewhere with the same ‘good
effects’ as in Britain, and was supported by ‘the hope of bringing men
back from their deviation and inspiring them with the principles of
Honour and Virtue’.
As the introduction to this volume suggests, translation between lan-
guages is a form of translation between cultures, and the modifications that
a text undergoes in translation are not the result of linguistic factors alone.
So we see, for example, St Paul’s Cathedral becoming the Kremlin Palace
in the Russian translation, slaves and tropical fruit juices being added to the
Brazilian version of the English essays, and so on.
As a model for more or less free or creative imitation, for what came to
be known as the ‘moral weeklies’, The Spectator was once again an instant
success. But contrary to what might be expected, the local imitations did
not take the place of the translations of the English original in the

Partial translations range from volumes of selections, under the title of Zuschauer, Le spectateur ou le
Socrate moderne etc. – as in the case of the French, Dutch, German and Italian translations – clearly
acknowledging the source, to the publication of individual articles from The Spectator in various
journals without explicit acknowledgement, as in the cases of Swedish, Portuguese, Spanish and
On the German followers and translations, Martens (1968); on the Dutch, Van Boheemen-Saaf
(1984) and Schoneveld (1984); on the French, Gilot (1975) and Gilot and Sgard (1981); on the
Swedish, Gustafson (1933); on the Portuguese, Picwnik (1979); on the Italian, Anon. (1753), Scelta
delle piu belle et utili speculazioni dello Spettatore (Livorno); on the Russian, McKenna (1977).
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 149
preference of the public. Indeed, the translated original Spectator continued
to compete with the numerous imitations throughout the century, despite
the effort of some of its local descendants to rise to its level.
The letters of Goethe to his beloved sister Cornelia offer a rather telling
testimony of the long-lasting appeal of The Spectator. Dissatisfied with the
German imitations, which were bad because they copied the outward
appearance, but not the ‘actual essence of the original’, Goethe urged the
fifteen-year-old Cornelia to start the ‘improvement’ of her ‘understanding
and will’ by carefully reading the English Zuschauer. His advice was
categorical: ‘Take one number after the other, in order, read them atten-
tively, and when it does not please you, read it again . . . They are better and
more useful than if you would read 20 novels.’16
More impressive testimonies to the Spectator’s reputation throughout
the century come from the findings of Daniel Mornet, whose analysis of
500 catalogues of French private libraries from 1750 to 1780 revealed that
The Spectator occupied a leading position, appearing more often than
works by Voltaire, Locke or Rousseau.17
The list of the followers of the journal begins as early as 1711 with a
Dutch journal published in French, Justus Van Effen’s Le misanthrope.18 In
the Netherlands, there were about seventy such followers, published in
either Dutch or French. In England, imitations have been described as
‘countless’.19 In France, at least 100 imitations of The Spectator were
published before the Revolution, and as an eighteenth-century French
reviewer testified in the Journal ´tranger in June 1757, the excellence of
this work stimulated imitation: ‘The fate of the good originals is . . . to
produce an infinity of copyists and the English Spectator is the Father of a
numerous posterity.’ In the German-speaking world, the number of
descendants was so great that as early as 1739 Louise Gottsched, the second
translator of The Spectator, declared in her preface that there was such a
‘multitude of imitations that it was difficult to list them’.
Famous followers of the journal include Der Patriot (Hamburg, 1724),
Der Freymaurer (Leipzig, 1738), the Patriotiske Tillskuer (Copenhagen, 1761),
El pensador (Madrid, 1762). And jumping into the nineteenth century, the
successful Brazilian O carapuceiro gives, as late as the 1830s and 1840s, further
evidence of the long-lasting and wide appeal of the Spectator genre.20

J. W. von Goethe (1951), Briefe der Jahre 1764–86 (Zurich), 26–8. 17 Mornet (1910).
On the international history of the Spectator genre, Rau (1980) and Pallares-Burke (1996).
Stephen (1910). 20 Pallares-Burke (1994a).
One important form of adaptation was the translation from one gender
to the other, as in the case of The Female Spectator (Eliza Heywood,
London, 1744), La spectatrice (1728), La spectatrice danoise (1748), Die
vernunftigen Tadlerinnen (Halle, 1725) and La pensadora gaditana (Cadiz,
1763–4).21 Some of these adaptations were themselves translated. La spectatrice
danoise, for instance, which was actually written by a man, Laurent de La
Beaumelle, was translated into German in 1756 under the title Des Herrn de
La Beaumelle Gedanken.
The great number of its followers that spread in Europe like a ‘torrent’,
or grew like ‘mushrooms’ (to use common contemporary descriptions of
this literary phenomenon), provides a most vivid illustration of the prob-
lems and dilemmas of cultural translation. One of these problems, as Peter
Burke has suggested, is that the translator of a text and the cultural trans-
lator face the same dilemma between intelligibility and fidelity.22
This was, in fact, the problem that Borges tried to solve with the concept
of ‘creative infidelity’ that he began using in the 1930s. According to the
Argentinian writer, what should be praised in a translation is not so much
its fidelity to the original text, but the audacity with which the translator
lies, or, in other words, its ‘creative infidelity’. Mardrus’s translation of the
Arabian Nights, according to Borges, shows that the more a translator dares
to lie the more valuable he is, since his additions, innovations and twists
allow an enriching dialogue between cultures to take place.23 It is, in fact,
extremely interesting to note that there were actual controversies in the
eighteenth century over what was or was not a true and faithful imitation of
The Spectator, revealing that there was contemporary awareness of the
process that we now call ‘cultural translation’.
It is at this point that the work of Jacques-Vincent Delacroix (1743–1831)
becomes extremely relevant. In the international history of the Spectator
genre, this man of many parts – journalist, lawyer, historian, teacher and
translator – stands out as the most convinced and persistent of the French
followers of the English model, and his long-lasting career provides a
wonderful standpoint from which to observe the development of the
genre and the debate on cultural translation that it provoked.24

Pallares-Burke (1994b); for a comparison between the French, English and Spanish female Spectators,
Pallares-Burke (1993).
Interview with Peter Burke in Pallares-Burke (2002), 141. 23 Borges (1936).
For his biography, see the entry by M. Gilot on Delacroix in Sgard (1976), 109–12; on his Le
spectateur francais, see the entry by Sgard in Sgard (1991), 1218–21; on Delacroix as a follower of The
Spectator, see Pallares-Burke (2004), which gives exact references for the quotations from him in the
following paragraphs.
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 151
Starting in 1767 with his Spectateur en Prusse and ending in 1830 with the
Nouvelles ´trennes du spectateur francais, no fewer than fifteen of Delacroix’s
e ¸
works carry the title of Spectateur. Of these, three at the very least, and
probably more, are periodicals – Le spectateur en Prusse (1768), Le spectateur
francois, pour servir de suite a celui de Marivaux (1771–3), Le spectateur francais,
¸ ¸
ou le nouveau Socrate moderne (1791) – while the others employ the persona of
the philosopher-journalist Spectateur as an authority-figure, as, for instance,
in Opinion du spectateur francais sur la proposition de supprimer la peine de
mort (Opinion of the French Spectator on the Proposition to Abolish the
Death Penalty), or Le captif litteraire, ou le danger de la censure, par l’auteur du
spectateur francais (The Literary Prisoner or the Danger of Censorship, by the
Author of the French Spectator).
In most of these works Delacroix makes references to The Spectator of
Addison and Steele, a model or tradition from which he seems unwilling or
unable to distance himself. In 1823, for instance, he bids farewell to the
genre, writing Les adieux du spectateur du monde politique et litteraire.
Nevertheless, one year later he returns with his last farewells, Les derniers
adieux du spectateur francais, which were again to be followed, three years
later, by a letter that Le spectateur francais addresses to the Parisians. Finally,
in 1829, Delacroix announces his awakening, publishing Le reveil du
spectateur francais, to be followed, one year before his death, by some
‘gifts’ to the public, with his Nouvelles ´trennes du spectateur francais (1830).
e ¸
Delacroix shared some important common features with other followers
of The Spectator. In the first place, like the majority of the imitators, he
often refers to the English Spectator as an immortal work whose perfection
could not be equalled. The words of the first of them, the Dutchman Justus
Van Effen, who wrote Le misanthrope, had set the tone of this admiration
with great eloquence: ‘What is good in the good Spectators is so excellent
that I cannot see how the human mind can achieve anything beyond it’
(La bagatelle, 21 November 1718).
As if they were not putting themselves in the position of competitors, the
great majority of the followers seem not to have experienced any ‘anxiety of
influence’. On the contrary, they sound extremely proud to be following in
the footsteps of the English model, even competing with each other over
the faithfulness of their imitation.25 Following the common pattern,
Delacroix admits that ‘there are original books which are inimitable.
Such was the case of the Spectateur anglois which appeared at the beginning
of this century’ (Le spectateur francais, 1791).
Pallares-Burke (1996).
In the second place, the followers seem to have been united in the
criticism they made of other products of the press. Too many periodicals,
they claimed, were concerned with fame for themselves and to achieve this
they cared only to flatter and entertain the readers, rather than teaching
them anything of value; alternatively, they offered nothing but news and
partisan opinions. Unlike all these journals, the Spectator’s disciples
claimed to follow the original model, by inaugurating in their local
environment a new type of journalism which concentrated on the educa-
tion of its readers and was devoted to uniting men rather than encouraging
their division into parties.
The imitators generally agreed that their interest in the common good
was the main reason which made them walk the same path as the original
Spectator. The reading of the English periodical and its followers was
presented many times as an activity as good for the health of the mind as
the swallowing of a good medicine. Van Effen, for example, even defined
the ideal Spectator as a ‘physician of manners’ (medecin des moeurs), while
there were correspondents who referred to the different issues of the
original Spectator as regular ‘doses’ of an ‘effectual remedy’, or as ‘excellent
cleansers of the brain’.
A third point that united the whole family of Spectators was their need to
adopt the persona of an Olympian observer of the human condition on the
model of the original Mr Spectator, a silent and attentive observer of men
who had developed ‘a more than ordinary penetration in seeing’ (5 March
1711). Following this tradition, Le misanthrope of Amsterdam, Der Patriot
of Hamburg, La spectatrice of Paris, The Female Spectator of London and La
pensadora gaditana of Cadiz, among numerous others, presented them-
selves as privileged observers who assume the role of moral guides in the
name of public interest.The world is for them a theatre that they claim to
observe with the impartiality and detachment of a spectator. ‘Nothing that
interests men and relates to their happiness is indifferent to me,’ says
Delacroix following the same tradition (Le spectateur francais, no. 4 (1791)
discourse 4). The stage of his silent observation is Paris, and he wanders
around the Luxembourg Gardens, the Opera etc. – as Marivaux and
Madame Spectatrice had done before him – claiming to be able to see
through social appearances to the underlying reality.26
One last point that united the whole family of Spectators is the need
for collaborators. In spite of their claim to a wide and privileged vision,
the editorial personae also tend to present themselves as incapable of
On Marivaux’s Spectateur francais, Gilot (1975); on La spectatrice, Pallares-Burke (1994b).
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 153
embracing the whole spectrum of human experience alone. The constant
refrain of the followers of Mr Spectator is the need for sharing their public
mission with other people who would also play the role of spectators. This
collaboration could be either the work of specific friends who provided the
journal with a great variety of information and points of view, or of any
reader who had information to offer, questions to raise, criticisms to make,
favours to ask etc.
The Female Spectator (1744–6), for instance, relied on the help of an
educated married lady with ‘sparkling ideas’, a beautiful girl and a ‘widow
of Quality’, not counting the ‘friendly spies’ who sent information from
places as distant as ‘France, Rome, Germany’ etc. The more daring Danish
Patriotiske Tilskuer (1761–3) even introduces a peasant into the ‘congrega-
tion’ that helped in the organization of the periodical (see the German
translation, Der patriotische Zuschauer, 1769, no. 3).
As for the participation of readers through correspondence, the followers
of the English Spectator seemed to be aware of the importance of readers’
letters, real or fictitious, as a strategy to involve the public and to make it an
accomplice in the Enlightenment project of the periodical. Following the
same trend, Delacroix claims to be happy to have, like Socrates, stimulated
men to give birth to their own ideas and to have published the letters of
readers who, as he says, ‘supplement the knowledge which I lack’ (Le
spectateur francais avant la Revolution, discourse 25).
The Swiss Bodmer, another member of the Spectator family and author
of Die Discourse der Mahlern (1721–3), made a quite revealing comment
when he said that the role of the letters from the public in The Spectator
was so great that the authorship of the journal should be attributed to
the ‘whole city of London’ rather than to ‘Mr Richard Steele and his club’
(vol. III, no. 24).


The phenomenon of the ‘countless’ imitations of The Spectator even gave
rise to a debate in the Republic of Letters on what one might call the
‘Spectator Question’, raising many of the issues discussed today under the
heading ‘cultural translation’.27
The Paris periodical Le journal ´tranger (1754–62), a journal devoted to
discussing the Republic of Letters and its vices, testifies to a general context
Pallares-Burke (1996).
in which these concerns grew in the eighteenth century. With the aim of
emphasizing both the value of different cultures and their interdependence,
one of the journal’s central themes was literary imitation; as they made
it clear, looking for the ‘us’ in the ‘others’ and for the ‘others’ in ‘us’ was
a way to demonstrate that borrowing was relatively inevitable and
constructive.Thus the February 1755 issue claims that Goldoni’s comedy
Pamela has surpassed the original novel by Richardson. Pope’s imitation of
Horace and Dr Johnson’s imitation of Juvenal are also described as
‘preferable to the originals’. In September 1755, there was a long discussion
of an English imitation of a French imitation of a Chinese tragedy, Arthur
Murphy’s Orphan of China, which derived from Voltaire’s Orphelin de la
Chine, which in turn followed a French translation of a Chinese play, the
title of which was transliterated as Tchao Chi Cou Ell.28
But what counts as a good or faithful imitation? This question became
the theme of an international polemic, revolving around the true meaning
of being a Spectator, of writing as a Spectator, of persuading as a Spectator.
As if the English text had become sacred or canonical, the value of its
followers was measured in direct relation to their faithfulness to what was
believed to be its original form of teaching and even to the original title.
Three centres can be said to have been the scenes of the main debates
about good and bad imitations, or, as we might say, successful or unsuc-
cessful cultural translations, legitimate or illegitimate uses of the Spectator
model: Zurich, Copenhagen and Paris.29
In Zurich, Bodmer and Breitinger, authors of the first German-language
imitation of The Spectator, led something of a campaign against the unfaith-
fulness of Der Patriot from Hamburg and Die vernunftigen Tadlerinnen from
Halle, on the grounds that they were not loyal to the ‘nature of a spectatorial
text’, and did not obey the rules of verisimilitude, impartiality and the
personification of the characters under which they wrote. It was for instance
quite implausible that the Halle periodical was the work of three female
friends. Gottsched’s personae, remarked Bodmer, should have first been
legitimized before they were given ‘male arguments’.30
In Denmark, the writers Holberg and Schlegel referred to an actual
internal war among the Spectators which, in the middle of the century,
competed with one another for the legitimate role of teachers of morals.
Their testimonies reveal some of the main issues at stake in the debate. The
occasion for the polemic was the publication in Copenhagen of some

Pallares-Burke (1994–5), esp. 192–3. 29 Cf. Pallares-Burke (1996), 7–8.
J. Bodmer (1728), Anklagung des verderbten Geschmackes (Frankfurt and Leipzig), 41.
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 155
rather incisive and bold periodicals which, naming themselves Spectators,
declared war on public and private vices. Their authors were criticized for
their harshness, their teaching as ‘men of truth’ and for assuming that the
‘conversion’ of people to morals could be the ‘work of a week’. Instead, the
critics claimed that a journalist should be more like a ‘gentle teacher’, who
with ‘softness and gracefulness’ worked for the eradication of vices and
faults. All the same, the critics did not approve of the tender and gay
manner of the French writers whom they considered not truly ‘spectatorial’
either, since they failed to go deep into human vices and remained at the
level of trivial faults of etiquette.31
In Paris, the French debate seemed to corroborate such points and
there is plenty of evidence about the terms of the debate in the reviews
and comments from the Bibliotheque francaise (1724) and the Journal
´ ´ ´
encyclopedique (1759) to the Annee litteraire (1777, 1784), which over the
years made comparisons between the new Spectators and the model
they were expected to follow. To entitle itself Spectateur (or Censeur,
Observateur, Menteur etc., all titles which alluded to the Spectator tradi-
tion), implied a commitment to a certain way of writing which, if not
complied with, was a fault to be denounced in the Republic of Letters.
The importance of Delacroix in this debate is due in particular to his work
being the object of discussion among the critics, who viewed him through the
lens of that debate. It is interesting to note that the reception of his work in
the Republic of Letters was, if not always warm, at least encouraging by the
reaction it provoked in people as different as Freron, Voltaire, Grimm and the
journalists of the Journal encyclopedique. Voltaire was impressed by his
Spectateur of 1771 and welcomed him in a letter of that year as a legitimate
heir of Addison and Steele, a praise which Baron Grimm considered absolutely
inappropriate and damaging to the Spectator tradition, especially considering
that this praise encouraged undeserved subscriptions to Delacroix’s work.
It is a ‘sacrilegious compliment’ to call this Delacroix a true descendant of
Addison and Steele and only the ‘divine mercy’ can pardon this ‘blasphemy’,
says Grimm in his bombastic manner. He linked Delacroix to ‘a troop of
irritable prophets’ and declared that it was not possible to have a Spectateur in
France with this kind of pretentious journalist. It seems that what made
Delacroix unspectatorial, according to Grimm, was his lack of modesty.32

L. Holberg (1754), Geschichte verschiedenes Heldinnen (Copenhagen and Leipzig), preface;
Holberg (1748–9), Pensees morales (Copenhagen), preface; J. E. Schlegel (1745–6), Der Fremde
(Copenhagen), no. 1.
Baron Grimm (1830), Correspondance litteraire (Paris), 406–7.
´ ´
Amazingly similar to Grimm’s opinion was Freron’s in the Annee litteraire
a few years later when reviewing a new edition of Le spectateur of 1770–2,
where Voltaire’s praise is again attacked. Delacroix’s style is too ‘pretentious’,
‘pompous’, with too many images, everything ‘strangely out of place’ in a
Spectator which aims at ‘painting the manners of its century’. Along the same
lines is his criticism of the immodest way Le spectateur praises the philosophes
as ‘celestial men’ by whom humankind can be released from the darkness
they linger in; equally anti-spectatorial is the way Le spectateur performs
his educational role. The first aim of a Spectator, he says, is surely to instruct,
but he should never do this as a ‘new Prometheus’ who delivers ‘light’ to
humankind; on the contrary (and just as the Danish commentators had said
earlier), he should do it gently and unobtrusively as Socrates, ‘this ancient
´ ´
Spectator’, had done (L’annee litteraire, 1777).
Enthusiastic about a periodical which had the merit of both pleasing and
instructing the public at the same time, the Journal encyclopedique (1777)
regrets, though, that in spite of his talent Delacroix had not worked as a
true Spectator, and this for one of the reasons also pointed out by L’annee
litteraire: his unwillingness to leave his ‘cabinet’ where he studies mainly
books and himself, instead of real men. It is impossible to be a faithful
‘painter’ of ‘our ridicules, of our defects, of our vices, of human nature’,
without exercising the talent for observation.
Steele and Addison, Freron had also remarked in his review of
Delacroix’s new edition of Le spectateur francais, did not announce them-
selves as solitary men, but, on the contrary, as ‘voyeurs’ who observed men
in the public squares, in the assemblies, at the theatres, boudoirs, ateliers, in
the ‘noisy liberty of the bourgeois orgies’, from which they would gather
material for the ‘moral magistracy’ they had undertaken – and which those
who followed them were, as a matter of fact, expected to undertake as well.
In short, some rather interesting points stand out from the comparisons
made by the French Republic of Letters between the new members of the
Spectator ‘family’ and their model. A Spectator must not be sad, solitary or
contemplative, but a joyful and active spy who, in various places, gathers
material for his ‘moral magistracy’, that is, for correcting morals and
manners and attacking vices. Its spirit should be similar to that which
prevails in a ‘comic theatre’, where the scene is marked by ‘delight’ and
‘cheerfulness’, while social criticism is being made.
This type of work was even described by a reviewer as the ‘supplement to
comedy’, which would do all the time what the theatre does only on the day
of the performance, that is ‘to apply prompt remedy’ to the foolish acts
which ‘succeed one another on the stage of the world’. But above all, this
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 157
‘remedy’ should be prescribed with grace, with tact, so as to be swallowed by
´ ´
the ‘patient’, almost without noticing (L’annee litteraire (1771), VII, 124–7).
In this debate on The Spectator, a second important thing to note is
Delacroix’s reflexivity, that is, his role as a spectator of the Spectators, his
repeated reflection on the spectatorial part he had performed in France
during so many decades, from the late 1760s till 1830, surviving the regimes
of Louis XV, Louis XVI, the Revolution, the first Republic, Napoleon,
Louis XVIII, Charles X and Louis Philippe. As we listen to his repeated
reflections on his role as a spectator and to his reply to the critics, we can
glimpse some of the ways this appealing eighteenth-century genre was
appropriated and translated, that is, adapted to the different circumstances
it encountered throughout his long-lasting career.
Delacroix himself makes comparisons between the circumstances in
which the original daily Spectator was published and his own enterprise.
The English one, Delacroix reminds his readers in 1770, was addressing its
pages to a society which had already gone through a major revolution and the
editors were simply trying to consolidate it by converting the whole nation to
the new way of thinking and behaving associated with the new regime. And
because Addison and Steele had to fight only against the taste of their public
and not against the fury of the censeurs, they needed only to have enough
talent to disguise their teaching with amusement so as to appeal to the public.
They could, though, dare to enlighten their public with ‘great truths’, and
could talk about everything: ‘politics, legislation, government, ministries’;
while he, Delacroix, had to keep distant from such ‘great subjects’ and,
contenting himself with a ‘much narrower range of things’, simply observe
men as they are ‘without daring to say what they should be’.
So, the criticism of his observations as being frivolous and thin was
unjust, he argued, and did not give him credit for the courage required to
play the part of a spectator at a time when there was prejudice against this
‘mere title’. Years later, after the Revolution, he thought that the acclaimed
freedom of expression had granted him the right not to talk about trivial-
ities and to be able to repeat what his English model had done, that is, to
speak clearly and without many innuendos about what he had been forced
earlier to disguise entirely. In 1791 he was so misled as to think that the new
political regime allowed him to imitate Addison and Steele, by delivering
in the periodical pages the most useful course of ‘practical morality’. ‘The
vices and the faults of the great which were formerly hidden behind their
titles, their rank and their distinctions, appeared in broad daylight’, in the
English Spectator, said Delacroix in 1791. ‘Those who had believed them-
selves above criticism, thanks to their wealth or status, were unmasked.’
No real change had happened though, and when in 1793–4 he – gently
and with care – dared to criticize the revolutionaries in power and suggest
what they should do, he almost lost his head. He was arrested and
prosecuted as a royalist and a ‘public enemy’ of the Revolution for daring
to advise the Convention to consult the people and not to judge the king.
As time went by and Delacroix continued to act as a spectator and reflect
on the role with which he identified himself so completely, it becomes clear
what he understands as its true meaning: to be a spectator is to be first of all
not a royalist or a republican, but a moralist who believes that the happiness
of the state depends on respect for morals (moeurs); and who, out of his love
of humanity, tries to intervene, as far he can, in human affairs in order to
minimize the sufferings and pain he sees and foresees.
What Delacroix took, then, from the original English text was, so to say,
the inspiration for a kind of writing that complied with his humanitarian
beliefs and offered him an essential strategy for success in the role of a
moralist whose aim is, as he insisted, to produce ‘le bien general’.
This was fundamentally the strategy of disguising oneself as an impartial
and apolitical observer, of pretending not to belong to any sect, party or
class, and thus having no personal interest to blind his eyes. The original
Spectator (16 October 1711) had defended what he called ‘the Socratical way
of reasoning’, that is, the strategy of not allowing one’s antagonist to notice
that you had a ‘firmly fixed’ opinion and that you were ‘endeavouring to
bring over another to your opinion’ – a strategy completely the opposite of
the political writings and actions of the French censors and government,
who think they can bring others to their opinions by ‘insults’, ‘threats’ and
‘denunciations’. Only those who have not reflected on human history can
think that it is possible to produce ‘a revolution’ in people’s minds and
affections by means of ‘terror’, argued Delacroix in a truly spectatorial way.
Following this strategy, Delacroix’s work would follow, he said, the
‘form’ of the English Spectator, including ‘several discourses without real
link, many letters real or fictitious, confidences that might never have been
really genuine, projects which might have come from my own imagination,
etc’. If the aim is to improve manners and morals, Delacroix argued, ‘it
does not matter under what veil reason and truth are hidden, as long as one
can recognize their language’.
If he varies so much in tone – going from grave and serious to frivolous
and mundane – and introduces ‘different characters’ into his ‘conversa-
tions’, it is to captivate the public more successfully, he explains in 1824. In
short, as seen through the gaze of this ‘spectator of the spectators’, for a
cultural translation of the Spectator model to be effective, the model should
The Spectator, or the metamorphoses of the periodical 159
be considered a ‘canvas’; as Delacroix put it, The Spectator was a ‘pretty
canvas’ that Addison and Steele had left for posterity to fill in, taking into
account the generational differences as well as national and historical ones.
As if corroborating Borges’s idea of ‘creative infidelity’ being the rule for
a successful translation, Delacroix says that ‘it would be against the artistic
rules to employ the same colour to paint two different nations’, suggesting
that he clearly realized that to continue to be faithful to the Spectator
tradition, and keep on correcting morals and manners, he had to be
different – in other words, that he had to keep changing in order to remain
the same, that is a true joyful and active Spectator.
Delacroix did not have the talent of Addison and Steele (as indeed
nobody else seems to have had), but he did have an individual contribution
to make as the most systematic spectator of the Spectator genre itself, and
perhaps as one of the most insistent followers of Addison and Steele, who
made a number of successive attempts to translate a set of ideas and
practices (originally designed for early eighteenth-century England) to
the new and ever-changing contexts of French culture.

Translation and science

The role of translations in European
scientific exchanges in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries
Isabelle Pantin


The aim of this chapter is to study the role of translations in the spread of
scientific texts from the sixteenth to the end of the seventeenth century.1
My personal interests, my training and the lack of primary research in the
field have all influenced the method followed here. The necessary means to
study translations as a general process which could be quantified, or even
mapped, are lacking for this period, unlike for the twentieth century.2 In
any case, scientific books represent but a small part of the mass of trans-
lations made during the period considered, and I am not convinced that a
quantifying approach would be particularly illuminating. This study exam-
ines the extent to which translations reveal not so much the transforma-
tions of the scientists’ work, than the transformations of its cultural
context. Being mainly concerned with the motives and aims of the trans-
lations, I have resorted, for the most part, to case studies.
This general orientation also justifies the decision to leave aside the most
obvious corpus, and the largest one, in other words the translations of the
works of the past (essentially from antiquity, but also from the Middle
Ages), and to concentrate on modern works. This choice may seem
debatable in a research programme of which almost half concerns the
Renaissance, given that at the time the scientists themselves accorded the
greatest importance to the legacy of the past, all of which is fully evident in
the intellectual movement of humanism: quotations, editions and com-
mentaries of ancient texts were often a means to convey new ideas.
All the same, the corpus of ‘modern’ translations can be justifiably set
apart because it poses special problems. Considered in itself, it throws
useful light on the ways in which recent scientific information was

Waquet (1998); Grant (1954); Chartier and Corsi (1996); Burke (2004).
Milo (1984) has applied quantitative methods to a twentieth-century corpus.

exchanged. Besides, it requires an analysis that is quite complex, while
translations of ancient works are more straightforward. As far as science
is concerned, the purpose of the latter, all things considered, is always
the mastery of a branch of knowledge. The translation of modern works,
of course, aims at that too, but also answers other needs. This study
is essentially a survey of these needs, based on the analysis of diverse
examples, which should ideally represent the rest. However, there is no
pretence to have covered the whole field of scientific translation.
As mentioned before, there is no comprehensive inventory of this field.
Hence instead of trying to picture the world of scientific translations in all
its extension, richness and variety, I have resigned myself to focusing on its
most prominent features. I have considered only printed translations,
although the circulation of manuscripts was far from negligible in the
early modern period. This is obvious, for example, in the case of
Paracelsus, whose influence slowly spread over Germany and Switzerland
before his main works were printed. Even after his disciples had edited and
translated them (below, pp. 172–3, 175), Paracelsian texts and fragments
continued to circulate in manuscript, notably in England, as Charles
Webster has convincingly shown.3 The printing of a text simply suggests
that its editors and publishers thought that it could attract a reasonable
number of customers (the usual print run was of 600 copies). In the case of
translations (especially Latin translations), a portion of these expected
customers were foreigners; I have therefore attached particular importance
to the international book trade, which was concentrated in a definite area.
According to Henri-Jean Martin,4 the principal towns involved in this
trade, before the Thirty Years’ War, were Frankfurt (the venue of the greatest
book-fair and the most international), Leipzig, Cologne, Basel, Geneva,
Venice, Paris, Lyon, Strasbourg, Amsterdam, Antwerp and Leiden. From
the beginning of the seventeenth century London became more and more
active, while Spanish librarians were virtually absent. During and after the
war against Spain, towns in the Netherlands (especially Amsterdam) grew in
importance. For instance, according to a catalogue published in 1634, the
Elsevier had in stock more than 3,000 books in Latin (433 from Paris, 231
from Lyon, 932 from Frankfurt, 201 from Leipzig, 286 from Cologne, 169
from Basel, 456 from Geneva, 164 from Venice, 34 from London etc.); more
than 500 in French (322 from Paris, 103 from Geneva, 27 from Lyon etc.);
307 in Italian; 32 in Spanish and only 7 in English.5

3 4 5
Webster (1979). Martin (1969), 303–11. Martin (1969), 311.
The role of translations in European scientific exchanges 165
For these reasons, the Hispanic world, the New World and Eastern
Europe are generally omitted from this study. To compensate for this
obvious gap, more attention has been paid to countries having for different
reasons a complex experience of the problems of language and the trans-
mission of knowledge, England, because of its insularity, and the
Netherlands, which had to deal with multilingualism.
A purely descriptive survey would have been unsatisfactory, since the
description would not have been faithful or reliable, for the reasons already
mentioned. So what follows will focus mainly (though not exclusively) on
works that underwent what might be called ‘massive’ (or, at any rate,
significant) processes of translation. The heroes of this chapter are
Paracelsus, Ambroise Pare, Simon Stevin, Galileo and William Boyle
rather than the modest schoolmasters and surgeons whose manuals may
have been published in more than one language. This choice is certainly
debatable; it is even, perhaps elitist. All the same, it is not arbitrary.


During the period considered, it was not common – but not exceptional
either – for recent works to be translated shortly after their first publication.
For the most part, these translations were made from Latin into the
vernacular and from the vernacular into Latin, thus revealing the basically
bilingual character of European culture up to the end of the eighteenth
century. By contrast, translations from one vernacular into another were
much rarer, especially in the field of science (in the case of novels or
propaganda, it is obvious that the situation was quite different).
The translations that avoided passing through Latin can mainly be
found in marginal subjects, especially utilitarian books: practical manuals,
astrological pamphlets or prognostics about the effects of comets, popular
pharmacopoeias and books of secrets. For example, Leonardo Fioravanti’s
Italian books (Secreti medicinali, 1561; Compendio di tutta la cirugia, 1561;
Capricci medicinali, 1564; Specchio di scientia uniuersale, 1564; Regimento
della peste, 1565) were translated into French and English.
In the Netherlands, printers or booksellers often managed to publish the
same text in different languages: Jan van Waesberge of Rotterdam, for
example, printed the Dutch and the French versions of Simon Stevin’s
books on fortifications. This was particularly easy when printers specialized
in cartography and in books on instruments and navigation, of which the
main part consisted of engravings. Willem and Jan Blaeu adopted this
practice for their collections of maps and guides for navigation (which
sometimes involved little more than changing the title). Willem’s Licht der
zeewaert (1608) thus became The Light of Navigation (1612) and Le flambeau
de la navigation alias Le Phalot de la mer (1619).6
However, works other than popular manuals and illustrated technical
books were involved. Alessandro Piccolomini’s innovative cosmological
textbook De la sphera del mondo (Venice, 1540) was translated into French
by Jacques Goupyl. In these two versions the choice of the vernacular was
made not only on account of the target audience, but also to ‘illustrate’ or
raise the status of the Italian and the French languages respectively (this
topic will be discussed below). Mutatis mutandis the French translations of
Galileo’s books – completed or only planned – by Mersenne and Carcavy
´ ´
(Les mecaniques, in 1634, Les nouvelles pensees, an adaptation of the Discorsi,
in 1639, and the projected Dialogue) are exceptions of a similar kind: they
were prestigious specimens showing that modern languages were appro-
priate for conveying a new philosophy.
However, the increasing number of scientific publications in English
after the foundation of the Royal Society (when the English language was
still little known outside Britain) occasioned some translations in French,
though noticeably few: such translations lacked sufficient justification,
either commercial or scientific. Whereas the whole of Boyle’s work was
translated into Latin (below, pp. 171, 173, 177–8), only a few dispersed tracts
circulated in French.7
Paracelsus deserves a special mention.8 His most widespread medical
treatises, originally written in German, were soon translated into Dutch or
into French (the English printed translations were more extensive, but did
not appear before the second half of the seventeenth century, and the
Italian paracelsica were few and late). All were published in Antwerp,
where Philip Hermann made compilations in Dutch: Dat secreet der
philosophizen, Die peerle der chirurgijen (from Die grosse Wundartzney,
first printed in 1536) and Een excellent tracktaet (from the tracts on syphilis
and its cure, Vom Holtz Guaiaco . . . and Von der franzosischen Kranckheit,
first printed in 1529 and 1530). Pieter Volck Holst, a surgeon, translated Die
grosse Wundartzney (Die groote chirurgie, 1555), and Martin Everart the
Labyrinthus (1563). Everart later translated the other surgical books: De
Cleyne Chirurgie ende Tgasthuys Boeck vanden seer Vermaerden (1568). Then
appeared La grande, vraye, et parfaicte chirurgie (1567), based on the
improved edition of Die grosse Wundartzney by Adam von Bodenstein

For other examples, Keuning (1973). 7 Jones (1953).
For bibliographical details, Sudhoff (1894).
The role of translations in European scientific exchanges 167
(1564). Pierre Hassard also produced De la peste, et de ses causes et accidents
(1570), gathering several tracts on the plague from two different German
The purpose of these translations was clear: they were made by practi-
tioners for practitioners, with the idea that they could spread new and
useful information on the most frequent or dangerous infirmities and
diseases, paying increasing attention to exhaustiveness and clarity. The
next French translation of the Chirurgie to appear, in 1589, was made by
Claude Dariot, based on the Latin version by Josquin Dalhem (1573). The
dedication of the latter text to Pierre de Grantrye, signed by Pietro Perna,
the publisher, mentions that Dalhem has replaced Paracelsian invented
words with normal medical vocabulary, and quotes a letter where the
translator affirms that he had paraphrased the obscure passages.
In this case, we encounter once more the common process where Latin
intervenes, as in the case of Simon Stevin’s Dutch Mathematical Memoirs
(Wisconstighe ghedachtenissen), translated into Latin by Willebrord Snellius
and into French by Jan Tuning. Willem Blaeu’s instruction manual for the
users of his terrestrial and celestial globes ‘the one according to the opinion
of Ptolemy . . . the other after Copernicus’s natural position’, underwent a
similar process. Written in Dutch, it was soon translated into Latin by
Martinus Hortensius and then into French and English. The technical
character of the book justified this series of translations. What was more
significant was its ostensible Copernican sympathies. Even the apparently
simplest cases reveal the possible complexity of the factors involved.


The translation of a modern work could serve different purposes. Its
original language – either Latin or vernacular – was chosen according to
the requirements of the context. As a rule, the decision to translate it did
not mean that this context had changed, but that the role assigned to the
work and the way in which its reception was envisaged, were altered. Two
principal factors came into play: the new public and the prestige associated
with a change in the status of the work.
One of the signs of these factors is that changing the language often
provided an opportunity for altering the text. An example is Ambroise
Pare’s Opera, published in 1582, under the supervision of Jacques
Guillemeau, one of Pare’s disciples. This Latin book is not a pure and
simple translation of the Ĺ’uvres, but almost a new version, in which details
that might be unimportant or unintelligible for foreign readers have been
cut out, and in which ‘aids for the reader’ (a system of titles, marginal notes
etc.) have been improved.9
There are other examples, sometimes in the other direction: Laurent
Joubert first wrote his Paradoxa in Latin and afterwards his Erreurs popu-
laires in French, which were expanded and more vivid and picturesque than
the original version. In extreme cases, the adaptation resulted in the
composition of a completely different book. Thus Francis Bacon’s
Advancement of Learning (1605) was considerably enlarged and transformed
when it became the De augmentis scientiarum in 1623. These two books
addressed different audiences: in the first case the king and his entourage,
in the second, professional philosophers.
As a rule (though there were exceptions), Latin translations tended to
lengthen the texts, and vernacular ones to shorten them. In 1542 Leonard
Fuchs published in Basel, with Isengrin, his De historia stirpium commen-
tarii, which already possessed elements of multilingualism: plants were
examined in alphabetical order under their Greek names, but they were
listed in a four-part index which presented their names in Greek, in
classical Latin, in medieval Latin and in German. The work was abridged,
adapted and translated into German in order to be accessible to apotheca-
ries and gardeners. In the New Kreuterbuch, once again published by
Isingrin, the alphabetical order is under the German names that also
provide the first entry in the multilingual index (where Greek names
have been transliterated). This abridged version was translated into
Dutch (Nieuwe herbarius, 1549), yet again published by Isengrin.
However, this simple scheme is slightly complicated by the career of the
book in France. A French translation was made by Eloi Maignan directly
from the Latin version (Commentaires tres excellens de l’hystoire des plantes)
and published in Paris and Lyon, and a new epitome was prepared, with a
Latin and French title, and the names of the plants in Latin, Greek, French,
Italian and German. These few diverse examples suggest that vernacular
translations were not all at the same level. Nor were the Latin ones.


As the Renaissance came to its close, Latin was still the principal language
for scholarly activity throughout the whole of Europe, but decisive changes
had occurred foreshadowing its slow decline. These changes involved the
Pantin (2003).
The role of translations in European scientific exchanges 169
vernacular languages, which, one after the other, set themselves up as
languages of culture, transforming scientific life as well as the habits and
requirements of scientists, without forgetting certain political features.
Dante had introduced the notion of vulgare illustre (illustrious vernacular)
and from the sixteenth century on, the close ties between national pride
and the defence of a country’s language were recognized everywhere.10
The two fields considered essential for appreciating the value of a
language were, on the one hand, poetry, and on the other, ‘philosophy’,
which, in traditional acceptance, covered what we now call ‘science’, since
from the beginning of the sixteenth century the Aristotelian separation
between natural philosophy and mathematics was contested. Theology,
which the theoreticians defending languages often preferred to leave out of
the discussion, will be omitted here as well.
Sperone Speroni, in his Dialogo delle lingue (Venice, 1542), and Joachim
Du Bellay in La defense et illustration de la langue francaise (Paris, 1549)
affirmed that vernacular languages were capable of expressing the highest
philosophical conceptions. Jacques Peletier du Mans, a poet and mathe-
matician, justified the use of French in both domains. Simon Stevin was
deeply influenced by the ideas of the humanist circle of Hugo Grotius and
repeatedly defended the thesis that Dutch was probably the oldest language
in the world, particularly apt for expressing scientific ideas.11 The position
defended by the Royal Society concerning language is well known. John
Wallis, professor of geometry at Oxford, wrote the first ‘philosophical
grammar’ of English.12
Thus putting a work into a vernacular language did not only (or even
always) imply a desire to popularize it. The most complete version of
´ ´
Oronce Fine’s Sphæra mundi was the French one of 1551. Fine was the
first holder of a royal chair in mathematics at the College Royal (where the
lectures were delivered in Latin), and raising the prestige of the French
language through the publication of scientific works of quality was at that
moment one of the royal lecturers’ duties. Besides, for both thinking and
communicating between scholars, the essential advantages of a maternal
language were recognized. Within different countries, more and more
people worked, corresponded and published in the vernacular.13
On the other hand, when it was a question of communicating at the level
of the whole of Europe, Latin had no serious rival. The big international
centres of the book trade were mostly situated in the Germanic parts of

10 11
Scaglione (1984); Chiappelli (1985); Burke (2004), 61–88. Wal (2004), 171–7.
Jones (1953), 252. 13 Pantin (1998).
Europe (with the book-fairs of Leipzig and Frankfurt), where Latin had
maintained its role. Galileo himself failed to make Italian a European
scientific language (it is not even probable that he really attempted it:
the readers whom he wanted to convince were essentially Italians), and
the spread of French, during its glorious heyday (towards the end of the
classical period), produced a great number of original scientific publica-
tions in that language, but no significant series of translations. We could
make similar remarks concerning the scientific English fostered by the
Royal Society. The volume of translations – and this is a passing thought –
could thus provide a criterion allowing one to differentiate a language of
the elite from a language capable of imposing itself on all sectors of
scientific activity.
However, at the end of the age of humanism, Latin was still much more
than an easy medium for international communication, and putting a
work into this language did not always imply wanting to spread it across
national borders. When Jacques Peletier du Mans transformed his Algebre
(1554) into De occulta parte numerorum (1560), his reasons were complex.
The desire to raise the prestige of French by using it to spread the sciences
was no longer as important as it had been a few years earlier.14 On the
contrary, the use of Latin seemed appropriate to give algebra a dignity
equal to that of the traditional mathematical disciplines. The fact that
Peletier had recently become a mathematician of international renown,
through the publication of his Latin commentary on Euclid (1557), con-
stitutes only one reason among others.
In mathematics, it was difficult to be fully acknowledged and conse-
crated without Latin; but such was also the case with disciplines that had
conceded much more place to the use of the vernacular, like medicine.
Ambroise Pare, who had suffered the persistent hostility of the Parisian
doctores because of his insufficient humanist training, enjoyed a kind of
revenge when his Œuvres appeared as Opera (above, pp. 167–8).


In any case, when a book circulated in two versions, the Latin one was often
the more ‘living’, the one that received commentaries or new materials.
This is illustrated by Descartes’s Geometrie; the editions of the original
French text remained quite unchanged from 1637 to the beginning of the
eighteenth century, while the Latin version received additions by Franz van
On the ‘return to Latin’ in France at that period, Faisant (1979).
The role of translations in European scientific exchanges 171
Schooten, Johann de Witt and others, thus proving the fecundity of the
text. The same point could be made about Wallis’s Algebra. The Latin
edition included the first complete series of appendices, and thus consti-
tuted the ‘classical’ standard version of the book. More generally, the
notion of ‘reference edition’ (the edition which receives successive
improvements, thus becoming the definitive one), like the notion of
‘corpus’ – in the sense of ‘collected works’ – was often closely associated
with the use of Latin. Of course there were exceptions: the definitive
collective edition of Stevin’s work was Les œuvres mathematiques, prepared
and partly translated by Albert Girard (1634).
Latin played its expected role in the diffusion of Boyle’s books. They
were widely spread in English, but their first collected edition was pub-
lished in 1677 by Samuel de Tournes, who circulated them in Latin (using
the translations supervised by Boyle himself and first printed in England
when they were available, or else getting ‘continental’ ones). This fact
remains significant, even if commercial motives were prevalent. The
Genevan bookseller was an international dealer, a regular attender of the
Frankfurt book-fair, and he had already published collected scientific
works, notably those of Paracelsus (1658).15
In any case, the collection was unauthorized: Boyle was averse to any
form of systematization and on the first news of the publication, he had a
quite negative review published in the Philosophical Transactions (14
December 1676), making clear that the edition had ‘been put out without
the consent and knowledge of the Author’. It also criticized the misleading
arrangement of the treatises (which ignored their chronology), and com-
plained that there was ‘no mention made in the General Title, nor in any
Advertisement, that these Books were all of them Translations out of
English’. Besides, Form and Qualities, an essential philosophical treatise,
had been omitted (it was added to the collection in 1687).16
Samuel de Tournes, for his part, was probably convinced that he was


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