MR. MACCARTHY'S " CALDERON."* IT is now more than twenty

years since Mr. Florence MacCarthy, one of the most brilliant and melodious of the Young-Ireland poets, fell under the spell of the solemn and yet bewitching genius of Calderon. There must be something in the Milesian tradition which asserts for the Western Celts an Iberian origin, and which led Moore to twine, in one of his most charming melodies, "the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain" together. It is not easy

• Calderon's Dramas: The Wonder-smirking Magician: Lift is a Dream: The Purga- tory of St. Patrick. Now drat translated tuns from the Spanish in the Metre of the Original. By Denis Florence MacCarthy. London: Henry S. King and Co. otherwise to account for the patient, tender, and minutely labori- ous care with which Mr. MacCarthy has for these twenty years devoted his whole talent to the task, not merely of producing an accurate translation of the masterpieces of the great Spanish drama- tist, but of absolutely mirroring his meaning line by line, and bend- ing the rugged English tongue to his most delicate andaerial metres. It may at last be said that he has fairly succeeded in naturalising the asonante in our language. Competent critics having equal know- ledge of both tongues have declared that the very spirit and form of Calderon have been transfused in some of Mr. MacCarthy's work in such a way as to realise the very perfection of translation. In the volume now before us, the fifth, we believe, that Mr. MacCarthy has published, the mechanical accuracy of the version is such that each play is rendered in the very number of lines and half-lines of the original. Every variation of metre, every change of vowels, is followed and reproduced. Yet in such rigid fetters the lambent verse flows with an ease, spirit, and music perfectly natural, liberal, and harmonious, and the Spanish text may be read side by side by the English without the detection of any notable omission or redundance. In our opinion, this volume does not, how- ever, contain Mr. MacCarthy's finest achievement. He has not improved even in the masterly music of the rendering of the "Wonder-working Magician," on that subtle and fluent version of "Two Lovers of Ileaqen," which he published in pamphlet form in 1870, which is now, we believe, out of print, and to which we regret he has not given a permanent abiding-place in his present volume.

Mr. MacCarthy's first volumes, published so long ago as 1853, contained "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Constant Prince," "The Scar and the Flower," "The Physician of his Own Honour," "The Secret in Words," and "Love after Death "—six dramas admirably selected to display the full range of Calderon's powers. But though this version was accu- rate and complete, the only really accurate and complete translation that had as yet appeared of any of Calderon's plays in English, Mr. MacCarthy, much tempted by his natural faculty of melodious versification, yet shrank from the attempt to produce an exact metrical rendering. Still the sense that the peculiar lyrical flow, which makes so much of the charm of Calderon's work, might with adequate pains be reproduced in English verse, grew upon him. In 1867, he published two of the Autos, the " Sorceries of Sin," and the "Devotion of the Cross," with one of the classical dramas, "Love the Greatest Enchantment," chal- lenging close criticism by setting the Spanish text side by side with the English. We fear it is a limited audience, as yet, whether in England or in Spain, that cares to study or is qualified to criticise such fine work. But the praise of those who are best qualified was unbounded. Mr. Ticknor, after saying that "Calderon is a poet who whenever he is translated should have his very excesses, both in thought and manner, fully produced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and most distinctive in his genius," adds, "Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I conceive, to a degree which I had previously considered impossible. Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama, perhaps I ought to say of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry generally."* Again, in a letter to Mr. MacCarthy, a propos of his translation of the Devotion de la Cruz, he says :—" In your translation the Spanish seems to come through to the surface. The original air is always perceptible in your variations. It is like a family like- ness coming out in the next generation, yet with the freshness of originality." Longfellow—and even Mr. Ticknor was hardly a more competent critic of such a work—wrote to him :—" I read your work with eagerness and delight—that peculiar and strange delight which Calderon gives his admirers—as peculiar and dis- tinct as the flavour of an olive from that of all other fruits. You seem to gain new strength and sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself was behind you, whispering and sug- gesting."

Considering the language with which he has to work, perhaps the more rugged the test we apply to Mr. MacCarthy's asonante the better,—so let the word "rugged ". itself suggest it, and let

us take a passage of which the vowels u and e supply the ruling sounds. We find such a passage in the tenth scene of the third

act of the "Wonder-working Magician," , the play which, next after the "Two Lovers of Heaven," we regard as Mr. MacCarthy's master-piece. Cyprian, who has sold his soul to Satan in order

to obtain the love of Jastina, seems to find his spells suddenly fail at the moment of fondest expectation. In a wood, with the ever comic and not always clean Clarin at his heels, he exclaims,—

• " History of Spanish Literature," iii., 461.

"Cyprian. Doubtless something must have happened,

'Meng the stars' imperial clusters, Since I find their influences To my wishes so repugnant.

Up from the profound abysses Some dark caveat must be uttered, Which prohibits the obedience Which they owe me as my subjects. I, a thousand times with spell-words, Made the winds of heaven to shudder, I. a thousand times, the bosom Of the earth with symbols furrowed, Yet mine eyes have not been gladdened, By the human atm refulgent That I seek, nor in mine arms Hold that human heaven.

Claris. What wonder ? When a thousand times have I Scraped the earth as if for nuggets, When a thousand times the wind By my screeching was perturbed, And yet Livia was oblivious."

Suddenly a phantom form appears, the exact semblance of Justina. Cyprian pursues it, while Clarin exclaims,— " Stop ; Renuncio

Bride like this, who smells of smoke Stronger than a blacksmith's furnace. But perhaps the incantation, Being so extremely sudden, Caught her leaning o'er the lye-tub, If not cooking tripe for supper."

Se he pursues the pair, and overhears :— " Cyprian. Now, 0 beautiful Justina!

In this sweet and secret covert, Where no beam of sun can enter, Nor the breeze of heaven blow roughly.

Now the trophy of thy beauty Makes my magic toils triumphant, For here, folding thee, no longer Have I need to fear disturbance.

Fair Justine, thou haat cost me Even my soul. But in my judgment, Since the gain has been so glorious, Not so dear has been the purchase.

Oh! unveil thyself, fair Goddess, Not in clouds obscure and murky, Not in vapours hide the sun, Show its golden rays refulgent. [He draws aside the cloak, and discovers a skeleton.] But, 0 woe ! what's this I see ?

Is it a cold corse, mute, pulseless, That within its arms expects me ?

Who, in one brief moment's compass, Could upon these faded features, Pallid, motionless, and shrunken, Have extinguished the bright beauties Of the rose-blush and the purple ?

The Skeleton. Cyprian, such are all the glories

Of the world that you so covet. [The Skeleton disappears. Clarin rushes in frightened, and embraces Cyprian, exclaiming, 'Fear for anyone who wants it.

Wholesale or retail, I'll furnishl "

The same asonante in u-e are maintained throughout six successive scenes (some 300 lines) with unfailing ease and effect. It is only by pbserving his easy yet careful adherence to the rule of the metre for many pages together, and at the same time comparing his version with the original, that the elaborate fidelity and harmony of Mr. MacCartby's work can be appreciated.

But all Calderon's readers are aware that his finest poetical effects are produced, not in the asonante, which is rather the jog-trot at which his Pegasus ordinarily proceeds, as in the fine lyrical passages where the words seem to take wings, and image succeeds image, each more beautiful and clad in more melodious language than the last. Longfellow speaks with par- ticular praise of the exquisite way in which Mr. MacCarthy has rendered the fine description of the pursuit of the heron by the gerfalcon in the second act of El Mayor Encanto. The present volume contains many passages not inferior to it, we venture to say. We may specify in the play of which we have just been speaking Cyprian's description of Justina (p. 186) and Justina's dream of love (p. 200) ; the two versions (p. 273 and appendix p. 353) of St. Patrick's Prayer, of which it is not easy to say which is the finer ; the touching soliloquy' of Sigismund in his life-long prison (p. 11) in "Life is a Dream," a fine specimen of Calderon's favourite act of drawing figures from one province of the realm of nature to illustrate another ; or again, in another vein, his address to Poseurs (pp. 58-9). From the soliloquy we must quote a few verses, which are very much in what Shelley called the "the flowery and starry" style of Calderon :- "Birds are born, the bird that singe, Richly robed by Nature's dower, Scarcely floats, a feathered flower,

Or a bunch of blooms with wings, When to heaven's high halls it springs, Cuts the blue air fast and free, And no longer bound will be By the nest's secure control ; And with so much more of soul, Must I have less liberty?

Beasts are born, the beast whose akin, Dappled o'er with beauteous spots, As when the great pencil dots Heaven with stars, cloth scarce begin

From its impulses within,—

Nature's stern necessity, To be schooled in cruelty, Monster, waging ruthless war; And with instincts better far, Must I have less liberty? Fish are born, the spawn that breeds Where the oozy easweeds float, Scarce perceives itself a boat, Scaled and plated for its needs, When from wave to wave it speeds, Measuring all the mighty sea, Testing its profundity To its depths so dark and chill :— And with so much freer will, Must I have less liberty ?

Streams are born, a coiled-up snake When its path the strea.mlet finds, Scarce a silver serpent winds 'Meng the flowers it must forsake, But a song of praise doth wake ; Mournful though its music be, To the plain that courteously

Opes a path through which it flies:—

And with life that never dies, Must I have less liberty ?

When I think of this I start Etna-like in wild unrest ;

I would pluck from ont-my breast

Bit by bit my burning heart :— For what law can so depart From all right, as to deny

One lone man that liberty—

That sweet gift which God bestows On tho crystal stream that flows, Birds and fish that float or fly?"

It is to be feared that the audience which appreciates work so delicate and so laborious is very limited ; let us hope it may be at least sufficient to encourage Mr. MacCarthy to produce a perfect version of at least the principal masterpieces of Calderon's genius.