BOOKS.

MR. BROWNING'S AGAMEMNON."*

Winti the German public was disputing about the relative merits of Goethe and Schiller, the former is said to have good-humouredly remarked that it did not much matter which view was taken, the

public ought to be proud that it had two such rogues (Spitzbu- ben) to dispute about. Englishmen may be proud that they have

two such poets to compare with one another as Browning and Tennyson, for with the exception of Victor Hugo, there is no living poet who deserves to be put in comparison with either.

Each of these distinguished men has given us specimens of trans- lation from the great poets of Greece. Neither of them has come within leagues of Shelley's achievements in the same field. But Tennyson's attempts have been short and far between, and although we think that in this arena he must yield the palm to Mr. Gladstone, his translations are not of such importance as to challenge minute or attentive criticism. With Mr. Browning the case

is different, and in his translation of the Agamemnon he has thrown down the glove to the critics in a way that admits of no shirking

on their part. For ourselves, we take it up unhesitatingly, and

are prepared to traverse all the pleas by which he endeavours to justify his untoward performance. We might do this by stating

those pleas at length, and by arguing the point with him on every one of them. But space would be wanting for such a course in an article like the present, and we prefer to select and comment on a

few passages from his translation, as a r6ductio ad absurdum of the

theory which has produced them. It happens that another trans- lation, written upon entirely different principles from those which Browning has adopted, has just been published by Mr. Morehead, and as this translation is a fair sample of its kind, we shall occa- sionally place the Winchester master's version in juxtaposition with that of the Laureate's only living rival.

" Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat," said jesting John- son, and experience has gone far to show that the man who trans- lates poetry should himself be a poet. In this respect Mr. Mor- ehead starts at a great disadvantage, and as he modestly says in his preface, having Browning as well as 1Eschylus to contend with, he is in a disconsolate position.

" Infolix poor atque impar congreesue Achilli h"

But, as in handicapping, a difference in the weights will bring afsy two horses together, so Browning's Pegasus has been so

heavily weighted by his rider's whimsical theories, that on this occasion the tables are turned, and it is Achilles who is found to be no match for the luckless youth his competitor. If this be true, and we think that we shall have no difficulty in proving that it is true, no further condemnation of Browning's neological " transcription " will bo needed ; and if we should be led to use

expressions which may seem to smack of irreverence when applied to so great an imaginative writer, we will beg, before doing so, to appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober—from the mistaken (as we think) transcriber of 2Eschylus to the immortal author of Pippa Passes. We will begin our comparison with Cassandra's famous speech, which Mr. Browning renders thus :— * ilynnaroonon of Transcribed by Robert Browning. Loudon 1

Smith, Fader, and Co. 1877.

The A ganiewiliOn of rENcItyllis. Translated Into English Verse by E. D, Morshead, 11.A. London : Kogan Paul and Co. 1577. "Halloo, Halloo, ah, evils!

Again, straightforward foresight's fearful labour Whirls me, distracting with prelusive last-lays. Behold ye those there, in the household seated,— Young ones,—of dreams approaching to the figures, Children, as if they died by their beloveds,— Hands they have filled with flesh, the meal domestic— Entrails and vitals both, most piteous burthen, Plain they are holding 1—which their father tea ted I For this, I say, plans punishment a certain Lion ignoble, on the bed that wallows, House-guard (ah, me 1) to the returning master —Mine, since to boar the slavish yoke behoves me ! The ship's commander, Dion's desolator, Knows not what things the tongue of the lewd she-dog Speaking, outspreading, shiny-soulod, in fashion. Of At6 hid, will reach to, by ill-fortune Such things she dares—the female, the male's slayer ! She is . . how calling her the hateful bite-beast May I hit the mark ? Some amphisbaina—Skulla Housing in rocks, of mariners the mischief, Revelling Hades' mother,—curso, no trace with, Breathing at friends ! How piously she shouted, The all-courageous, as at turn of battle!

She seems to joy at the back-bringing safety !

Of this, too, if I nought persuade, all's one I Why ? What is to bo will come ! And soon those, present, True prophet, all too much,' wilt pitying style me !"

Mr. Morehead thus

Ah woe upon me, woe Again the pain, the dread prophetic pang, With fell beginning whirls and racks my soul. Behold ye—yonder, on the roof aloft,— The spectre-children sitting—look—such shapes As dreams are made of—semblances of babes Slain by their kinsman's hand.

And look what loathsome burthen piteous Blasting the sight, within their hands they bear, Their own runt flesh, on which their father fed ! For this, for this, I say those plots revenge, A coward lion, couching in the lair— Guarding the gate against my master's foot— My master—mine—I bear the slave's yoke now. And he the lord of ships, who trod down Troy, Knows not the fawning treachery of tongue Of this thing false and dog-like—how her speech Glozes and elooks her purpose till she win, By ill-fate's favour, the desired chance, Moving like Ate, to a secret end.

0 aweless soul! the woman slays her lord— Woman ? what loathsome monster of the earth Were fit comparison ? The double snake— Or Scylla, where she dwells, the seaman's bane, Girt with the rock and wave ? some hag of hell Raving a truceless curse upon her kin ? Hark I for I hear her now, in aweless joy, Cry the stern cry that tolls of battle turned. How fain, forsooth, to greet her chief restored ! Nay then, believe me not; what skills belief Or disbelief? Fate works its will—and thou, Pitying, wilt say anon, Her tale was truo.'"

We are far, indeed, from saying that this is a faultless translation. It errs both by omission and commission, and is at times scarcely more than a feeble paraphrase of the Athenian's mighty lines. But how much better even thus than Mr. Browning's bald, disjointed, halting verses ! Surely the " meal domestic " alone is more sickening to (esthetic taste than all the plain, blunt horrors which Mr. Morshead too prudishly declines to reproduce. But

we have no time for verbal criticism, which, besides, will suggest itself to every reader. Let us follow the advice of Bacchus in the Frogs, and turn to the lyrics. As the first passage which we

shall quote from them is a short ono, we will give a literal prose translation of it, to begin with :-

"Aye, now thou beet spoken sense aright naming the thrice-huge fiend of this race, by whom the thirsty lust of blood is fed with strife, are the old wound closes, fresh gore bursts out."

Mr. Morshead renders it as follows :-

" Right was that word—thou namest well The brooding race-fiend, triply fell! From him, from him it is, the thirst, For spilth of blood, is inly nursed. Ere time the ancient scar can sain, New blood comes, welling forth again."

This is not good, we think. Neither "spilth" nor " saki " is quite satisfactory, and " race-fiend " is unpleasantly suggestive of Madame de Goncourt. Let us hear Mr. Browning

Now, of a truth, hest thou set upright Thy mouth's opinion,— Naming the Sprite, The triply-gross, O'er the race that has dominion : For through him it is that Eros The earnage-licker In the belly is bred : ore ended quite Is the elder throe—new ichor !" This is distinctly bad, Eschylus uses the Homeric ixrf,e, pedantically perhaps, but certainly not for it to be correctly Englished iclwr, though it is rightly so Englished by Milton, on a proper occasion. The word which Mr. Morshead translates by " inly," and Mr. Browning by "in the belly," is corrupt beyond a doubt, and yeizet is perhaps the most probable correction that has been proposed. But Mr. Morshead can do much better than this, and we quote with pleasure his beautiful but rather too diffuse version of, perhaps, the most beautiful passage in this celebrated play :- "" And such did Paris come Unto Atridos' home, And thence with sin and shame his welcome to repay

Ravished the wife away—

And she, unto her country and her kin Leaving the clash of shields and spears and arming ships, And bearing unto Troy destruotion for a dower, And overbold in sin, Went fleetly through the gates, nt midnight hour. Oft from the prophet's lips, Rang loud the warning and the wail—Ah woe I

Woe for the home, the home ! and for the chieftains, woo I

Woe for the bride-bed, warm Yet from the lovely limbs, the impress of the form Of her who loved her lord, awhile ago ! And woo ! for him who stands

Shamed, silent, unreproachfnl, stretching bands

That find her not, and sees, yet will not see, That she is far away ! And his sad fancy, yearning o'er the sea, Shall summon and recall Her wraith once more to queen it in his hall. And sad with many memories

The fair cold beauty of each sculptured face—

And all to hatefulness is turned their grace, Seen blankly by forlorn and hungering eyes! And when the night is deep, Como visions sweet and sad and bearing pain

Of hopinge vain—

void, void and vain, for scarce the Bleeping sight Has soon its old delight, When through the grasps of love that bid it stay, It vanishes away On silent wings that roam adown tho ways of Sleep.'

There is " Miltonian tenderness," if our ears be true, in these lines, albeit, as we said above, they are too diffuse, Mr. Browning gives us :-

4' Such an one, Paris goes Within the Atreiclai s house—

Shamed the guest's board by robbery of the sponse. And leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spread With shields, and spoor-thrusts of sea-armament, And bringing Ilion, in a dowry's stead, Destruction—swiftly through the gates she went, Daring the undaroablo. But many a groan outbroke From prophets of the House as thus they spoke. ' Woo, woe the House, the House and Rulers,—woe The marriage-bed and dints A husband's love imprints I There she stands silent I meets no honour—no Shame—sweetest thing to see of things gone long ago! And through desire of one across the main,

A ghost will seem within the house to reign

And hateful to the husband is the grace Of well-shaped statues : from—in place of eyes, Those blanks—all Aphrodit6 dies.

But dream-appearing mournful fantasies—

There they stand, bringing grace that's vain. For vain 'tie, when brave things one seems to view; The fantasy has floated. off, bands through ; Gone that appearance,—nowise loft to creep,—

On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep."

We say nothing about the discrepancies of interpretation in the above passage, but we must observe that Mr. Browning's version is a very favourable specimen of his translation indeed. If we were to neglect Swift's warning, and "read only for an occasion of censure and reproof," we might cull from it some curious weeds of anything but glorious feature. " Keen,the bull from the cow," for instance, is much too " plain in its neatness," and contrasts very unfavourably with Mr. Morshead's "keep him away the monarch of the herd, the pasture's pride, far from his mate !" Nor need one "boast to be a topping critic" of quaintnesscs, to feel uncomfortable at,—" For 'tis just we bow to the ruler's wife, the male-seat luau-bereaved," which suggests that Clytemnestra wore the breeches ; or at,—" For more relaxed grows every one who fares well." Again,—" Silence! Who is it shouts, stroke right-aimedly ' a wounded one ? " might come from a University oar driven by a severe coach ' into Hanwell, Mr. Leech., too, might have pleasantly illustrated " the perfect man his home perambulating ;" and poor Nat Leo's " mad potatoe" might have fitly garnished Mr. Browning's "phantasms of the fowl." What nursery could not Hap " Eh, eh, papai, papai,

what this, I espy?" And if " °WWI, Lukeion Apollon, ah —me," is " Msohylus to the echo," jocoea imago was never better illustrated, though we shall hardly, we fear, appreciate such an echo till our ear becomes " more Irish and less nice." But enough, and more than enough, of such poor work as this. If blots like these, which lie as thick as blackberries in this transcription, wore balanced by corresponding beauties, we might regret the wilful- ness of such defacements ; as it is, we could almost wish that the few felicities of phrase which are interspersed were absent, and that the transcriber had conietently made the whole mixture thick and slab. " Corrige sodes " is quite out of place here. " Emen- dare jocos sola litura potest." One word as to the " pestilent heresy " of Mr. Browning's spelling ; or rather, not one word. For since Mr. Gladstone has felt himself (and rightly) compelled to abandon Odysseus for Odusseus, and since Browning feels himself (and wrongly) entitled to write " Surian " for " Syrian" and "Kars " for " Carians," we may fairly hope this " fad " will soon be played out, and that matters having reached the worst, will mend. Only wo should like to know on what principle Mr. Browning writes "Aigiplanoktos " and " Chores," seeing that he ought to write " Aigiplagktos " and " Khoros ;" and we cannot help saying, too, that his wonder how we have escaped Eyri- pides " proves that he totally misunderstands the question in dispute.

We expected great things from this translation, and we have been bitterly disappointed. In the irritation caused by that disappointment wo may have said what wo should be sorry for, but we feel keenly that the language which De Quincey used, and by his own admission unfairly, about Keats might not unfairly be applied to Mr. Browning. He has trampled upon his mother-tongue as with the hoofs of a buffalo, and played such fantastic tricks with its syntax, prosody, and idiom that it requires all the noble poems with which he has en- riched and adorned the English language "to weigh against the deep treason of these unparalleled offences." If he should ever think of writing more "transcriptions," we hope that before doing so he will read and mark and inwardly digest the warning given by a far more topping critic' than ourselves :- "Nee serbum vorbo (tumble redder° haus Intorpros ; nee desilies imitator in arotum, Undo Fedora prolerro pudor votet, aut operis lex."

Mr. Morehead needs no such advice. We do not, indeed, pretend to strike the balance accurately between his version and the version of a Blew, a Plumptre, and of a host of other rivals. We are inclined, however, to think that he is not inferior to the best of them, and we are sure that he has accomplished a very diffi- cult task in a very creditable and scholarly way. We deeply and unfeignedly regret that we cannot say the same of Mr. Browning.