""Tis only the comb of a sea." "I tell ye 'tis the schooner." "You're looking too far to windward, you lubbers!" said the old fisherman. "Look here-what d'ye call this?" All gazed in the direction in which the old man's finger pointed, and there-yes, there was the doomed vessel coming directly on for the fearful rocks which lay at their feet. Even Eleanor saw her plainly. The other groups observed her at the same time, and one of the men turned around, and pointed towards her. For an instant none spoke, but all gazed at each other in silence, and with horror on their countenances. At length a deep-drawn sigh escaped them. "It's all over with her!" cried one. "She's lost her mainmast," said another. "It's her foremast," cried a third. "Stuff! Both lower masts are standing," said a fourth. "Her rudder must have "Silence, men-silence!" cried Harry Penhale, the tall man, who had been first addressed by Thompson. "Never mind how she got there: there she is, and we must do the best we can for her. Run, a dozen of you, down to the seine-house here, and get out all the rope you can find ; and be smart now, lads, be smart! you've no time to lose; she'll be ashore in ten minutes. And yes, it's getting dark; run, some of you, get torches, and stand along here on the rocks; it will give them heart, and we shall want the light, too. You'll find plenty of straw and tar in the house. With a will, now, boys! with a will!" The men ran off to execute their commission, and Eleanor turned to the old man at her side. "Thompson," she said, "is there any, any hope ?" "None, miss," he replied; "in a quarter of an hour they will be in eternity." "Leave me then, Thompson," said Eleanor. "Your daughter-she will need some comfort." "You're right, miss-you're right and kind, as you always are. Poor Nanny! I can't abear to go away, and the breath still in the dear boy's body; but I can do nothing here, for my poor old arm has lost its strength, and I must see that Nanny doesn't hear the news too suddent like 'twould kill her, miss! Poor Nanny! Poor Nanny!" Old Thompson trembled, and his voice was choked. Eleanor, with streaming eyes, looked up into his face, and pressed his rough horny hand between her delicate palms. "This is no place for you either, miss," the old man said. "Poor child! I was wrong to bring you here; but I did think they'd have weathered it. The Lord has ordered it otherwise-His will be done! Here, Davis! Joe Davis!" he shouted, แ come here! He'll take as much care of 'ee, miss, as I should myself; and, like me, he's gone past much work. He's lost, Davis !" he continued, as the other approached. "He's lost, poor fellow! As kind a boy, too, and as good a boy as ever lived, though I say it myself! We little thought, when he left us so happy and light-hearted-we little thought then that we should never meet in this world again. But what a fool I am to stand snivelling here! And Nanny home. Poor Nanny!" And so saying, the old man handed Nelly over to the care of his friend, and, with one last look seaward, hurried away, to be with his widowed daughter in the hour of her desolation. Eleanor took the arm of her new protector, and, together, they moved somewhat nearer to the place where the vessel might be expected to strike. Around them, all was haste and bustle. Men were running to and fro, carrying great coils of rope; others were stripping off their upper garments, and making the ropes fast around their bodies, to be ready for a plunge into the raging wave; whilst others, again, were lighting torches of straw, dipped in tar, and stationing themselves along the rocks. Eleanor looked out seaward. It was nearly dark; but there was visible the dusky mass, driving steadily down towards them, yawing widely, as she came on, and wallowing in the troughs of the sea, as if conscious that all hope was past, and exertion in vain. Eleanor was startled at seeing how near she had approached. On, on came the doomed ship, not appearing to be impelled through the water by the force of the wind, but rather as if she were driven on merely by the send of the sea. There was a rock, which at low tide rose rough and jagged above the wave. The vessel was close upon it. All were silent -all held their breath. A huge sea rolled on-it lifted her, as though she had been a paper boat; she was borne on for an instant, with lightning speed, on its broad shoulder, and over the rock she wentquite over it, and not an inch of her keel was touched. "Good God!" cried the old man with Eleanor, "she's gone clean over the Mussel Rock! I wouldn't have believed it." For a moment she seemed almost stationary in the trough of the sea, and then came another wave: it bore her past the place where Eleanor and her companion were standing. She rushed on- -she swept by, like the spirit of the storm itself. Again was she left behind-again came a huge rolling wave-again was she lifted, and borne on with frightful speed-again it began to leave her; —there was a crash, a shout of horror from strong men-a shriek of agony from weak women-above, and distinct from all, the fearful, never-to-be-forgotten, cry of drowning men; the dark hull melted away in the raging waters-and she was gone! M'CARTHY'S CALDERON.* Or Spanish literature in general, Mr. Bruce contends ("Classic and Historic Portraits," vol. ii.), that for purity and chastity it is honourably distinguished above that of any other country;-and of the Spanish drama in particular he goes on to assert, that while it is more copious than the dramatic productions of all other lettered nations, ancient and modern, put together, as their dramas now exist, it is wholly free from the charge of indelicacy, and has no Congreve, nor Vanbrugh, nor Cibber, no single drama indeed in which there is anything to call up a blush on the cheek of modesty. Let us hope this grand and singular characteristic, this anomaly in Christendom's and in Heathendom's legitimate drama, is not the let and hindrance to the naturalisation, or popularisation, so to speak, of the Spanish theatre amongst us. For, some let and hindrance there is. Somehow or other we don't take kindly to Lope de Vega and Calderon. The Knight of La Mancha we accept from Cervantes with full and grateful welcome; but the plays of Cervantes-c'est une autre chose. Indeed, until the present publication respectively of the versions of Mr. M'Carthy and of Mr. Fitzgerald, it seems that no attempt at anything like a complete or adequate reproduction into imitative English verse of even one of Calderon's plays has been made. Mr. M'Carthy's aim is, to combine fidelity to the spirit of his original, with a scrupulous adherence to its form. He has thought it his duty, he tells us, to attempt the imitation of every metrical variety used by Calderon, which at least he judged capable of being reproduced in English with a sensible harmonious effect. He was attracted to this difficult emprise by "the wonderful fascination and pleasure of the employment." Mr. M'Carthy has many high qualifications for such a task. His own ballads and lyrics stamp him a minstrel of taste and feeling. He has a musical ear, and the pen of a ready writer; and a fine enthusiasm inspires his harmonious numbers. The florid diction of his preface to Calderon, and of some of his clever contributions to the Dublin University Magazine, is that of a scribe in some jeopardy from a "fatal facility" of ornate composition. And thus, while heartily recognising no small degree of painstaking, merit, and occasional brilliancy, in the translation now before us, we seem to trace in too many parts the style of one accustomed to "dash off at a heat," and not quite so patient as either Calderon or the critics could desire, of the labor lima. At intervals there occur passages of real grace and finish, of tasteful expression and much rhythmical beauty; and then again we meet with whole pages of a very prosy sort, and very indifferent prose too. Partly, be it admitted, Calderon is himself answerable for these inequalities-for the great playwright was not above a wholesale manufacture of platitudes in soliloquy, and bald disjointed chat in colloquy; but his translator has not always * Dramas of Calderon, Tragic, Comic, and Legendary. Translated from the Spanish, principally in the Metre of the Original, by D. F. M'Carthy, Esq. Dolman. 1853. † Six Dramas of Calderon, freely translated by Edward Fitzgerald. Pickering. 1853. presented these spots on the sun in their least glaring aspect, nor refrained from adding a few on his own account. In his selection of the six dramas included in these volumes, Mr. M'Carthy appears to have exercised a sound discretion. They offer specimens of Calderon's varied manner, and of his success in the several walks of the national drama. Unlike Mr. Fitzgerald, who has, with questionable judgment, chosen for translation six of the maestro's second and third-rate plays, Mr. M'Carthy gives us the noble tragedy of "The Constant Prince;" that admirably characteristic comedy, "The Secret in Words," pronounced by Ulrici (who thinks Calderon greater in comedy than in tragedy) one of the most amusing, polished, and ingenious plays extant in any tongue; the tragedies of "The Physician of his own Honour," and "Love after Death;" the legendary play of "The Purgatory of St. Patrick;" and the comic piece of lovers' entanglements called "The Scarf and the Flower." Mr. M'Carthy is exceedingly well qualified, in one capital respect, to do justice to Calderon's descriptive powers; he is gifted with a kindred faculty of verbal profusion. It demanded a wealthy vocabulary to render the lavish splendours of the original into corresponding terms in our northern dialect, and here the translator has generally used to advantage that fervid and flowing eloquence upon which he can draw so freely. We quote an example of his aptness to catch the style, and to echo the ring and cadence, of the dramatist he so ardently admires:-it is from El Principe Constante, where that high-hearted Lusitanian, the Christian Regulus, sacrifices his liberty for his country's weal, and resigns himself to a life-long captivity among the Moors, whose king he thus addresses: I am thy slave, And, O king, dispose and order *This alternation between thee and you is a not infrequent blemish in Mr. M'Carthy's lines. Among numerous instances, we may refer to scene ii. of "Love after Death” (vol. ii. pp. 15, sqq.), where Alvaro says to Clara, and again: "You have no power now to excuse thee;" "I have loved you," &c., immediately followed by thou, and thee, and thy, ad libitum. So Garces says (p. 27): "Blame not yourself, for you did very well To make him feel thy hand and that incorrigible old offender, Alvaro, girds at Mendoza after this manner (p. 34): "Still it is enough to ask you If thou art as brave with young men As with old men thou art bold." One half suspects the dramatis personæ of being Quaker converts, recently proselytised, who are ever and anon relapsing into the old formulæ forbidden in the terminology of the people called Friends. But alas! even the Angel in the "Purgatory of St. Patrick" is verily guilty in this matter (see vol. ii. pp. 182-3). Tantæne animis cælestibus? To his brother. Say, in Africa I lie : Christians, dead is Don Fernando; The exaggerated tone of this declamation, which may recal certain stilted passages in Shakspeare and the Elizabethan writers, is highly characteristic of Calderon-his tendency to what the profane call fustian being in fact prononcé at times. Nor had Cowley, or Donne, a greater liking for concetti and elaborately detailed fancies. In illustration of Mr. M'Carthy's skill in other metrical forms, we append his version of one of the two celebrated sonnets on the stars, in the second act of "The Constant Prince." The thema is in answer to a question, Are the stars like flowers? These points of light, these sparkles of pure fire, From the reluctant sun's departing ray, Live when the beams in mournful gloom retire. These are the flowers of night that glad Heaven's choir, For if the life of flowers is but one day, In one short night the brightest stars expire. But still we ask the fortunes of our lives, Even from this flattering spring-tide of the skies, 'Tis good or ill, as sun or star survives. Oh, what duration is there? who relies That every night is born again and dies? The translator's supply of rhymes is copious, not always correct. For instance: "Glory" and "victory" (vol. i. pp. 104, 106) are an illassorted match; and his quite favourite junction of "propitious" with "wishes" (i. p. 105; ii. pp. 293, 311, &c.) is hardly classical. Then again, "difficulty" is made to pair with "victory"-a rhyme with less of the latter than the former about it (ü. pp. 349, 350). "Prostrated" goes * "Esos rasgos de luz, esas centellas," &c. Dec.-VOL. XCIX. NO. CCCXCVI. 2 K |