To come down rather a little from him, my Calderon, which you speak of—very many beside myself, with as much fair Dramatic Spirit, knowledge of good English and English Verse, would do quite as well as you think I do, if they would not hamper themselves with Forms of Verse, and Thought, irreconcilable with English Language and English Ways of Thinking. I am persuaded that, to keep Life in the Work (as Drama must) the Translator (however inferior to his Original) must re-cast that original into his own Likeness, more or less: the less like his original, so much the worse: but still, the live Dog better than the dead Lion; in Drama, I say. As to Epic, is not Cary still the best Dante? Cowper and Pope were both Men of Genius, out of my Sphere; but whose Homer still holds its own? The elaborately exact, or the ‘teacup-time’ Parody? Is not Fairfax’ Tasso good? I never read Harington’s Ariosto, English or Italian. Another shot have I made
at Faust in Bayard Taylor’s Version: but I do not even get on with him as with Hayward, hampered as he (Taylor) is with his allegiance to original metres, etc. His Notes I was interested in: but I shall die ungoethed, I doubt, so far as Poetry goes: I always believe he was Philosopher and Critic.
But, harking back to Calderon, surely you have seen the ‘Mágico’ printed from the Duc d’Osuna’s original MS., with many variations from the text as we have it. This volume is edited, in French, by ‘Alfred Morel Fatio,’ printed at ‘Heilbronn’ (wherever that is), and to be bought of ‘M. Murillo, Calle de Alcalá, Num. 18, Madrid.’ It contains a Facsimile of the old Boy’s MS. I will send you my Copy if there be ‘no Coal in Newcastle.’
To C. E. Norton.
Woodbridge. May 18/79.
My dear Norton,
It is over six months, I believe, since we exchanged a letter; mine the last shot: which I mention only because that has been my reason for not writing again till I should hear from you that all was well enough with you and yours to justify my writing an idle letter. You have spoken of an aged Mother:—if your Winter has been such as ours! And not over yet, as scarce a
leaf on the trees, and a N. E. wind blowing Cold, Cough, Bronchitis, etc., and the confounded Bell of a neighbouring Church announcing a Death, day after day. I certainly never remember so long, and so mortal a Winter: among young as well as old. Among the latter, I have just lost my elder, and only surviving Brother. But I shall close this Bill of Mortality before turning over the leaf.
Well: it is Mr. Clarke’s pamphlet which has encouraged me to ‘take up the pen,’ for I think it was you who sent it to me. All I am qualified to say about it is, that it is very well and earnestly written; but on a Subject, like your own Olympia, that I am no Judge of. I think of forwarding it to Cowell at our Cambridge, who is a Judge of Everything, I think, while pretending to Nothing. . . .
This reminds me of all the pains he bestowed on me five and twenty years ago; of which the result is one final Edition of Omar and Jámí. . . . Omar remains as he was; Jámí (Salámán) is cut down to two-thirds of his former proportion, and very much improved, I think. It is still in a wrong key: Verse of Miltonic strain, unlike the simple Eastern; I remember trying that at first, but could not succeed. So there is little but the Allegory itself (not a bad one), and now condensed into a very fair Bird’s Eye view; quite enough for any Allegory, I think. . . .