EWEN MACLAUCHAN'S TRANSLATION INTO GAELIC VERSE OF THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ILIAD. Ar the end of a coverless, dateless, and dog-eared collection of Gaelic poems which gives every indication of having been "well-thumbed," I stumbled upon a poetic translation in Gaelic of the third Iliad, by that ardent, classical, and Celtic scholar, Ewen Maclauchlan. A careful perusal of the poem, and a close minute comparison of it with the original Greek, so far as my knowledge of both languages permitted, made it clear that the translator was master of his craft, and knew how to harmonise the spirit of his original with that of his own mother tongue. He combines substantial accuracy with native melody. With a few notes to explain some mythological allusions, an ordinary intelligent Highlander, innocent of Greek, could enjoy the poem after he got used to outlandish Grecian names, so different from those that his own bards have made his ear familiar with. The outward circumstances of the Greeks for whom Homer sung were in many respects not so very unlike those which obtained of old in the Highlands when the clan system was in its glory. The poet describes Agamemnon as king of men, but so was Somerled. Both Greeks and Celts had their chiefs, some greater some less. Each was independent in his own territory, and ready to fight with his neighbour, ready also to enter into league with him against the foreigner, though both Celt and Greek came to grief at last, because tribal independence and tribal pride were more to their taste than the general good of the race. The bards of both should, in this respect, have much in common, as they certainly have. In the time of Homer, civilisation was not the complicated thing that it is now, and that in the course of time it became among the Greeks themselves. Fingal and his Feinn would feel themselves at home with Achilles and his myrmidons, whether in the camp, or in the hall where the wine flowed and the minstrel sung the praises of the brave, or in the chase. Naturally then we should expect that the poet who gave expression to the actions, tastes, delights, loves, and hatreds of the one should do so in a way which could readily be expressed by a skilful tongue in the language of the other. When Homer sang, and when the people who made Gaelic what it is lived, men were not troubled with abstract thinking, with thoughts about thought. They had to do chiefly with hard, outward, concrete facts. They lived in the world around them, in the visible world that gave them present pain, or present pleasure, and not in the world of thought. Their invisible world was the product of their imagination, not of their understanding. Hence the directness, naturalness, simplicity, and brook-like rush and transparency of their poetry. It touches natural life at every point. Now Gaelic, as we all know, is more at home in dealing with those phases of life which are actual and present, with its senses, perceptions, feelings, fancies, imagination, than with the subtle products of the reason. Prophets can speak to us in our own tongue with power; authors of Institutes may do so, but only after a clumsy, unwieldy fashion, which puts the language on the rack. Homer, apart from his genius, had an immense advantage over his translator in the wonderful language of his race, so flexible, so precise, so boundless in its range, so subtle in its distinctions, so musical in its sounds. Take Homer's particles for examples, and compare them, or rather contrast them with the marked poverty of Gaelic in this respect, and it is at once seen that much of the neatness, precision, easy transition which depend upon them cannot be transferred to Gaelic. The meagreness of its particles has always appeared to me to be one of the weak points of Gaelic, and the cause why so much Gaelic poetry has its verses strung together, rather than knit into one texture. But notwithstanding the vast superiority of the language of Homer to that of the Gael (and I hope the shade of Alastair Mac Mhaighistir will forgive me for thus contradicting him), Maclachlan entered so deeply, and so minutely, into the spirit of the father of poetry, whom he so much loved, that he has reproduced much of his beauties without stripping them too much of their native accessories, or adding to them too much of his own. He has endeavoured, and not without success, to let us see Homer himself, and not a portrait of Homer such as he conceived he should be. No doubt he has occasionally passed by some statements of Homer, but it will be found that when that is the case the peculiarities of the Greek are such that they could not be expressed in Gaelic without intolerable circumlocution; sometimes, no doubt, he nods carelessly. Then too he adds now and then to Homer in a way which suggests a thought too spiritual for Homer, as, e.g., in the prayers of Agamemnon, he describes Zeus, "Father of Gods and men," as heavenly and eternal. These conceptions were foreign to the Ionian bard. Celtic history is not without a parallel to the story of the Iliad, in which the abduction of a king's wife led to a bitter war between two peoples of a different race. Is it not said that Dermot made off with Devorghal, wife of O'Ruark, just as Paris did to Helen, and that O'Ruark called in the King of England to avenge him of his insulter, with consequences to all concerned not yet exhausted, and not likely to be until one or two more Irish Acts are passed? Greek nationality was created, or at least intensified, by the events which followed the theft of their beautiful princess; Irish nationality perished by the hand of the stranger called in to aid in punishing a similar offence, and with it in effect perished Celtic nationality as an external government. Thus the Iliad in general, if known, would find a responsive echo in the hearts of Celts who knew the traditions of their own kin. But we are dealing with Maclauchlan's third Duan of the Iliad. The burden of this is a duel with great formalities between the King of Sparta and Paris, the Trojan dandy who stole his fair queen. The two armies approach each other, Grecian and Trojan, under the walls of Troy. The Trojans advanced with undisciplined shouts, and rattling of arms, the Greeks in earnest, self-restrained quiet, each man on fire for action, but subjecting his ardour to the discipline of order and unity, in which not only is the enemy smitten, but comrades are assisted, Perhaps we have had too much of the Trojan noise as a race, and too little of the Greek self-control, for all our crying of Guaillinn ri Guaillinn. But let us hear our translator :: Ghluais na Greugaich fo bhalbh-thosd 'S gu comhnadh an spairn nan creuchd. This battle fever the Macdonalds had at Culloden, but the comhnadh, the submission to rule for the general good, that was driven away by an insane pride. The only opportunity now left for testing this quality is to be found in literary and church matters, where our ardour, our desire for personal distinction too often makes us forget our comrades, and their claims upon us, nay, sometimes make us thrust at them as if they were enemies. The armies come within earshot, and Paris, in splendid armour, challenges Menelaus to single combat. This is how it was answered :— Mar mhion-acras leoinhainn ghairg, Paris wished his handsome person and jewelled armour safe at his palace. Listen to the account given of his feelings in genuine Abrach Gaelic, and to the splendid simile which illustrates them, clear enough to any one who has come suddenly on a viper glistening in the sunshine : Phlosg anam an grunnd a chleibh, 'S theich romh an eug air chul a shluaigh, Nathair bhreachd-shligneach an tuim, A saighdeadh air lom le srann, Breabaidh e seachad na leum, Roimh na gharg bheisd is millteach ruinn, Fallas fuar air a ghruaidh bhain, Dluth chrith air gach cnaimh le h-oillt, &c. This is a splendid representation of Homer's description of the worthless Trojan coward, and would be perfect, but for the addition made to the original in the seventh line of the quotation, which should be entirely omitted. The poem proceeds to tell us the bitter reproaches which Hector-the noblest of the Trojans-poured out on the head of his despicable brother, whom he wished dead ere he had fallen into crime and dishonour. His contemptuous feelings regarding his brother are well expressed in the opening words of his attack upon him— Fhir bhoidhich bhuig nan diombuaidh, In biting speech Hector goes on to upbraid the weak heart of his licentious brother, who was more at home in the jewels of Venus than in the armour of the warrior, who could handle with more effect his silver harp than his steel sword. In the hour of danger these availed him nothing, but brought disgrace upon himself and his people. Paris, in reply, makes easy good-natured acknowledgment of the justice of his brother's reproaches. Maclauchlan represents Paris as covered with blushes. Homer takes good care not to do so, because when a man is ashamed he is not quite worthless, or at least has possibilities within him which may lift him out of the mire. Paris too in the same facile spirit bows before the heroism of his brother, whose heart he likens to the hatchet which brings down the great oak of which ships are built. The translator spoils this image by undue amplification consisting too much of sound and fury. Paris pleads that his gifts such as they are should not be despised, as they are the brilliant endowments of the gods, and come to men independently of their own will, nor can they be acquired by human effort. 'S beartas iad nach cnuasaich miann. Paris, however, like the man who fought and ran, declares his readiness to fight again, and wishes that the issues of the war should be determined between himself and his antagonist. Hector is delighted, rushes to the Grecian camp, where, after debate, arrangements are made with great solemnity for the forthcoming duel. The whole scene is well rendered by the translator. We must quote Menelaus's estimate of the distinctive characters of young men and of old. A solemn oath was to be taken before the combat which was to be ratified by sacrifice. The Spartan King insisted that the sons of Priam should be forbidden to take part in the solemnity, on account of their inconstancy, which might at any moment dishonour their oath, and so the god of oaths. Maclauchlan expresses the idea thus :- 'S iomla 'n oige, 's b' iomla riamh, While preparation is going on for the sacrifice which is to sanctify the combat, the poet, with consummate art, takes advantage of the time thus given him to send Iris, the messenger and agent of the gods, to the chamber of Helen in the palace of Priam, where she is busy working into tapestry pictures of her own sorrow, and of what Greek and Trojan suffered for her sake. Our translator identifies Iris, and the Rainbow, and applies to her Gaelic epithets descriptive of colour, though, as a matter of fact, Homer does not do so, but limits his epithets to those of swiftness, on the ground, as Mr Gladstone tells us, that he wished to make this beautiful goddess something entirely distinct from the material rainbow. to make her something higher than a mere power of nature. Though Maclauchlan has succeeded in giving a beautiful representation of Iris, as the goddess that makes and personifies the rainbow, his representation is so far not exact, but for all that, it is very winning. It may be added in connection with this matter, that in Homer the rainbow, as in Genesis, is regarded as put into the cloud by the Deity, as a sign to men. This messenger of the sky becomes visible to Helen in the form of one of Priam's daughters, and invites her to see what is going on in the camp. At the same time she insinuates into her heart a strong sweet desire to see her husband, and the old pledges of love in the old home, which she had so wickedly forsaken. She follows her heavenly guide, and finds herself upon the battlements, where she meets the old heroes of Troy, unfit for war, but wise in council. Her beauty touched the hearts of the senators, and made them whisper to each other, as if they were still young, that they should not be angry for suffering as they did on account of such a woman; but reason reasserts itself, and makes them add that for all her beauty, home she must go, and be a curse to themselves and their children no longer. Paris calls her into his presence, and asks her to point out and describe the various heroes of the Grecian host. This she does, after a weeping allusion to her own guilt and consequent sorrow, in a magnificent description of the leading Grecian chiefs. At the end of each description a Trojan senator gives his own judgment of the hero who is the subject of it. The simple springs of human nature are here touched, and they find in Gaelic a fit channel to run in. Take as a specimen old Antenor's description of the eloquence of Ulysses, so surprising to those who judged him from his personal appearance. Sheasadh e mannta neo-dhan, 'S cha togadh o'n lar a shuil; Chite na laimh colbh (sceptre) nam buadh Thearnadh an reachd feartmhor dluth, &c. We unfortunately miss Homer's line in which he tells us that no other mortal might hope to match Ulysses in eloquence, otherwise the translation is as close as it is powerful. One other description must be referred to, and that for the sake of one line, famous as being always on the lips of Alexander the Great, in which Helen photographs Agamemnon. Our translator renders it— Borb 's na strithibh, geur gu h-iuil. Agamemnon is declared to be at "once a good king, and a terrible warrior." These words convey a noble meaning, and till the millennium the world will need leaders in whom dwell the wisdom, the cherishing care, the guidance, of a king, side by side with the courage, patience, endurance, of the warrior. We have had chiefs on whose tombs the words might be written-men who lived for those whose head they were, and |