On May's Lucan

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Thomas May: Lucan’s Pharsalia (1627), ed. Emma Buckley and Edward Paleit. Modern Humanities Research Association, TUDOR AND STUART TRANSLATIONS, Vol. 18,  2020. 451 pages. ISBN hardcover: 978-1-78188-995–4; paperback:  978-1-78188-008–1.

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This series, people. This series. 

Google “Modern Humanities Research Association, TUDOR AND STUART TRANSLATIONS.”  Or go here and look at the catalogue of books they’ve done in the last ten years. Look at the books they’re going to do.

This year: 

• Erasmus in English 1523–1584, Volume I: The Manual of the Christian Soldier and Other Writings 
• Erasmus in English 1523–1584, Volume II: The Praise of Folly and Other Writings
• The First English Pastor Fido (1602)

Next year: 

• The Strife of Love in a Dreame 
• Erasmus in English 1523–1584, Volume III: The Colloquies 

When I was in grad school, I used to lie awake dreaming about a series like this. Anyone who’s into 16th- and 17th-century Brit Lit needs these materials and needs ’em bad.

You used to have to head to Special Collections for all this stuff. Special Collections: where they hand you a pair of rubber gloves and stand over you with a cocked shotgun, in case you start turning the pages too vigorously. You click a Parker Jotter in there and they’ll wrestle you to the floor. The only writing instrument you’re allowed to bring within thirty feet of the precious artifacts is a golf pencil. 

Thomas May’s Lucan (the book under review) is a perfect example of exactly what you (1) could not get, (2) could not privately own, (3) could not read in your apartment. You wanted to. It’s referred to all over the place in the period. John Aubrey has a file on May; Marvell has a satire on May; Johnson compares May favorably to Milton and Cowley as a Latin poet. And…hello? Christopher Marlowe translated Lucan Book I into blank verse; so you’ve got a perfect comparison possibility. This is an important text! This was the English Lucan for like a hundred very important years. 

Wait. Do you people know anything about Lucan? Do you understand who he was?

You heard of Dante, right? He wrote about heaven and hell. You should check it out sometime; you’d like it. There’s a bit near the beginning, where he and Virgil step into hell’s foyer: Limbo. That’s where the virtuous pagans live. Aristotle for example. He was harmless; in fact, he did much good. It was considered a shame to stick him in the nine-layer torture chamber, so he gets to hang out in the foyer, along with certain other famous names. There’s even a Muslim guy in there: Saladin, if you’ve ever heard of him.  

See, but there’s this very famous passage, where Dante gets to meet the greatest poets of Classical Antiquity. I have it right here: 

. . . I saw four great shades coming to us, in semblance neither sad nor joyful. The good master [= Virgil] began, “Note him there with sword in hand who comes before the other three as their lord. He is Homer, sovereign poet; next is Horace, satirist; Ovid comes third, and Lucan last. […] Thus I saw assembled the fair school of that lord of highest song who, like an eagle, soars above the rest. After they had talked  awhile together, they turned to me with a sign of salutation, at which my master smiled; and far more honor still they showed me, so that I was sixth amid so much wisdom.

(That’s Charles Singleton’s translation of Inferno IV, lines 83–90 + 94–102.) 

(1) Homer, (2) Virgil, (3) Horace, (4) Ovid, (5) Lucan, (6) Dante—the list is hot.  And I gotta say Lucan’s tenure on that roster was pretty secure, in 1300 or whatever. There were always people who thought he was “a bit much,” but it wasn’t ’til way after the Renaissance that anybody could venture to drop him from a short list of the supremo-supremos. Ask Marlowe what he thinks of Lucan. Ask Milton.

You like Paradise Lost, dontcha? That’s full of Lucan. You know how Milton’s Satan is this perversely attractive figure, eloquent, etc., you’d follow him anywhere, etc.—? OK, well, in Lucan it’s not Satan who’s like that; it’s Julius Caesar. Lucan hated Caesar, hated that whole government-by-deluded-egomania thing. But he considered Caesar a force of nature, a perennial threat; so, the war between Caesar and Pompey had to be treated like— Oh, but I forgot to mention: That’s what Lucan’s poem is about. Its real title isn’t Pharsalia (which is just one battle, and which happens in Book VII). Its real title is Bellum Civile. The Civil War. It was composed in the early 60s CE. At the time, there were still people walking around who had heard the Sermon on the Mount. 

Oh and another thing: Lucan died, age twenty-six, by forced suicide. Nero, the emperor, who is praised with subtle irony on page 1 of the poem (well, ’bout thirty lines in, and following), ordered the poet to kill himself because he had taken part in the same Nerocidal conspiracy in which the philosopher Seneca was also involved. Maybe Lucan and Seneca died on the same day, I dunno. They sat in their baths and re-enacted the parting of the Red Sea.  

I don’t know why I keep bringing the Bible into this. Has nothing to do with it. Let’s get back to Thomas May. 

May was one of Ben Jonson’s cronies. One of the dedicatory poems in the Lucan translation is by Jonson. The title is “To my Chosen Friend, the Learned Translator of Lucan, Thomas May, Esq.” In that piece, Jonson says May has “brought Lucan’s whole frame unto us, and so wrought as not the smallest joint or gentlest word in the great mass or machine there is stirred [i.e. dislocated, botched].” 

Andrew Marvell, meanwhile, wrote a hundred-line satire called “Tom May’s Death” (probably in 1651), whose first line was made famous by our own John Ashbery  (“As one put drunk into the packet-boat…”). In “Tom May’s Death,” Marvell grabs up Jonson by the heels and uses him as a club to pound May to bits. But even there, he doesn’t say May was a bad translator. He says he was a fool and a traitor. And indeed, Marvell imitates (not to say plagiarizes) May’s Lucan in “An Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland.” 

John Aubrey says he heard that May, when drunk, used to mutter against the Trinity. But I do that, so…. Anyhow, what readers of this article want to know is: Do I really need to read this early-17th-century translation of Lucan, when I don’t even know my Ovid or my Virgil? And the answer to that is yes. You have to read everything on Dante’s list, and you have to read each of them in multiple translations. Whatever was the greatest translation in such-and-such century? That. You read that. And this right here—May’s Lucan—is clearly and undeniably the best English Lucan of the 17th century. (Next up: Nicholas Rowe’s translation, 1718. And so on. This is how we get a grip.) 

Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna—and this is gonna cost me a ton of typing, so savor it—I’m gonna spot you a Comparison Kit. This is gonna be the thousand words that a picture is worth. Let’s feast our eyes, shall we, on De Bello Civili I: 547–74. Lucan is talking about all the Horrible Portents that occurred in response to Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon and initiating the war. Here is the bit, in a completely straightforward prose translation.  

Loeb Library :: J.D. Duff :: 1928 :: De Bello Civili I: 547–74. 

Black Charybdis churned up waves of blood from the bottom of the sea, and the angry bark of Scylla’s dogs sank into a whine.  

From Vesta’s altar the fire vanished suddenly; and the bonfire which marks the end of the Latin Festival split in two and rose, like the pyre of the Thebans, with double crest.  

The earth also stopped short upon its axis, and the Alps dislodged the snow of ages from their tottering summits; and the sea filled Western Calpe and remotest Atlas with a flood of waters. 

If tales are true, the national deities shed tears, the sweating of the household gods bore witness to the city’s woe, offerings fell from their place in the temples, birds of ill omen cast a gloom upon the daylight, and wild beasts, leaving the woods by night, made bold to place their lairs in the heart of Rome.

Also the tongues of brutes became capable of human speech; and women gave birth to creatures monstrous in size and number of their limbs, and mothers were appalled by the babes they bore; and boding prophecies spoken by the Sibyl of Cumae passed from mouth to mouth.  

Again, the worshippers who gash their arms, inspired by fierce Bellona, chanted of heaven’s wrath, and the Galli [priests of the Great Mother] whirled round their gory locks and shrieked disaster to the nations. 

Groans came forth from urns filled with the ashes of dead men. The crash of arms was heard also, and loud cries in pathless forests, and the noise of spectral armies closing in battle.  

From the fields nearest the outside walls the inhabitants fled in all directions; for the  giant figure of a Fury stalked round the city, shaking her hissing hair and [also] a pine-tree whose flaming crest she held downwards. 

And now here is Christopher Marlowe, taking no prisoners. Note: 200 words, as opposed to 300 above. Also note: blank verse, which we won’t be seeing again.

Marlowe :: 1593, first published 1600 :: Lucan’s First Book: 546–72 

Coal-black Charybdis whirled a sea of blood; 

Fierce mastiffs howled; the vestal fires went out; 

The flame in Alba, consecrate to Jove, 

Parted in twain, and with double point 

Rose like the Theban brothers’ funeral fire; 

The earth went off her hinges, and the Alps 

Shook the old snow from off their trembling laps. 

The ocean swelled as high as Spanish Calpe, 

Or Atlas’ head. Their saints and household gods 

Sweat tears to show the travails of their city. 

Crowns fell from holy statues, ominous birds 

Defiled the day, and wild beasts were seen, 

Leaving the woods, lodge in the streets of Rome. 

Cattle were seen that muttered human speech; 

Prodigious births with more and ugly joints 

Than nature gives, whose sight appalls the mother; 

And dismal prophecies were spread abroad; 

And they whom fierce Bellona’s fury moves 

To wound their arms, sing vengeance; Sibyl’s priests, 

Curling their bloody locks, howl dreadful things; 

Souls quiet and appeased sighed from their graves; 

Clashing of arms was heard; in untrod woods 

Shrill voices spright, and ghosts encounter men. 

Those that inhabited the suburb fields 

Fled; foul Erinnys stalked about the walls, 

Shaking her snaky hair and crooked pine

With flaming top . . .  

And now here’s our guy. Note: the first line there ends with the word brings. That’s the second half of a rhyme pair, so don’t get confused. Remember, this is an excerpt. The coupleting will become clear at {wont | mount}, {divides | sides}, etc.  

209 words, but who’s counting. 

Thomas May :: 1627 :: Lucan’s Pharsalia I: 582–610

Blood from her bottom black Charybdis brings; 

Sadlier bark Scylla’s dogs than they were wont. 

The Vestal fire goes out: on th’Alban mount 

Jove’s sacrificing fire itself divides 

Into two parts, and rises on both sides, 

Like the two Theban princes’ funeral fires. 

Earth opes her threat’ning jaws, th’Alps’ nodding spires 

Shake off their snow, Thetis does higher now 

’Twixt Libyan Atlas, and Spain’s Calpe flow. 

The native gods did weep, Rome’s certain thrall 

The Lares’ sweating showed, the off’rings fall 

Down in the temples, and (as we have heard) 

Night’s fatal birds in midst of day appeared. 

Wild beasts at midnight from the deserts come, 

and take bold lodging in the streets of Rome. 

Beasts make with men’s articulate voice their moan; 

Births monstrous both in limbs’ proportion, 

And number; mothers their own infants feared; 

Sybilla’s fatal lines were sung and heard 

Among the people. And with bloody arms 

Cybel’s head-shaking priests pronounced their charms, 

Ithpeople’s ears howling a baleful moan, 

And ghosts from out their quiet urns did groan. 

Clashing of armor and loud shouts they hear 

In desert groves, and threat’ning ghosts appear. 

The dwellers near without the city wall 

Fled: fierce Erinys had encompassed all 

The town, her snaky hairs and burning brand 

Shaking . . .  

Lemme say this about the above. Rhyming couplets before the 1660s are often set up so you pretty much have to crash through ’em, so you can even follow the  grammar of the sentences. In a way, this is like a compromise between blank verse and the strophic couplets of, like, John Dryden and Alexander Pope. There will always be differing opinions about the artistic legitimacy of the compromise praxis, but at any rate, it will surely help some readers if they look at May’s translation redacted so the line breaks correspond to more natural pauses or intonations or whatever. Like this: 

Blood from her bottom black Charybdis brings. 

Sadlier bark Scylla’s dogs than they were wont. 

The Vestal fire goes out. 

 

                                        On th’Alban mount,  

Jove’s sacrificing fire itself divides into two parts,  

and rises on both sides, 

like the two Theban princes’ funeral fires. 

 

Earth opes her threat’ning jaws: 

th’Alps’ nodding spires shake off their snow. 

Thetis does higher now  

’twixt Libyan Atlas and Spain’s Calpe flow. 

 

The native gods did weep; 

Rome’s certain thrall the Lares’ sweating showed. 

The off’rings fall down in the temples, and (as we have heard) 

night’s fatal birds in midst of day appeared. 

 

Wild beasts at midnight from the deserts come and take  

bold lodging in the streets of Rome. 

Beasts make with men’s articulate voice their moan. 

 

Births monstrous both in limbs’ proportion and number: 

mothers their own infants feared. 

 

Sybilla’s fatal lines were sung and heard among the people.  

 

                                            And with bloody arms,  

Cybel’s head-shaking priests pronounced their charms, 

i’th’people’s ears howling a baleful moan, 

and ghosts from out their quiet urns did groan. 

Clashing of armor and loud shouts they hear in desert groves,  

and threat’ning ghosts appear.

 

The dwellers near without the city wall fled:  

fierce Erinys had encompassed all the town,  

her snaky hairs and burning brand shaking . . . 

See what I’m saying? I mean, it’s obviously unthinkable that they would have printed the poem in the form above. But I do think that’s the way they read it. Most of the rhymes are inaudible, so to speak.

And now, just for shits ’n’ giggles, look at May’s successor. The 18th century’s Lucan. 

Note. We’re at 270 words now. That’s because it costs the translator way more words to make the stuff come out in graceful English strophes. (Oh, by the way? The original Latin is exactly 150 words. So, we’re well on our way to doubling the size of Lucan’s text.) 

Nicholas Rowe :: 1718 :: Lucan’s Pharsalia I: 946–83 

Charybdis’ dogs howl doleful o’er the flood, 

And all her whirling waves run red with blood; 

The vestal fire upon the altar died, 

And o’er the sacrifice the flames divide; 

The parting points with double streams ascend, 

To show the Latian festivals must end. 

Such from the Theban brethren’s pile arose, 

Signal of impious and immortal foes. 

With openings vast the gaping earth gave way, 

And in her inmost womb received the day; 

The swelling seas o’er lofty mountains flow, 

And nodding Alps shook off their ancient snow. 

Then wept the demigods of mortal birth, 

And sweating Lares trembled on the hearth. 

In temples then, recording stories tell, 

Untouched the sacred gifts and garlands fell; 

Then birds obscene, with inauspicious flight 

And screaming fire, profaned the hallowed light; 

The savage kind forsook the desert wood, 

And in the streets disclosed their horrid brood; 

Then speaking beasts with human sounds were heard, 

And monstrous births the teeming mothers scared. 

Among the crowd religious fears disperse 

The saws of Sibyls and foreboding verse. 

Bellona’s priests, a barbarous frantic train, 

Whose mangled arms a thousand wounds distain, 

Toss their wild locks, and with a dismal yell 

The wrathful gods and coming woes foretell. 

Lamenting ghosts amidst their ashes mourn, 

And groanings echo from the marble urn; 

The rattling clank of arms is heard around, 

And voices loud in lonely woods resound; 

Grom spectres everywhere affright the eye, 

Approaching glare, and pass with horror by. 

A Fury fierce about the city walks, 

Hell-born and horrible of size she stalks; 

A flaming pine she brandishes in air, 

And hissing loud uprise her snaky hair… 

Do you see at all why this is interesting? You learn all this stuff about the history of  English poetics, just by putting some specimens next to each other. Also you think: “Huh! could this be where Shakespeare got that lala from Hamlet—?” This: 

In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead 

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.  

As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 

Disasters in the sun, and the moist star 

Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands 

Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. 

Maybe! I don’t know! He got it from somewhere! 

One last life hack. If you’re up for this kind of work, do some voice recordings on your phone. Lucan’s Book I takes like thirty-five minutes, with guys like Marlowe and May. Longer for Duff and Rowe. But see, then you can play ’em back while you’re drawing little pictures or something. And comes a day—sooner than you would expect, my friend—when you know your Lucan better than anybody. You’ll be in a perfect position to spot it when Milton or whoever is riffing on Bellum Ciuile.

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