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Monuments to Mangan (The Irish Times)

A review article by the poet John Montague saluting Clarence Mangan in prospect of his bicentenary on May Day of 2003 ; published in The Irish Times on Saturday, April 26, 2003.


Another Veilèd Prophet utters a mystic speech,

To be translated only by a future age . . .

With his bicentenary on May Day, James Clarence Mangan rises up like some Gothic creature, glowing, from his grave. I am referring to the many volumes of The Collected Works, the four of poetry and the two of prose, which have been published by the Irish Academic Press, along with a fine biography, and bibliography. These are essential reading not only for departments of Irish literature, but also for Irish history as well, because Mangan was the most piercing voice of his epoch. Even the periodical publication of his poems and prose pieces, such as ‘The Woman of Three Cows’, published in an Irish Penny Journal of 1840, or the appearance of ‘Siberia’ and ‘Dark Rosaleen’ in The Nation, in the gloomy year of 1846, are testimonies to the survival of the creative spirit during the darkest days of our history.

Though sometimes he sounds like a voice from a shroud. His poems, especially in the 1840s, have an almost monotonous melancholy, which seems like the distillation from some weeping cloud crossing the stricken landscape of mid-19th-century Ireland. Or, to change the metaphor, a funeral bell knelling endlessly.

And towards the West at first they marched,

Then towards the South,

Those endless FUNERALS, till the sky o’erhead,

As one vast pall, seemed overarched

With blackness, and methought the mouth

Of Hades had cast up its Dead!

Published in the United Irishman in March 1849, ‘The Funerals’ might seem to sound some ultimate note of gloom, but Mangan haunts the same darkness in ‘The Famine’ a few months later, in the same periodical.

Despair? Yes! For a blight fell on the land –

The soil, heaven-blasted, yielded food no more –

The Irish serf became a Being banned –

Life-exiled as none ever was before.

But then this “piercing wail”, while indeed a lament for all Ireland, also has its source in Mangan’s own psyche. An early poem, composed in competition with other Dublin wags, begins: “Come get the black, the mourning pall . . .” And one of his few prose pieces of first intensity, his fragmentary Autobiography, reprinted by the Dolmen Press in 1968, describes a blighted childhood: “In my boyhood I was haunted by an indescribable feeling of something terrible”. This text was probably the germ for Tom Kinsella’s fine gloomy poem on Mangan: it is as if, as a child, Mangan had suffered the kind of “vastation” of the spirit to which Ted Hughes ascribes the genius of Emily Dickinson.

Mangan depicts his father terrorising his wife, and gleeful that his children try to flee like mice at his approach. This was a father who squeezed the life out of his entire family, “a human boa-constrictor”. Mangan sought refuge in books and solitude: “I isolated myself in such a manner from my own nearest relatives that with one voice they all proclaimed me mad.” Yet these early methods of escape – solace in books and a disdain for the outer world – were clearly not completely successful, for Mangan also describes a “feeling of impending calamity”.

It was in his boyhood “that the seeds of that moral insanity were developed within me which afterwards grew up into a tree of great altitude”. Convinced of his waywardness and eccentricity, but compelled to seek work as a scrivener, at which he laboured long hours for low pay, the coarseness of his colleagues afflicted him: “My nervous and hypochondriacal feelings almost verged upon insanity.”

Once again the serpents seethe: “I seemed . . . to be shut up in a cavern with serpents and scorpions . . . which . . . discharged their slime and venom over my person.”

Perhaps his greatest poetry came when his blasted psyche was mirrored by a blighted landscape, when political and personal suffering finally met in his verse.

From the sordid scrivener’s life, Mangan sought relief in scribbling. The buffoonery of his early constitutional satire, ‘Our Quackstitution’, with its gross word play – “the House of Hangover”, and “Longdulldreary” for Londonderry – seems tedious, like the whimsy of ‘A Treatise on a Pair of Tongs’. Such prose could be seen as an ancestor of the exuberant linguistic lunacy of writers like Myles. But it does not seem as natural to Mangan’s psyche as his ventures into the Gothic, especially The Man in the Cloak, which is already a version of a story of Balzac, intended as a sequel to Melmoth the Wanderer. And of course Mangan worshipped Maturin. As a child, he followed Maturin along the streets, and later would consider that haggard, solitary, oddly dressed figure an alter ego in eccentricity, and perhaps also in genius.

There is a curious moment in The Man in the Cloak where one of the bank secretaries is described as “a flippant litterateur, who translated German poetry and wrote German stories for the magazines . . .” How much German did Mangan really know, and where, indeed, had he learnt it? He certainly knew enough to act as tutor to some pretty Dublin ladies. And his voluminous Anthologia Germanica produced the only book published in his lifetime, German Anthology: A Series of Translations (1845).

When I was compiling my Faber Book of Irish Verse, I included poems which I then took to be original, but now discover were copied from the German. For instance, the wonderfully dolorous ‘Siberia’, which must be one of the great protest poems of the world –

In Siberia’s wastes

The Ice-wind’s breath

Woundeth like the toothèd steel . . .

– turns out to be based on an obscure German poem about Polish leaders sentenced to Siberia after the 1830 revolution.

An autobiographical aside here: the first poem of Mangan that I read was not one of his political/historical visions. I was, after all, brought up in the North of Ireland, so British war poetry was more likely to be on the syllabus; echoes of that early training can still be heard in much Northern Irish poetry. Whereas my Southern contemporaries were subjected to dirges like ‘O’Hussey’s Ode to the Maguire’ and, of course, ‘Dark Rosaleen’. Those visionary poems are extraordinary; a lurid light plays over an often arid landscape, and the language is infected with a hectic glitter, as if the poet were drunk or drugged. But I fell in love with a love poem, as I trudged through the woods of south Dublin, chanting to myself: “I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:/ ‘Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no more./ Ah! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore?”

This of course is from the original German of Rückert. In addition to gently purloining original German poems, Mangan sometimes signs his ostensible translations “Selber”, a variant of “Self”. As when he refers to his translations of the Persian poet, Hafiz, jokingly since he knew little or no Persian, as being “Half-His”. Mangan’s Oriental translations can be seen as part of the fascination with Arabia which led to Goethe’s Westöstlicher Divan and, of course, Moore’s ‘Lalla Rookh’. Of our living Irish poets, only Desmond O’Grady has inherited some of this scholarly passion for the East, translating some of the great Arabic odes. Mangan worked from the available scholars, yet his version of a poem by Jami, ‘The Hundred-Leafèd Rose’, has a gorgeous symmetry. But then this gaunt, golden-haired spectre had a thing about roses, as in his beautiful translation from the Turkish, ‘The Time of the Roses’. And also his haunting, nostalgic poems of youth lost and time passing: “Remember/ The days of roses but as a dream.”

Although the posthumous Poets and Poetry of Munster is a landmark in our literary history, there is the question as to how much Irish Mangan actually knew. Douglas Hyde tells how it was Mangan’s “custom to stretch his body halfway across the counter, while John [O’Daly] would translate the Irish song to him and [he] would versify it . . .” Some of his versions, or “perversions”, are quite beautiful, and again when I was looking for some O’Rahilly for my Faber anthology, I chose Mangan over even Austin Clarke.

Now that we have the mass of Mangan, nearly 1,000 poems, re-evaluation can begin. The more or less official Selected winnows these, with a thoughtful introduction by Terence Brown of Trinity College, whose Dublin University Magazine sustained the poet for years. Brown links the failing fortunes of post-Union Dublin to those of Mangan, his attraction “to the romantic trope of ruination”.

And the dirge still draws us, from Kinsella to Durcan, and beyond. Another, slimmer Selected has been edited and introduced by David Wheatley, a gifted young poet whose own volumes, Thirst and Misery Hill, surely entitle him to write with authority on Mangan’s “landscape of grandeur and desolation”. Brown and Wheatley sometimes see him as a Borges-like “shape-changer”. But while Mangan may lack the length and breadth of his fellow 19th-century Irish poets, Ferguson and Allingham, the nervous intensity of his best lyrics are unique mediumistic masterpieces.

The entire Irish Academic Press series, comprising nine volumes, is also a monument to the tireless general editorship of the late Augustine Martin.





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Philharmonic Name Game [the solutions]

ANSWERS to Philharmonic Name Game :


1. Vladimir Ashkenazy
[Ashkenazy is the transliterated Hebrew word for “German” = tedesco in Italian]

2. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach
[He was the second surviving son of the great Sebastian Bach ; Ger. Bach = “brook”]

3. Thomas Beecham
[No, “Masetto” was not a bungled anagram of Maestro – it’s a diminutive form of Tomaso. Anciently this British conductor’s family surname had been Anglicised from its original French form Beauchamp. Maestro Beecham was the founder and first Musical Director of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. His grandfather was the chemist who produced Beecham’s Pills and Powders.]

4. Ludwig van Beethoven
[Batavia is the Latin name for the semi-legendary homeland of the Dutch, the island of Betawe, “place where beets are grown”, which is also the meaning of Beethoven]

5. Alban Berg
[Latin albus = “white” ; Ger. Berg = “mountain” = Fr. montaigne ; surname Montaine]

6. Frank Bridge
[A name most often seen in the composition title Variations on A Theme of Frank Bridge by Benjamin Britten ; It. ponte = “bridge”]

7. John Cage
[Italian word coppola = “cage”]

8. Marc-Antoine Charpentier
[Fr. charpentier = “carpenter, joiner”]

9. Carl Czerny
[Czech word černý = “black” = It. nero]

10. Claude Debussy
[The composer was born Achille-Claude de Bussy; this original Burgundian form of his surname is locational: de Bussy]

11. Antonín Dvořák
[Czech dvůr = “royal or noble court, court yard, manor house, farm” ; Curtis = Fr. courtois, “courteous, courtly, from the court”]

12. Christoph Willibald Gluck
[Gluck became the French form of the composer’s name ; the German original Glück means “luck, fortune”]

13. Joseph Haydn
[Ger. Haydn, Heiden = “peasant” = It. paesano]

14. Johann Nepomuk Hummel
[Ger. Hummel = “bumblebee” = Fr. bourdon ; incidental note : Saint John of Nepomuk was a patron of Austria-Hungary, where Hummel was born in the city of Pressburg]

15. Sigiswald Kuijken
[Nederlandse kuijken = “chick, chicken” ; Sigiswald Kuijken is a prominent early music conductor of our day]

16. György Ligeti
[Hung. liget = “grove” ; ligeti = “of the grove”]

17. Franz Liszt
[Hung. liszt = “flour” = It. farina]

18. Claudio Monteverdi

19. Carl Nielsen ; Gaelic Mac (Mc) = Danish suffix –sen = “son”

20. Luigi Nono
[It. nono = “the Ninth” ; compare Pio Nono = Pius IX]

21. Giuseppe Sinopoli
[The “Chinatown” part comes from a fancifully putative form of Sinopolis ; cf. Napoli for Naples, originally named Neapolis – “New City”- by ancient Greek colonists in Italy]

22. Bedřich Smetana
[Czech smetana = “cream”]

23. Nikolai Tcherepnin
[Ger. Schädel = “skull” = Russ. tcherep]

24. Michael Tilson Thomas
[This American conductor’s grandparents, who were famous Yiddish theatre stars in New York, bore a form of his family’s Slavic name, Thomashefsky]

25. Peter Warlock
[an assumed name ; he was born Philip Heseltine]



The puzzle was invented by the present author. ~Q~









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Philharmonic Name Game [the clues]

NOTE. This puzzle was devised by the present author, and lent out to an onomast for larks. It is now brought home to roost in the Mangan paper. ~Q~

Transcultural name changes – whether they are serious or jocular, voluntary or otherwise, made for a legal measure or for waggish pleasure – have been around for as long as there have been persons displaced, lives reїnvented, or careers in hope of advancement.

Most notably in the world of classical music, we have the old joke propounded by Victor Borge, as he intimated to audiences that the composer of Rigoletto was actually known as “Joe Green” to his friends – and that Giuseppe Verdi was merely a fancy stage-name. (In Evil Under the Sun, Inspector Poirot solves a crime by interpreting a character’s jesting remark about the translated name  “Joe Green”.)

Advancing a career will sometimes necessitate the changing of one’s name in earnest. The Neapolitan composer Domenico Scarlatti went to work at the Spanish court and became Domingo Escarlate. Georg Friedrich Händel sought fame and fortune in England, and thus the form of his name altered with his circumstance when he made the crossing from Hanover to London as George Frideric Handel. The Bohemian musician Anton Rössler emigrated south to Italy (a common career move for Northern composers in the eighteenth century) and thereafter was known as Antonio Rosetti.

In the present puzzle you can see twenty-five translated names of people (watch for befuddling nicknames) ; and in a separate post you will then find the twenty-five solutions, which are the individuals’ actual names, accompanied by a gloss where it was deemed useful or enlightening. Those answers, shown in the subsequent post, are all reasonably well known names from the world of classical music. Each of them reveals a famous composer or conductor.

The name of Pietro Mascagni, for example, though not among the present puzzles, might be disguised in a putative jesting translation as “Pete Sly”.

In almost all cases the transformative concealments were made using only five major European languages, English, German, Spanish, French, and Italian (though there are a few wild cards in the puzzles, such as a Hungarian surname for a solution, an Anglicised Scots rendering in a clue, and a modified Yiddish form).

So roll up the sleeve of onomastic care, and have a go !

1. Vlado Tedesco
2. Chip Brooks
3. Masetto Belcampo
4. Lou Batavia
5. Whitey Montaine
6. Francesco da Ponte
7. Giovanni Coppola
8. Mark Joyner
9. Carlo Neri
10. Achilles Bussy
11. Tony Curtis
12. Willie Fortune
13. Beppo Paesano
14. Jean Bourdon
15. Waldo Chick
16. George Groves
17. Francesco Farina
18. Claude Greenberg
19. Charlie McNeill
20. Louis IX
21. Joey Chinatown
22. Fred Creamer
23. Klaus Schädel
24. Mischa Thomashefsky
25. Pedro Brujo










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