No More Learning

The sire of gods and all the ethereal train,
On the warm limits of the farthest main,
Now mix with mortals, nor disdain to grace
The feasts of ^Ethiopia's blameless race ;
Twelve days the powers indulge the genial rite, Returning with the twelfth revolving light. Then will I mount the brazen dome, and move The high tribunal of immortal Jove. "
The goddess spoke : the rolling waves unclose ; Then down the steep she plunged from whence she rose, And left him sorrowing on the lonely coast,
In wild resentment for the fair he lost.
In Chrysa's port now sage Ulysses rode ; Beneath the deck the destined victims stowed : The sails they furled, they lash the mast aside, And dropped their anchors, and the pinnace tied. Next on the shore their hecatomb they land ; Chrye'is last descending on the strand.
Her, thus returning from the furrowed main, Ulysses led to Phoebus' sacred fane ;
Where at his solemn altar, as the maid —
He gave to Chryses, thus the hero said :
" Hail, reverend priest ! to Phoebus' awful dome A suppliant I from great Atrides come : Unransomed, here receive the spotless fair ;
Accept the hecatomb the Greeks prepare ;
And may thy god who scatters darts around, Atoned by sacrifice, desist to wound. "
At this, the sire embraced the maid again, So sadly lost, so lately sought in vain.
Then near the altar of the darting king, Disposed in rank their hecatomb they bring ; With water purify their hands, and take
The sacred offering of the salted cake ;
While thus with arms devoutly raised in air, — And solemn voice, the priest directs his prayer :
" God of the silver bow, thy ear incline, Whose power encircles Cilia the divine ;
Whose sacred eye thy Tenedos surveys,
And gilds fair Chrysa with distinguished rays I If, fired to vengeance at thy priest's request, Thy direful darts inflict the raging pest :
OPENING OF THE ILIAD'S DRAMA.
Once more attend ! avert the wasteful woe, And smile propitious, and unbend thy bow. "
So Chryses prayed. Apollo heard his prayer : And now the Greeks their hecatomb prepare ; Between their horns the salted barley threw,
And, with their heads to heaven, the victims slew ; The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide
The thighs, selected to the gods, divide :
On these, in double cauls involved with art,
The choicest morsels lay from every part.
The priest himself before his altar stands,
And burns the offering with his holy hands,
Pours the black wine, and sees the flames aspire ; The youth with instruments surround the fire :
The thighs thus sacrificed, and entrails dressed,
The assistants part, transfix, and roast the rest : Then spread the tables, the repast prepare ;
Each takes his seat, and each receives his share. When now the rage of hunger was repressed,
With pure libations they conclude the feast ;
The youths with wine the copious goblets crowned, And, pleased, dispense the flowing bowls around ; With hymns divine the joyous banquet ends,
The paeans lengthened till the sun descends :
The Greeks, restored, the grateful notes prolong ; Apollo listens, and approves the song.
'Twas night ; the chiefs beside their vessel lie, Till rosy morn had purpled o'er the sky :
Then launch, and hoist the mast; indulgent gales, Supplied by Phoebus, fill the swelling sails ;
The milk-white canvas bellying as they blow,
The parted ocean foams and roars below :
Above the bounding billows swift they flew,
Till now the Grecian camp appeared in view.
Far on the beach they haul their bark to land,
(The crooked keel divides the yellow sand,)
Then part, where stretched along the winding bay, The ships and tents in mingled prospect lay.
But raging still, amidst his navy sat
The stern Achilles, steadfast in his hate ;
Nor mixed in combat, nor in council joined;
But wasting cares lay heavy on his mind :
In his black thoughts revenge and slaughter roll, And scenes of blood rise dreadful in his soul.
Twelve days were past, and now the dawning light VOL. II. — 9
OPENING OF THE ILIAD'S DRAMA.
The gods had summoned to the Olympian height : Jove, first ascending from the watery bowers, Leads the long order of ethereal powers.
When, like the morning mist in early day,
Rose from the flood the daughter of the sea ;
And to the seats divine her flight addressed.
There, far apart, and high above the rest,
The thunderer sat ; where old Olympus shrouds His hundred heads in heaven, and props the clouds. Suppliant the goddess stood : one hand she placed Beneath his beard, and one his knees embraced.
" If e'er, O father of the gods I (she said) My words could please thee, or my actions aid, Some marks of honor on my son bestow,
And pay in glory what in life you owe.
Fame is at least by heavenly promise due
To life so short, and now dishonored too. Avenge this wrong, O ever just and wise !
Let Greece be humbled, and the Trojans rise; Till the proud king and all the Achaian race Shall heap with honors him they now disgrace. "
Thus Thetis spoke ; but Jove in silence held The sacred counsels of his breast concealed.
Not so repulsed, the goddess closer pressed,
Still grasped his knees, and urged the dear request. " O sire of gods and men ! thy suppliant hear ; Refuse, or grant ; for what has Jove to fear ?
Or oh ! declare, of all the powers above, " Is wretched Thetis least the care of Jove ?
She said : and, sighing, thus the god replies, Who rolls the thunder o'er the vaulted skies : —
" What hast thou asked ? ah, why should Jove engage In foreign contests and domestic rage,
The gods' complaints, and Juno's fierce alarms,
While I, too partial, aid the Trojan arms ?
Go, lest the haughty partner of my sway With jealous eyes thy close access survey ; But part in peace, secure thy prayer is sped : Witness the sacred honors of our head,
The nod that ratifies the will divine,
The faithful, fixed, irrevocable sign ;
This seals thy suit, and this fulfills thy vows He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows, Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.
"
THE DEATH OF HECTOR. 131
THE DEATH OF HECTOR. (From the "Iliad " : translated by W. E. Aytoun. )
[William Edmosstoitne Aytods, Scotch poet, man of letters, and humorist, was born in 1813 and died in 1805. He was son-in-law of John Wilson ; one of the editors of Blackwood'' a, and professor of rhetoric and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh. He is best remembered by the " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers" and the " Bon Gaultier Ballads. "]
Pnoira he fell, and thus Achilles triumphed o'er his fallen foe : — " So thou thoughtest, haughty Hector, when thou didst Patroclus
slay,
That no vengeance should o'ertake thee, and that I was far away ! Fool ! a stronger far was lying at the hollow ships that day —
An avenger — who hath made thee his dear blood with thine repay ; I was left, and I have smote thee. To the ravenous hounds and
kites
Art thou destined, whilst thy victim shall receive the funeral rites !
"
Him thus answered helmed Hector, and his words were faint and " slow : —
By thy soul, thy knees, thy parents — let them not entreat me so ! Suffer not the dogs to rend me by the vessels on the shore,
But accept the gold and treasure sent to thee in ample store
By my father and my mother. O, give back my body, then, " That the funeral rites may grace offered by my countrymen
—
Then the swift Achilles, sternly glancing, answered him again "Speak not of my knees or parents — dog! thou dost implore in
vain;
For would my rage and hatred could so far transport me on,
That might myself devour thee, for the murders thou hast done Therefore know that from thy carcass none shall drive the dogs
away, —
Not although thy wretched parents ten and twenty ransoms pay, And should promise others also — not though Dardan Priam brought Gold enough to weigh thee over, shall thy worthless corpse be bought Never shall thy aged mother, of her eldest hope bereft,
Mourn above thee — to the mercies of the dog and vulture left "
" Then the helmed Hector, dying, once again essayed to speak —
'Tis but what my heart foretold me of thy nature, ruthless Greek Vain indeed my entreaty, for thou hast an iron heart
Yet bethink thee for moment, lest the gods should take my part, When Apollo and my brother Paris shall avenge my fate, " Stretching thee, thou mighty warrior, dead before the Scaean gate
Scarcely had the hero spoken, ere his eyes were fixed in death, And his soul, the body leaving, glided to the shades beneath;
!
!
is a
!
I :
:
! :
:
II
it,
132 THE DEATH OF HECTOR.
Its hard fate lamenting sorely, from so fair a mansion fled ; And the noble chief Achilles spoke again above the dead : —
"Meanwhile, die thou! I am ready, when 'tis Jove's eternal will, And the other heavenly deities, their appointment to fulfil. "
This he said, and tore the weapon from the body where it lay, Flung it down, and stooping o'er him, rent the bloody spoils away : And the other Grecian warriors crowded round the fatal place, Hector's noble form admiring, and his bold and manly face ;
Yet so bitter was their hatred, that they gashed the senseless dead ; And each soldier that beheld him, turning to his neighbor, said : — " By the gods ! 'tis easier matter now to handle Hector's frame,
Than when we beheld him flinging on the ships devouring flame. " . . .
The wife of Hector knew Nothing of this great disaster — none had brought her tidings true,
How her spouse had rashly tarried all without the city gate. Weaving of a costly garment, in an inner room she sate,
With a varied wreath of blossoms broidering the double border ; And unto the fair-haired maidens of her household gave she order On the fire to place a tripod, and to make the fuel burn,
For a welcome bath for Hector, when from fight he should return. Hapless woman ! and she knew not that from all these comforts far, Blue-eyed Pallas had subdued him, by Achilles, first in war ;
But she heard the voice of weeping from the turrets, and the wail And the cry of lamentation ; then her limbs began to fail,
And she shook with dread all over, dropped the shuttle on the ground,
And bespoke her fair-haired maidens, as they stood in order round : — "Two of ye make haste and follow — what may all this tumult
mean ?
Sure that cry of bitter anguish came from Hecuba the queen, [ing, Wildly leaps my heart within me, and my limbs are faint and bend- Much I fear some dire misfortune over Priam's sons impending : Would to heaven my words were folly ; yet my terror I must own, Lest Achilles, having hasted 'twixt my Hector and the town,
O'er the open plain hath chased him, all alone and sore distressed — Lest his hot and fiery valor should at last be laid to rest ;
For amidst the throng of warriors never yet made Hector one — Onward still he rushed before them, yielding in his pride to none. "
Thus she spoke, and like a Maenad frantic through the halls she flew;
Wildly beat her heart within her : and her maidens followed too. OhI but when she reached the turret, and the crowd were forced
aside,
How she gazed! and oh, how dreadful was the sight she there
espied ! —
A Reading from Homer From the painting by Alma-Tadema
THE DEATH OF HECTOR. 133
Hector dragged before the city ; and the steeds with hasty tramp, Hurling him, in foul dishonor, to the sea-beat Grecian camp. Darkness fell upon her vision — darkness like the mist of death — Nerveless sank her limbs beneath her, and her bosom ceased to
breathe.
All the ornamental tissue dropped from her wild streaming hair, Both the garland, and the fillet, and the veil, so wondrous fair, Which the golden Venus gave her on that well-remembered day When the battle-hasting Hector led her as his bride away
From the palace of Aetion — noble marriage gifts were they ! Thronging round her came her sisters, and her kindred held her fast, For she called on death to free her, ere that frantic fit was past. When the agony was over, and her mind again had found her,
Thus she faltered, deeply sobbing, to the Trojan matrons round
Born, alas ! to equal fortunes — thou in Priam's ancient towers,
I in Thebes, Action's dwelling in the woody Poplacus.
Hapless father ! hapless daughter ! better had it been for us
That he never had begot me — doomed to evil from my birth.
Thou art gone to Hades, husband, far below the caves of earth,
And thou leavest me a widow in thy empty halls to mourn,
And thy son an orphan infant — better had he ne'er been born ! Thou wilt never help him, Hector — thou canst never cheer thy boy, Nor can he unto his father be a comfort and a joy !
Even though this war that wastes us pass away and harm him not, Toil and sorrow, never ending, still must be his future lot.
Others will remove his landmarks, and will take his fields away, Neither friend nor comrade left him by this orphan-making day ; And he looks so sad already, and his cheeks are wet with tears ! Then the boy in want shall wander to his father's old compeers, Grasping by the cloak one warrior, and another by the vest ;
Then perhaps some one amongst them, less forgetful than the rest, Shall bestow a cup upon him — yet that cup shall be so small
That his lips will scarce be moistened, nor his thirst assuaged at
all;
Then shall some one, blessed with parents, thrust him rudely from
the hall,
Loading him with blows and scorning, which perforce the boy must
bear —
Saying, ' Get thee gone, thou beggar ! lo, thy father feasts not here ! ' Weeping at this harsh denial, back shall he return to me —
He, Astyanax, the infant, who upon his father's knee
Feasted on the richest marrow, and the daintiest meats that be ; Who, when slumber fell upon him, and his childish crying ceased,
" her:—
Oh, my Hector ! me unhappy ! equal destinies were ours ;
134 PRIAM RECLAIMS HECTOR'S BODY.
Went to sleep in ease and plenty, cradled on his nurse's breast. Now, Astyanax — the Trojans by that name the infant call ;
Since 'twas thou, my Hector, only that didst keep the gates and
wall —
Many a wrong shall feel and suffer, since his father is no more.
Now the creeping worm shall waste thee, lying naked on the shore, Neither friend nor parent near thee — when the dogs have ta'en their
fill. —
Naked ! and thy graceful garments lie within thy palace still ;
Iwill burn,
For thou never more shalt wear them, and thou never canst return ;
These, the skillful work of women, all to ashes
Yet the Trojans will revere them, relics of their chief so true! " — Thus she spoke in tears, and round her all the women sorrowed too.
PRIAM RECLAIMS HECTOR'S BODY. (From the " Iliad " : translated by John Gibson Lockhart. )
[John Gibson Lockhart, Scotch poet and man of letters, was born 1794, died 1854. He became the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott. He joined the staff of Blackwood's in 1818, and was editor of the Quarterly Beview, 1826-58. ]
On did the old man pass ; and he entered, and found the Peleides Seated apart from his train : two only of Myrmidons trustful,
Hero Automedon only, and Alkimus, sapling of Ares,
Near to him minist'ring stood ; he reposed him but now from the
meal-time,
Sated with food and with wine, nor removed from him yet was the
table.
All unobserved of them entered the old man stately, and forthwith Grasped with his fingers the knees and was kissing the hands of
Achilles —
Terrible, murderous hands, by which son upon son had been slaugh
tered.
As when a man who has fled from his home with the curse of the
blood-guilt,
Kneels in a far-off land, at the hearth of some opulent stranger, Begging to shelter his head, there is stupor on them that behold
him; —
So was Achilles dumb at the sight of majestical Priam
He and his followers all, each gazing on other bewildered.
But he uplifted his voice in their silence, and made supplication : " Think of thy father at home " (he began), " O godlike Achilles ! Him, my coeval, like me within age's calamitous threshold.
Haply this day there is trouble upon him, some insolent neighbors
PRIAM RECLAIMS HECTOR'S BODY. 135
Round him in arms, nor a champion at hand to avert the disaster : Yet even so there is comfort for him, for he hears of thee living ; Day unto day there is hope for his heart amid worst tribulation, That yet again he shall see his beloved from Troia returning. Misery only is mine ; for of all in the land of my fathers,
Bravest and best were the sons I begat, and not one is remaining. Fifty were mine in the hour that the host of Achaia descended : Nineteen granted to me out of one womb, royally mothered,
Stood by my side ; but the rest were of handmaids born in my dwell
ing.
Soon were the limbs of the many unstrung in the fury of Ares :
But one peerless was left, sole prop of the realm and the people ; And now at last he too, the protector of Ilion, Hector,
Dies by thy hand. For his sake have I come to the ships of Achaia, Eager to ransom the body with bountiful gifts of redemption.
Thou have respect for the gods, and on me, O Peleides ! have pity, Calling thy father to mind ; but more piteous is my desolation, — Mine, who alone of mankind have been humbled to this of endurance Pressing my mouth to the hand that is red with the blood of my
children. "
Hereon Achilles, awaked to a yearning remembrance of Peleus,
Rose up, took by the hand, and removed from him gently the old man.
Sadness possessing the twain — one, mindful of valorous Hector, Wept with o'erflowing tears, low laid at the feet of Achilles ;
He, sometime for his father, anon at the thought of Patroclus,
Wept, and aloft in the dwelling their long lamentation ascended.
But when the bursting of grief had contented the godlike Peleides, And from his heart and his limbs irresistible yearning departed, Then from his seat rose he, and with tenderness lifted the old man, Viewing the hoary head and the hoary beard with compassion ;
And he addressed him, and these were the air-winged words that he
uttered : —
"Ah unhappy ! thy spirit in truth has been burdened with evils. How could the daring be thine to come forth to the ships of Achaia Singly, to stand in the eyes of the man by whose weapon thy chil
dren,
Many and gallant, have died ? full surely thy heart is of iron.
But now seat thee in peace, old man, and let mourning entirely Pause for a space in our minds, although heavy on both be affliction ; For without profit and vain is the fullness of sad lamentation,
Since it was destined so of the gods for unfortunate mortals
Ever in trouble to live, but they only partake not of sorrow ;
For by the threshold of Zeus two urns have their station of old time, Whereof the one holds dolings of good, but the other of evil ;
136 PRIAM RECLAIMS HECTOR'S BODY.
And to whom mixt are the doles of the thunder-delighting Kronion, He sometime is of blessing partaker, of misery sometime ;
But if he gives him the ill, he has fixed him the mark of disaster, And over bountiful earth the devouring Necessity drives him, Wandering ever forlorn, unregarded of gods and of mortals.
Thus of a truth did the gods grant glorious gifts unto Peleus,
Even from the hour of his birth, for above compare was he favored, Whether in wealth or in power, in the land of the Myrmidons reign
ing;
And albeit a mortal, his spouse was a goddess appointed. —
Yet even to him, of the god there was evil apportioned, that
never
Lineage of sons should be born in his home, to inherit dominion. One son alone he begat, to untimely calamity foredoomed ;
Nor do I cherish his age, since afar from the land of my fathers Here in the Troas I sit, to the torment of thee and thy children.
And we have heard, old man, of thine ancient prosperity also,
Lord of whatever is held between Lesbos the seat of the Macar,
Up to the Phrygian bound and the measureless Hellespontos ; Ruling and blest above all, nor in wealth nor in progeny equaled : Yet from the hour that the gods brought this visitation upon
thee,
Day unto day is thy city surrounded with battles and bloodshed. Howso, bear what is sent, nor be grieved in thy soul without ceas
ing.
Nothing avails king to lament for the son that has fallen
Him thou canst raise up no more, but thyself may have new tribu
lation. "
So having said, he was answered by Priam the aged and god
" like:—
Seat not me on the chair, beloved of Olympus while Hector
Lies in the tent uninterred but pray thee deliver him swiftly, That may see with mine eyes and, accepting the gifts of redemp
tion,
Therein have joy to thy heart and return thou homeward in safety, Since of thy mercy live and shall look on the light of the morning. " " Darkly regarding the king, thus answered the rapid Achilles —
Stir me to anger no more, old man of myself am minded
To the release of the dead for messenger came from Kronion Hither, the mother that bore me, the child of the Ancient of
Ocean.
Thee, too, know in my mind, nor has aught of thy passage escaped
me;
How that some god was the guide of thy steps to the ships of
Achaia.
I
I I0
;
! ;O
a
:
;
;I
I
!
:
;
it,
PRIAM RECLAIMS HECTOR'S BODY.
137
For never mortal had dared to advance, were he blooming in man hood,
Here to the host by himself ; nor could sentinels all be avoided ; Nor by an imbecile push might the bar be dislodged at my bulwark. Therefore excite me no more, old man, when my soul is in sorrow, Lest to thyself peradventure forbearance continue not alway, Suppliant all that thou art — but I break the behest of the godhead. "
So did he speak ; but the old man feared, and obeyed his com mandment.
Forth of the door of his dwelling then leapt like a lion Peleides ; But not alone: of his household were twain that attended his
going,
Hero Automedon first, and young Alkimus, he that was honored Chief of the comrades around since the death of beloved Patroclus. These from the yoke straightway unharnessed the mules and the
horses,
And they conducted within the coeval attendant of Priam,
Bidding him sit in the tent ; then swiftly their hands from the mule-
wain,
Raise the uncountable wealth of the king's Hectorean head-gifts. But two mantles they leave, and a tunic of beautiful texture, Seemly for wrapping the dead as the ransomer carries him home
ward.
Then were the handmaidens called, and commanded to wash and
anoint him,
Privately lifted aside, lest the son should be seen of the father,
Lest in the grief of his soul he restrain not his anger within him, Seeing the corse of his son, but enkindle the heart of Achilles,
And he smite him to death, and transgress the command of Kronion. But when the dead had been washed and anointed with oil by the
maidens,
And in the tunic arrayed and enwrapt in the beautiful mantle,
Then by Peleides himself was he raised and composed on the hand-
bier ;
Which when the comrades had lifted and borne to its place in the
mule-wain,
Then groaned he; and he called on the name of his friend, the " beloved: —
Be not wroth with me now, O Patroclus, if haply thou hearest, Though within Hades obscure, that I yield the illustrious Hector Back to his father dear. Not unworthy the gifts of redemption ; And unto thee will I render thereof whatsoever is seemly. "
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS. (From the " Odyssey " ; translated by Philip S. Worsley. )
But when the Ocean river in our wake
Streamed afar off, borne through the wide-wayed deep
Straight from ^Eaea's isle our course we take,
To where the young-eyed Morning loves to keep Her pastime, and the Sun wakes up from sleep.
Thither arrived on the smooth shores we run The keel, and to the land our sailors leap,
And all night slumbering on the sands, each one Waits for the Dawn divine and the returning Sun.
But when the rosy-fingered Dawn was come, Child of the mist, my comrades forth I sent
To fetch the dead Elpenor from the home
Of Circe. Then to the utmost we went,
And cut wood, and with tears and sad lament
Paid the funeral rites. So when with all
His arms the dead was burned, a monument
Of earth, and gravestone to record his fall
We reared, and in the midst, the shapely oar sprang tall.
We then, reminded of our labors past,
Talked over all that we had seen and known ;
And Circe knew that through the billows vast From Hades' realms we had returned, and soon In shining raiment to the shore came down,
While in her train paced many a maiden fair,
Who corn and flesh, and sparkling wine, the crown
Of banquets, in white hands uplifted bare.
Then, standing in the midst, spake the divine one there :
" Ah ! desperate, who have trod with living feet The house of Hades and the sunless way,
Twice dead, while others die but once ! Haste, eat Both corn and flesh in plenty while ye may, And, sitting here, drink wine the livelong day !
Hence in the morning shall ye sail, and I Will point your path, nor any more delay
To warn you, and each danger signify, Lest or by land or wave you find adversity. "
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS. 139
She ended, and our manly heart obeyed.
So through the livelong day on corn, flesh, wine,
We feasted, till the sun fell and the shade Descended. Then the mariners recline
Hard by the black ship ; but the queen divine
Led me apart from my companions dear,
And lay with me, and asked each word and sign
Of the late work ; which I unfolded clear ; And at the last spake Circe in my listening ear :
" These things are ended. Hearken now my word I Yea, God himself shall call it to thy mind.
First shalt thou reach the Sirens, who, once heard, Charm with their strains the souls of all mankind. If unawares come floating on the wind
That clear, sweet music, which the Sirens pour, He who hath quaffed it with his ears shall find
No voice, no welcome, on his native shore,
Shall on his dear wife gaze and lisping babes no more.
" For the shrill Sirens, couched among the flowers, Sing melodies that lure from the great deep
The heedless mariner to their fatal bowers,
Where round about them, piled in many a heap,
Lie the bleached bones of moldering men that sleep
Forever, and the dead skins waste away.
Thou through the waves thy course right onward keep,
And stop with wax thy comrades' ears, that they
Hear not the sweet death songs which through the wide air stray.
" But if thyself art fain to hear their song,
Let thy companions bind thee, hands and feet,
Upright against the mast with cordage strong. So mayst thou hearken to the voices sweet Of the twin Sirens, as thy white sails fleet
Along the perilous coast ; yet, though thou yearn To linger, and with tears thy friend entreat,
Let them remain hard-hearted, doubly stern
Yea, with more chains enwind thee, and thy anguish spurn.
"These once escaped, no more I plainly tell Which way be safer ; thou shalt think ; but I
Both will proclaim ; for there wild rocks upswell Vast, overshadowing, round whose bases cry Dark Amphitrite's billows. Gods on high
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
These rocks call Wanderers ; and no winged thing — That place hath passed, or can pass, harmless by
No, not the doves, those tremblers, wont to bring Ambrosia, heavenly food, to Father Zeus, their king.
" One of their number the fell rock doth slay, But aye another doth the Father send
His convoy to complete. Nor by that way Ever did bark of mortal oarage wend,
For waves and fiery storms the timbers rend,
And the men murder. Of all ships that sail Argo, beloved one, did alone transcend
That ruin. She too had been brought to bale, But that queen Hera's love for Jason did prevail.
" Guarding a narrow gulf two rocks there are, Whereof the one, sky threatening, a black cloud
Not pierceable by power of sun, moon, star, Doth everlastingly with gloom enshroud. Summer nor autumn to that pile dark-browed
Lend a clear ether, nor could mortal wight, Albeit with twenty hands and feet endowed,
Climb or descend that sheer and perilous height,
Which, smooth as burnished stone, darts heavenward out of sight
" Deep in the mid rock lies a murky cave,
Whose mouth yawns westward to the sullen dark
Of Erebus ; and thou, Odysseus brave, Must by this way direct the hollow bark. Nor yet could any archer taking mark,
No, not a strong man in his life's full bloom,
A swift-winged shaft from that same hollow bark
Shoot to the vault, within whose hideous womb Scylla in secret lurks, dread-howling through the gloom.
" Her voice is like the voice of whelps new-born, Yet she such monster as no eyes can meet
Rejoicing, or with glance of careless scorn,
Not though a god should pass her dire retreat. Twelve feet she has, twelve huge misshapen feet,
And six long necks, wherefrom she quivereth Six heads of terror, and her prey doth eat
With grim jaws, armed with triple ranks of teeth, Frequent and thickly sown and teeming with black death.
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
" Her waist is hidden in the hollow cave, But all her heads from the infernal lair
She thrusts, to fish with, in the whirling wave, And, feeling round the rock with eager care, For dolphins dips and sea dogs, or if there
Perchance some larger weightier bulk she catch, Such as the deep in myriads feeds — and ne'er
Have mariners eluded her dire watch,
Who for each head one victim from the ship doth snatch.
" The other rock, a little space remote
(Yea with an arrow thou couldst reach it well),
More flat by far, Odysseus, shalt thou note Crowned with a fig tree wild. Charybdis fell Sucks the black water in her throat's deep hell
Beneath it; thrice disgorges in the day,
And thrice again sucks up the eddying swell. Heaven from that suction keep thee far away !
Not the Earthshaker's self could then thy doom delay.
" Rather to Scylla's rock, whate'er befall, Cleave in thy steering, when thou passest by,
Since it is better to lose six than all. "
Therewith she ended, and I made reply:
" This one thing more, kind goddess, signify —
If I may yet take counsel not in vain
Whirling Charybdis to evade or fly, "
And ward off Scylla, ere my friends be slain ?
I ceased, and the divine one answering spake again :
" Ah ! desperate heart ! and wilt thou never turn From weariest toil and feats of warlike fame,
Nor even to the gods submission learn ?
She is no mortal whom thou fain wouldst tame, This mischief, but of race immortal came ;
Fierce and unconquerable and wild and strong, No force compels her and no steel can maim.
There is no remedy against this wrong —
Flight is your help ; one moment's tarrying were too long.
" For by the rock but linger to equip
Thy limbs for battle, and in sooth I fear
Lest she again forth issuing on the ship
Find thee with all her ravenous heads, and bear Six more aloft of thy companions dear.
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
Thou rather drive impetuous through the main, And on Krataiis call, that she may hear,
Mother of Scylla, who brought forth this bane
Of mortals : she her child forth-issuing will restrain.
" Soon shall thy bark Thrinacia's island reach, Where feed the Sun's sleek oxen and fat sheep ;
Seven are the herds and fifty kine in each,
And of the flocks like reckoning he doth keep. Seed have they none ; nor do the seasons reap
Aught of their vigor.
Nymphs with flowing hair Attend them in their pastures by the deep,
Bright Phaethusa and Lampetia fair,
Whom to the heavenly Sun divine Neaera bare.
" She to Thrinacia sent them, there to dwell,
Tending their father's flocks and herds. These leave
Unscathed, and all may in the end be well, Though to your land returning sore ye grieve ; But scathe them, and the gods, I well perceive,
Shall break your bark up and your sailors kill ;
And though thine own life they may chance reprieve,
Yet to thy country, at a stranger's will,
Shalt thou come lone and late and overwhelmed with ill. "
She ceasing, came the golden-throned Morn. Then passed the goddess inland ; but I went
And bade the men embark. They outward borne, Winnow with oars the foaming element.
Soon in our lee the fair-haired Circe sent
A helpmate good, a canvas-swelling breeze. We, on the tackling of our bark intent,
All things arranged ; then sitting at our ease
Steersman and prosperous wind impelled us through the seas.
Then sorely grieving I the tidings break :
" Friends, it is fitting that not one nor two
Should know the oracles which Circe spake, Divine one, in these ears ; but all my crew Shall hear them, that together we may rue
Death not unknowingly, if death should chance, Or haply, should we yet pass safely through
These perils, then in no blind ignorance We may awhile escape Fate's evil ordinance.
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS. 143
" First of the Sirens, couched among the flowers, She warns us fly from the delusive song.
I only, as we pass the fatal bowers,
Have leave to listen ; yet with many a thong Need is ye bind me, and with cordage strong,
Against the socket of the mast upright,
Lest I should move ; and though I urge you long
To loose me, and implore with all my might,
Still bind me with more cords and strain them yet more tight. "
Thus were my comrades of each several charge Admonished ; and the well-built ship meanwhile
Cut lightly through the waves, and neared the marge Of that fell coast, the sister Sirens' isle.
Anon the wind slept, and for many a mile
Some god in silence hushed the marble mere. Forthwith our men the canvas furl, and pile
Safe in the hollow ship their naval gear,
Lean to their oars, and whiten the blue waters clear.
Then did I haste to sever with iron keen
In morsels a great roll of wax, which lay
Stored in the hollow ship, and in between
My strong palms pressed and chafed it every way. Soon the wax warmed, for the great Lord of Day,
Hyperion's offspring, the imperial Sun, Came to my succor with his burning ray.
So when the mass with heat was nigh to run, I filled my comrades' ears, in order one by one.
Then did they bind me by the hands and feet Upright against the mast with cordage strong,
And each again retiring to his seat
Smote the calm sea with furrows white and long. We, lightly drifting the blue waves among,
Soon in our course such interval attain
As that the ear might catch the Sirens' song.
Nor did the swift ship moving through the main
Escape them, while they sang this sweet soul-piercing strain :
" Hither, Odysseus, great Achaian name, Turn thy swift keel and listen to our lay; Since never pilgrim near these regions came
In black ship, on the azure fields astray,
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
But heard our sweet voice ere he sailed away, And in his joy passed on with ampler mind.
We know what labors were in ancient day Wrought in wide Troia, as the gods assigned ;
We know from land to land all toils of mankind. "
While their sweet music took my spirit thus.
I with drawn brows made signal for release ;
But Perimedes and Eurylochus
Bind me yet faster and the cords increase, Nor for my passion would the seamen cease
Their rowing. When no more the Sirens' song Thrilled the deep air, and on my soul came peace,
My trusty mariners unsealed ere long
Their ears, and from my limbs unwound the cordage strong.
When we had left the island in our lee,
I looked, and straight in front toward heaven uprolled
Smoke, and the noises of a roaring sea,
So that with terror every heart sank cold, And from the feeble fingers' trembling hold
Each oar dropt, whirring in the downward flood. Dead paused the ship, no longer now controlled
By slantless oar-blades ; and I passed and stood Near each, and thus essayed to calm his fearful mood :
" Friends, we are not in dangers all unlearned, Nor have we lighted on a vaster woe
Than when the Cyclops, who all justice spurned, Held us immured, disdaining to let go
His captive guests. Yet verily even so
This mind and arm a great deliverance wrought. And surely at this hour I feel, I know,
That we shall yet live to recount in thought
These labors. Come, take heart, obey me as ye ought,
" Lean to your oars and the wild breakers sweep, If haply Zeus vouchsafe our souls to spare.
Thou, steersman, in thy breast this mandate keep, Since of the hollow ship thou hast chief care — And at thy will dost wield her here and there :
Hold her well clear of this smoke-clouded sea, And hug the adverse rock, lest unaware
We to the whirling gulf drift violently,
And thou o'erwhelm us all in dire calamity. " . . .
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS.
I my illustrious mail assuming now,
Holding in each hand a long-shafted spear,
Move to the black ship's bulwark near the prow, First on that side expecting to appear Rock-lurking Scylla, destined soon to bear
Such dread disaster to my comrades brave. Nor yet could I discern her anywhere,
Though still my tired eyes straining glances gave, And pored both far and deep to pierce her murky cave.
We groaning sailed the strait. Here Scylla lay, And there divine Charybdis, with huge throat
Gorging salt waves, which when she cast away
She spurned with hisses (as when fire makes hot Some caldron) and the steamy froth upshot
Wide o'er both rocks. But when she gorged again, Drunk with abysmal gurglings, one might note
The dark sands of the immeasurable main
Gleam iron-blue. The rocks loud-bellowing roared amain.
We pale with dread stared at her, fearing death. But ravenous Scylla from the hollow bark
Six of our bravest comrades at a breath
Seized with her six necks. Turning round I mark Their forms quick vanishing toward the cavern dark,
And feet and fingers dangling in mid air ;
Yea, and my ear each several voice could mark
Which for the last time shrieked, with no one there To help them — on my name they called in wild despair.
As when some fisher, angling in the deep, Casts with a long rod for the smaller fry
Baits and a bull's horn, from some jutting steep, And hurls the snared prey to the land close by Gasping, so these were to the rocks on high
Drawn gasping, and the monster gorged them down, Stretching their hands with a loud bitter cry
Toward me their captain. This was my grief's crown. Never in all my toils like anguish have I known.
vol. n. — 10
146 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION. By MATTHEW ARNOLD.
[Matthew Arnold: English poet, essayist, and critic; born at Laleham, December 24, 1822; died at Liverpool, April 15, 1888. He was professor of poetry at Oxford, 1857-1867. He was government inspector of schools for nearly forty years. His earliest published works were his prize poems, " Alaric at Rome," written at Rugby, and "Cromwell," written at Oxford. His poeti cal works include " The Strayed Reveler, and Other Poems " (1848) ; " Emped- ocles on Etna" (1853); "Merope," a tragedy (1857); "New Poems" (1868). His prose essays include "Lectures on Celtic Literature," and "Lectures on Translating Homer," "Culture and Anarchy," "Literature and Dogma," and " Discourses on America. "]
I. Pope's Translation.
Homer's verses were some of the first words which a young Athenian heard. He heard them from his mother or his nurse before he went to school ; and at school, when he went there, he was constantly occupied with them. So much did he hear of them that Socrates proposes, in the interests of morality, to have selections from Homer made, and placed in the hands of mothers and nurses, in his model republic ; in order that, of an author with whom they were sure to be so perpetually conver sant, the young might learn only those parts which might do them good. His language was as familiar to Sophocles, we may be quite sure, as the language of the Bible is to us.
Nay, more. Homer's language was not, of course, in the time of Sophocles, the spoken or written language of ordinary life, any more than the language of the Bible, any more than the language of poetry, is with us : but for one great species of composition — epic poetry — it was still the current language ; it was the language in which every one who made that sort of poetry composed. Every one at Athens who dabbled in epic poetry, not only understood Homer's language, — he possessed it. He possessed it as every one who dabbles in poetry with us pos sesses what may be called the poetical vocabulary, as distin guished from the vocabulary of common speech and of modern prose :
for spoke, aye for ever, don for put on, charmed for charmed, and thousands of others. "
I mean, such expressions as perchance for perhaps, spake
Robert Wood, whose
Essay on the Genius of Homer
"
is
words)
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
147
mentioned by Goethe as one of the books which fell into his hands when his powers were first developing themselves, and strongly interested him, relates a striking story. He says that in 1762, at the end of the Seven Years' War, being then Under- Secretary of State, he was directed to wait upon the President of the Council, Lord Granville, a few days before he died, with the preliminary articles of the Treaty of Paris.
" I found him," he continues, " so languid, that I proposed postponing my business for another time; but he insisted that I should stay, saying, it could not prolong his life to neglect his duty ; and repeating the following passage out of Sarpedon's speech, he dwelled with particular emphasis on the third line, which recalled to his mind the distinguishing part he had taken in public affairs.
" <3iriirov, tt pjtv yap TroXtfiov irtpl rovSe <pvy6vrc,
alti p-eXXoi/iev ayqput r adavaru> re
iaataff ovre kcv avros ivl irpiiroiat p. a\oip. r)V, ovtc <t <rt ortAAotjiu pAyyyv KvBidvupav
vvv — ip-mis yap Krjpv; i<pctrra<riv Oavdroio — fivpuu, as ovk fori tftvyiiv f3porov, ova' vira\v£ai lo/uy.
His lordship repeated the last words several times with calm and determinate resignation and after serious pause of some minutes, he desired to hear the Treaty read, to which he listened with great attention, and recovered spirits enough to declare the approbation of dying statesman use his own
on the most glorious war, and most honorable peace, this nation ever saw. '"
quote this story, first, because interesting as exhibit ing the English aristocracy at its very height of culture, lofty spirit, and greatness, towards the middle of the last century.
quote it, secondly, because seems to me to illustrate Goethe's saying, that our life, in Homer's view of it, represents conflict and hell and brings out, too, what there tonic and forti fying in this doctrine. quote it, lastly, because shows that the passage just one of those in translating which Pope will be at his best, passage of strong emotion and oratorical move ment, not of simple narrative or description.
Could all our care elude the gloomy grave Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
Pope translates the passage thus —
:
it is
is a
a
I
I
'
; 8*
, Stj
it
I
it
a
;
is
(I
a
it
a
a
is
'
148 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
For lust of fame I should not vainly dare In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war : But since, alas ! ignoble age must come, Disease, and death's inexorable doom ;
The life which others pay, let us bestow, And give to fame what we to nature owe.
Nothing could better exhibit Pope's prodigious talent, and nothing, too, could be better in its own way. But, as Bentley said, "You must not call it Homer. " One feels that Homer's thought has passed through a literary and rhetorical crucible, and come out highly intellectualized ; come out in a form which strongly impresses us, indeed, but which no longer impresses us in the same way as when it was uttered by Homer. The antithesis of the last two lines —
The life which others pay, let us bestow, And give to fame what we to nature owe —
is excellent, and is just suited to Pope's heroic couplet ; but neither the antithesis itself, nor the couplet which conveys
suited to the feeling or to the movement of Homer.
Every one knows the passage at the end of the eighth book of the Iliad, where the fires of the Trojan encampment are
likened to the stars. It very far from my wish to hold Pope up to ridicule, so shall not quote the commencement of the pas sage, which in the original of great and celebrated beauty, and in translating which Pope has been singularly and notori ously unfortunate. But the latter part of the passage, where Homer leaves the stars, and comes to the Trojan fires, treats of the plainest, most matter-of-fact subject possible, and deals with this, as Homer always deals with every subject, in the plainest and most straightforward style. " So many in number, between the ships and the streams of Xanthus, shone forth in front of Troy the fires kindled by the Trojans. There were kindled thousand fires in the plain and by each one there sat fifty men in the light of the blazing fire. And the horses, munching white barley and rye, and standing by the chariots, waited for the bright-throned Morning. "
In Pope's translation, this plain story becomes the follow ing —
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And brighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays
;
:
;
is is
a
it,
I
is
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION. 149
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.
A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
And shoot a shady luster o'er the field.
Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send ; Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn, And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.
It is for passages of this sort, which, after all, form the bulk of a narrative poem, that Pope's style is so bad. In elevated pas sages he is powerful, as Homer is powerful, though not in the same way ; but in plain narrative, where Homer is still power ful and delightful, Pope, by the inherent fault of his style, is ineffective and out of taste. Wordsworth " says somewhere, that wherever Virgil seems to have composed with his eye on the object," Dryden fails to render him. Homer invariably com poses "with his eye on the object," whether the object be a moral or a material one : Pope composes with his eye on his style, into which he translates his object, whatever it is. That, therefore, which Homer conveys to us immediately, Pope con veys to us through a medium. He aims at turning Homer's sentiments pointedly and rhetorically ; at investing Homer's description with ornament and dignity. A sentiment may be changed by being put into a pointed and oratorical form, yet may still be very effective in that form ; but a description, the moment it takes its eyes off that which it is to describe, and begins to think of ornamenting itself, is worthless.
Therefore, I say, the translator of Homer should penetrate himself with a sense of the plainness and directness of Homer's style ; of the simplicity with which Homer's thought is evolved and expressed. He has Pope's fate before his eyes, to show him what a divorce may be created even between the most gifted translator and Homer by an artificial evolution of thought and a literary cast of style.
II. Chapman's Version.
Chapman's style is not artificial and literary like Pope's, nor his movement elaborate and self-retarding like the Miltonic movement of Cowper. He is plain-spoken, fresh, vigorous, and to a certain degree rapid ; and all these are Homeric qualities. I cannot say that I think the movement of his fourteen-syllable
150 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
line, which has been so much commended, Homeric : but it is not distinctly anti-Homeric, like the movement of Milton's blank verse ; and it has a rapidity of its own. Chapman's dic tion, too, is generally good, — that is, appropriate to Homer ; above all, the syntactical character of his style is appropriate. With these merits, what prevents his translation from being a satisfactory version of Homer ? Is it merely the want of literal faithfulness to his original, imposed upon him, it is said, by the exigences of rhyme? Has this celebrated version, which has so many advantages, no other and deeper defect than that ? Its author is a poet, and a poet, too, of the Elizabethan age : the golden age of English literature, as it is called — and on the whole truly called ; for whatever be the defects of Elizabethan literature (and they are great), we have no development of our literature to compare with it for vigor and richness. This age, too, showed what it could do in translating, by producing a masterpiece, its version of the Bible.
Chapman's translation has often been praised as eminently Homeric. Keats' fine sonnet in its honor every one knows ; but Keats could not read the original, and therefore could not really judge the translation. Coleridge, in praising Chapman's version, says at the same time, " It will give you small idea of Homer. " But the grave authority of Mr. Hallam pronounces this translation to be " often exceedingly Homeric " ; and its latest editor boldly declares that by what, with a deplorable style, he calls "his own innative Homeric genius," Chapman " has thoroughly identified himself with Homer " ; and that " we pardon him even for his digressions, for they are such as we feel Homer himself would have written. "
I confess that I can never read twenty lines of Chapman's version without recurring to Bentley's cry, "This is not Homer ! " and that from a deeper cause than any unfaithful ness occasioned by the fetters of rhyme.
I said that there were four things which eminently distin guished Homer, and with a sense of which Homer's translator should penetrate himself as fully as possible. One of these four things was the plainness and directness of Homer's ideas. I have just been speaking of the plainness and directness of his style ; but the plainness and directness of the contents of his style, of his ideas themselves, is not less remarkable. But as eminently as Homer is plain, so eminently is the Elizabethan literature in general, and Chapman in particular, fanciful.
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION. 151
Steeped in humors and fantasticality up to its very lips, the Elizabethan age, newly arrived at the free use of the human faculties after their long term of bondage, and delighting to exercise them freely, suffers from its own extravagance in this first exercise of them, can hardly bring itself to see an object quietly or to describe it temperately. Happily, in the translation of the Bible, the sacred character of their original inspired the translators with such respect that they did not dare to give the rein to their own fancies in dealing with it. But in dealing with works of profane literature, in dealing with poetical works above all, which highly stimulated them, one may say that the minds of the Elizabethan translators were too active ; that they could not forbear importing so much of their own, and this of a most peculiar and Elizabethan character, into their original, that they effaced the character of the original itself.
Take merely the opening pages to Chapman's translation, the introductory verses, and the dedications. You will find —
An Anagram of the name of our Dread Prince, My most gracious and sacred Maecenas,
Henry, Prince of Wales, —
Our Sunn, Heyr, Peace, Life,
Henry, son of James the First, to whom the work is dedicated. Then comes an address —
To the sacred Fountain of Princes,
Sole Empress of Beauty and Virtue, Anne, Queen
Of England, etc.
All the Middle Age, with its grotesqueness, its conceits, its irrationality, is still in these opening pages : they by them selves are sufficient to indicate to us what a gulf divides Chap man from the " clearest-souled " of poets, from Homer ; almost as great a gulf as that which divides him from Voltaire. Pope has been sneered at for saying that Chapman writes " somewhat as one might imagine Homer himself to have written before he arrived at years of discretion. " But the remark is excellent : Homer expresses himself like a man of adult reason, Chapman like a man whose reason has not yet cleared itself. For instance, if Homer had had to say of a poet, that he hoped his merit was now about to be fully established in the opinion of good judges, he was as incapable of saying this as Chapman
152 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
says it, — " Though truth in her very nakedness sits in so deep a pit, that from Gades to Aurora, and Ganges, few eyes can sound her, I hope yet those few here will so discover and con firm that the date being out of her darkness in this morning of our poet, he shall now gird his temples with the sun," — I say, Homer was as incapable of saying this in that manner, as Voltaire himself would have been. Homer, indeed, has actually an affinity with Voltaire in the unrivaled clearness and straight forwardness of his thinking ; in the way in which he keeps to one thought at a time, and puts that thought forth in its com plete natural plainness, instead of being led away from it by some fancy striking him in connection with it, and being beguiled to wander off with this fancy till his original thought, in its natural reality, knows him no more. What could better show us how gifted a race was this Greek race? The same member of it has not only the power of profoundly touching that natural heart of humanity which it is Voltaire's weakness that he cannot reach, but can also address the understanding with all Voltaire's admirable simplicity and rationality.
My limits will not allow me to do more than shortly illus trate, from Chapman's version of the Iliad, what I mean when I speak of this vital difference between Homer and an Eliza bethan poet in the quality of their thought ; between the plain simplicity of the thought of the one, and the curious complexity of the thought of the other. As in Pope's case, I carefully abstain from choosing passages for the express purpose of making Chapman appear ridiculous ; Chapman, like Pope, merits in himself all respect, though he too, like Pope, fails to render Homer.
if indeed, but once this battle avoided, We were forever to live without growing old and immortal.
Chapman cannot be satisfied with this, but must add a fancy
to it
not wrack
In this life's human sea at all;
and so on. Again : in another passage which I have before quoted, where Zeus says to the horses of Peleus,
In that tonic speech of Sarpedon, of which I have said so much, Homer, you may remember, has —
y; keeping back
Would keep back age from us, and death, and that we might
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION. 153
Why gave we you to royal Peleus, to a mortal ? but ye are with out old age, and immortal.
Chapman sophisticates this into —
Why gave we you t' a mortal king, when immortality And incapacity ofage so dignifies your states 9
Again ; in the speech of Achilles to his horses, where Achilles, according to Homer, says simply, "Take heed that ye bring your master safe back to the host of the Danaans, in some other sort than the last time, when the battle is ended," Chapman sophisticates this into —
When with blood, for this day's fast observed, revenge shall yield Our heart satiety, bring us off.
In Hector's famous speech, again, at his parting from Androm ache, Homer makes him say : " Nor does my own heart so bid me " (to keep safe behind the walls), " since I have learned to be stanch always, and to fight among the foremost of the Trojans, busy on behalf of my father's great glory, and my own. " In Chapman's hand this becomes —
The spirit I first did breathe
Did never teach me that ; much less, since the contempt of death
Was settled in me, and my mind knew what a worthy was, Wfiose office is to lead in fight, and give no danger pass Without improvement. In this fire must Hector's trial shine : Here must his country, father, friends, be in him made divine.
You see how ingeniously Homer's plain thought is tormented, as the French would say, here. Homer goes on : " For well I know this in my mind and in my heart, the day will be, when sacred Troy shall perish. " Chapman makes this —
And such a stormy day shall come, in mind and soul I know, When sacred Troy shall shed her towers, for tears of overthrow.
I might go on forever, but I could not give you a better illus tration than this last, of what I mean by saying that the Eliza bethan poet fails to render Homer because he cannot forbear to interpose a play of thought between his object and its expres sion. Chapman translates his object into Elizabethan, as Pope translates it into the Augustan of Queen Anne ; both convey
154 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
it to us through a medium. Homer, on the other hand, sees his object and conveys it to us immediately.
And yet, in spite of this perfect plainness and directness of Homer's style, in spite of this perfect plainness and directness of his ideas, he is eminently noble ; he works as entirely in the grand style, he is as grandiose, as Phidias, or Dante, or Michael Angelo. This is what makes his translators despair. "To give relief," says Cowper, " to prosaic subjects " (such as dress ing, eating, drinking, harnessing, traveling, going to bed), — that is, to treat such subjects nobly, in the grand style,— " without seeming unreasonably tumid, is extremely difficult. " It is difficult, but Homer has done it. Homer is precisely the incomparable poet he is, because he has done it. His translator must not be tumid, must not be artificial, must not be literary ; true : but then also he must not be commonplace, must not be ignoble.
III. Ballad Verse.
" The most really and truly Homeric of all the creations of the English muse is," says Mr. Newman's critic in the National Review, " the ballad poetry of ancient times ; and the associa tion between meter and subject is one that it would be true wisdom to preserve. " " It is confessed," says Chapman's last editor, Mr. Hooper, " that the fourteen-syllable verse " (that is, a ballad verse) " is peculiarly fitting for Homeric translation. " And the"editor of Dr. Maginn's clever and popular " Homeric Ballads assumes it as one of his author's greatest and most undisputable merits, that he was "the first who consciously realized to himself the truth that Greek ballads can be really represented in English only by a similar measure. "
This proposition that Homer's poetry is ballad poetry, analo gous to the well-known ballad poetry of the English and other nations, has a certain small portion of truth in it, and at one time probably served a useful purpose, when it was employed to dis credit the artificial and literary manner in which Pope and his school rendered Homer. But it has been so extravagantly over-used, the mistake which it was useful in combating has so entirely lost the public favor, that it is now much more impor tant to insist on the large part of error contained in than to extol its small part of truth. It time to say plainly that, whatever the admirers of our old ballads may think, the su
is
it,
or in —
Now Christ thee save and see,
While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine.
PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
155
preme form of epic poetry, the genuine Homeric mold, is not the form of the Ballad of Lord Bateman. I have myself shown the broad difference between Milton's manner and Homer's; but after a course of Mr. Newman and Dr. Maginn, I turn round in desperation upon them and upon the balladists who have misled them, and I exclaim : Compared with you, Milton is Homer's double ; there is, whatever you may think, ten thousand times more of the real strain of Homer in—
Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old,
than in —
Now Christ thee save, thou proud porter,
For Homer is not only rapid in movement, simple in style, plain in language, natural in thought ; he is also, and above all, noble. I have advised the translator not to go into the vexed question of Homer's identity. Yet I will just remind him that the grand argument — or rather, not argument, for the matter affords no data for arguing, but the grand source from which conviction, as we read the Iliad, keeps pressing in upon us, that there is one poet of the Iliad, one Homer — is precisely this nobleness of the poet, this grand manner ; we feel that the analogy drawn from other joint compositions does not hold good here, because those works do not bear, like the Iliad, the magic stamp of a master : and the moment you have anything less than a master work, the cooperation or consolidation of several poets becomes possible, for talent is not uncommon ; the moment you have much less than a master work, they be come easy, for mediocrity is everywhere.
I can imagine fifty Bradys joined with as many Tates to make the New Version of the Psalms. I can imagine several poets having contributed to any one of the old English ballads in Percy's collection. I can imagine several poets, possessing, like Chapman, the Elizabethan vigor and the Elizabethan mannerism, united with Chapman to produce his version of the Iliad. I can imagine several poets, with the literary knack of the twelfth century, united to produce the Nibelungen Lay in the form in which we have it, — a work which the Germans, in their joy at discovering a national epic of their
156 PRINCIPLES OF HOMERIC TRANSLATION.
own, have rated vastly higher than it deserves. And lastly, though Mr. Newman's translation of Homer bears the strong mark of his own idiosyncrasy, yet I can imagine Mr. Newman and a school of adepts trained by him in his art of poetry, jointly producing that work, so that Aristarchus himself should have difficulty in pronouncing which line was the master's, and which a pupil's.
But I cannot imagine several poets, or one poet, joined with Dante in the composition of his " Inferno," though many poets have taken for their subject a descent into Hell. 1 Many artists, again, have represented Moses ; but there is only one Moses of Michael Angelo. So the insurmountable obstacle to believing the Iliad a consolidated work of several poets is this : that the work of great masters is unique ; and the Iliad has a great master's genuine stamp, and that stamp is the grand style.
Poets who cannot work in the grand style instinctively seek a style in which their comparative inferiority may feel itself at ease, a manner which may be, so to speak, indulgent to their inequalities. The ballad style offers to an epic poet, quite un able to fill the canvas of Homer, or Dante, or Milton, a canvas which he is capable of filling. The ballad measure is quite able to give due effect to the vigor and spirit which its employer, when at his very best, may be able to exhibit ; and when he is not at his best — when he is a little trivial or a little dull — it will not betray him, it will not bring out his weaknesses into broad relief. This is a convenience ; but it is a convenience which the ballad style purchases by resigning all pretensions to the highest, to the grand manner.