No More Learning

Enter Thersites. Thersites — A wonder !
Achilles— What?
TJiersites — Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself.
Achilles — How so ?
Thersites — He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector; and
is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgeling, that he raves in saying nothing.
Achilles — How can that be ?
Thersites — Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock ; a stride,
and a stand : ruminates, like an hostess, that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning: bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say — there were wit in this head, an 'twould
GREEKS AND TROJANS. 211
out; and so there is; but it lies as coldlyin him as fire ina flint, which will not show without knocking. The man's undone forever ; for if Hector break not his neck i' the combat, he'll break it himself in vain glory. He knows not me: I said, Good morrow, Ajax ; and he replies, Thanks, Agamemnon. What think you of this man, that takes me for the general ? He has grown a very land fish, language- less, a monster. A plague of opinion ! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin.
Achilles — Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites. Thersites — Who, I? why, he'll answer nobody ; he professes not answering; speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in his arms. I will put on his presence ; let Patroclus make demands to
me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.
Achilles — To him, Patroclus: tell him, — I humbly desire the
valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent ; and to procure safe conduct for his person, of the mag nanimous, and most illustrious, six-or-seven-times honored captain general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Do this.
Patroclus — Jove bless great Ajax ! Thersites — Humph !
Patroclus — I come from the worthy Achilles, Thersites — Ha!
Patroclus —Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent,
Thersites — Humph !
Patroclus — And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon. Thersites — Agamemnon ?
Patroclus —Ay, my lord.
Thersites — Ha !
Patroclus — What say you to't ?
Thersites — God be wi' you, with all my heart. Patroclus — Your answer, sir.
Thersites — If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock it will go one way or other ; howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.
Patroclus —Your answer, sir.
Thersites — Fare you well, with all my heart.
Achilles — Why, but he is not in this tune, is he ?
Thersites — No, but he's out o' tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not : but, I am sure, none ; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make
catlings on.
Achilles — Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight. Thersites — Let me bear another to his horse; for that's the
more capable creature.
Achilles — My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred; and I my
self see not the bottom of it. [Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus.
212 GREEKS AND TROJANS.
Thersites — 'Would the fountain of your mind were clear again,
that I might water an ass at it ! than such a valiant ignorance.
I had rather be a tick in a sheep, [Exit.
Scene : Troy. A Street. Enter, at one side, . ^Eneas and Servant, with a Torch; at the other, Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes, and others, with Torches.
Paris —
See, ho ! who's that there ?
Deiphobus — 'Tis the lord . Eneas.
^Eneas —
Is the prince there in person ?
Had I so good occasion to lie long,
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed mate of my company.
Good morrow, lord Mneaa.
uEneas — Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce :
But when I meet you armed, as black defiance,
As heart can think, or courage execute.
Diomedes —
The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm ; and, so long, health :
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life,
With all my force, pursuit, and policy. jEneas —
And thou shalt hunt a lion that will fly
With his face backward. — In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy ! now, by Anchises' life, Welcome, indeed ! by Venus' hand I swear,
No man alive can love, in such a sort,
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
Diomedes — — That's my mind too.
Paris —
A valiant Greek, Mneas ; take his hand : Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told — how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field.
—
Diomedes — — We sympathize:
Jove, let iEneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun !
But, in mine emulous honor, let him die,
With every joint a wound : and that to-morrow !
^Eneas —
We know each other well.
TWO ROYAL MISTRESSES. 213
Diomedes —
We do ; and long to know each other worse.
Paris —
This is the most despiteful gentle greeting,
The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of. — What business, lord, so early ?
^Eneaa —
I was sent for to the king ; but why, I know not.
Paris —
His purpose meets you : 'twas to bring this Greek To Calchas' house ; and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid :
Let's have your company : or, if you please,
Haste there before us :
(Or, rather, call my thought a certain knowledge,) My brother Troilus lodges there to-night ;
Rouse him, and give him note of our approach.
I fear
We shall be much unwelcome.
^Eneas — That I assure you;
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece,
Than Cressid borne from Troy.
Paris — There is no help ;
I constantly do think,
With the whole quality wherefore :
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord ; we'll follow you. ^Eneas—Good morrow, all.
[Exit.
TWO ROYAL MISTRESSES.
Dialogue between Helen and Madame de Maintenon.
By ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
[Anna Letitia Antra: An English miscellaneous writer ; bora in 1743 ; married Rochemont Barbauld, a Huguenot refugee, in 1774. A volume of " Miscellaneous Pieces," written with her brother, — but the best of them hers, — gave her reputation. She wrote " Hymns in Prose for Children," " Devotional Pieces," " Early Lessons," etc. She died in 1825. ]
Helen — Whence comes it, my dear Madame Maintenon, that beauty, which in the age I lived in produced such extraor dinary effects, has now lost almost all its power ?
Maintenon — I should wish first to be convinced of the fact, before I offer to give you a reason for it.
Helen — That will be very easy ; for there is no occasion to
214 TWO ROYAL MISTRESSES.
go any further than our own histories and experience to prove what I advance. You were beautiful, accomplished, and fortu nate ; endowed with every talent and every grace to bend the heart of man and mold it to your wish : and your schemes were successful ; for you raised yourself from obscurity and dependence to be the wife of a great monarch. — But what is this to the influence my beauty had over sovereigns and
I occasioned a long ten years' war between the most
nations !
celebrated heroes of antiquity ; contending kingdoms disputed the honor of placing me on their respective thrones ; my story is recorded by the father of verse ; and my charms make a figure even in the annals of mankind. You were, it is true, the wife of Louis XIV. , and respected in his court : but you occasioned no wars ; you are not spoken of in the history of France, though you furnished materials for the memoirs of a court. Are the love and admiration that were paid you merely as an amiable woman to be compared with the enthusiasm I inspired, and the boundless empire I obtained over all that was celebrated, great, or powerful in the age I lived in ?
Maintenon — All this, my dear Helen, has a splendid appear ance, and sounds well in a heroic poem ; but you greatly deceive yourself if you impute it all to your personal merit. Do you imagine that half the chiefs concerned in the war of Troy were at all influenced by your beauty, or troubled their heads what became of you, provided they came off with honor? Believe me, love had very little to do in the affair. Menelaus sought to revenge the affront he had received ; Agamemnon was flattered with the supreme command ; some came to share the glory, others the plunder ; some because they had bad wives at home, some in hopes of getting Trojan mistresses abroad : and Homer thought the story extremely proper for the subject of the best poem in the world. Thus you became famous ; your elopement was made a national quarrel ; the animosities of both nations were kindled by frequent battles : and the object was not the restoring of Helen to Menelaus, but the destruction of Troy by the Greeks. — My triumphs, on the other hand, were all owing to myself and to the influence of personal merit and charms over the heart of man. My birth
I had passed the bloom of youth, and was advancing to that period at which the general
was obscure ; my fortunes low ;
ity of our sex lose all importance with the other. I had to do with a man of gallantry and intrigue, a monarch who had been
TWO ROYAL MISTRESSES. 215
long familiarized with beauty, and accustomed to every refine ment of pleasure which the most splendid court in Europe could afford : Love and Beauty seemed to have exhausted all their powers of pleasing for him in vain. Yet this man I cap tivated, I fixed ; and far from being content, as other beauties had been, with the honor of possessing his heart, I brought him to make me his wife, and gained an honorable title to his tenderest affection. — The infatuation of Paris reflected little honor upon you. A thoughtless youth, gay, tender, and impressible, struck with your beauty, in violation of all the most sacred laws of hospitality carries you off, and obstinately refuses to restore you to your husband. You seduced Paris from his duty, I recovered Louis from vice ; you were the mis tress of the Trojan prince, I was the companion of the French monarch. ^
Helen — I grant you were the wife of Louis, but not the queen of France. Your great object was ambition, and in that you met with a partial success ; my ruling star was love, and I gave up everything for it. But tell me, did not I show my influence over Menelaus in his taking me again after the destruction of Troy ?
Maintenon — That circumstance alone is sufficient to show that he did not love you with any delicacy. He took you as a possession that was restored to him, as a booty that he had re covered ; and he had not sentiment enough to care whether he had your heart or not. The heroes of your age were capable of admiring beauty, and often fought for the possession of it ; but they had not refinement enough to be capable of any pure, sentimental attachment or delicate passion. Was that period the triumph of love and gallantry, when a fine woman and a tripod were placed together for prizes at a wrestling bout, and the tripod esteemed the more valuable reward of the two ? No : it is our Clelia, our Cassandra and Princess of Cleves, that have polished mankind and taught them how to love.
Helen — Rather say you have lost sight of nature and passion, between bombast on one hand and conceit on the other. Shall one of the cold temperament of France teach a Greek how to love? Greece, the parent of fair forms and soft desires, the nurse of poetry, whose soft climate and tempered skies disposed to every gentler feeling, and tuned the heart to harmony and love ! — was Greece a land of barbarians ? But recollect, if you can, an incident which showed the power of beauty in stronger
216 TWO ROYAL MISTRESSES.
colors — that when the grave old counselors of Priam on my appearance were struck with fond admiration, and could not bring themselves to blame the cause of a war that had almost ruined their country; you see I charmed the old as well as seduced the young.
Maintenon — But I, after I was grown old, charmed the
I was idolized in a capital where taste, luxury, and
young ;
magnificence were at the height ;
est wits of my time, and my letters have been carefully handed down to posterity.
Helen — Tell me now, sincerely, were you happy in your elevated fortune?
Maintenon — Alas ! Heaven knows I was far otherwise ; a thousand times did I wish for my dear Scarron again. He was a very ugly fellow, it is true, and had but little money ; but the most easy, entertaining companion in the world : we danced,
I was celebrated by the great
I spoke without fear or anxiety, and was sure to please. With Louis all was gloom, constraint, and a painful solicitude to please — which seldom produces its effect : the king's temper had been soured in the latter part of life by
laughed, and sung ;
frequent disappointments ; and I was forced continually to en deavor to procure him that cheerfulness which I had not myself. Louis was accustomed to the most delicate flatteries ; and though I had a good share of wit, my faculties were continually on the stretch to entertain him, — a state of mind little consistent with
I was afraid to advance my friends or punish my enemies. My pupils at St. Cyr were not more secluded
happiness or ease ;
from the world in a cloister than I was in the bosom of the court ; a secret disgust and weariness consumed me. I had no relief but in my work and books of devotion ; with these alone I had a gleam of happiness.
Helen — Alas ! one need not have married a great monarch for that.
Maintenon — But deign to inform me, Helen, if you were really as beautiful as fame reports ; for, to say truth, I cannot in your shade see the beauty which for nine long years had set the world in arms.
Helen — Honestly, no. I was rather low, and something sun burnt : but I had the good fortune to please ; that was all. I was greatly obliged to Homer.
Maintenon — And did you live tolerably with Menelaus after all your adventures?
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
217
Helen — As well as possible. Menelaus was a good-natured, domestic man, and was glad to sit down and end his days in quiet. I persuaded him that Venus and the Fates were the cause of all my irregularities, which he complaisantly believed. Besides, I was not sorry to return home : for, to tell you a secret, Paris had been unfaithful to me long before his death, and was fond of a little Trojan brunette whose office it was to hold up my train ; but it was thought dishonorable to give me up. I
I became a great housekeeper, worked the battles of Troy in tapestry, and spun
with my maids by the side of Menelaus, who was so satisfied with my conduct, and behaved, good man, with so much fond ness, that I verily think this was the happiest period of my life.
Maintenon — Nothing more likely ; but the most obscure wife in Greece could rival you there. Adieu ! You have convinced me how little fame and greatness conduce to happiness.
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE. (Translation of Parnell, corrected by Pope. )
[This delightful burlesque on the Iliad was anciently and most absurdly attributed to Homer himself. It cannot be earlier than the sixth century, and there was a tradition that the author was Plgres, brother of Queen Artemisia, who fought at Salamis, b. c. 480. — The translation is a loose paraphrase from a very inaccurate text, but is still the most spirited and entertaining yet made, and gives the mock-heroic tone perfectly. We have corrected the spelling of the names. ]
began to think love a very foolish thing :
Names ofthe Mice.
Psicharpax, Crumb-stealer. Tboxartes, Gnaw-bread. Lichomyle, Lick-meal. Ptbbkotroctes, Bacon-gnawer. Lichofinax, Lick-plate. Embasichytros, Go-in-the-pot. Lichbnor, Lickman. Troglodytes, Hole-dweller. Artophagus, Bread-eater. Tyrophaous, Cheese-eater. Pternoglyphus, Bacon-tearer. Cnisodioctes, Fat-hunter. Sitophagus, Wheat-eater. Meridarpax, Scrap-stealer.
Names ofthe Frogs.
Physignathus, Puff-cheek.
Peleus, Pelion, Pelusius, Clay-born.
Hydromeduse, Water-Queen. Hypsiboas, Loud Bawler. Seutl. sus, Beet-born. Polyphonus, Chatterbox. Limnocharib, Marsh-Grace. Crambophagus, Cabbage-eater. Limnisius, Marsh-born. Calaminthius, Mint-born. Hydrocharis, Water-Grace. Borboroccetes, Mud-nester. Prassophaqus, Leek -eater. Pelobatbs, Clay-goer. Prass^us, Leek-green. Crauqabides, Croiikerson.
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Book L
To fill my rising song with sacred fire,
Ye tuneful Nine, ye sweet celestial quire,
From Helicon's imbow'ring height repair,
Attend my labors, and reward my prayer.
The dreadful toils of raging Mars I write,
The springs of contest, and the fields of fight ;
How threat'ning mice advanced with warlike grace, And waged dire combats with the croaking race. Not louder tumults shook Olympus' towers,
When earth-born giants dared immortal powers. These equal acts an equal glory claim,
And thus the Muse records the tale of fame.
Once on a time, fatigued and out of breath, And just escaped the stretching claws of death, A gentle mouse, whom cats pursued in vain, Flies swift of foot across the neighboring plain, Hangs o'er a brink his eager thirst to cool,
And dips his whiskers in the standing pool ; When near a courteous frog advanced his head, And from the waters, hoarse resounding, said :
" What art thou, stranger ? what the line you boast What chance hath cast thee panting on our coast ? With strictest truth let all thy words agree,
Nor let me fiud a faithless mouse in thee.
If worthy friendship, proffered friendship take, And entering view the pleasurable lake :
Range o'er my palace, in my bounty share,
And glad return from hospitable fare.
This silver realm extends beneath my sway, And me their monarch, all its frogs obey. Great Physignathus I, from Peleus' race, Begot in fair Hydromeduse' embrace,
Where by the nuptial bank that paints his side, The swift Eridanus delights to glide.
Thee too thy form, thy strength, and port proclaim A sceptered king ; a son of martial fame :
Then trace thy line, and aid my guessing eyes. " Thus ceased the frog, and thus the mouse replies : " Known to the gods, the men, the birds that fly
Through wild expanses of the midway sky, My name resounds ; and if unknown to thee, The soul of great Psicharpax lives in me.
Of brave Troxartes' line, whose sleeky down In love compressed Lichomyle the brown.
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
My mother she, and princess of the plains Where'er her father Pternotroctes reigns :
Born where a cabin lifts its airy shed,
With figs, with nuts, with varied dainties fed. But since our natures naught in common know, From what foundation can a friendship grow ? These curling waters o'er thy palace roll ;
But man's high food supports my princely soul. In vain the circled loaves attempt to lie Concealed in flaskets from my curious eye ;
In vain the tripe that boasts the whitest hue, In vain the gilded bacon shuns my view ;
In vain the cheeses, offspring of the pail,
Or honeyed cakes which gods themselves regale. And as in arts I shine, in arms I fight,
Mixed with the bravest, and unknown to flight. Though large to mine the human form appear,
Not man himself can smite my soul with fear ;
Sly to the bed with silent steps I go,
Attempt his finger, or attack his toe,
And fix indented wounds with dexterous skill ; Sleeping he feels, and only seems to feel.
Yet have we foes which direful dangers cause,
Grim owls with talons armed, and cats with claws ! And that false trap, the den of silent fate,
Where death his ambush plants around the bait ; All dreaded these, and dreadful o'er the rest
The potent warriors of the tabby vest :
If to the dark we fly, the dark they trace,
And rend our heroes of the nibbling race.
But me, nor stalks nor wat'rish herbs delight,
Nor can the crimson radish charm my sight,
The lake-resounding frogs' selected fare,
Which not a mouse of any taste can bear. "
" Thy words luxuriant on thy dainties rove ;
And, stranger, we can boast of bounteous Jove :
We sport in water, or we dance on land,
And, born amphibious, food from both command. But trust thyself where wonders ask thy view,
And safely tempt those seas I'll bear thee through : Ascend my shoulders, firmly keep thy seat,
And reach my marshy court, and feast in state. "
He said, and lent his back ; with nimble bound Leaps the light mouse, and clasps his arms around,
As thus the downy prince his mind expressed, His answer thus the croaking king addressed:
220
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Then wond'ring floats, and sees with glad survey The winding banks dissemble ports at sea.
But when aloft the curling water rides,
And wets with azure wave his downy sides,
His thoughts grow conscious of approaching woe, His idle tears with vain repentance flow.
His locks he rends, his trembling feet he rears, Thick beats his heart with unaccustomed fears ;
He sighs, and, chilled with danger, longs for shore ; His tail, extended, forms a fruitless oar.
Half drenched in liquid death, his prayers he spake, And thus bemoaned him from the dreadful lake :
" So passed Europa through the rapid sea, Trembling and fainting all the vent'rous way ; With oary feet the bull triumphant rode,
And safe in Crete deposed his lovely load.
Ah, safe at last may thus the frog support " My trembling limbs to reach his ample court !
As thus he sorrows, death ambiguous grows :
Lo ! from the deep a water hydra rose :
He rolls his sanguined eyes, his bosom heaves,
And darts with active rage along the waves. Confused, the monarch sees his hissing foe,
And dives to shun the sable fates below.
Forgetful frog ! the friend thy shoulders bore, Unskilled in swimming, floats remote from shore He grasps with fruitless hands to find relief, Supinely falls, and grinds his teeth with grief ; Plunging he sinks, and struggling mounts again, And sinks, and strives, but strives with fate in vain. The weighty moisture clogs his hairy vest,
And thus the prince his dying rage expressed :
" Nor thou that fling'st me flound'ring from thy back,
As from hard rocks rebounds the shattering wrack, Nor thou shalt 'scape thy due, perfidious king ! Pursued by vengeance on the swiftest wing :
At land thy strength could never equal mine,
At sea to conquer, and by craft, was thine.
But Heaven has gods, and gods have searching eyes : Ye mice, ye mice, my great avengers, rise ! "
This said, he sighing gasped, and gasping died. His death the young Lichopinax espied,
As on the flowery brink he passed the day, Basked in the beam, and loitered life away.
Loud shrieks the mouse, his shrieks the shores repeat ! The nibbling nation learn their hero's fate ;
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Grief, dismal grief, ensues ; deep murmurs sound, And shriller fury fills the deafened ground ;
From lodge to lodge the sacred heralds run,
To fix their council with the rising sun ;
Where great Troxartes, crowned in glory, reigns, And winds his lengthening court beneath the plains : Psicharpax' father, father now no more I
For poor Psicharpax lies remote from shore :
Supine he lies ! the silent waters stand,
And no kind billow wafts the dead to land !
Book II.
When rosy-fingered morn had tinged the clouds, Around their monarch mouse the nation crowds. Slow rose the monarch, heaved his anxious breast, And thus the council, filled with rage, addressed :
" For lost Psicharpax much my soul endures ; 'Tis mine the private grief, the public, yours : Three warlike sons adorned my nuptial bed, Three sons, alas, before their father dead !
Our eldest perished by the rav'ning cat,
As near my court the prince unheedful sat.
Our next, an engine fraught with danger drew, The portal gaped, the bait was hung in view, Dire arts assist the trap, the fates decoy,
And men unpitying killed my gallant boy.
The last, his country's hope, his parent's pride, Plunged in the lake by Physignathus died. Rouse all the war, my friends ! avenge the deed, And bleed that monarch, and his nation bleed. "
His words in every breast inspired alarms, And careful Mars supplied their host with arms. In verdant hulls despoiled of all their beans,
The buskined warriors stalked along the plains ; Quills aptly bound their bracing corselet made, Faced with the plunder of a cat they flayed ;
The lamp's round boss affords their ample shield, Large shells of nuts their covering helmet yield ; And o'er the region, with reflected rays,
Tall groves of needles for their lances blaze. Dreadful in arms the marching mice appear : The wond'ring frogs perceive the tumult near, Forsake the waters, thick'ning form a ring.
And ask, and hearken, whence the noises spring, When near the crowd, disclosed to public view, The valiant chief Embasichytros drew :
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
The sacred herald's scepter graced his hand,
And thus his words expressed his king's command :
" Ye frogs ! the mice, with vengeance fired, advance, And decked in armor shake the shining lance;
Their hapless prince, by Physignathus slain,
Extends incumbent on the watery plain.
Then arm your host, the doubtful battle try ; Lead forth those frogs that have the soul to die. "
The chief retires ; the crowd the challenge hear, And proudly swelling, yet perplexed appear: Much they resent, yet much their monarch blame, Who, rising, spoke to clear his tainted fame :
I never forced the mouse to death, Nor saw the gaspings of his latest breath.
" O friends !
He, vain of youth, our art of swimming tried, And venturous in the lake the wanton died; To vengeance now by false appearance led, They point their anger at my guiltless head. But wage the rising war by deep device,
And turn its fury on the crafty mice.
Your king directs the way ; my thoughts, elate With hopes of conquest, form designs of fate. Where high the banks their verdant surface heave, And the steep sides confine the sleeping wave, There, near the margin, and in armor bright, Sustain the first impetuous shocks of fight ;
Then, where the dancing feather joins the crest, Let each brave frog his obvious mouse arrest ; Each strongly grasping headlong plunge a foe,
Till countless circles whirl the lake below;
Down sink the mice in yielding waters drowned ; Loud flash the waters, echoing shores resound : The frogs triumphant tread the conquered plain, And raise their glorious trophies of the slain. "
He spake no more, his prudent scheme imparts Redoubling ardor to the boldest hearts.
Green was the suit his arming heroes chose, Around their legs the greaves of mallows close ; Green were the beets about their shoulders laid, And green the colewort which the target made ; Formed of the varied shells the waters yield, Their glossy helmets glistened o'er the field ; And tapering sea reeds for the polished spear, With upright order pierce the ambient air :
Thus dressed for war, they take th' appointed height, Poise the long arms, and urge the promised fight.
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
But, now, where Jove's irradiate spires arise,
With stars surrounded in ethereal skies,
(A solemn council called,) the brazen gates
Unbar; the gods assume their golden seats:
The sire superior leans, and points to show
What wondrous combats mortals wage below:
How strong, how large, the numerous heroes stride ; What length of lance they shake with warlike pride; What eager fire their rapid march reveals !
So the fierce Centaurs ravaged o'er the dales ; And so confirmed the daring Titans rose,
Heaped hills on hills, and bade the gods be foes.
This seen, the power his sacred visage rears ; He casts a pitying smile on worldly cares,
And asks what heavenly guardians take the list, Or who the mice, or who the frogs assist ?
If my daughter's mind
Then thus to Pallas : "
Have joined the mice, why stays she still behind ? Drawn forth by savory steams, they wind their way, And sure attendance round thine altar pay,
Where, while the victims gratify their taste,
They sport to please the goddess of the feast. "
Thus spake the ruler of the spacious skies ; When thus, resolved, the blue-eyed maid replies : "In vain, my father! all their dangers plead;
To such, thy Pallas never grants her aid.
My flowery wreaths they petulantly spoil,
And rob my crystal lamps of feeding oil
(Ills following ills) ; but what afflicts me more,
My veil that idle race profanely tore.
The web was curious, wrought with art divine ; Relentless wretches I all the work was mine : Along the loom the purple warp I spread,
Cast the light shoot, and crossed the silver thread. In this their teeth a thousand breaches tear;
The thousand breaches skillful hands repair;
For which, vile earthly duns thy daughter grieve ; But gods, that use no coin, have none to give;
And learning's goddess never less can owe; Neglected learning gets no wealth below.
Nor let the frogs to gain my succor sue,
Those clam'rous fools have lost my favor too.
For late, when all the conflict ceased at night, When my stretched sinews ached with eager fight ; When spent with glorious toil I left the field,
And sunk for slumber on my swelling shield ;
224
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Lo, from the deep, repelling sweet repose,
With noisy croakings half the nation rose : Devoid of rest, with aching brows I lay
Till cocks proclaimed the crimson dawn of day. Let all, like me, from either host forbear,
Nor tempt the flying furies of the spear.
Let heavenly blood (or what for blood may flow) Adorn the conquest of a nobler foe,
Who, wildly rushing, meet the wondrous odds, Though gods oppose, and brave the wounded gods. O'er gilded clouds reclined, the danger view,
And be the wars of mortals scenes for you. "
So moved the blue-eyed queen, her words persuade ; Great Jove assented, and the rest obeyed.
Book III.
Now front to front the marching armies shine,
Halt ere they meet, and form the length'ning line ; The chiefs, conspicuous seen, and heard afar,
Give the loud sign to loose the rushing war ;
Their dreadful trumpets deep-mouthed hornets sound, The sounded charge remurmurs o'er the ground ;
Ev'n Jove proclaims a field of horror nigh,
And rolls low thunder through the troubled sky.
First to the fight the large Hypsiboas flew, And brave Lichenor with a javelin slew ;
The luckless warrior, filled with gen'rous flame, Stood foremost glitt'ring in the post of fame, When, in his liver struck, the javelin hung ;
The mouse fell thundering, and the target rung : Prone to the ground he sinks his closing eye, And, soiled in dust, his lovely tresses lie.
A spear at Pelion, Troglodytes cast ;
The missive spear within the bosom passed ; Death's sable shades the fainting frog surround, And life's red tide runs ebbing from the wound. Embasichytros felt Seutlaeus' dart
Transfix, and quiver in his panting heart ;
But great Artophagus avenged the slain,
And big Seutlaeus tumbling loads the plain.
And Polyphonus dies, a frog renowned
For boastful speech, and turbulence of sound ; Deep through the belly pierced, supine he lay, And breathed his soul against the face of day.
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
The strong Limnocharis, who viewed with ire A victor triumph, and a friend expire ;
With heaving arms a rocky fragment caught, And fiercely flung where Troglodytes fought,
A warrior versed in arts of sure retreat,
Yet arts in vain elude impending fate:
Full on his sinewy neck the fragment fell,
And o'er his eyelids clouds eternal dwell.
Lichenor (second of the glorious name)
Striding advanced, and took no wandering aim, Through all the frog the shining javelin flies,
And near the vanquished mouse the victor dies.
The dreadful stroke Crambophagus affrights,
Long bred to banquets, less inured to fights ;
Heedless he runs, and stumbles o'er the steep,
And wildly floundering, flashes up the deep: Lichenor, following, with a downward blow
Reached, in the lake, his unrecovered foe ;
Gasping he rolls, a purple stream of blood
Distains the surface of the silver flood ;
Through the wide wound the rushing entrails throng, And slow the breathless carcass floats along.
Limnisius good Tyrophagus assails,
Prince of the mice that haunt the flowery vales ; Lost to the milky fares and rural seat,
He came to perish on the bank of fate.
The dread Pternoglyphus demands the fight,
Which tender Calaminthius shuns by flight,
Drops the green target, springing quits the foe, Glides through the lake, and safely dives below.
The dire Pternophagus divides his way
Through breaking ranks, and leads the dreadful day; No nibbling prince excelled in fierceness more ;
His parents fed him on the savage boar :
But where his lance the field with blood imbrued, Swift as he moved Hydrocharis pursued,
Till fallen in death he lies ; a shattering stone Sounds on the neck, and crushes all the bone ;
His blood pollutes the verdure of the plain,
And from his nostrils bursts the gushing brain.
Lichopinax with Borborocoetes fights,
A blameless frog, whom humbler life delights ; The fatal javelin unrelenting flies,
And darkness seals the gentle croaker's eyes. Incensed Prassophagus, with sprightly bound, Bears Cnisodioctes off the rising ground ;
vol. n. — 15
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Then drags him o'er the lake, deprived of breath ; And downward plunging, sinks his soul to death. But now the great Psicharpax shines afar
(Scarce he so great whose loss provoked the war). Swift to revenge his fatal javelin fled,
And through the liver struck Pelusius [Prassophagus] dead His freckled corse before the victor fell,
His soul indignant sought the shades of hell.
This saw Pelobates, and from the flood
Lifts with both hands a monstrous mass of mud: The cloud obscene o'er all the warrior flies, Dishonors his brown face, and blots his eyes. Enraged, and wildly sputtering from the shore, A stone immense of size the warrior bore,
A load for laboring earth, whose bulk to raise, Asks ten degenerate mice of modern days :
Full to the leg arrives the crushing wound ; The frog, supportless, writhes upon the ground.
Thus flushed, the victor wars with matchless force, Till loud Craugasides arrests his course:
Hoarse croaking threats precede ; with fatal speed Deep through the belly runs the pointed reed,
Then, strongly tugged, returned imbrued with gore, And on the pile his reeking entrails bore.
The lame Sitophagus, oppressed with pain,
Creeps from the desperate dangers of the plain : And where the ditches rising weeds supply,
To spread the lowly shades beneath the sky ; There lurks the silent mouse, relieved of heat, And, safe embowered, avoids the chance of fate.
But here Troxartes, Physignathus there, Whirl the dire furies of the pointed spear: Then where the foot around its ankle plies, Troxartes wounds, and Physignathus flies,
Halts to the pool, a safe retreat to find,
And trails a dangling length of leg behind.
The mouse still urges, still the frog retires,
And half in anguish of the flight expires.
Then pious ardor young Prassaeus brings, Betwixt the fortunes of contending kings : Lank, harmless frog! with forces hardly grown, He darts the reed in combats not his own, Which faintly tinkling on Troxartes' shield, Hangs at the point, and drops upon the field.
Now nobly towering o'er the rest appears
A gallant prince that far transcends his years,
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
Pride of his sire, and glory of his house,
And more a Mars in combat than a mouse:
His action bold, robust his ample frame,
And Meridarpax his resounding name.
The warrior, singled from the fighting crowd, Boasts the dire honors of his arms aloud ;
Then strutting near the lake, with looks elate, Threats all its nations with approaching fate. And such his strength, the silver lakes around Might roll their waters o'er unpeopled ground, But powerful Jove, who shows no less his grace To frogs that perish than to human race,
Felt soft compassion rising in his soul,
And shook his sacred head, that shook the pole. Then thus to all the gazing powers began
The sire of gods, and frogs, and mouse, and man :
" What seas of blood I view, what worlds of slain ! An Iliad rising from a day's campaign !
How fierce his javelin, o'er the trembling lakes,
The black furred hero, Meridarpax, shakes I
Unless some favoring deity descend,
Soon will the frogs' loquacious empire end. Let dreadful Pallas winged with pity fly, And make her aegis blaze before his eye : While Mars, refulgent on his rattling car, Arrests his raging rival of the war. "
He ceased, reclining with attending head, When thus the glorious god of combats said :
" Not Pallas, Jove ! though Pallas take the field, With all the terrors of her hissing shield ;
Nor Mars himself, though Mars in armor bright Ascends his car, and wheel amidst the fight : Not these can drive the desperate mouse afar,
And change the fortunes of the bleeding war. Let all go forth, all heaven in arms arise ;
Or launch thy own red thunder from the skies ; Such ardent bolts as flew that wondrous day, When heaps of Titans mixed with mountains lay When all the giant race enormous fell ;
And huge Enceladus was hurled to hell. " 'Twas thus th' armipotent advised the gods,
When from his throne the cloud compeller nods ; Deep-lengthening thunders run from pole to pole, Olympus trembles as the thunders roll.
Then swift he whirls the brandished bolt around, And headlong darts it at the distant ground ;
228
THE BATTLE OF THE FROGS AND MICE.
The bolt discharged, inwrapped with lightning flies, And rends its flaming passage through the skies : The earth's inhabitants, the nibblers, shake ;
And frogs, the dwellers in the waters, quake.
Yet still the mice advance their dread design, And the last danger threats the croaking line ; Till Jove, that inly mourned the loss they bore, With strange assistance filled the frighted shore.
Poured from the neighboring strand, deformed to view, They march, a sudden unexpected crew.
Strong suits of armor round their bodies close,
Which like thick anvils blunt the force of blows ;
In wheeling marches turned, oblique they go ;
With harpy claws their limbs divide below ;
Fell shears the passage to their mouth command ; From out the flesh the bones by nature stand ;
Broad spread their backs, their shining shoulders rise, Unnumbered joints distort their lengthened thighs ; With nervous cords their hands are firmly braced, Their round black eyeballs in their bosom placed ;
On eight long feet the wondrous warriors tread, And either hand alike supplies a head.
These to call crabs mere mortal wits agree ;
But gods have other names for things than we.
Now, where the jointures from their loins depend, The heroes' tails with severing grasps they rend. Here, short of feet, deprived the power to fly ;
There, without hands, upon the field they lie. Wrenched from their holds, and scattered all around, The blended lances heap the cumbered ground. Helpless amazement, fear pursuing fear,
And mad confusion through their host appear. O'er the wild waste with headlong flight they go, Or creep concealed in vaulted holes below.
But down Olympus, to the western seas, Far-shooting Phoebus drove with fainter rays : And a whole war (so Jove ordained) begun, Was fought, and ceased, in one revolving sun.
NO FINAL TRANSLATION OF HOMER POSSIBLE. 229
NO FINAL TRANSLATION OF HOMER POSSIBLE. By BUTCHER and LANG.
There would have been less controversy about the proper method of Homeric translation, if critics had recognized that the question is a purely relative one, that of Homer there can be no final translation. The taste and the literary habits of each age demand different qualities in poetry, and therefore a different sort of rendering of Homer. To the men of the time of Elizabeth, Homer would have appeared bald, it seems, and lacking in ingenuity, if he had been presented in his antique simplicity. For the Elizabethan age, Chapman supplied what was then necessary, and the mannerisms that were then deemed of the essence of poetry, — namely, daring and luxurious con ceits. Thus in Chapman's verse Troy must " shed her towers for tears of overthrow"; and when the winds toss Odysseus about, their sport must be called " the horrid tennis. "
In the age of Anne, "dignity" and "correctness " had to be given to Homer, and Pope gave them by aid of his dazzling rhetoric, his antitheses, his nettetS, his command of every con ventional and favorite artifice. Without Chapman's conceits, Homer's poems would hardly have been what the Elizabethans took for poetry ; without Pope's smoothness, and Pope's points, the Iliad and Odyssey would have seemed tame, rude, and harsh in the age of Anne. These great translations must always live as English poems. As transcripts of Homer they are like pictures drawn from alost point of view. Again, when Europe woke to a sense, an almost exaggerated and certainly uncritical sense, of the value of her songs of the people, of all the ballads that Herder, Scott, Lonnrot, and the rest collected, it was commonly said that Homer was a ballad minstrel ; that the translator must imitate the simplicity, and even adopt the formulae, of the ballad. Hence came the renderings of Maginn, the experiments of Mr. Gladstone, and others. There was some excuse for the error of critics who asked for a Homer in ballad rhyme. The epic poet, the poet of gods and heroes, did indeed inherit some of the formulae of the earlier Volks-lied. Homer, like"the author of " The Song of Roland," like the sing ers of the Kalevala," uses constantly recurring epithets, and
230 NO FINAL TRANSLATION OF HOMER POSSIBLE.
repeats, word for word, certain emphatic passages, messages, and so on. That custom is essential in the ballad ; it is an accident, not the essence, of the epic. The epic is a poem of consummate and supreme art ; but it still bears some birth marks, some signs of the early popular chant, out of which it sprung, as the garden rose springs from the wild stock. When this is recognized, the demand for balladlike simplicity and " ballad slang " ceases to exist, and then all Homeric transla tions in the ballad manner cease to represent our conception of Homer. After the belief in the ballad manner follows the rec ognition of the romantic vein in Homer ; and as a result came Mr. Worsley's admirable Odyssey. This masterly translation does all that can be done for the Odyssey in the romantic style. The liquid lapses of the verse, the wonderful closeness to the original, reproduce all of Homer, in music and in meaning, that can be rendered in English verse. There still, however, seems an aspect of the Homeric poems, and a demand in connection with Homer, to be recognized and to be satisfied.
Sainte-Beuve says, with reference probably to M. Leconte de Lisle's prose version of the epics, that some people treat the epics too much as if they were sagas. Now the Homeric epics are sagas ; but then they are the sagas of the divine heroic age of Greece, and thus are told with an art which is not the art of the Northern poets. The epics are stories about the adventures of men living in most respects like the men of our own race who dwelt in Iceland, Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. The epics are, in a way, and as far as manners and institutions are concerned, historical documents. Whoever regards them in this way must wish to read them exactly as they have reached us, without modern ornament, with nothing added or omitted. He must recognize, with Mr. Matthew Arnold, that what he now wants — namely, the simple truth about the matter of the poem —can only be given in prose, "for in a verse translation no original work is any longer recognizable. " It is for this reason that we have attempted to tell once more, in simple prose, the story of Odysseus. We have tried to transfer, not all the truth about the poem, but the historical truth, into English. In this process Homer must lose at least half his charm : his bright and equable speed, the musical current of that narrative, which, like the river of Egypt, flows from an indiscoverable source, and mirrors the temples and the palaces of unforgotten gods and kings. Without this music of verse, only a half truth about
NO FINAL TRANSLATION OF HOMER POSSIBLE. 231
Homer can be told ; but then it is that half of the truth which at this moment it seems most necessary to tell. This is the half of the truth that the translators who use verse cannot easily tell. They must be adding to Homer, talking with Pope about "tracing the mazy lev'ret o'er the lawn," or with Mr. Worsley about the islands that are " stars of the blue ^Egaean," or with Dr. Hawtrey about " the earth's soft arms," when Homer says nothing at all about the " mazy lev'ret," or the " stars of the blue Jigssan," or the " soft arms " of earth. It would be imper tinent indeed to blame any of these translations in their place. They give that which the romantic reader of poetry, or the stu dent of the age of Anne, looks for in verse ; and without tags of this sort, a translation of Homer in verse cannot well be made to hold together.
There can be then, it appears, no final English translation of Homer. In each there must be, in addition to what is Greek and eternal, the element of what is modern, personal, and fleet ing. Thus we trust that there may be room for " the pale and far-off shadow of a prose translation," of which the aim is lim ited and humble. A prose translation cannot give the move ment and the fire of a successful translation in verse ; it only gathers, as it were, the crumbs which fall from the richer table, only tells the story without the song. Yet to a prose transla tion is permitted, perhaps, that close adherence to the archaisms of the epic, which in verse become mere oddities. The double epithets, the recurring epithets of Homer, if rendered into verse, delay and puzzle the reader, as the Greek does not delay nor puzzle him. In prose he may endure them, or even care to study them as the survivals of a stage of taste which is found in its prime in the sagas. These double and recurring epithets of Homer are a softer form of the quaint Northern periphrases, which make the sea the "swan's bath," gold the "dragon's hoard," men the " ring givers," and so on. We do not know whether it is necessary to defend our choice of a somewhat anti quated prose. Homer has no ideas which cannot be expressed in words that are "old and plain"; and to words that are old and plain, and as a rule, to such terms as, being used by the translators of the Bible, are still not unfamiliar, we have tried to restrict ourselves. It may be objected, that the employment of language which does not come spontaneously to the lips is an affectation out of place in a version of the Odyssey. To this we may answer that the Greek Epic dialect, like the English of
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232 CALYPSO.
our Bible, was a thing of slow growth and composite nature ; that it was never a spoken language, nor, except for certain poetical purposes, a written language. Thus the Biblical Eng lish seems as nearly analogous to the Epic Greek, as anything that our tongue has to offer.
THE ODYSSEY. By ANDREW LANG.
As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Mae&a isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine,
As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again,
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers ; And through the music of the languid hours,
They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
CALYPSO.
(From the Odyssey of Homer : translated by S. H. Butcher and Andrew Lang. )
[Andrew Lang : English man of letters ; bom in Scotland, March 31, 1844 ; educated at St. Andrews and at Balliol College. His writings have been of im mense variety : best known are those on folklore and kindred subjects, as " Custom and Myth," " Cock Lane and Common Sense," his collections of "Fairy Books," etc.