No More Learning

And now the golden moon had turned
To shining white, white as our souls that burned
With vision of our prophecy assured:
Suddenly white was the moon; but she
At once did on a woven modesty
Of cloud, and soon went in obscured:
And we were dark, and vanisht that strange hill.
But yet it was not long before
There opened in the sky a narrow door,
Made with pearl lintel and pearl sill;
And the earth's night seem'd pressing there,--
All as a beggar on some festival would peer,--
To gaze into a room of light beyond,
The hidden silver splendour of the moon.
Yea, and we also, we
Long gazed wistfully
Towards thee, O morning, come at last,
And towards the light that thou wilt pour upon us soon!


II

O soul who still art strange to sense,
Who often against beauty wouldst complain,
Doubting between joy and pain:
If like the startling touch of something keen
Against thee, it hath been
To follow from an upland height
The swift sun hunting rain
Across the April meadows of a plain,
Until the fields would flash into the air
Their joyous green, like emeralds alight;
Or when in the blue of night's mid-noon
The burning naked moon
Draws to a brink of cloudy weather near,
A breadth of snow, firm and soft as a wing,
Stretcht out over a wind that gently goes,--
Through the white sleep of snowy cloud there grows
An azure-border'd shining ring,
The gleaming dream of the approaching joy of her;--
What now wilt thou do, Soul? What now,
If with such things as these troubled thou wert?
How wilt thou now endure, or how
Not now be strangely hurt? --
When utter beauty must come closer to thee
Than even anger or fear could be;
When thou, like metal in a kiln, must lie
Seized by beauty's mightily able flame;
Enjoyed by beauty as by the ruthless glee
Of an unescapable power;
Obeying beauty as air obeys a cry;
Yea, one thing made of beauty and thee,
As steel and a white heat are made the same!
--Ah, but I know how this infirmity
Will fail and be not, no, not memory,
When I begin the marvellous hour.
This only is my heart's strain'd eagerness,
Long waiting for its bliss. --
But from those other fears, from those
That keep to Love so close,
From fears that are the shadow of delight,
Hide me, O joys; make them unknown to-night!


III

Thou bright God that in dream earnest to me last night,
Thou with the flesh made of a golden light,
Knew I not thee, thee and thy heart,
Knew I not well, God, who thou wert?
Yea, and my soul divinely understood
The light that was beneath thee a ground,
The golden light that cover'd thee round,
Turning my sleep to a fiery morn,
Was as a heavenly oath there sworn
Promising me an immortal good:
Well I knew thee, God of Marriages, thee and thy flame!
Ah, but wherefore beside thee came
That fearful sight of another mood?
Why in thy light, to thy hand chained,
Towards me its bondage terribly strained,
Why came with thee that dreadful hound,
The wild hound Fear, black, ravenous and gaunt?
Why him with thee should thy dear light surround?
Why broughtest thou that beast to haunt
The blissful footsteps of my golden dream? --
All shadowy black the body dread,
All frenzied fire the head,--
The hunger of its mouth a hollow crimson flame,
The hatred in its eyes a blaze
Fierce and green, stabbing the ruddy glaze,
And sharp white jetting fire the teeth snarl'd at me,
And white the dribbling rage of froth,--
A throat that gaped to bay and paws working violently,
Yet soundless all as a winging moth;
Tugging towards me, famishing for my heart;--
Even while thou, O golden god, wert still
Looking the beautiful kindness of thy will
Into my soul, even then must I be,
With thy bright promise looking at me,
Then bitterly of that hound afraid? --
Darkness, I know, attendeth bright,
And light comes not but shadow comes:
And heart must know, if it know thy light,
Thy wild hound Fear, the shadow of love's delight.
Yea, is it thus? Are we so made
Of death and darkness, that even thou,
O golden God of the joys of love,
Thy mind to us canst only prove,
The glorious devices of thy mind,
By so revealing how thy journeying here
Through this mortality, doth closely bind
Thy brightness to the shadow of dreadful Fear? --
Ah no, it shall not be! Thy joyous light
Shall hide me from the hunger of fear to-night.


IV

For wonderfully to live I now begin:
So that the darkness which accompanies
Our being here, is fasten'd up within
The power of light that holdeth me;
And from these shining chains, to see
My joy with bold misliking eyes,
The shrouded figure will not dare arise.
For henceforth, from to-night,
I am wholly gone into the bright
Safety of the beauty of love:
Not only all my waking vigours plied
Under the searching glory of love,
But knowing myself with love all satisfied
Even when my life is hidden in sleep;
As high clouds, to themselves that keep
The moon's white company, are all possest
Silverly with the presence of their guest;
Or as a darken'd room
That hath within it roses, whence the air
And quietness are taken everywhere
Deliciously by sweet perfume.




EPILOGUE




EPILOGUE


What shall we do for Love these days?
How shall we make an altar-blaze
To smite the horny eyes of men
With the renown of our Heaven,
And to the unbelievers prove
Our service to our dear god, Love?
What torches shall we lift above
The crowd that pushes through the mire,
To amaze the dark heads with strange fire?
I should think I were much to blame,
If never I held some fragrant flame
Above the noises of the world,
And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares,
Worshipt before the sacred fears
That are like flashing curtains furl'd
Across the presence of our lord Love.
Nay, would that I could fill the gaze
Of the whole earth with some great praise
Made in a marvel for men's eyes,
Some tower of glittering masonries,
Therein such a spirit flourishing
Men should see what my heart can sing:
All that Love hath done to me
Built into stone, a visible glee;
Marble carried to gleaming height
As moved aloft by inward delight;
Not as with toil of chisels hewn,
But seeming poised in a mighty tune.
For of all those who have been known
To lodge with our kind host, the sun,
I envy one for just one thing:
In Cordova of the Moors
There dwelt a passion-minded King,
Who set great bands of marble-hewers
To fashion his heart's thanksgiving
In a tall palace, shapen so
All the wondering world might know
The joy he had of his Moorish lass.
His love, that brighter and larger was
Than the starry places, into firm stone
He sent, as if the stone were glass
Fired and into beauty blown.
Solemn and invented gravely
In its bulk the fabric stood,
Even as Love, that trusteth bravely
In its own exceeding good
To be better than the waste
Of time's devices; grandly spaced,
Seriously the fabric stood.
But over it all a pleasure went
Of carven delicate ornament,
Wreathing up like ravishment,
Mentioning in sculptures twined
The blitheness Love hath in his mind;
And like delighted senses were
The windows, and the columns there
Made the following sight to ache
As the heart that did them make.
Well I can see that shining song
Flowering there, the upward throng
Of porches, pillars and windowed walls,
Spires like piercing panpipe calls,
Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight;
All glancing in the Spanish light
White as water of arctic tides,
Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides.
You had said, the radiant sheen
Of that palace might have been
A young god's fantasy, ere he came
His serious worlds and suns to frame;
Such an immortal passion
Quiver'd among the slim hewn stone.
And in the nights it seemed a jar
Cut in the substance of a star,
Wherein a wine, that will be poured
Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored.
But within this fretted shell,
The wonder of Love made visible,
The King a private gentle mood
There placed, of pleasant quietude.
For right amidst there was a court,
Where always musked silences
Listened to water and to trees;
And herbage of all fragrant sort,--
Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary,
Basil, tansy, centaury,--
Was the grass of that orchard, hid
Love's amazements all amid.
Jarring the air with rumour cool,
Small fountains played into a pool
With sound as soft as the barley's hiss
When its beard just sprouting is;
Whence a young stream, that trod on moss,
Prettily rimpled the court across.
And in the pool's clear idleness,
Moving like dreams through happiness,
Shoals of small bright fishes were;
In and out weed-thickets bent
Perch and carp, and sauntering went
With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare;
Or on a lotus leaf would crawl,
A brinded loach to bask and sprawl,
Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt
Into the water; but quick as fear
Back his shining brown head slipt
To crouch on the gravel of his lair,
Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack,
Spilt shatter'd gold about his back.
So within that green-veiled air,
Within that white-walled quiet, where
Innocent water thought aloud,--
Childish prattle that must make
The wise sunlight with laughter shake
On the leafage overbowed,--
Often the King and his love-lass
Let the delicious hours pass.
All the outer world could see
Graved and sawn amazingly
Their love's delighted riotise,
Fixt in marble for all men's eyes;
But only these twain could abide
In the cool peace that withinside
Thrilling desire and passion dwelt;
They only knew the still meaning spelt
By Love's flaming script, which is
God's word written in ecstasies.

And where is now that palace gone,
All the magical skill'd stone,
All the dreaming towers wrought
By Love as if no more than thought
The unresisting marble was?
How could such a wonder pass?
Ah, it was but built in vain
Against the stupid horns of Rome,
That pusht down into the common loam
The loveliness that shone in Spain.
But we have raised it up again!
A loftier palace, fairer far,
Is ours, and one that fears no war.
Safe in marvellous walls we are;
Wondering sense like builded fires,
High amazement of desires,
Delight and certainty of love,
Closing around, roofing above
Our unapproacht and perfect hour
Within the splendours of love's power.




_The "Hymn to Love"
is reprinted by permission from "The Vineyard. "_





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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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Title: The Epic
An Essay

Author: Lascelles Abercrombie

Release Date: January 14, 2004 [EBook #10716]

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EPIC ***




Produced by Garrett Alley and PG Distributed Proofreaders




The Epic: an Essay

By Lascelles Abercrombie



1914.



By the same Author:


Towards a Theory of Art
Speculative Dialogues
Four Short Plays
Thomas Hardy: A Critical Study
Principles of English Prosody




PREFACE

_As this essay is disposed to consider epic poetry as a species of
literature, and not as a department of sociology or archaeology or
ethnology, the reader will not find it anything material to the
discussion which may be typified in those very interesting works,
Gilbert Murray's "The Rise of the Greek Epic" and Andrew Lang's "The
World of Homer. " The distinction between a literary and a scientific
attitude to Homer (and all other "authentic" epic) is, I think, finally
summed up in Mr. Mackail's "Lectures on Greek Poetry"; the following
pages, at any rate, assume that this is so. Theories about epic origins
were therefore indifferent to my purpose. Besides, I do not see the need
for any theories; I think it need only be said, of any epic poem
whatever, that it was composed by a man and transmitted by men. But this
is not to say that investigation of the "authentic" epic poet's_ milieu
_may not be extremely profitable; and for settling the preliminaries of
this essay, I owe a great deal to Mr. Chadwick's profoundly
interesting study, "The Heroic Age"; though I daresay Mr. Chadwick would
repudiate some of my conclusions. I must also acknowledge suggestions
taken from Mr. Macneile Dixon's learned and vigorous "English Epic and
Heroic Poetry"; and especially the assistance of Mr. John Clark's
"History of Epic Poetry. " Mr. Clark's book is so thorough and so
adequate that my own would certainly have been superfluous, were it not
that I have taken a particular point of view which his method seems to
rule out--a point of view which seemed well worth taking. This is my
excuse, too, for considering only the most conspicuous instances of epic
poetry. They have been discussed often enough; but not often, so far as
I know, primarily as stages of one continuous artistic development_.




I.


BEGINNINGS

The invention of epic poetry corresponds with a definite and, in the
history of the world, often recurring state of society. That is to say,
epic poetry has been invented many times and independently; but, as the
needs which prompted the invention have been broadly similar, so the
invention itself has been. Most nations have passed through the same
sort of chemistry. Before their hot racial elements have been thoroughly
compounded, and thence have cooled into the stable convenience of
routine which is the material shape of civilization--before this has
firmly occurred, there has usually been what is called an "Heroic Age. "
It is apt to be the hottest and most glowing stage of the process. So
much is commonplace. Exactly what causes the racial elements of a
nation, with all their varying properties, to flash suddenly (as it
seems) into the splendid incandescence of an Heroic Age, and thence to
shift again into a comparatively rigid and perhaps comparatively
lustreless civilization--this difficult matter has been very nicely
investigated of late, and to interesting, though not decided, result.
But I may not concern myself with this; nor even with the detailed
characteristics, alleged or ascertained, of the Heroic Age of nations.
It is enough for the purpose of this book that the name "Heroic Age" is
a good one for this stage of the business; it is obviously, and on the
whole rightly, descriptive. For the stage displays the first vigorous
expression, as the natural thing and without conspicuous restraint, of
private individuality. In savagery, thought, sentiment, religion and
social organization may be exceedingly complicated, full of the most
subtle and strange relationships; but they exist as complete and
determined _wholes_, each part absolutely bound up with the rest.
Analysis has never come near them. The savage is blinded to the glaring
incongruities of his tribal ideas not so much by habit or reverence; it
is simply that the mere possibility of such a thing as analysis has
never occurred to him. He thinks, he feels, he lives, all in a whole.
Each person is the tribe in little. This may make everyone an
astoundingly complex character; but it makes strong individuality
impossible in savagery, since everyone accepts the same elaborate
unanalysed whole of tribal existence. That existence, indeed, would find
in the assertion of private individuality a serious danger; and tribal
organization guards against this so efficiently that it is doubtless
impossible, so long as there is no interruption from outside. In some
obscure manner, however, savage existence has been constantly
interrupted; and it seems as if the long-repressed forces of
individuality then burst out into exaggerated vehemence; for the result
(if it is not slavery) is, that a people passes from its savage to its
heroic age, on its way to some permanence of civilization. It must
always have taken a good deal to break up the rigidity of savage
society. It might be the shock of enforced mixture with a totally alien
race, the two kinds of blood, full of independent vigour, compelled to
flow together;[1] or it might be the migration, due to economic stress,
from one tract of country to which the tribal existence was perfectly
adapted to another for which it was quite unsuited, with the added
necessity of conquering the peoples found in possession. Whatever the
cause may have been, the result is obvious: a sudden liberation, a
delighted expansion, of numerous private individualities.

But the various appearances of the Heroic Age cannot, perhaps, be
completely generalized. What has just been written will probably do for
the Heroic Age which produced Homer, and for that which produced the
_Nibelungenlied, Beowulf_, and the Northern Sagas. It may, therefore
stand as the typical case; since Homer and these Northern poems are what
most people have in their minds when they speak of "authentic" epic. But
decidedly Heroic Ages have occurred much later than the latest of these
cases; and they arose out of a state of society which cannot roundly be
called savagery. Europe, for instance, had its unmistakable Heroic Age
when it was fighting with the Moslem, whether that warfare was a cause
or merely an accompaniment. And the period which preceded it, the period
after the failure of Roman civilization, was sufficiently "dark" and
devoid of individuality, to make the sudden plenty of potent and
splendid individuals seem a phenomenon of the same sort as that which
has been roughly described; it can scarcely be doubted that the age
which is exhibited in the _Poem of the Cid_, the _Song of Roland_, and
the lays of the Crusaders (_la Chanson d'Antioche_, for instance), was
similar in all essentials to the age we find in Homer and the
_Nibelungenlied_. Servia, too, has its ballad-cycles of Christian and
Mahometan warfare, which suppose an age obviously heroic. But it hardly
falls in with our scheme; Servia, at this time, might have been expected
to have gone well past its Heroic Age. Either, then, it was somehow
unusually prolonged, or else the clash of the Ottoman war revived it.
The case of Servia is interesting in another way. The songs about the
battle of Kossovo describe Servian defeat--defeat so overwhelming that
poetry cannot possibly translate it, and does not attempt it, into
anything that looks like victory. Even the splendid courage of its hero
Milos, who counters an imputation of treachery by riding in full
daylight into the Ottoman camp and murdering the Sultan, even this
courage is rather near to desperation. The Marko cycle--Marko whose
betrayal of his country seems wiped out by his immense prowess--has in a
less degree this utter defeat of Servia as its background. But Servian
history before all this has many glories, which, one would think, would
serve the turn of heroic song better than appalling defeat and, indeed,
enslavement. Why is the latter celebrated and not the former? The reason
can only be this: heroic poetry depends on an heroic age, and an age is
heroic because of what it is, not because of what it does. Servia's
defeat by the armies of Amurath came at a time when its people was too
strongly possessed by the heroic spirit to avoid uttering itself in
poetry. And from this it appears, too, that when the heroic age sings,
it primarily sings of itself, even when that means singing of its own
humiliation. --One other exceptional kind of heroic age must just be
mentioned, in this professedly inadequate summary. It is the kind which
occurs quite locally and on a petty scale, with causes obscurer than
ever. The Border Ballads, for instance, and the Robin Hood Ballads,
clearly suppose a state of society which is nothing but a very
circumscribed and not very important heroic age. Here the households of
gentry take the place of courts, and the poetry in vogue there is
perhaps instantly taken up by the taverns; or perhaps this is a case in
which the heroes are so little removed from common folk that celebration
of individual prowess begins among the latter, not, as seems usually to
have happened, among the social equals of the heroes. But doubtless
there are infinite grades in the structure of the Heroic Age.

The note of the Heroic Age, then, is vehement private individuality
freely and greatly asserting itself. The assertion is not always what we
should call noble; but it is always forceful and unmistakable. There
would be, no doubt, some social and religious scheme to contain the
individual's self-assertion; but the latter, not the former, is the
thing that counts. It is not an age that lasts for very long as a rule;
and before there comes the state in which strong social organization and
strong private individuality are compatible--mutually helpful instead of
destroying one another, as they do, in opposite ways, in savagery and in
the Heroic Age--before the state called civilization can arrive, there
has commonly been a long passage of dark obscurity, which throws up into
exaggerated brightness the radiance of the Heroic Age. The balance of
private good and general welfare is at the bottom of civilized morals;
but the morals of the Heroic Age are founded on individuality, and on
nothing else. In Homer, for instance, it can be seen pretty clearly that
a "good" man is simply a man of imposing, active individuality[2]; a
"bad" man is an inefficient, undistinguished man--probably, too, like
Thersites, ugly. It is, in fact, an absolutely aristocratic age--an age
in which he who rules is thereby proven the "best. " And from its nature
it must be an age very heartily engaged in something; usually fighting
whoever is near enough to be fought with, though in _Beowulf_ it seems
to be doing something more profitable to the civilization which is to
follow it--taming the fierceness of surrounding circumstance and man's
primitive kind. But in any case it has a good deal of leisure; and the
best way to prevent this from dragging heavily is (after feasting) to
glory in the things it has done; or perhaps in the things it would like
to have done. Hence heroic poetry. But exactly what heroic poetry was
in its origin, probably we shall never know. It would scarcely be
history, and it would scarcely be very ornate poetry. The first thing
required would be to translate the prowess of champions into good and
moving narrative; and this would be metrified, because so it becomes
both more exciting and more easily remembered. Each succeeding bard
would improve, according to his own notions, the material he received
from his teachers; the prowess of the great heroes would become more and
more astonishing, more and more calculated to keep awake the feasted
nobles who listened to the song. In an age when writing, if it exists at
all, is a rare and secret art, the mists of antiquity descend after a
very few generations. There is little chance of the songs of the bards
being checked by recorded actuality; for if anyone could write at all,
it would be the bards themselves, who would use the mystery or purposes
of their own trade. In quite a short time, oral tradition, in keeping of
the bards, whose business is to purvey wonders, makes the champions
perform easily, deeds which "the men of the present time" can only gape
at; and every bard takes over the stock of tradition, not from original
sources, but from the mingled fantasy and memory of the bard who came
just before him. So that when this tradition survives at all, it
survives in a form very different from what it was in the beginning. But
apparently we can mark out several stages in the fortunes of the
tradition. It is first of all court poetry, or perhaps baronial poetry;
and it may survive as that. From this stage it may pass into possession
of the common people, or at least into the possession of bards whose
clients are peasants and not nobles; from being court poetry it becomes
the poetry of cottages and taverns. It may survive as this. Finally, it
may be taken up again by the courts, and become poetry of much greater
sophistication and nicety than it was in either of the preceding stages.
But each stage leaves its sign on the tradition.

All this gives us what is conveniently called "epic material"; the
material out of which epic poetry might be made. But it does not give us
epic poetry. The world knows of a vast stock of epic material scattered
up and down the nations; sometimes its artistic value is as
extraordinary as its archaeological interest, but not always. Instances
are our own Border Ballads and Robin Hood Ballads; the Servian cycles of
the Battle of Kossovo and the prowess of Marko; the modern Greek songs
of the revolt against Turkey (the conditions of which seem to have been
similar to those which surrounded the growth of our riding ballads); the
fragments of Finnish legend which were pieced together into the
_Kalevala_; the Ossianic poetry; and perhaps some of the minor sagas
should be put in here. Then there are the glorious Welsh stories of
Arthur, Tristram, and the rest, and the not less glorious Irish stories
of Deirdre and Cuchulain; both of these noble masses of legend seem to
have only just missed the final shaping which turns epic material into
epic poetry. For epic material, it must be repeated, is not the same
thing as epic poetry. Epic material is fragmentary, scattered, loosely
related, sometimes contradictory, each piece of comparatively small
size, with no intention beyond hearty narrative. It is a heap of
excellent stones, admirably quarried out of a great rock-face of
stubborn experience. But for this to be worked into some great
structure of epic poetry, the Heroic Age must be capable of producing
individuality of much profounder nature than any of its fighting
champions. Or rather, we should simply say that the production of epic
poetry depends on the occurrence (always an accidental occurrence) of
creative genius. It is quite likely that what Homer had to work on was
nothing superior to the Arthurian legends. But Homer occurred; and the
tales of Troy and Odysseus became incomparable poetry.

An epic is not made by piecing together a set of heroic lays, adjusting
their discrepancies and making them into a continuous narrative. An epic
is not even a re-creation of old things; it is altogether a new
creation, a new creation in terms of old things. And what else is any
other poetry? The epic poet has behind him a tradition of matter and a
tradition of style; and that is what every other poet has behind him
too; only, for the epic poet, tradition is rather narrower, rather more
strictly compelling. This must not be lost sight of. It is what the
poet does with the tradition he falls in which is, artistically, the
important thing. He takes a mass of confused splendours, and he makes
them into something which they certainly were not before; something
which, as we can clearly see by comparing epic poetry with mere epic
material, the latter scarce hinted at. He makes this heap of matter into
a grand design; he forces it to obey a single presiding unity of
artistic purpose. Obviously, something much more potent is required for
this than a fine skill in narrative and poetic ornament. Unity is not
merely an external affair. There is only one thing which can master the
perplexed stuff of epic material into unity; and that is, an ability to
see in particular human experience some significant symbolism of man's
general destiny.

It is natural that, after the epic poet has arrived, the crude epic
material in which he worked should scarcely be heard of. It could only
be handed on by the minstrels themselves; and their audiences would not
be likely to listen comfortably to the old piecemeal songs after they
had heard the familiar events fall into the magnificent ordered pomp of
the genuine epic poet. The tradition, indeed, would start afresh with
him; but how the novel tradition fared as it grew old with his
successors, is difficult guesswork. We can tell, however, sometimes, in
what stage of the epic material's development the great unifying epic
poet occurred. Three roughly defined stages have been mentioned. Homer
perhaps came when the epic material was still in its first stage of
being court-poetry. Almost certainly this is when the poets of the
Crusading lays, of the _Song of Roland_, and the _Poem of the Cid_, set
to work. Hesiod is a clear instance of the poet who masters epic
material after it has passed into popular possession; and the
_Nibelungenlied_ is thought to be made out of matter that has passed
from the people back again to the courts.

Epic poetry, then, as distinct from mere epic material, is the concern
of this book. The intention is, to determine wherein epic poetry is a
definite species of literature, what it characteristically does for
conscious human life, and to find out whether this species and this
function have shown, and are likely to show, any development. It must be
admitted, that the great unifying poet who worked on the epic material
before him, did not always produce something which must come within the
scope of this intention. Hesiod has just been given as an instance of
such a poet; but his work is scarcely an epic. [3] The great sagas, too,
I must omit. They are epic enough in primary intention, but they are not
poetry; and I am among those who believe that there is a difference
between poetry and prose. If epic poetry is a definite species, the
sagas do not fall within it. But this will leave me more of the
"authentic" epic poetry than I can possibly deal with; and I shall have
to confine myself to its greatest examples. Before, however, proceeding
to consider epic poetry as a whole, as a constantly recurring form of
art, continually responding to the new needs of man's developing
consciousness, I must go, rapidly and generally, over the "literary
epic"; and especially I must question whether it is really justifiable
or profitable to divide epic poetry into the two contrasted departments
of "authentic" and "literary. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: hos d' ote cheimarroi potamoi kat opesthi rheontes es
misgagkeian xumballeton obrimon udor krounon ek melalon koilaes entosthe
charadraes. _Iliad_, IV, 452. ]

[Footnote 2: Etymologically, the "good" man is the "admirable" man. In
this sense, Homer's gods are certainly "good"; every epithet he gives
them--Joyous-Thunderer, Far-Darter, Cloud-Gatherer and the
rest--proclaims their unapproachable "goodness. " If it had been said to
Homer, that his gods cannot be "good" because their behaviour is
consistently cynical, cruel, unscrupulous and scandalous, he would
simply think he had not heard aright: Zeus is an habitual liar, of
course, but what has that got to do with his "goodness"? --Only those who
would have Homer a kind of Salvationist need regret this.