Part 57

It is not a little strange that nothing should be known with certainty of the parentage or of the birth-place, or even of the era of the greatest poet of antiquity, of him who, next to Milton, ranks as the greatest epic poet of the world. In two respects, all the accounts concerning him agree--that he had traveled much, and that he was afflicted with blindness. From the first circumstance, it has been inferred that he was either rich or enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy; but this will not appear necessary when it is considered that, in his time, journeys were usually performed on foot, and that he probably traveled, with a view to his support, as an itinerant musician or reciter. From most of the traditions respecting him, it appears that he was poor, and it is to be feared that necessity, rather than the mere desire of gratifying curiosity, prompted his wanderings. All that has been advanced respecting the occasion of his blindness is mere conjecture. Certain it is, that this misfortune arose from accident or disease, and not from the operation of nature at his birth; for the character of his compositions seems rather to suppose him all eye, than destitute of sight; and if they were even framed during his blindness, they form a glorious proof of the vivid power of the imagination more than supplying the want of the bodily organs, and not merely throwing a variety of its own tints over the objects of nature, but presenting them to the mind in a clearer light than could be shed over them by one whose powers of immediate vision were perfectly free from blemish.

Of the incidents in the life of Homer, almost as little is known as of his parentage and birth-place. However, the general account is that he was for many years a school-master in Smyrna; that, being visited by one Mentes, the commander of a Leucadian ship, he was induced by him to leave his occupation and travel; that, in company with this captain, he visited the various countries around the shores of the Mediterranean, and at last was left at Ithaca, in consequence of a weakness in his eyes. While in this island, he was entertained by a man of fortune named Mentor, who narrated to him the stories upon which afterwards the Odyssey was founded. On the return of Mentes, he accompanied him to Colophon, where he became totally blind. He then returned to Smyrna, and afterwards removed to Cyme (called also Cuma), in Æolis, where he received great applause in the recitations of his poems, but no pecuniary reward; the people alleging that they could not maintain all the Homeroi, or _blind men_, and hence he obtained the name of _Homer_. Thence he went about from place to place, acquiring much wealth by his recitations, and died at the Island of Ios, one of the Cyclades, where he was buried.

The works attributed to Homer consist of the two epic poems, the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_, of twenty-four books each, the _Batrachomyomachia_, or "Battle of the Frogs and Mice," a humorous, mock-heroic poem, and somewhat of a parody on the _Iliad_; the _Margites_, a satirical, personal satire, and about thirty _Hymns_. All of these but the two great epics are now, however, considered as spurious.

But it was left to modern skepticism (which seems to think that to doubt shows a higher order of intellect than to believe on evidence) to maintain the bold position that the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" were a collection of separate lays by different authors, arranged and put together for the first time during the tyranny and by the order of Pisistratus, at Athens, about 550 B.C. The chief supporters of this theory are the celebrated German scholars, Wolf and Heyne, who flourished about the year 1800.

Those who may desire to go into the subject fully will read Wolf's "Prolegomena," and the strictures of his great opponent, G.W. Nitzsch; but a succinct account of the argument may be found in Browne's "Classical Literature," and in the "History of Greek Literature," by Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd.

Even Wolf himself candidly declares that when he reads the "Iliad" he finds such unity of design, such harmony of coloring, and such consistency of character, that he is ready to give up his theories, and to be angry with himself for doubting the common faith in the personality of Homer.

Professor Felton, in his excellent edition of the "Iliad," thus remarks in the preface: "For my part, I prefer to consider it, as we have received it from ancient editors, as one poem, the work of one author, and that author Homer--the first and greatest of minstrels. As I understand the 'Iliad,' there is a unity of plan, a harmony of parts, a consistency among the different situations of the same character, which mark it as the production of one mind; but of a mind as versatile as the forms of nature, the aspects of life, and the combinations of powers, propensities and passions in man are various." In these views, the literary world now very generally concurs.

"The hypothesis to which the antagonists of Homer's personality must resort implies something more wonderful than the theory which they impugn. They profess to cherish the deepest veneration for the genius displayed in the poems. They agree, also, in the antiquity usually assigned to them; and they make this genius and this antiquity the arguments to prove that one man could not have composed them. They suppose, then, that in a barbarous age, instead of one being marvelously gifted, there were many; a mighty race of bards, such as the world has never since seen--a number of miracles instead of one. All experience is against this opinion. In various periods of the world great men have arisen, under very different circumstances, to astonish and delight it; but that the intuitive power should be so strangely diffused, at any one period, among a great number, who should leave no successors behind them, is unworthy of credit. And we are requested to believe this to have occurred in an age which those who maintain the theory regard as unfavorable to the poetic art! The common theory, independent of other proofs, is _prima facie_ the most probable. Since the early existence of the works can not be doubted, it is easier to believe in one than in twenty Homers."--_Talfourd._

OPENING ARGUMENT OF THE ILIAD.

(_By Homer._)

Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess sing! That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain; Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore, Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore; Since great Achilles and Atrides strove. Such was the sov'reign doom, and such the will of Jove.

_Pope._

MINERVA ARMING HERSELF FOR BATTLE.

(_By Homer._)

Minerva wrapt her in the robe that curiously she wove With glorious colors, as she sate on th' azure floor of Jove; And wore the arms that he puts on, bent to the tearful field. About her broad-spread shoulders hung his huge and horrid shield, Fring'd round with ever-fighting snakes; though it was drawn to life The miseries and deaths of fight; in it frown'd bloody Strife; In it shin'd sacred Fortitude; in it fell Pursuit flew; In it the monster Gorgon's head, in which held out to view Were all the dire ostents of Jove; on her big head she plac'd His four-plum'd glittering casque of gold, so admirably vast, It would an hundred garrisons of soldiers comprehend. Then to her shining chariot her vigorous feet ascend; And in her violent hand she takes his grave, huge, solid lance, With which the conquests of her wrath she useth to advance, And overturn whole fields of men; to show she was the seed Of him that thunders. Then heaven's queen, to urge her horses' speed, Takes up the scourge, and forth they fly; the ample gates of heaven Rung, and flew open of themselves; the charge whereof is given, With all Olympus and the sky, to the distinguish'd Hours; That clear or hide it all in clouds, or pour it down in showers. This way their scourge-obeying horse made haste, and soon they won The top of all the topful heavens, where aged Saturn's son Sate severed from the other gods.

_Chapman's translation_, v.

## PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

(_By Homer._)

Hector now pass'd, with sad presaging heart, To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; At home he sought her, but he sought in vain: She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had thence retired; and with her second joy, The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy: Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height, Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight; There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore. Hector this heard, return'd without delay; Swift through the town he trod his former way, Through streets of palaces and walks of state, And met the mourner at the Scæan gate. With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir.

[Illustration: ANCIENT AUTHORS.]

The nurse stood near, in whose embraces press'd, His only hope hung smiling at her breast; Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign'd To tender passions all his mighty mind: His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke; Her bosom labor'd with a boding sigh, And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. "Too darling prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he! For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtues sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father's aid, no mother's tender care. The fierce Achilles wrapp'd our walls in fire, Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire! By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell, In one sad day beheld the gates of hell. My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands. Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee: Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all Once more will perish, if my Hector fall. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share: O, prove a husband's and a father's care! That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy Where yon wild fig-trees join the walls of Troy; Thou from this tower defend the important post; There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain. And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. Let others in the field their arms employ, But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains; Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories and my own. Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread; I see the trembling, weeping, captive led! In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes of which so large a part was thine! To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. There, while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!' Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs shall waken at the name! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child; The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the gleaming helmet on the ground. Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer:-- "O, thou whose glory fills the ethereal throne! And all ye deathless powers, protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown; Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age! So when, triumphant from successful toils Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame;' While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; Soft on her fragrant breast the babe he laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd. The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear. She mingled with the smile a tender tear. The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:-- "Andromache, my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. Fix'd is the term to all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth, No force can then resist, no flight can save, All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: Me glory summons to the martial scene, The field of combat is the sphere for men; Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame." Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes His towery helmet black with shading plumes. His princess parts, with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream'd at every look; then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. There, while her tears deplored the god-like man, Through all her train the soft infection ran. The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn the living Hector as the dead.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, vi.

THE RACE OF MAN.

(_By Homer._)

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise: So generations in their course decay; So flourish these when those are past away.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, vi.

COUNCIL OF THE GODS.

(_By Homer._)

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn; When Jove convened the senate of the skies, Where high Olympus' cloudly tops arise. The Sire of Gods his awful silence broke, The heavens attentive trembled as he spoke:-- "Celestial states, immortal gods, give ear! Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear; The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move; Thou, Fate, fulfill it; and ye, Powers, approve! What god but enters yon forbidden field, Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield, Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven, Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven: Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown, Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan, With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors; As deep beneath the infernal center hurl'd, As from that center to the ethereal world. Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes, And know the Almighty is the god of gods. League all your forces, then, ye powers above, Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove: Let down our golden everlasting chain, Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main; Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth, To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth: Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand, I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land; I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight! For such I reign, unbounded and above; And such are men and gods, compared to Jove."

_Pope_, _Iliad_, viii.

NIGHT-SCENE.

(_By Homer._)

The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumined all the ground. As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night! O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole, O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays: The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, viii.

HATEFULNESS OF WAR.

(_By Homer._)

Cursed is the man, and void of law and right, Unworthy property, unworthy light, Unfit for public rule, or private care; That wretch, that monster, who delights in war: Whose lust is murder, and whose horrid joy To tear his country, and his kind destroy!

_Pope_, _Iliad_, ix.

FALSEHOOD.

(_By Homer._)

Who dares think one thing, and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of hell.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, ix.

SHOWERS OF ARROWS.

(_By Homer._)

As the feathery snows Fall frequent on some wintry day, when Jove Hath risen to shed them on the race of man, And show his arrowy stores; he lulls the wind Then shakes them down continual, covering thick Mountain tops, promontories, flowery meads, And cultured valleys rich, and ports and shores Along the margined deep; but there the wave Their further progress stays; while all besides Lies whelm'd beneath Jove's fast-descending shower; So thick, from side to side, by Trojans hurled Against the Greeks, and by the Greeks returned, The stony volleys flew.

_Cowper_, _Iliad_, xii.

PRIAM BEGGING THE BODY OF HECTOR.

(_By Homer._)

"Think, O Achilles, semblance of the gods, On thine own father, full of days like me. And trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Some neighbor chief, it may be, even now Oppresses him, and there is none at hand, No friend to succor him in his distress. Yet, doubtless, hearing that Achilles lives, He still rejoices, hoping day by day, That one day he shall see the face again Of his own son, from distant Troy returned. But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons, So late the flowers of Ilium, are all slain. When Greece came hither, I had fifty sons; But fiery Mars hath thinn'd them. One I had, One, more than all my sons, the strength of Troy, Whom, standing for his country, thou hast slain-- Hector. His body to redeem I come Into Achaia's fleet, bringing myself, Ransom inestimable to thy tent. Rev'rence the gods, Achilles! recollect Thy father; for his sake compassion show To me, more pitiable still, who draw Home to my lips (humiliation yet Unseen on earth) his hand who slew my son!" So saying, he waken'd in his soul regret Of his own sire; softly he placed his hand On Priam's hand, and pushed him gently away, Remembrance melted both. Rolling before Achilles' feet, Priam his son deplored, Wide-slaughtering Hector, and Achilles wept By turns his father, and by turns his friend Patroclus: sounds of sorrow fill'd the tent.

_Cowper_, _Iliad_, xxiv.

HELEN'S LAMENTATION OVER HECTOR.

(_By Homer._)

Grief fell on all around; Then Helen thus breathed forth her plaintive sound:-- "Hector, to Helen's soul more lov'd than all Whom I in Ilion's walls dare brother call, Since Paris here to Troy his consort led, Who in the grave had found a happier bed. 'Tis now, since here I came, the twentieth year, Since left my land, and all I once held dear: But never from that hour has Helen heard From thee a harsh reproach or painful word; But if thy kindred blam'd me, if unkind The queen e'er glanc'd at Helen's fickle mind-- (For Priam, still benevolently mild, Look'd on me as a father views his child)-- Thy gentle speech, thy gentleness of soul, Would by thine own, their harsher minds control. Hence, with a heart by torturing misery rent, Thee and my hapless self I thus lament; For no kind eye in Troy on Helen rests, But who beholds me shudders and detests."

_Sotheby_, _Iliad_, xxi.

We will here give a few pages of the history of the Trojan war, giving some of the characters, subjects, etc., referred to in the preceding poems in a prose story.

PARIS.

There was sorrow, instead of gladness, in the halls of Priam, because a son was born unto him, and because the lady Hecuba had dreamed a dream, from which the seers knew that the child should bring ruin on the Ilion land. So his mother looked with cold, unloving eyes on the babe as he lay weak and helpless in his cradle, and Priam bade them take the child and leave him on rugged Ida, for the fountain of his love was closed against him.

For five days the dew fell on the babe by night, and the sun shone fiercely on him by day, as he lay on the desolate hill-side, and the shepherd who placed him there to sleep the sleep of death looked upon the child and said, "He sleeps as babes may slumber on silken couches; the gods will it not that he should die." So he took him to his home, and the child grew up with ruddy cheek and nimble feet, brave and hardy, so that none might be matched with him for strength and beauty. The fierce wolves came not near the flocks while Paris kept guard near the fold, the robber lurked not near the homestead when Paris sat by the hearth. So all sang of his strength and his great deeds, and they called him Alexandros, the helper of men.