HOMER AND HIS TRANSLATORS.

CRITIQUE VI.-THE ODYSSEY.

(JANUARY 1834]

THE Iliad was written by Homer. Will Wolf and Knight tell us how it happened that all the heroic strains about the war before Troy, poured forth, as they opine, by many baris regarded but one period of the siege? By what divine felicity was it that all those sons of song, though apart in time and place, united in chanting the wrath of Achilles? The poem is one-like a great wood, whose simultaneous growth overspreads a mountain. Indeed, one mighty poem, in process of time, moulded into form out of separate fragments, composed by a brotherhood of bards-not even coeval -may be safely pronounced an impossibility in nature.

Achilles was not the son of many sires; nor was the par he played written for him by a succession of "eminent hands," all striving to find fit work for their common hen. He is not a creature of collected traditions. He stands there -a single conception-in character and in achievement; his absence is felt like that of a thunder-cloud withdrawn be hind a hill, leaving the air still sultry; his presence

is as

the lightning in sudden illumination glorifying the whole field of battle. Kill, bury, and forget him, and the Iliad is

no more an Epic.

No two men at the same time ever yet saw a ghost; be cause a ghost is an Eidolon begotten by the imagination the air of night, or some night-like day, and is visible but to

his own frightened father. Now, Achilles was an

Apparition; and his seer was a blind old man, with a front like Jove's, and

a forehead like Olympus. dreadful trance;

"All power was
given him in that

"and Beauty and Terror accompanied the

Destroyer. He haunted Homer, who no longer knew that he had himself created the sublimest of all Phantoms. But the Muse gave the maker command over his creature; and, at the waving of his hand, the imaginary Goddess-born came and went obedient, more magnificent than any shadowy form that at the bidding of sunlight stalks along mountains into an abysm of clouds.

The Odyssey-also and likewise-was written by Homer, and the proof lies all in one word-Ulysses. There he is -the self-same being as in the Iliad, and the birth of one brain. Had Homer died the day he said, "And thus they celebrated the obsequies of Hector the Tamer-of-Horses," before no mortal eye would have stood on the threshold of his own hall, pouring out from his quiver all the arrows at his feet, that vision of a ragged beggar, suddenly transfigured into an Avenger more glorious far than Apollo's self transfixing the Python, for Lartiades stretched along his ancestral floor the whole serpent brood.

The opening of the Iliad is very simple-and so is the opening of the Odyssey; and both openings are, you will agree with us in thinking, sublime. In the one you are brought in a moment into the midst of heaven-sent death threatening the annihilation of a whole host; and, in pacifying Apollo, Agamemnon incenses Achilles, whose wrath lowers calamity almost as fatal as the visitation of the Plague. Men's minds are troubled-there is debate of doom in Heaven-nation is enraged against nation-and each trusts to its auxiliar gods. In the other there is no din below-the earth is silent-and you hear not the sea. Corn grows where Troy-Town stood-and you feel that Achilles is dust. All the chiefs who fought there and fell not, as Sotheby solemnly says

"At home once more

Dwell free from battle and the ocean roar

and there is an almost melancholy peace. There is mysterious mention of shipwreck on account of sin-and one guiltless and great Survivor is spoken of and then named-who is to take the place in our imaginations of all the other heroes living or dead-affectingly named-for he has been and is to be a Sufferer" All but Ulysses!" And shall the Celestial Synod care for that One Man! Ay, Minerva says to Jove,

"With bosom anguish-rent I view

Ulysses, hapless chief! who from his friends
Remote, affliction hath long time endured
In yonder woodland isle, the central boss
Of ocean. That retreat a Goddess holds,
Daughter of sapient Atlas, who the abyss
Knows to its bottom, and the pillars high
Himself upbears which separate Earth from Heaven.
His daughter there the sorrowing chief reclaims,
And ever with smooth spirit, insidious seeks
To wean his heart from Ithaca, meantime
Ulysses, happy might he but behold

The smoke ascending from his native land,
Death covets. Canst thou not, Olympian Jove,
At last relent? Hath not Ulysses oft
With victims slain amid Achaia's fleet

Thee gratified, while yet at Troy he fought?

How, therefore, hath he thus incensed thee, Jove ?"

At once we love the Man of whom the Muse is to singlonging for his home, his wife, and his son-and pitied at last by Jove, at the intercession of Minerva, because of his piety. That she should fly to Ithaca, and that Hermes should wing his way to the Isle of Secresy-on behalf of Ulyssesseems demanded of the justice of heaven. And simple as all this is we said it was sublime-for our sympathies are already awakened for

"A good man struggling with the storms of fate."

Ulysses longs for Ithaca-but knows not what may have passed, or may be passing there-if Penelope and Telemachus be alive or dead. All we are told is, that year after year he has been lamenting for his native Isle-sighing for a sight of its ascending smoke, ere he dies-unforgetful of Ithaca even in Calypso's arms.

How finely Sotheby has given Minerva's "alighting," and the sudden showing of the scene-the first sight of which reveals to us all the lawless life of the Suitors, and the evils to which the kingless Island has been so long a prey! We are at once in the heart of it all-and the thought across us in the midst of the revelry, if Ulysses

here!"

66

"Then on her feet her golden sandals laced,
With bright ambrosial wings divinely graced,

comes

were

Wings that o'er earth and sea the Goddess bear
And challenge in their speed the viewless air—
Then grasp'd her brass-edged lance, of matchless strength,
Vast, massive, ponderous, whose far-shadowing length,
When the mail'd Goddess in her fury burns,
Rank after rank heroic chiefs o'erturns.

Then downward flew from steep Olympus' height,
And on Ulysses' island deign'd alight,
And at the threshold of his portal staid
Beneath the vestibule's protecting shade :
Held in her grasp the spear, and took her stand
Like Mentes, leader of the Taphian band:
There found the suitors festively array'd,
Who, gay, at dice before the palace play'd,
Their seats on hides of many a numerous herd,
Slain at the dictates of their haughty word:
Heralds, and minist'ring menials stood around,
Some who with temper'd wine their goblets crown'd,
With many a porous sponge some cleansed the board,
And with carved meat their proffer'd chargers stored.
Her first the young Telemachus perceived,
Who 'mid the wooers sat, and inly grieved,
Bright picturing in his mind, how, home again,
His sire would put to flight the wassail train,
Resume his honours, and ancestral right,
And, musing thus, the Goddess caught his sight.
Forward he sprung, in wrath, that nigh their feast
A stranger stood, an uninvited guest :

Then clasp'd her hand, received the brazen spear,
And pour'd his welcome in her gladden'd ear :

'Hail! stranger-welcome-now the banquet share, Then, feasted, wherefore here-thy wish declare.'

He spake—and at the word, the blue-eyed Maid
Where the prince led the way not loth obey'd.
Now, 'neath his dome, within the channel'd height
Of a vast column, towering on the sight,
He fix'd the lance, where, ranged in order, stood
Ulysses' war-spears, like an iron wood :
Then, on a stately seat the Goddess placed,
With linen spread, and with a footstool graced,
And near it drew his own resplendent throne,
At distance from the suitors placed alone,
Lest the contemptuous rioters molest,
And vex with noise and insolence the guest,
Nor yield him peaceful leisure to inquire,
And hold free commune of his long-lost sire.

From a gold ewer, a maid, their hands to lave,
Pour'd in a silver bowl the cleansing wave,
And a bright table brought, where, largely spread,
The sage dispenseress heap'd the food and bread.
The sewer with flesh, all kinds, the plates supplied,
And golden goblets placed each guest beside,
Which oft with wine the busy herald crown'd;
Then, rushing in, the suitors gather'd round,
And on their separate seats and thrones of state,
Where heralds wash'd their hands, in order sate:
The attendant maids in baskets piled their bread,
On the carved dainties as the feasters fed;

And youths oft crown'd their goblets o'er and o'er,
Till thirst and hunger, satiate, sought no more;
Then other joys inflamed their keen desire,
The song and dance, that charm the festive choir.
The herald gave to the reluctant hand
Of Phemius, leader of the minstrel band,
A silver lyre. By force the bard obey'd,

And, preluding the song, the measure play'd.”

Telemachus is no favourite with many critics. But we hope you admire and love the Princely Boy-for he was assuredly a great favourite with Homer. So well did Homer know his worth, that he is at no great pains to describe his character. He puts him, however, into some situations that serve to show what is in him—and he behaves, we think, like heir-apparent to the throne. Here he allows the dicers to shake their elbows undisturbed-in their pastimes perhaps playing for the Queen. But he is picturing in his mind another kind of game-in which his father will play the Lion, and he the Lion's Whelp. Mentes, the leader of the Taphian Band, though no vulgar stranger, is disregarded by the Suitors, heralds, and menials but how courteous Prince! "Manners maketh the man," and Telemachus, nook feel, will be a hero. He takes not his guest into some or corner, to question him of his Sire-but places him on a stately seat, with a footstool, "and near it drew his own re splendent throne." Let all the Suitors behold them two in converse-nor dare to intrude upon their privacy-apart but open and confidential during the measure

Poet-Laureate's song.

the

we

preluding the such graceful and dignified reception-and how wisely does Minerva must have been pleased with