The Iliad - 01

The
Iliad of Homer
Translated by
Alexander Pope,
With Notes and Introduction
by the
Rev. Theodore Alois Buckley, M.A., F.S.A.
and
Flaxman’s Designs.
1899

Contents
INTRODUCTION.
POPE’S PREFACE TO THE ILIAD OF HOMER
THE ILIAD
BOOK I.
BOOK II.
BOOK III.
BOOK IV.
BOOK V.
BOOK VI.
BOOK VII.
BOOK VIII.
BOOK IX.
BOOK X.
BOOK XI.
BOOK XII.
BOOK XIII.
BOOK XIV.
BOOK XV.
BOOK XVI.
BOOK XVII.
BOOK XVIII.
BOOK XIX.
BOOK XX.
BOOK XXI.
BOOK XXII.
BOOK XXIII.
BOOK XXIV.
CONCLUDING NOTE.


Illustrations
HOMER INVOKING THE MUSE
MARS
MINERVA REPRESSING THE FURY OF ACHILLES
THE DEPARTURE OF BRISEIS FROM THE TENT OF ACHILLES
THETIS CALLING BRIAREUS TO THE ASSISTANCE OF JUPITER
THETIS ENTREATING JUPITER TO HONOUR ACHILLES
VULCAN
JUPITER
THE APOTHEOSIS OF HOMER
JUPITER SENDING THE EVIL DREAM TO AGAMEMNON
NEPTUNE
VENUS, DISGUISED, INVITING HELEN TO THE CHAMBER OF PARIS
VENUS PRESENTING HELEN TO PARIS
VENUS
Map, titled “GRÆCIÆ ANTIQUÆ”
THE COUNCIL OF THE GODS
Map of the Plain of Troy
VENUS, WOUNDED IN THE HAND, CONDUCTED BY IRIS TO MARS
OTUS AND EPHIALTES HOLDING MARS CAPTIVE
DIOMED CASTING HIS SPEAR AT MARS
JUNO
HECTOR CHIDING PARIS
THE MEETING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE
BOWS AND BOW CASE
IRIS
HECTOR AND AJAX SEPARATED BY THE HERALDS
GREEK AMPHORA—WINE VESSELS
JUNO AND MINERVA GOING TO ASSIST THE GREEKS
THE HOURS TAKING THE HORSES FROM JUNO’S CAR
THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES
PLUTO
THE EMBASSY TO ACHILLES
GREEK GALLEY
PROSERPINE
ACHILLES
DIOMED AND ULYSSES RETURNING WITH THE SPOILS OF RHESUS
THE DESCENT OF DISCORD
HERCULES
POLYDAMAS ADVISING HECTOR
GREEK ALTAR
NEPTUNE RISING FROM THE SEA
GREEK EARRINGS
SLEEP ESCAPING FROM THE WRATH OF JUPITER
GREEK SHIELD
BACCHUS
AJAX DEFENDING THE GREEK SHIPS
CASTOR AND POLLUX
Buckles
DIANA
SLEEP AND DEATH CONVEYING THE BODY OF SARPEDON TO LYCIA
ÆSCULAPIUS
FIGHT FOR THE BODY OF PATROCLUS
VULCAN FROM AN ANTIQUE GEM
THETIS ORDERING THE NEREIDS TO DESCEND INTO THE SEA
JUNO COMMANDING THE SUN TO SET
TRIPOD
THETIS AND EURYNOME RECEIVING THE INFANT VULCAN
VULCAN AND CHARIS RECEIVING THETIS
THETIS BRINGING THE ARMOUR TO ACHILLES
HERCULES
THE GODS DESCENDING TO BATTLE
CENTAUR
ACHILLES CONTENDING WITH THE RIVERS
THE BATH
ANDROMACHE FAINTING ON THE WALL
THE FUNERAL PILE OF PATROCLUS
CERES
HECTOR’S BODY AT THE CAR OF ACHILLES
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS
IRIS ADVISES PRIAM TO OBTAIN THE BODY OF HECTOR
FUNERAL OF HECTOR


INTRODUCTION.

Scepticism is as much the result of knowledge, as knowledge is of
scepticism. To be content with what we at present know, is, for the
most part, to shut our ears against conviction; since, from the very
gradual character of our education, we must continually forget, and
emancipate ourselves from, knowledge previously acquired; we must set
aside old notions and embrace fresh ones; and, as we learn, we must be
daily unlearning something which it has cost us no small labour and
anxiety to acquire.
And this difficulty attaches itself more closely to an age in which
progress has gained a strong ascendency over prejudice, and in which
persons and things are, day by day, finding their real level, in lieu
of their conventional value. The same principles which have swept away
traditional abuses, and which are making rapid havoc among the revenues
of sinecurists, and stripping the thin, tawdry veil from attractive
superstitions, are working as actively in literature as in society. The
credulity of one writer, or the partiality of another, finds as
powerful a touchstone and as wholesome a chastisement in the healthy
scepticism of a temperate class of antagonists, as the dreams of
conservatism, or the impostures of pluralist sinecures in the Church.
History and tradition, whether of ancient or comparatively recent
times, are subjected to very different handling from that which the
indulgence or credulity of former ages could allow. Mere statements are
jealously watched, and the motives of the writer form as important an
ingredient in the analysis of his history, as the facts he records.
Probability is a powerful and troublesome test; and it is by this
troublesome standard that a large portion of historical evidence is
sifted. Consistency is no less pertinacious and exacting in its
demands. In brief, to write a history, we must know more than mere
facts. Human nature, viewed under an induction of extended experience,
is the best help to the criticism of human history. Historical
characters can only be estimated by the standard which human
experience, whether actual or traditionary, has furnished. To form
correct views of individuals we must regard them as forming parts of a
great whole—we must measure them by their relation to the mass of
beings by whom they are surrounded, and, in contemplating the incidents
in their lives or condition which tradition has handed down to us, we
must rather consider the general bearing of the whole narrative, than
the respective probability of its details.
It is unfortunate for us, that, of some of the greatest men, we know
least, and talk most. Homer, Socrates, and Shakespere[1] have, perhaps,
contributed more to the intellectual enlightenment of mankind than any
other three writers who could be named, and yet the history of all
three has given rise to a boundless ocean of discussion, which has left
us little save the option of choosing which theory or theories we will
follow. The personality of Shakespere is, perhaps, the only thing in
which critics will allow us to believe without controversy; but upon
everything else, even down to the authorship of plays, there is more or
less of doubt and uncertainty. Of Socrates we know as little as the
contradictions of Plato and Xenophon will allow us to know. He was one
of the _dramatis personæ_ in two dramas as unlike in principles as in
style. He appears as the enunciator of opinions as different in their
tone as those of the writers who have handed them down. When we have
read Plato _or_ Xenophon, we think we know something of Socrates; when
we have fairly read and examined both, we feel convinced that we are
something worse than ignorant.
It has been an easy, and a popular expedient, of late years, to deny
the personal or real existence of men and things whose life and
condition were too much for our belief. This system—which has often
comforted the religious sceptic, and substituted the consolations of
Strauss for those of the New Testament—has been of incalculable value
to the historical theorists of the last and present centuries. To
question the existence of Alexander the Great, would be a more
excusable act, than to believe in that of Romulus. To deny a fact
related in Herodotus, because it is inconsistent with a theory
developed from an Assyrian inscription which no two scholars read in
the same way, is more pardonable, than to believe in the good-natured
old king whom the elegant pen of Florian has idealized—_Numa
Pompilius._
Scepticism has attained its culminating point with respect to Homer,
and the state of our Homeric knowledge may be described as a free
permission to believe any theory, provided we throw overboard all
written tradition, concerning the author or authors of the Iliad and
Odyssey. What few authorities exist on the subject, are summarily
dismissed, although the arguments appear to run in a circle. “This
cannot be true, because it is not true; and, that is not true, because
it cannot be true.” Such seems to be the style, in which testimony upon
testimony, statement upon statement, is consigned to denial and
oblivion.
It is, however, unfortunate that the professed biographies of Homer are
partly forgeries, partly freaks of ingenuity and imagination, in which
truth is the requisite most wanting. Before taking a brief review of
the Homeric theory in its present conditions, some notice must be taken
of the treatise on the Life of Homer which has been attributed to
Herodotus.
According to this document, the city of Cumæ in Æolia, was, at an
early period, the seat of frequent immigrations from various parts of
Greece. Among the immigrants was Menapolus, the son of Ithagenes.
Although poor, he married, and the result of the union was a girl named
Critheïs. The girl was left an orphan at an early age, under the
guardianship of Cleanax, of Argos. It is to the indiscretion of this
maiden that we “are indebted for so much happiness.” Homer was the
first fruit of her juvenile frailty, and received the name of
Melesigenes, from having been born near the river Meles, in Bœotia,
whither Critheïs had been transported in order to save her reputation.
“At this time,” continues our narrative, “there lived at Smyrna a man
named Phemius, a teacher of literature and music, who, not being
married, engaged Critheïs to manage his household, and spin the flax he
received as the price of his scholastic labours. So satisfactory was
her performance of this task, and so modest her conduct, that he made
proposals of marriage, declaring himself, as a further inducement,
willing to adopt her son, who, he asserted, would become a clever man,
if he were carefully brought up.”
They were married; careful cultivation ripened the talents which nature
had bestowed, and Melesigenes soon surpassed his schoolfellows in every
attainment, and, when older, rivalled his preceptor in wisdom. Phemius
died, leaving him sole heir to his property, and his mother soon
followed. Melesigenes carried on his adopted father’s school with great
success, exciting the admiration not only of the inhabitants of Smyrna,
but also of the strangers whom the trade carried on there, especially
in the exportation of corn, attracted to that city. Among these
visitors, one Mentes, from Leucadia, the modern Santa Maura, who
evinced a knowledge and intelligence rarely found in those times,
persuaded Melesigenes to close his school, and accompany him on his
travels. He promised not only to pay his expenses, but to furnish him
with a further stipend, urging, that, “While he was yet young, it was
fitting that he should see with his own eyes the countries and cities
which might hereafter be the subjects of his discourses.” Melesigenes
consented, and set out with his patron, “examining all the curiosities
of the countries they visited, and informing himself of everything by
interrogating those whom he met.” We may also suppose, that he wrote
memoirs of all that he deemed worthy of preservation.[2] Having set
sail from Tyrrhenia and Iberia, they reached Ithaca. Here Melesigenes,
who had already suffered in his eyes, became much worse, and Mentes,
who was about to leave for Leucadia, left him to the medical
superintendence of a friend of his, named Mentor, the son of Alcinor.
Under his hospitable and intelligent host, Melesigenes rapidly became
acquainted with the legends respecting Ulysses, which afterwards formed
the subject of the Odyssey. The inhabitants of Ithaca assert, that it
was here that Melesigenes became blind, but the Colophomans make their
city the seat of that misfortune. He then returned to Smyrna, where he
applied himself to the study of poetry.[3]
But poverty soon drove him to Cumæ. Having passed over the Hermæan
plain, he arrived at Neon Teichos, the New Wall, a colony of Cumæ.
Here his misfortunes and poetical talent gained him the friendship of
one Tychias, an armourer. “And up to my time,” continued the author,
“the inhabitants showed the place where he used to sit when giving a
recitation of his verses, and they greatly honoured the spot. Here also
a poplar grew, which they said had sprung up ever since Melesigenes
arrived”.[4]
But poverty still drove him on, and he went by way of Larissa, as being
the most convenient road. Here, the Cumans say, he composed an epitaph
on Gordius, king of Phrygia, which has however, and with greater
probability, been attributed to Cleobulus of Lindus.[5]
Arrived at Cumæ, he frequented the _converzationes_[6] of the old men,
and delighted all by the charms of his poetry. Encouraged by this
favourable reception, he declared that, if they would allow him a
public maintenance, he would render their city most gloriously
renowned. They avowed their willingness to support him in the measure
he proposed, and procured him an audience in the council. Having made
the speech, with the purport of which our author has forgotten to
acquaint us, he retired, and left them to debate respecting the answer
to be given to his proposal.
The greater part of the assembly seemed favourable to the poet’s
demand, but one man observed that “if they were to feed _Homers_, they
would be encumbered with a multitude of useless people.” “From this
circumstance,” says the writer, “Melesigenes acquired the name of
Homer, for the Cumans call blind men _Homers_.”[7] With a love of
economy, which shows how similar the world has always been in its
treatment of literary men, the pension was denied, and the poet vented
his disappointment in a wish that Cumæa might never produce a poet
capable of giving it renown and glory.
At Phocœa, Homer was destined to experience another literary distress.
One Thestorides, who aimed at the reputation of poetical genius, kept
Homer in his own house, and allowed him a pittance, on condition of the
verses of the poet passing in his name. Having collected sufficient
poetry to be profitable, Thestorides, like some would-be-literary
publishers, neglected the man whose brains he had sucked, and left him.
At his departure, Homer is said to have observed: “O Thestorides, of
the many things hidden from the knowledge of man, nothing is more
unintelligible than the human heart.”[8]
Homer continued his career of difficulty and distress, until some Chian
merchants, struck by the similarity of the verses they heard him
recite, acquainted him with the fact that Thestorides was pursuing a
profitable livelihood by the recital of the very same poems. This at
once determined him to set out for Chios. No vessel happened then to be
setting sail thither, but he found one ready to start for Erythræ, a
town of Ionia, which faces that island, and he prevailed upon the
seamen to allow him to accompany them. Having embarked, he invoked a
favourable wind, and prayed that he might be able to expose the
imposture of Thestorides, who, by his breach of hospitality, had drawn
down the wrath of Jove the Hospitable.
At Erythræ, Homer fortunately met with a person who had known him in
Phocœa, by whose assistance he at length, after some difficulty,
reached the little hamlet of Pithys. Here he met with an adventure,
which we will continue in the words of our author. “Having set out from
Pithys, Homer went on, attracted by the cries of some goats that were
pasturing. The dogs barked on his approach, and he cried out. Glaucus
(for that was the name of the goat-herd) heard his voice, ran up
quickly, called off his dogs, and drove them away from Homer. For some
time he stood wondering how a blind man should have reached such a
place alone, and what could be his design in coming. He then went up to
him, and inquired who he was, and how he had come to desolate places
and untrodden spots, and of what he stood in need. Homer, by recounting
to him the whole history of his misfortunes, moved him with compassion;
and he took him, and led him to his cot, and having lit a fire, bade
him sup.[9]
“The dogs, instead of eating, kept barking at the stranger, according
to their usual habit. Whereupon Homer addressed Glaucus thus: O
Glaucus, my friend, prythee attend to my behest. First give the dogs
their supper at the doors of the hut: for so it is better, since,
whilst they watch, nor thief nor wild beast will approach the fold.
Glaucus was pleased with the advice, and marvelled at its author.
Having finished supper, they banqueted[10] afresh on conversation,
Homer narrating his wanderings, and telling of the cities he had
visited.
At length they retired to rest; but on the following morning, Glaucus
resolved to go to his master, and acquaint him with his meeting with
Homer. Having left the goats in charge of a fellow-servant, he left
Homer at home, promising to return quickly. Having arrived at Bolissus,
a place near the farm, and finding his mate, he told him the whole
story respecting Homer and his journey. He paid little attention to
what he said, and blamed Glaucus for his stupidity in taking in and
feeding maimed and enfeebled persons. However, he bade him bring the
stranger to him.
Glaucus told Homer what had taken place, and bade him follow him,
assuring him that good fortune would be the result. Conversation soon
showed that the stranger was a man of much cleverness and general
knowledge, and the Chian persuaded him to remain, and to undertake the
charge of his children.[11]
Besides the satisfaction of driving the impostor Thestorides from the
island, Homer enjoyed considerable success as a teacher. In the town of
Chios he established a school where he taught the precepts of poetry.
“To this day,” says Chandler,[12] “the most curious remaining is that
which has been named, without reason, the School of Homer. It is on the
coast, at some distance from the city, northward, and appears to have
been an open temple of Cybele, formed on the top of a rock. The shape
is oval, and in the centre is the image of the goddess, the head and an
arm wanting. She is represented, as usual, sitting. The chair has a
lion carved on each side, and on the back. The area is bounded by a low
rim, or seat, and about five yards over. The whole is hewn out of the
mountain, is rude, indistinct, and probably of the most remote
antiquity.”
So successful was this school, that Homer realised a considerable
fortune. He married, and had two daughters, one of whom died single,
the other married a Chian.
The following passage betrays the same tendency to connect the
personages of the poems with the history of the poet, which has already
been mentioned:—
“In his poetical compositions Homer displays great gratitude towards
Mentor of Ithaca, in the Odyssey, whose name he has inserted in his
poem as the companion of Ulysses,[13] in return for the care taken of
him when afflicted with blindness. He also testifies his gratitude to
Phemius, who had given him both sustenance and instruction.”
His celebrity continued to increase, and many persons advised him to
visit Greece, whither his reputation had now extended. Having, it is
said, made some additions to his poems calculated to please the vanity
of the Athenians, of whose city he had hitherto made no mention,[14] he
sent out for Samos. Here being recognized by a Samian, who had met with
him in Chios, he was handsomely received, and invited to join in
celebrating the Apaturian festival. He recited some verses, which gave
great satisfaction, and by singing the Eiresione at the New Moon
festivals, he earned a subsistence, visiting the houses of the rich,
with whose children he was very popular.
In the spring he sailed for Athens, and arrived at the island of Ios,
now Ino, where he fell extremely ill, and died. It is said that his
death arose from vexation, at not having been able to unravel an enigma
proposed by some fishermen’s children.[15]
Such is, in brief, the substance of the earliest life of Homer we
possess, and so broad are the evidences of its historical
worthlessness, that it is scarcely necessary to point them out in
detail. Let us now consider some of the opinions to which a
persevering, patient, and learned—but by no means consistent—series of
investigations has led. In doing so, I profess to bring forward
statements, not to vouch for their reasonableness or probability.
“Homer appeared. The history of this poet and his works is lost in
doubtful obscurity, as is the history of many of the first minds who
have done honour to humanity, because they rose amidst darkness. The
majestic stream of his song, blessing and fertilizing, flows like the
Nile, through many lands and nations; and, like the sources of the
Nile, its fountains will ever remain concealed.”
Such are the words in which one of the most judicious German critics
has eloquently described the uncertainty in which the whole of the
Homeric question is involved. With no less truth and feeling he
proceeds:—
“It seems here of chief importance to expect no more than the nature of
things makes possible. If the period of tradition in history is the
region of twilight, we should not expect in it perfect light. The
creations of genius always seem like miracles, because they are, for
the most part, created far out of the reach of observation. If we were
in possession of all the historical testimonies, we never could wholly
explain the origin of the Iliad and the Odyssey; for their origin, in
all essential points, must have remained the secret of the poet.”[16]
From this criticism, which shows as much insight into the depths of
human nature as into the minute wire-drawings of scholastic
investigation, let us pass on to the main question at issue. Was Homer
an individual?[17] or were the Iliad and Odyssey the result of an
ingenious arrangement of fragments by earlier poets?
Well has Landor remarked: “Some tell us there were twenty Homers; some
deny that there was ever one. It were idle and foolish to shake the
contents of a vase, in order to let them settle at last. We are
perpetually labouring to destroy our delights, our composure, our
devotion to superior power. Of all the animals on earth we least know
what is good for us. My opinion is, that what is best for us is our
admiration of good. No man living venerates Homer more than I do.”[18]
But, greatly as we admire the generous enthusiasm which rests contented
with the poetry on which its best impulses had been nurtured and
fostered, without seeking to destroy the vividness of first impressions
by minute analysis—our editorial office compels us to give some
attention to the doubts and difficulties with which the Homeric
question is beset, and to entreat our reader, for a brief period, to
prefer his judgment to his imagination, and to condescend to dry
details.
Before, however, entering into particulars respecting the question of
this unity of the Homeric poems, (at least of the Iliad,) I must
express my sympathy with the sentiments expressed in the following
remarks:—
“We cannot but think the universal admiration of its unity by the
better, the poetic age of Greece, almost conclusive testimony to its
original composition. It was not till the age of the grammarians that
its primitive integrity was called in question; nor is it injustice to
assert, that the minute and analytical spirit of a grammarian is not
the best qualification for the profound feeling, the comprehensive
conception of an harmonious whole. The most exquisite anatomist may be
no judge of the symmetry of the human frame: and we would take the
opinion of Chantrey or Westmacott on the proportions and general beauty
of a form, rather than that of Mr. Brodie or Sir Astley Cooper.
“There is some truth, though some malicious exaggeration, in the lines
of Pope.—
“‘The critic eye—that microscope of wit
Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit,
How parts relate to parts, or they to whole,
The body’s harmony, the beaming soul,
Are things which Kuster, Burmann, Wasse, shall see,
When man’s whole frame is obvious to a flea.’”[19]

Long was the time which elapsed before any one dreamt of questioning
the unity of the authorship of the Homeric poems. The grave and
cautious Thucydides quoted without hesitation the Hymn to Apollo,[20]
the authenticity of which has been already disclaimed by modern
critics. Longinus, in an oft quoted passage, merely expressed an
opinion touching the comparative inferiority of the Odyssey to the
Iliad,[21] and, among a mass of ancient authors, whose very names[22]
it would be tedious to detail, no suspicion of the personal
non-existence of Homer ever arose. So far, the voice of antiquity seems
to be in favour of our early ideas on the subject; let us now see what
are the discoveries to which more modern investigations lay claim.
At the end of the seventeenth century, doubts had begun to awaken on
the subject, and we find Bentley remarking that “Homer wrote a sequel
of songs and rhapsodies, to be sung by himself, for small comings and
good cheer, at festivals and other days of merriment. These loose songs
were not collected together, in the form of an epic poem, till about
Peisistratus’ time, about five hundred years after.”[23]
Two French writers—Hedelin and Perrault—avowed a similar scepticism on
the subject; but it is in the “Scienza Nuova” of Battista Vico, that we
first meet with the germ of the theory, subsequently defended by Wolf
with so much learning and acuteness. Indeed, it is with the Wolfian
theory that we have chiefly to deal, and with the following bold
hypothesis, which we will detail in the words of Grote:—[24]
“Half a century ago, the acute and valuable Prolegomena of F. A. Wolf,
turning to account the Venetian Scholia, which had then been recently
published, first opened philosophical discussion as to the history of
the Homeric text. A considerable part of that dissertation (though by
no means the whole) is employed in vindicating the position, previously
announced by Bentley, amongst others, that the separate constituent
portions of the Iliad and Odyssey had not been cemented together into
any compact body and unchangeable order, until the days of
Peisistratus, in the sixth century before Christ. As a step towards
that conclusion, Wolf maintained that no written copies of either poem
could be shown to have existed during the earlier times, to which their
composition is referred; and that without writing, neither the perfect
symmetry of so complicated a work could have been originally conceived
by any poet, nor, if realized by him, transmitted with assurance to
posterity. The absence of easy and convenient writing, such as must be
indispensably supposed for long manuscripts, among the early Greeks,
was thus one of the points in Wolf’s case against the primitive
integrity of the Iliad and Odyssey. By Nitzsch, and other leading
opponents of Wolf, the connection of the one with the other seems to
have been accepted as he originally put it; and it has been considered
incumbent on those who defended the ancient aggregate character of the
Iliad and Odyssey, to maintain that they were written poems from the
beginning.
“To me it appears, that the architectonic functions ascribed by Wolf to
Peisistratus and his associates, in reference to the Homeric poems, are
nowise admissible. But much would undoubtedly be gained towards that
view of the question, if it could be shown, that, in order to
controvert it, we were driven to the necessity of admitting long
written poems, in the ninth century before the Christian æra. Few
things, in my opinion, can be more improbable; and Mr. Payne Knight,
opposed as he is to the Wolfian hypothesis, admits this no less than
Wolf himself. The traces of writing in Greece, even in the seventh
century before the Christian æra, are exceedingly trifling. We have no
remaining inscription earlier than the fortieth Olympiad, and the early
inscriptions are rude and unskilfully executed; nor can we even assure
ourselves whether Archilochus, Simonidês of Amorgus, Kallinus,
Tyrtæus, Xanthus, and the other early elegiac and lyric poets,
committed their compositions to writing, or at what time the practice
of doing so became familiar. The first positive ground which authorizes
us to presume the existence of a manuscript of Homer, is in the famous
ordinance of Solôn, with regard to the rhapsodies at the Panathenæa:
but for what length of time previously manuscripts had existed, we are
unable to say.