The Iliad
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