IV. AOIDOS. (continued 3)

The adjective μέλας, or ‘black,’ is used, in its different degrees, cases, and numbers, about one hundred and seventy times. Besides this, we have the verb μελαίνω, and several compounds from the adjective. It also forms a very frequent element in proper names.

The word λευκὸς, or ‘white,’ is used nearly sixty times: its compound λευκώλενος forty more, but almost all of these as the stock-epithet of Juno, which should not be taken into the account. We have also λευκαίνω, λεύκασπις, and some proper names. But this by no means exhausts Homer’s means of expressing whiteness. For that purpose he also uses μαρμάρεος, σιγαλόεις, perhaps πόλιος, and an extensive group of words having ἀργὸς for its centre. In all, whiteness, or something intended for it, may perhaps be thus expressed one hundred times or more.

Now assuming for the moment that adjectives of colour, in the prismatic sense of the word, are found in Homer, still it is remarkable how rarely they are found, in comparison with whiteness and blackness.

For example: except as a proper name, and as the stock-epithet of Menelaus, ξανθὸς is, I think, hardly found ten times in Homer. Ἰόεις, and its cognate words, come but six times: ῥοδόεις is an ἅπαξ λεγόμενον: μίλτος is only introduced in its compound twice; yet it is probably the best red in Homer: ἐρυθρὸς and ἐρυθαίνω come but thirteen times: πορφύρεος and the kindred words are found in all twenty-three times; but it has, I think, been shown that this word was wanting, with Homer, in the ingredient of specific colour, and only implied what was dark, whether brown, crimson, purple, or even black.

Omissions to specify colour.

V. It remains to complete this circle of evidence, by adducing cases where Homer’s omission to name colour, or to describe by means of it, is deserving of remark.

1. Homer’s similes are so rich in the use of all sensible imagery, that we might have expected to find colour a frequent and prominent ingredient in them. But it is not so. They turn chiefly, I think, upon the following ideas:

1. Motion. 2. Force. 3. Form. 4. Sound. 5. Symmetry. 6. Number. 7. Light and Darkness. 8. Very rarely, upon Colour.

In the greater part of them colour is not even mentioned. I have seen the similes of the poems reckoned at two hundred: and I have found it difficult to note more than three which turn upon colour, even when it is vaguely conceived.

The first is the blood of Menelaus, compared to a crimson dye, on the cheek-piece of a horse, Il. iv. 141.

The second, the meditations of Nestor, likened to the darkening of the sea before a storm, Il. xiv. 16-22.

Thirdly, the cloud in which Minerva is wrapped is compared to the rainbow, Il. xvii. 547-52.

Of these the second is very indefinite: the idea of the first, as we have seen, was inaccurately and loosely conceived: and the third is one of the most striking proofs of the want of a close discrimination of colours in Homer.

Yet here again we may find life and beauty in the passage, if only we construe it of a cloud illuminated by the rays falling on it. Indeed, generally the element of light brings us back to Homer’s usual definiteness, when his use of colour makes him obscure.

2. Again, in the numerous and very exact epithets by which the Poet has described the form and appearance of different countries, we scarcely find any epithet of colour. Out of about sixty of these epithets in the Greek Catalogue, there are but three that refer to colour, and these all mention whiteness only (ἀργινόεις, Il. ii. 647, 656, and λευκός, ibid. 735).

In the case of the horse.

3. It is most singular that, though Homer so loved the horse that he is never weary of using him with his whole heart for the purposes of poetry, yet in all his animated and beautiful descriptions of this animal, colour should be so little prominent. It is said, indeed, that Homer tells us the horses of Eumelus corresponded in colour (ὅτριχες Il. ii. 765); but what the colour was we know not; and the question may also be raised, whether the epithet employed does not more properly indicate similarity in the fineness of their coat. Perhaps the only cases, where colour is distinctly assigned to horses, are the following two:

First, that of the horses of Rhesus. There the colour is the negative one of whiteness, which seems, with its counterpart blackness, to have been so much more present to the mind of Homer than any intermediate colour. These horses were (Il. x. 437) λευκότεροι χιόνος. And afterwards Nestor in a noble line declares them like, not to anything having colour, but to the rays of the sun (Il. x. 547). Thus reappears the old identification in Homer’s mind of light and colour. There is, however, another reason to which it may be suspected that we owe the mention of colour in this instance: namely, that the whiteness is intended to make them visible in the gloom, and thus to assist the capture by night.

The second case is, that of the horse of Diomed in the chariot-race. Here Idomeneus mentions the bay or chestnut colour (Il. xxiii. 454) with the white mark, but then it is the only means of identifying the master, which is essential to his purpose in the speech. Apart from these special reasons, Homer speaks indeed twice of the ξανθὰ κάρηνα of horses; this, however, is of horses in the abstract. Nestor (Il. xi. 680) mentions a set of one hundred and fifty mares all with colour, that is to say, ξανθαί: a new proof of the lax use of the word, as they would hardly be all alike.

Among the four horses of Hector (Il. viii. 185), the two of the Atreidæ (Il. xxiii. 295), and the three of Achilles (xvi. 475) we find only the name Xanthus which is clearly referable to colour: and this is in truth the only colour which, besides white, he ever gives to his horses. For it is more probable that by the name Βάλιος he meant to refer to the effect of light from rapidity of motion: while Αἴθη in Il. xxiii. 409, Αἴθων and Λάμπος (Il. viii. 485) may signify brightness or darkness indeed, but neither of these is colour.

Again, in the magnificent simile of the στάτος ἵππος there is no colour. The three thousand horses of Erichthonius (Il. x. 221) have no colour. The horses of Diomed (Il. v. 257) have none. Nor have the heaven-born horses of Tros, nor those which Anchises bred from them (Il. v. 265. et seqq.). None of the teams for the race in Il. xxiii. have colour. Lastly; Homer abounds in characteristic and set epithets for horses, such as ὠκὺς, ὠκύπους, ποδώκης, μώνυξ, ἐριαύχην, ἀερσίπους, ἐΰσκαρθμος, ὑψήχης, καλλίθριξ, ταχὺς, and others; but none of them are taken from colour.

Yet colour is in horses a thing so prominent that it seems, wherever they are at all individualized, almost to force itself into the description. Let us take two examples allied in their beauty, although separated in birth by twenty-two hundred years. The first is from Euripides, where the Chorus in Iphigenia in Aulide describes the Grecian host before embarcation[847].

The second, also eminently beautiful, is from Macaulay, where in the ‘Battle of the Lake Regillus’, after the deadly conflict of Mamilius and Herminius, he describes what then happened to their steeds.

How characteristically the element of colour enters into these admirable descriptions.

4. It is not, however, the case of the horse alone, on which an argument may be founded. Homer abounds with notices of other animals, both domesticated and wild. We have oxen, dogs, goats, hogs, and sheep. None of his stock epithets for them are drawn from colour; and we have seen that by his wine-coloured oxen, and his violet-coloured sheep, he, in all likelihood, means no more than dark or tawny. His epithets for wild animals are of the same character when they occur, and similarly depend on the scale of degrees between light and darkness, not upon colour. Once he mentions a white goose (Od. xv. 161); but it is borne on high in the talons of an eagle, and the object evidently is to create a clear visual image.

5. I would not lay overmuch stress on the fact, that Homer never refers to colour in connection with the human frame, unless as regards the hair, which is either ξανθὸς or κυάνεος: expressions which, as we shall see, are apparent exceptions, and not real ones. The olive hue of the Mediterranean latitudes makes colour a less prominent element in human beauty for a Greek climate, than it is for ours. Still its almost entire exclusion is an element in the case. One instance that I have noticed, which introduces it, adds to the general mass of testimony. When Minerva (Od. xvi. 175) restores the beauty of Ulysses, the expression is ἂψ δὲ μελαγχροιὴς γένετο. Now this certainly does not mean that his flesh became black again. It can only signify that he resumed the olive tint, which was associated with personal vigour and beauty. So that even the μέλας of Homer means dark, and is indefinite: as might indeed be shown by many other instances.

6. Lastly, it seems to deserve remark, that there is not one single epithet of Iris taken from colour. She is once, and only once, χρυσόπτερος (Il. viii. 398); but this is in virtue of her office, and has no relation to the rainbow; as, indeed, gold with Homer always belongs to light rather than to colour. All her other epithets, without exception, are taken from motion only. She is swift (ὠκέα and τάχεια), swift of foot (πόδας ὠκέα), swift as the wind (ποδήνεμος), storm-footed (ἀελλόπους[848]), but from colour she derives no part whatever of her Homeric costume. Now though the chain of traditions which identified Iris with the rainbow was broken[849], yet the traces of it were not wholly lost. For Homer treated the rainbow, physically, as a prophet of storm (Il. xvii. 548): and again, we find that she was still tempest-footed. This epithet can only be derived from her original relation to the rainbow. It is therefore highly instructive, that none of her traits of colour should have been preserved.

Lastly, let us take the case of the sky, or the heavens. Here Homer had before him the most perfect example of blue. Yet he never once so describes the sky. His οὐρανὸς is starry (Il. i. 317), or broad (Il. iii. 364), or great (Il. i. 497), or iron (Od. xv. 328), or copper (Od. iii. 2. Il. xvii. 425); but it is never blue. This is an important piece of negative testimony.

We have now before us a pretty large, though I by no means venture to suppose it a complete, collection of the facts of the case.

Causes of this peculiar treatment.

I submit that they warrant the two following propositions:

1. That Homer’s perceptions of the prismatic colours, or colours of the rainbow, which depend on the decomposition of light by refraction, and a fortiori of their compounds, were, as a general rule, vague and indeterminate.

2. That we must therefore seek another basis for his system of colour.

But a few words may be permitted on the cause which has led to his treatment of the subject in a manner so different from that of the moderns.

Are we justified in referring it to his reputed blindness?

Are we to suppose a defect in his organization, or in that of his countrymen?

Or are we to reject altogether the idea of defect, and to treat his use of colour as one conceived in the spirit which, with even the most perfect knowledge, would properly belong to his art?

The mere tradition of Homer’s blindness is hardly relevant. The presumption of it drawn from the poems, because they make Demodocus blind, is inappreciably minute. The testimony of the Hymn to Apollo is ancient[850]; but, as his blindness (if he really was blind) allowed of the most vivid conceptions of light, it will not account for defectiveness in his conceptions of colour. The vigorous apprehension and accurate description of sensible objects in the poems demonstrate, that we cannot seek in this hypothesis for an explanation of what may be either singular, crude, or irregular.

Neither can we resort to the supposition of anything, that is to be properly called a defect in his organization; when we bear in mind his intense feeling for form, and when we observe his effective and powerful handling of the ideas of light and dark.

License of Poetry as to colour.

Our answer to the third question must also, I think, be in the negative. It is true, indeed, that much of merely literal discrepancy as to colour might be understood to appertain to the license of poetry. There is high poetical effect in what may be called straining epithets of colour. But it seems essential to that effect,

(1.) That the straining should be the exception, and not the rule.

(2.) That there should be a fixed standard of the colour itself, so that the departures from it may be measured. Otherwise the result is not license, but confusion. Shakespeare with high effect says[851],

Here the idea is not that silver is of the same colour as skin, nor gold as blood; but that the relation of colour between silver and gold may be compared with that between skin and blood: the skin throws the blood into relief, as a ground of silver would throw out a projection of gold. In license of this kind we can always trace both a rule and an aim. The rule is relaxed only for the particular occasion. The effect produced is that of tenderness, dignity, and purity. Had Shakespeare been describing the horrible carnage of a battlefield, he probably would have spoken of black or foul gore instead of using a brightening figure.

Now this purpose is not traceable in Homer’s use of certain words, if we are required to treat them as adjectives of colour. There is no Poet, whose rationale is commonly more accessible; but these cases, upon such a principle, do not admit of a rationale at all.

Take for instance his use of the rainbow. It is (1) πορφυρέη, and (2) like a δράκων, which is κυάνεος. Of these, the first may be construed dark with a hue of crimson; the second, dark with a hue of deep blue or indigo. Surely we have here, viewing it as a whole, a most inadequate treatment of the colours of the rainbow. Shakespeare indeed says[852],

and again, in the Tempest, Ceres addresses Iris thus[853];

But (1) blue differs from πορφύρεος, which is essentially dark, and is not blue. (2) Blue, taken largely, represents three of the seven prismatic colours: i. e. indigo and purple along with itself. (3) In the last quoted passage, Iris is also called ‘many-coloured messenger,’ and with ‘saffron wings.’ How different an effect do these words give, as they form a whole, from that of the simile in Il. xvii. In what manner then are we to understand Homer? I answer, in the way of metaphor; and with reference to light and dark, not to prismatic colour. The δράκοντες on the buckler and belt are dark and terrible: so is the storm of which Iris is the type, and it is in viewing the rainbow as a type of what is awful, that we are to find the reason of Homer’s simply treating it as dark, and not as a series and system of colours. Perhaps we ought not to overlook the possibility that Homer may also mean to compare the shifting hues of the serpent with the varied appearance of the rainbow.

Again, let us take his use of μελαγχροίης. Now the question is, did Homer mean by this simply to express darkness, that is to say was dark his idea of μέλας, or did he, with the specific idea of black in his mind, use the term which denoted it poetically for the olive complexion of Ulysses? Surely the former: for the latter use of it would have been bad. It would have been straining the figure in the wrong direction. For blackness would be a fitting trope only where the object was to describe something awful or repulsive.

But beauty of form in Homer always leans to light hues and not to dark ones, whence the Greeks are ξανθοὶ, and the Trojan Hector, though beautiful, is κυάνεος only. Therefore it was not Homer’s object to give an enhanced idea of darkness in the tints of Ulysses. And yet, if μέλας for him meant specifically black, then μελαγχροίης was the height of exaggeration in the wrong sense. But if by μέλας he only understood dark, that was a fair description of the olive tint, as compared with the withered and shrivelled skin of old age.

We have other proofs from the poems that Homer conceived of μέλας as dark, and not specifically as black. The former idea accords best with his calling earth μέλας, when it is fresh behind the plough (Il. xviii. 548): and his calling blood μέλας, not stagnant gore, but blood fresh as it comes spurting from the wound (Il. i. 303),

and again, the fresh blood of Venus herself: μελαίνετο δὲ χρόα καλόν (Il. v. 354). It would be bad poetry to call the blood of Venus black, for the same reasons which make it good poetry in Shakespeare to call the blood of Duncan golden. So the μέλας πόντος of Il. xxiv. 79 is evidently no more than dark; though in vii. 64 we may properly say the sea blackens.

So again with wine-coloured oxen, smutty thunder-bolts, violet-coloured sheep, and many more, it is surely conclusive against taking them for descriptions of prismatic colours or their compounds, that they would be bad descriptions in their several kinds.

Homer’s means of training in colour.

We must then seek for the basis of Homer’s system with respect to colour in something outside our own. And it may prepare us the more readily to acknowledge such a basis elsewhere, if we bear in mind, that many of the great elements and sources of colour for us presented themselves differently to him. The olive hue of the skin kept down the play of white and red. The hair tended much more uniformly, than with us, to darkness. The sense of colour was less exercised by the culture of flowers. The sun sooner changed the spring-greens of the earth into brown. Glass, one of our instruments of instruction, did not exist. The rainbow would much more rarely meet the view. The art of painting was wholly, and that of dyeing was almost, unknown; and we may estimate the importance of this element of the case by recollecting how much, with the advance of chemistry, the taste of this country in colour has improved within the last twenty years. The artificial colours, with which the human eye was conversant, were chiefly the ill-defined, and anything but full-bodied, tints of metals. The materials, therefore, for a system of colour did not offer themselves to Homer’s vision as they do to ours. Particular colours were indeed exhibited in rare beauty, as the blue of the sea and of the sky. Yet these colours were, so to speak, isolated fragments; and, not entering into a general scheme, they were apparently not conceived with the precision necessary to master them. It seems easy to comprehend that the eye may require a familiarity with an ordered system of colours, as the condition of its being able closely to appreciate any one among them.

I conclude, then, that the organ of colour and its impressions were but partially developed among the Greeks of the heroic age.

In lieu of this, Homer seems to have had, firstly some crude conceptions of colour derived from the elements; secondly and principally, a system in lieu of colour, founded upon light and upon darkness, its opposite or negative. We have seen that the μέλας of Homer, which is applied to fine olive tints in the skin, and which joins hands with κυάνεος and πορφύρεος, means dark, the absence of light. On the other hand, the basis of whiteness is clearly indicated to us in the etymology of λευκὸς, which is the same as that of λεύσσω to see, and of λύκη light in λυκαβὰς the year, the walk or course of light; as well as in the cognate words, which appear to have their root in the Sanscrit loch, from whence lochan, an eye[854].

His system one of light and dark.

As a general proposition, then, I should say that the Homeric colours are really the modes and forms of light[855], and of its opposite or rather negative, darkness: partially affected perhaps by ideas drawn from the metals, like the ruddiness of copper, or the sombre and dead blue of κύανος, whatever the substance may have been; and here and there with an inceptive effort, as it were, to get hold of other ideas of colour.

Under the application of this principle, I believe that all, or nearly all, the Homeric words will fall into their places: and that we shall find that the Poet used them, from his own standing-ground, with great vigour and effect. We can now see why λευκὸς and μέλας with their kindred words have such an immense predominance: though white and black are the limiting ratios of colour, rather than colour itself.

Of the transparent and opaque, or chiaroscuro, we cannot expect to hear from Homer: yet, as has been observed, a rudiment of it may be contained in the highly poetical ἠεροειδὲς of the cave or sea; and again in the δνοφερὴ νὺξ (Od. xiii. 269), since νέφος is the basis of the epithet.

When we speak of colour proper, we speak of an effect which is produced by the decomposition of light, and which, so long as the eye can discharge its function, is complete, whatever the quantity, or the incidence, of light upon the object said to have colour may happen to be.

When we speak of light, shade, and darkness, we refer to the quantity of light, not decomposed, which falls upon that object, and to the mode of its incidence.

Of light, shadow, and darkness thus regarded, Homer had lively and most poetical conceptions. This description of objects by light and its absence tax his materials to the uttermost. His iron-grey, his ruddy, his starry heaven, are so many modes of light. His wine-coloured oxen and sea, his violet sheep, his things tawny, purple, sooty, and the rest, give us in fact a rich vocabulary of words for describing what is dark so far as it has colour, but what also varies between dull and bright, according to the quantity of light playing upon it. Here (for example) is the link between his αἴθοψ κάπνος and his αἴθοψ οἶνος.

As these words all follow in the train, so to speak, of μέλας, even so λευκὸς is attended by its own family, all falling under the meaning of the English adjective light. On the one hand χλωρὸς and πόλιος; on the other μαρμάρεος, ἀργὸς, and σιγαλόεις, all mean light; but the first two are dull, and represent the twilight of colour, or debateable ground between it and its negative, while the last three are bright and glistering.

Nothing can be more poetical than Homer’s ideas of dark and light. It was a redundancy of life in these ideas, that made him associate light with motion; as in those fine lines (Il. ii. 437),

And, again, in the Arming of Achilles (Il. xix. 362),

So, on the other hand, the idea of darkness went to animate metaphysical conceptions, as in black fate, black death, black clouds of death, black pains (Il. ii. 859, 834. xvi. 350. iv. 117).

Naturalists tell us, that there exist kinds of creatures respecting which it is known, that their organs are sensitive to light and darkness, but with no perception whatever either of colour or of form[856]. So far as respects form, Homer perceived keenly such forms as were beautiful: but of mere geometrical form he may have had very indistinct ideas, if we are to judge from his epithets for the form of a shield. The parallel is nearer in the case of colour; for even his perceptions were as yet undigested; as if they were novel, not aided by tradition, acquired very much by himself, and fixed as yet neither by custom nor nomenclature.

From the remains which have reached us of the colours of the ancients, it has been found practicable to treat of them in precise detail[857]. But, in examining the question from the works of Homer, we must bear in mind, first, their very early date, and, secondly, the likelihood that heroic Greece may probably have been far behind some countries of the east in the use and in the idea of colour, which has always had a privileged home there.

Colour in the later Greek language.

The tendency, however, to a mixture of the two questions of light and colour appears to be traceable more or less in the popular language, and likewise in the philosophy, of the later Greeks.

In the classical period, the hues of the eye were divided, as μέλας the darkest, χάροπος the intermediate, and γλαυκὸς the lightest.

The word πράσινος, leek-green, appears to be quite adequate to the expression of the colour. It is used by Aristotle; but I do not know that it is found in the poets or writers of the best age. For the classical Greek the idea of greenness is expressed by χλωρὸς, as far as it is expressed at all. Now this word seems inadequate on two grounds. First, its predominant idea is that of ‘fresh’ or ‘recent;’ which is but accidentally, and not invariably, the property of those objects in nature that are green.

When we find the word χλωρὸς applied alike to objects of a green colour, and to others that have no colour, (or else not in respect of their colour,) but yet which are fresh or newly sprung, we are led to conclude that it was for freshness, and not for greenness, that the word was generally used. This idea is confirmed by two circumstances. First, that when χλωρὸς does signify colour, as in the case of paleness, (where it cannot mean what is fresh,) it signifies the most indefinite and feeble colour, little more indeed than a negative.

The meaning of χλωρὸν δεός is probably ashy-pale fear. In the green of the olive we see the point of connection between this use of the term on the one hand, and natural verdure on the other. So that the image of the colour green, to the Greeks, was neither lively and bright on the one hand, nor was it strong and deep on the other.

The second circumstance is this: that the word χλωρὸς is applied by the later Greeks to objects that have a colour, but a colour which is not green: and this by authors who had the full use of sight. Thus, in Euripides, (Hecuba 124,) we have αἵματι χλωρῷ for blood freshly shed. It seems plain that, when the epithet could be thus used, colour could only be very carelessly and faintly conceived in the minds either of those who used the expression, or of those to whom it was addressed.

I shall not open the general subject of the treatment of colour by the later Greeks, or by the Latin poets. But that it continued to be both faint and indefinite down to a very late period, and in a degree which would now be deemed very surprising, we may judge both from the general tenour of the Æneid, and from the remarkable verse of Albinovanus, an Augustan poet, which applied the epithet ‘purpureus’ to snow;

Neither do I enter into the question, whether the shadows of white may afford any ground for this epithet: because an answer, drawn from the secrets as it were of science or art, could not avail for the interpretation of the works of a poet, who must describe for the common eye.

So we may note the ‘cervix rosea’ of Horace[858], and of Virgil[859].

Greek philosophy of colour.

Such examination as I have been able to make would lead me to suppose whatever of this kind was crude or defective in the common ideas of Greece was not without points of correspondence in its philosophy.

The treatise Περὶ χρωμάτων, popularly ascribed to Aristotle, would appear to belong to some other author. It, however, in conformity with Greek ideas[860], bases the system of colour not, as we do, upon the prismatic decomposition of light, but upon the four elements; of which it declares air, water, and even earth when dry, to be white, fire to be ξανθὸς or yellow; from the mixtures of these arise all other colours, and σκότος, or black, is the absence of light.

Dr. Prantl, a recent editor of this Treatise, has, in a learned Essay of his own, gathered together the systems of the various Greek writers upon colour; and especially that of Aristotle, from the testimony afforded by his Meteorologica and other works. It exhibits a curious combination of the aim at scientific exactness, with the want of the physical knowledge which is, in such matters, its necessary basis. Its leading ideas appear to be as follows.

If we pass by the mere metaphysical portion of the subject, the basis of colour is laid theoretically in transparency and motion. With the idea of whiteness are associated dryness and heat; and with blackness their counterparts, wet and cold[861]. The air is white, fire the highest form of white; water is black[862], earth the highest negation of colour, and blackest of all. All other colours are treated as intermediate between white and black[863]. An analogy prevails between the intervals of the principal colours, and those of sound, taste (χυμὸς), and other sensible objects. There are seven colours[864]: namely,

1. μέλαν black. 2. ξανθὸν gold. 3. λευκὸν white. 4. φοινικοῦν red. 5. ἁλουργὸν violet. 6. πράσινον green. 7. κυανοῦν blue.

The φαιὸν or grey is a mode of black (μέλαν τι); and the ξανθὸν is ingeniously described as having the same relation to light, which richness (λιπαρὸν) has to sweetness (γλυκύ). Red, φοινικοῦν or πορφυροῦν, is light seen through black. This is the most positive colour after ξανθόν; then comes green, and then (ἁλουργὸν) violet[865]. He proceeds, ἔτι δὲ τὸ πλεῖον οὔκετι φαίνεται; meaning, I suppose, that the κυανοῦν (the same thing is said by Prantl of ὄρφνιον, which he translates brown) is so closely akin to the negative, or blackness, as to be indistinguishable from it. Thus Aristotle appears to treat grey as outside his scale altogether; he gives πορφυροῦν sometimes to red and sometimes to blue[866]; and ὄρφνιον or brown is wholly omitted. His order likewise varies: for, in different passages, ἁλουργὸν and πράσινον change places.

Nature of our advantage over Homer.

This condition of the philosophy of colour, so many centuries after Homer, and in the mind of such a man as Aristotle, may assist in explaining to us the undeveloped state of Homer’s perceptions in this particular department.

There appears to be a remarkable contrast between such undigested ideas, and the solidity, truth, and firmness of the remains of colour that have come down to us from the ancients. The explanation, I suppose, is, that those, who had to make practical use of colour, did not wait for the construction of a philosophy, but added to their apparatus from time to time all substances which, having come within their knowledge, were found to produce results satisfactory and improving to the eye. And even so Homer, though his organ was little trained in the discrimination of colours, and though he founded himself mainly upon mere modifications of light apart from its decomposition, yet has made very bold and effective use of these limited materials. His figures in no case jar, while they never fail to strike. Nor are we to suppose that we see in this department an exception to that comparative profusion of power which marked his endowments in general, and that he bore, in the particular point, a crippled nature; but rather we are to learn that the perceptions so easy and familiar to us are the results of a slow traditionary growth in knowledge and in the training of the human organ, which commenced long before we took our place in the succession of mankind. We exemplify, even in this apparently simple matter, the old proverbial saying: ‘The dwarf sees further than the giant, for he is lifted on the giant’s shoulders.’

Note on the meaning of κύανος and χαλκός.

The first impression from the Homeric text is likely to be that κύανος is a metal. For the substantive is mentioned but thrice in Homer; and always in immediate connection with metals.

1. Il. xi. 24. Upon the buckler of Agamemnon there are, with twelve οἶμοι, folds, rims, or plies, of gold, and twenty of tin, ten of κύανος (μέλανος κυάνοιο).

2. Il. xi. 34. On the shield of the king, there were twenty white bosses of tin, and, in the middle, one of κύανος (μέλανος κυάνοιο).

3. Od. vii. 86. The walls of the palace of Alcinous were coated with χαλκὸς within, and round about them there was a cornice or fringe (θριγκὸς) of κύανος.

There is no doubt that, in later Greek at least, the word acquired other significations: such as lapis lazuli, the blue cornflower, the rockbird (also as being blue), and, lastly, a blue dye or lacquer[867]. But, moreover, it seems impossible to identify the κύανος of Homer with any metal in particular.

Some have asserted the κύανος of Homer to be steel[868]. But to this there seem to be conclusive objections. It appears very doubtful, whether the Greeks were acquainted with the process of making steel in masses by the immersion of iron in water. The English translation of Beckmann’s History of Inventions ascribes the knowledge of the process to Homer; but apparently in error[869]. There is no allusion whatever to it: for it is not at all implied by the elementary process of the manufacture of a tool in Od ix. 391-3. It was only by fire that iron could be made malleable at all: and no doubt it was known that by its immersion in water hardness was restored or increased (τὸ γὰρ αὖτε σιδήρου γε κράτος ἐστίν). But we have no trace either of the repetition of the process on the same piece of metal, or of its application to unmanufactured iron, or of a new denomination for iron when thus heated and cooled. On the contrary, in this passage the metal when fully hardened is still declared to be σίδηρος: and we have nowhere in Homer any trace of a relation between κύανος and σίδηρος, except the merely negative one, that neither of them is cast into the furnace for making the Shield of Achilles.

Again, the hardness of iron was such as apparently met all their wishes, and almost of itself constituted a difficulty. Hence it is used along with stones as a symbol of hardness; ἐπεὶ οὔ σφι λίθος χρὼς ἠὲ σίδηρος[870]. Again, we do not find it worked up with other metals; for example, on the buckler or shield of Agamemnon. As we have seen, it is not used by Vulcan in making the shield of Achilles. The god casts into the fire gold and silver, copper and tin; lead being apparently excluded as too soft, and iron as too hard for working in masses with the other metals. But the idea of hardness is never associated with κύανος; and, if it had been hard like steel, certainly it would not have been a suitable material for the intricate forms of dragons.

Again, the adjective κυάνεος means in colour what is blue and what is deep; and by no means corresponds with the ordinary colour of steel. All this, besides the strength of the negative evidence, seems inconsistent with the idea that κύανος can have been steel.

The Compiler of the Index to Eustathius makes κύανος (in voc.) simply a dark metal. But Millin argues that κύανος without an epithet is tin, and that with the epithet μέλας it is lead. He observes that Pliny[871] appears to call tin by the name of plumbum simply, and lead by the name of plumbum nigrum: so that the double use of κύανος and κασσίτερος for tin would be like that of plumbum and stannum for the same metal in Latin. This idea treats the substance as taking its name from the colour: and is so far sustained by the use of the German blei, which I presume is the same word as blau, for lead. But it would be singular that Homer should thus have double names for two metals, which of all classes of objects have perhaps been most commonly designated by single ones. And this hypothesis is not in accordance with the evident meaning of κυάνεος in Homer; since the word indicates a dark and deep hue very far from that of tin, which Homer describes as white. The after use of κύανος is equally adverse to the interpretation suggested.

The most probable interpretation for this difficult word appears to be that which is also in accordance with its subsequent use and description as a colour. From Linton’s ‘Ancient and Modern Colours,’ (p. 21,) it appears that there was a κύανος αὐτοφυὴς, which was a native blue carbonate of copper: and that, according to the express testimony of Dioscorides, this was obtained by the ancients from the copper-mines: κύανος δὲ γεννᾶται μὲν ἐν Κύπρῳ ἐκ τῶν χαλκουργῶν μετάλλων, v. 106. This interpretation would account for our finding κύανος in Homer: for the rarity of its use: for the dark colour and the affinity to πορφύρεος. Such a substance would make a good relief for the cornice in the palace of Alcinous, against the copper-plated walls: and would stand well in the rest of the passages where it appears to be placed in relief with other metals, Il. xviii. 564, xi. 39, and even on the buckler of Agamemnon, xi. 24. For on this buckler, though the serpents, called κυάνεοι, are evidently placed in contrast with the οἶμοι, and though among the οἶμοι there are ten of κύανος, yet, as they are combined with twelve of gold and twenty of tin, the general effect would be one such as we need not suppose Homer to have rejected. This blue carbonate is still found among other copper-ores, but less in our deep mines, than in the shallow ones worked by the ancients. I understand from a gentleman versed in metallurgy, that in its purest form it is crystalline, rarely massive or earthy, of a deep azure, brittle, easily powdered, and thus readily converted to use as a pigment.

I should therefore suppose that the κύανος is not a metal: that the οἶμοι on the buckler mean lines or bands coloured in pigment: and that the boss on the shield is probably a nodule of the substance in its native state. We can thus understand why κύανος is not used either with the gold, silver, χαλκὸς, and tin, in the forge of Vulcan, or with the gold, silver, iron, and χαλκὸς of the chariot of Juno[872]. We can also understand why, though κύανος is not used in the forge, yet the trench round the vineyard on the shield of Achilles is κυανεή[873]. This interpretation is also in conformity with the Homeric employment of the adjective κυάνεος.

I understand that there is, in the Museo Borbonico at Naples, a spoon or ladle, with a boss on the end of the handle, which is formed of this native blue carbonate of copper bored through for the purpose.

Of the four significations given to χαλκὸς in Homer (copper, brass, bronze, and iron[874]), I adhere to the first. It cannot be iron, (1) because it is never mentioned as hard in the same way with it, (2) because it is so much more common, (3) because these metals are expressly distinguished one from the other, as in Il. v. 723.

Neither can the χαλκὸς of Homer be bronze. Not, however, from absolute want of hardness: for I learn from competent authority that very good cutting instruments (not, of course, equal to steel) may be made in a bronze composed of 87½ parts copper, and 12½ parts tin. But for the following reasons:

1. Homer always speaks of it as a pure metal along with other pure metals, even where Vulcan casts it into the furnace to be wrought; Il. xviii. 474.

2. Again, because, although we must not argue too confidently from Homer’s epithets of colour, yet in this case we may lay considerable stress not only on his χαλκὸς ἐρυθρὸς (since the ἐρυθρὸς of Homer leans to brightness), but upon the ἤνοψ and νώροψ, which mean bright and gleaming. These epithets of light would not apply to bronze: nor would Homer plate with bronze the walls of the palace of Alcinous. Neither does it appear likely that he would give us a heaven of bronze among the imposing imagery of battle, Il. xvii. 424.

3. It does not appear that Homer knew anything at all of the fusion or alloying of metals.

We have, then, to conclude that χαλκὸς was copper, hardened by some method; as some think by the agency of water: or else, and more probably, according to a very simple process, by cooling slowly in the air. (See Millin, Minéralogie Homérique, pp. 126-32.)

SECT. V.[875] Homer and some of his Successors in Epic Poetry: in particular, Virgil and Tasso.

Milton and Dante in relation to Homer.

The great Epic poets of the world are members of a brotherhood still extremely limited, and, as far as appears, not likely to be enlarged. It may indeed well be disputed, with respect to some of the existing claimants, whether they are or are not entitled to stand upon the Golden Book. There will also be differences of opinion as to the precedence among those, whose right to appear there is universally confessed. Pretensions are sometimes advanced under the influence of temporary or national partialities, which the silent action of the civilized mind of the world after a time effectually puts down. Among these there could be none more obviously untenable, than that set up on behalf of Milton in the celebrated Epigram of Dryden, which seemed to place him at the head of the poets of the world, and made him combine all the great qualities of Homer and of Virgil. Somewhat similar ideas were broached by Cowper in his Table Talk. The lines, as they are less familiarly remembered, may be quoted here:

But this great master is also subject to undue depreciation, as well as flattered by extravagant worship. I myself have been assured in a company composed of Professors of a German University, who were ardent admirers of Shakespeare, that within the sphere of their knowledge Milton was only regarded as of equal rank with Klopstock. It is not, I trust, either national vanity or religious prejudice, nor is it the mere wonder inspired by the wide range of his attainments and performances, which makes England claim that he should be numbered in the first class of epic poets; in that class of which Homer is the head, distinguished before all competitors by a clear and even a vast superiority.

It would be difficult to institute any satisfactory comparison between Milton and Homer; so different, so wanting in points of contact, are the characters partly of the men, and even much more of their works. Perhaps the greatest and the most pervading merit of the Iliad is, its fidelity and vividness as a mirror of man and of the visible sphere in which he lived, with its infinitely varied imagery both actual and ideal. But that which most excites our admiration in Milton is the elasticity and force of genius, by which he has travelled beyond the human sphere, and bodied forth to us new worlds in the unknown, peopled with inhabitants who must be so immeasurably different from our own race. Homer’s task was one, which admitted of and received what we may call a perfect accomplishment; Milton’s was an undertaking beyond the strength of man, incapable of anything more than faint adumbration, and one of which, the more elevated the spectator’s point of view, the more keenly he must find certain defects glare upon him. The poems of Milton give us reason to think that his conceptions of character were masculine and powerful; but the subject did not admit of their being effectually tested. For his nearest approaches to perfection in his art, we must look beyond his epics.

A comparison between Milton and Dante would be somewhat more practicable, but it would not accord with the composition of the group, which I shall here attempt to present, and which has Homer for its centre. On the other hand, Dante might, far better than Milton, be compared with Homer; for while he is in the Purgatorio and Paradiso far more heavenly than Milton, he is also throughout the Divina Commedia truly and profoundly human. He is incessantly conversant with the nature and the life of man; and though for the most part he draws us, as Flaxman has drawn him, in outline only, yet by the strength and depth of his touch he has produced figures, for example, Francesca and Ugolino, that have as largely become the common property of mankind, if not as Achilles and Ulysses, yet as Lear and Hamlet. Still the theological basis, and the extra-terrene theatre, of Dante’s poem remove him to a great distance from Homer, from whom he seems to have derived little, and with whom we may therefore feel assured he could have been but little acquainted.

The poets, whom it is most natural to compare with Homer, are those who have supplied us in the greatest abundance with points of contact between their own orbits and his, and who at the same time are such manifest children of genius as to entitle them to the honour of being worsted in such a conflict. These conditions I presume to be most clearly fulfilled by Virgil and Tasso; and we may begin with the elder of the pair.

Perhaps Chapman has gone too far when he says ‘Virgil hath nothing of his own, but only elocution; his invention, matter, and form, being all Homer’s[876].’ Yet no small part of this sweeping proposition can undoubtedly be made good.

With an extraordinary amount of admitted imitation and of obvious similarity on the surface, the Æneid stands, as to almost every fundamental particular, in the strongest contrast with the Iliad. As to metre, figures, names, places, persons and times, the two works, where they do not actually concur, stand in as near relations one to another, as seem to be attainable without absolute identity of subject; yet it may be doubted whether any two great poems can be named, which are so profoundly discordant upon almost every point that touches their interior spirit; upon everything that relates to the truth of our nature, to the laws of thought and action, and to veracity in the management of the higher subjects, such as history, morality, polity, and religion.

Contrast between form and spirit in the Æneid.

The immense powers of Virgil as a poet had been demonstrated before he wrote the Æneid. He had shown their full splendour in the Georgics; though the ἦθος, or (so to speak) the heart, even of that great work was touched with paralysis by his Epicurean and self-centring philosophy. The Æneid does not bear a fainter impression of his genius. The wonderfully sustained beauty and majesty of its verse, the imposing splendour of its most elaborate delineations, the power of the author in unfolding, when he strives to do it, the resources of passion, and even perhaps the skill which he has shown in the general construction of his plot, cannot be too highly praised. But while its general nature as an epic (for the epic poem is preeminently ethical) brought its defects into fuller view, the particular object he proposed to himself was fatal to the attainment of the very highest excellence. While Homer sang for national glory, the poem of Virgil is toned throughout to a spirit of courtierlike adulation. No muse, however vigorous, can maintain an upright gait under so base a burden.

Catalogue in the Iliad and in the Æneid.

And yet, in regard to its external form, the Æneid is perhaps, as a whole, the most majestic poem that the European mind has in any age produced. We often hear of the lofty march of the Iliad; but though its versification is always appropriate and therefore never mean, it only rises into stateliness, or into a high-pitched sublimity, when Homer has occasion to brace his energies for an effort. He is invariably true to his own conception of the bard[877], as one who should win and delight the soul of the hearer; and so, when he has strung himself, like a bow, for some great passage of his action, ‘has brought the string to the breast, the iron to the wood,’ and has hit his mark, straightway he unbends himself again. Thus he ushers in with true grandeur the marshalling of the Greek army in the Second Book, partly by the invocation of the Muses, and partly by an assemblage of no less than six consecutive similes, which describe respectively the flash of the Greek arms, the resounding tramp, the swarming numbers, the settling down of the ranks as they form the line, the busy marshalling by the commanders, the majesty of Agamemnon preeminent among them[878]. Having done this, he sets himself about the Catalogue, with no contempt indeed of poetical embellishment by epithets, and with an occasional relief by short legends, but still in the main as a matter of business, historical, geographical, and topographical. And thus he proceeds, with perfect tranquillity, for near three hundred lines, until his work is done. We then find that he has given us, together with a most minute account of the forces, a living map of the territories occupied by the Greek races of the age. But Virgil, in his imitation of the Homeric Catalogue (upon which there will be further occasion to comment hereafter, with reference to other matters), has pursued a course quite different. Waiving Homer’s gorgeous introduction, which pours from a single point a broad stream of splendour over the whole, Virgil with vast, and indeed rather painful, effort, carries us through his long-drawn list at a laboriously-sustained elevation. To vary the wearisome task, he uses every diversity of turn that language and grammar can supply[879]. He passes from nominative to vocative, and from vocative to nominative. Somebody was present, and then somebody was not absent. Arms and accoutrements are got up as minutely, as if he had been a careful master of costumes dressing a new drama for the stage. That we may never be let down for a moment, he distributes here and there the similes, which Homer accumulated at the opening, and introduces, between the accounts of military contingents, legends of twenty or more lines. Upon the whole, the level of his verse through the Catalogue, instead of being, like Homer’s, decidedly lower, is even higher than is usual with him. There is not in it, I think, a single verse approaching to the sermo pedestris. His reader misses that tranquillizing relief so agreeable in Homer, which varies as it were the play of the muscles, and freshens the faculties for a return to higher efforts. Virgil seems to treat us, as horses at a certain stage of their decline are treated by experienced drivers, who keep them going from fear that, if they once let them stop or slacken, they will be unable to get up their pace again. He never unbends his bow. But a table-land may be as flat, and even wearisome, as a plain; and the ornaments in the Æneid frequently are not, and indeed could hardly be, more ornamental than the passages which they purport to embellish.

The difference of the two Catalogues cannot be more clearly exhibited than by comparing Homer’s description of the very first contingent, that from Bœotia[880], with Virgil’s opening paragraph about Mezentius; or Homer’s last and nearly simplest, on the Magnesians[881], with the description of Camilla, (certainly a description of remarkable beauty,) with which is closed the glittering procession of the Italian army in the Æneid.

The sustained stateliness of diction, metre, and rhythm in the Æneid is a feat, and an astounding feat; but it is more like the performance of a trained athlete, between trick and strength, than the grandeur of free and simple Nature, such as it is seen in the ancient warrior, in Diomed or Achilles; or in Homer, the ancient warrior’s only bard. Different persons will, according to their temperaments, be apt to treat this augustness of diction as a merit or a fault: all, however, must acknowledge it to be a wonder. In this respect Virgil has been followed with no ordinary power, but yet not equalled, by Tasso. And the impression, created in this respect by the Æneid as it stands, must be heightened when we remember that it is still an unfinished poem, and that the author had at his decease by no means brought it, and the later books of it in particular, up to what he considered the proper standard.

The immense and untold amount of imitation in Virgil has perhaps tended to make us less than duly sensible of his vast original powers; and the mean and feeble effects produced by the character, if we can call it a character, of his Æneas, cheat us into an untrue supposition that he could not have possessed a real power of this the highest kind of delineation.

Character of Æneas.

It is perhaps hardly possible to exhaust the topics of censure which may be justly used against the Æneas of Virgil. His moral deficiencies are not (so to speak) hidden amidst the accomplishments of a manly intellect, nor his intellectual mediocrity redeemed by any fresh and genuine virtues. He is not, to our knowledge, a statesman; nay more, he is not a warrior; for we feel that his battles and feats of war are the poet’s, and not his: and when he appears in arms we are tempted to ask, ‘Son of Venus, what business have you here?’ The violent exaggerations, by which Virgil attempts to vamp up his hero’s martial character, only produce the ψυχρὸν of Longinus; a cold reaction, approaching to a shudder, through the reader’s mind. As, for instance, when in the Shades below, the poet represents the Greek chieftains[882] as trembling and flying at the sight of him, the nobleness of the verses cannot excuse either the tasteless solecism of the thought, or the profanation offered to the memory of Homer in the person of his heroes, who indeed often made Æneas tremble, but never trembled at him themselves. But Virgil goes further yet, when he makes Diomed assert[883] that, having been engaged in single combat with Æneas, he knows by experience how terrible a warrior he will prove; and that, had there been two more such men, Troy would have conquered Greece, and not Greece Troy. Now, Æneas never in the Iliad even once executes a real feat of war; and as to the single combat between the two chiefs, Diomed first knocked him down with a stone[884], and then, after he had been carried off and apparently set to rights by his mother, he was thrice saved from the deadly charge of the same warrior by the single intervention of Apollo, who by divine force arrested the attack. In passing, it may be observed that, since Virgil could, with impunity, as it appears, so far as his popularity was concerned, thus mutilate and falsify the author from whose wealth he so largely borrowed, either the knowledge of Greek literature in its head and father, Homer, must have been very low among even the educated Romans, or else their standard of taste must have been seriously debased before they could accept such compliments.

It is common to find fault with Æneas for his vile conduct to Dido, and for the wretched excuse he offers in his own behalf, when he encounters her offended spirit in the regions of Aidoneus and Persephone. But the truth is, that this fairly exhibits and illustrates not only the total unreality of this particular character, but, as will be further noticed presently, the feeble and deteriorated conception of human nature at large, which Virgil seems to have formed. Man has been treated by him as, on the whole, but a shallow being: he had not sounded the depths of the heart, nor measured either the strength of good or the strength of evil that may abide in it. The Virgilian Æneas is a made up thing, far fitter to stand among the νεκύων ἀμένηνα κάρηνα, than among men of true flesh and blood.

Nor can we draw an apology for the defects of this primary character in Virgil from the Æneas of Homer. The Dardanian Prince is indeed in the Iliad, as to everything essential, a taciturn and background figure. He is placed very high in station and authority, and, as we have seen[886], he may probably have been, by the dignity of lineal descent, the head of the whole Trojan race. But Homer pays him off with generalities; for, as no Poet is greater in the really creative work of character, so none better understands how, where the purpose of his poem requires it, to take a lay figure, and stuff him out with straw. In what may be called the vital action of the Iliad, Æneas has no considerable share, either martial or political. He is very far indeed behind the noble Sarpedon in the first capacity, and Polydamas in the second, as well as Hector in both. Still, if there is in the Homeric Æneas nothing grand, nothing vigorous, nothing profound, there is on the other hand nothing over-prominent or pretentious, and therefore nothing mean, nothing inconsistent, nothing untrue. All the Homeric characters, down to Thersites, are drawn each in its way with a master’s hand; Æneas forms no exception: on the contrary, we have to admire the skill with which, in a kind of middle distance, his outline is filled up, and he is kept entirely clear of any confusion with either those greater characters on the Trojan side, who have been named, or with the effeminate Paris. This is the more worthy of note, because, as the favourite child of Venus, he bore a qualified and dim resemblance to her chief minion; as we may see by certain traits of his very negative bearing in the field, and by Apollo’s putting him (if the phrase may be allowed) to bed in Pergamus[887], when he had been rescued from Diomed, just as Venus had done with Paris, after she had saved him in the Third Book from Menelaus[888].

Neither did Virgil fail in the delineation of his hero, or ‘protagonist,’ from simple want of power to portray human character. No such want can be ascribed to the poet of the Fourth Book of the Æneid. And if it be true that, amidst all the stormy wildness and intensity of the passion of Dido, there is something not quite natural—something that recalls the very remarkable imitation of it in the ‘Duchesse de la Vallière’ of Madame de Genlis, and leaves us almost at a loss to say which of the two has most the character of a copy, and which of an original—what are we to say of the genuine and manly character of Turnus? The whole of that sketch is as good and true as we can desire; and the noble speech in particular, in which he rebukes the trim cowardice of Drances, is a work of such extraordinary power and merit, that it is fit (and this I take for the summit of all eulogies) even to have been spoken by the Achilles of Homer. In vigorous reasoning, in biting sarcasm, in chivalrous sentiment, and in indignant passion, it presents a combination not easily to be matched; and it is, as a whole, admirably adapted to the oratorical purpose, for which it is presumed to have been delivered. But, indeed, from our first view of Turnus to our last, we do not find in him a single trait feeble in itself, or unworthy of the masculine idea and intention of the portrait, except where, in the very last passage of his life, his free agency seems to be taken, as it were by force, out of his hands.

The false position of Virgil.

The failure in the Æneas of Virgil cannot be compared with the case of any modern romance, such as the Waverley or Old Mortality of Scott, where the hero may be an insipid person. All the greater modern inventors have been compelled to lay their foundations in the palpable breadth of some historic event: it was the prouder distinction of the Homeric epic, that it had a living centre; it hung upon a man; there was enough of vital power in Homer for this end: his Achilles and his Ulysses were each an Atlas, that sustained the world in which they also moved. Virgil made his poem an Æneid, instead of following the example of the Cyclic poets; he thus pledged himself to his readers, that Æneas should be its centre, its pole, its inward light and life. But he did not keep his word: he had drawn the bow of Homer without Homer’s force. He marks perhaps the final transition from the old epic of the first class to the new. After him we have the epics of fact, the Pharsalia, the Thebaid, and so forth. But Æneas stands before us with the pretensions of Achilles and Ulysses; and the failure is great in proportion to the gigantic scale of the attempt. When, in the Italian romance, the character of the ideal man, as shown in Orlando, again became the basis of new epic poems, we again find in the protagonist great weakness indeed, as compared with Achilles and Ulysses; but strength and success as compared with the Æneas of Virgil.

Upon the whole we are thrown back on the supposition that this crying vice of the Æneid, the feebleness and untruth of the character of Æneas, was due to the false position of Virgil, who was obliged to discharge his functions as a poet in subjection to his dominant obligations and liabilities as a courtly parasite of Augustus. As the entire poem, so the character of its hero, was, before all other things, an instrument for glorifying the Emperor of Rome. It at once followed, that in all respects must that character be such as to avoid suggesting a comparison disadvantageous to the person whose dignity, for political ends, had already been elevated even into the unseen world; nay, whose forestalled divinity was to be kept in a relation of absolute and broad superiority to the image of his human ancestor. Æneas is himself addressed in the action of the Æneid, as

In order to arrive at the disastrous effects of this mental servitude, take, first, the measure of the cold and unheroic character of Augustus; then estimate the degree of relative superiority, which it was essential to Virgil’s position that he should preserve for him throughout; and thus we may come to some practical conception of the straitness of the space within which Virgil had to develop his Æneas, or, in other words, to run his match against Homer. All the faults, and all the faultiness, of his poem may be really owing, in a degree none can say how great, to this original falseness of position.

On account of the personal principle on which the ancient epic was constructed, failure in the character of the hero must almost of necessity have entailed failure in the poem. Most of all would this follow in a case where, as in the Æneid, the hero is never out of view, and where the action does not, as in the Iliad, travel away from his person, in order then to enhance the splendour and effectiveness of his reappearance. Thus the falseness of Virgil’s position was not confined to an individual character, but extended to his entire work. Living, too, in an age less natural and more critical than that of Homer, he provided against criticism, so far as regarded its merely technical functions, more, and he studied nature less. He had to construct his epic for a court, and a corrupt court, not for mankind at large; it followed, that he could not take his stand upon those deep and broad foundations in human nature itself, which gave Homer a position of universal command. Hence as a general rule he does not sing from the heart, nor to the heart. His touches of genuine nature are rare. Such of them as occur have been carefully noted and applauded, for he is always studious to set them off by choice and melodious diction. For my own part, I find scarcely any among them so true as the simile of the mother labouring with her maidens at night, which he owes to Homer[889]:

As to religion, liberty, and nationality.

With rare exceptions, the reader of Virgil finds himself utterly at a loss to see at any point the soul of the poet reflected in his work. We cannot tell, amidst the splendid phantasmagoria, where is his heart, where lie his sympathies. In Homer a genial spirit, breathed from the Poet himself, is translucent through the whole; in the Æneid we look in vain almost for a single ray of it. Again, Virgil lived at a time when the prevailing religion had lost whatever elements of real influence that of Homer’s era either possessed in its own right, or inherited from pristine tradition. It was undermined at once by philosophy and by licentiousness; and it subsisted only as a machinery, a machinery, too, already terribly discredited, for civil ends. Thus he lost one great element of truth and nature, as well as of sublimity and pathos. The extinction of liberty utterly deprived him of another. Homer saw before him both a religion and a polity young, fresh, and vigorous; for Virgil both were practically dead: and whatever this world has of true greatness is so closely dependent upon them, that it was not his fault if his poem felt and bears cogent witness to the loss. Even the sphere of personal morality was not open to him; for what principle of truth or righteousness could he worthily have glorified, without passing severe condemnation on some capital act of the man, whom it was his chief obligation to exalt?

And once more. Homer sang to his own people of the glorious deeds of their sires, to whom they were united by fond recollection, and by near historic and local ties. This was at once a stimulus and a check; it cheered his labour, and at the same time it absolutely required him to study moral harmony and consistency. Virgil sang to Romans of the deeds of those who were not Romans, and whom only a most hollow fiction connected with his hearers, through the dim vista of a thousand years, and under circumstances which made the pretence to historical continuity little better than ridiculous. Or rather, he sang thus, not to Romans, but to their Emperor; he had to bear in mind, not the great fountains of emotion in the human heart, but his town-house on the Esquiline, and his country-house on the road from Naples to Pozzuoli. In dealing with Greeks, with Trojans, with Carthaginians, he again lost Homer’s double advantage: he had nothing to give a healthy stimulus to his imagination, and nothing to bring him or to keep him to the standard of truth and nature. And here, perhaps, we hit upon some clue to the superior character and attractions of Turnus. The Poet was now for once upon true national ground: he was an Italian minstrel, singing to Italians, whether truly or mythically is of less consequence, about an Italian hero. Thus he had something like the proper materials to work with; and the result is one worthy of his noble powers, though it has the strange consequence of setting all the best sympathies of his readers, and of implying that his own were already set, in direct opposition to the ostensible purpose of his poem.

It appears, however, as if this great and splendid Poet, being thrown out of his true bearings in regard to all the deeper sources of interest on which an epic writer must depend, such as religion, patriotism, and liberty, became consequently reckless, alike in major and in minor matters, as to all the inner harmonies of his work, and contented himself with the most unwearied and fastidious labours in its outward elaboration, where he could give scope to his extraordinary powers of versification and of diction without fear of stumbling upon anything unfit for the artificial atmosphere of the Roman court. The consequence is, that a vein of untruthfulness runs throughout the whole Æneid, as strong and as remarkable as is the genuineness of thought and feeling in the Homeric poems. Homer walks in the open day, Virgil by lamplight. Homer gives us figures that breathe and move, Virgil usually treats us to waxwork. Homer has the full force and play of the drama, Virgil is essentially operatic. From Virgil back to Homer is a greater distance, than from Homer back to life.

Homer is misapprehended through Virgil.

But more. Virgil is at once the copyist of Homer, and, for the generality of educated men, his interpreter[891]. In all modern Europe taken together, Virgil has had ten who read him, and ten who remember him, for one that Homer could show. Taking this in conjunction with the great extent of the ground they occupy in common, we may find reason to think that the traditional and public idea of Homer’s works, throughout the entire sphere of the Western civilization, has been formed, to a much greater degree than could at first be supposed, by the Virgilian copies from him. This is only to say, in other words, that it has been sadly impaired, not to say seriously falsified; for there is scarcely a point of vital moment, in which Virgil follows Homer faithfully, or represents him either fairly or completely. Now this traditional idea is not only the stock idea that governs the indifferent public, but it is likewise the idea with which the individual student starts, and which governs him until he has reached such a point in his progress as to discover the necessity, and be conscious moreover of the strength, to throw it off. This, however, is a point that, from the nature of human life and its pursuits, very few students indeed can reach at all. Elsewhere we shall see, with what evil and untrue effect Virgil has handled some of the Homeric characters. It is the same in every minor trait; and it seems strange that so great a Poet should not have had enough of reverence for another Poet, greater still and enshrined in almost the worship of all ages, to have restrained him from such constant and wanton, as well as wilful, mutilations of the Homeric tradition. It would, however, appear that Virgil’s miscarriages are not all due to carelessness, in the common sense of it. In many instances, unless so far as they can be referred to the necessities that press upon a courtier, it would seem as if they must be ascribable to torpor in the faculties, or defect in the habit of mind, by which Homer should have been appreciated. Nay, sometimes he appears to have been moved simply by metrical convenience to alter the traditions of Homer. Let us take first a minor instance to test this assertion.

Nothing can be more marked than the prominence of the Scamander as compared with the Simois in Homer. The Simois is named by him only six times, and none of the passages show it to have been a considerable stream. In the Twenty-first Book[892], Scamander invites Simois to join him in pouring forth the flood which was to bear away Achilles, but his ‘brother’ neither replies, nor takes part in the action. It would appear, indeed, from geographical considerations, which belong to the topography of the Troad, that in the summer Simois was probably dry. This entirely accords with the passage in which this river supplies ἀμβροσίη[893], a figure, as may be presumed, of grass, for the horses of Juno. At any rate, that passage is at variance with the idea of the river as a tearing torrent. Again, Homer mentions[894] that many heroes fell, he does not say in, but about, the stream: above all, he does not say they fell into its waters, but in the dust of it, or near it:

Again, Scamander is personified as the god Xanthus, and plays a great part in the action: Simois is not personified at all. Scamander is δῖος, διοτρεφὴς and much besides: Simois has no epithets. Simoeisius is the son of Anthemion, a person of secondary account; but Scamandrius is the name given by Hector to his boy. Simois, for all we know, may have been either a dry bed, or little better than a rivulet; but armed men are thrown into Scamander, and whirled by him to the sea. Lastly, the plain where the Greek army was reviewed is λειμὼν Σκαμάνδριος, πέδιον Σκαμάνδριον. Now a right conception of these rivers is not altogether an insignificant affair, but is material to the clearness of our ideas upon the military action of the poem. What then has Virgil done with them? He has simply reversed the Homeric representation. Xanthus is with him the unmarked river, Simois is the mighty torrent. Witness these passages:

Again:

And most of all, the passage which he has directly carried off from Homer, and corrupted it on his way (Æn. i. 104):

And why all this? Plainly, I apprehend, because, while Scamander was a word disqualified from entering into the Latin hexameter, Xanthus also was somewhat less convenient than Simois for the march of his resounding verse. Now this is a sample in small things of what Virgil has done in nearly all things, both small and great.

Νεκυΐα of Homer and Virgil.

There are instances in which Virgil is popularly thought to profit by the comparison with Homer, and where, notwithstanding, a full consideration may lead to a reversal of the sentence. The νεκυΐα of the Eleventh Odyssey, for example, is thought inferior to that of the Sixth Æneid. To bring them fairly together, we should perhaps put out of view the philosophical and prophetical part of the latter[895]; but whether we do it or not is little material in the comparison. In either way, the Inferno of Virgil is, upon the whole, a stage procession of stately and gorgeous figures; but it has no consistent or veracious relation to any idea of the future or unseen state actually operative among mankind. Yet there existed such an idea, at least in the times of which Virgil was treating, if not at the period when he lived. It was surely a subject of the deepest interest, and of the most solemn pathos. What we are as men here depends very much on our conception of what we are hereafter to be. There is nothing more touching in all the history of the race of Adam, than its blind and painful feeling after a future still invisible. There is no witness to the comparative degradation of a race or age, so sure as its having ceased to yearn towards any thing beyond the grave. Homer has shown us in the Eleventh Odyssey[896], that, together with his keen sense of the present and visible, he felt the full force of this mysterious drawing towards the unseen. He is plainly as much in earnest here, as in any part of the poems. Virgil, on the other hand, succeeds in investing his hell with almost unequalled pomp, approximating at times to splendour. Homer attempts nothing of the kind; but he produces a perfect and profound impression of those regions, according to the idea in his own mind: they are shadowy, gloomy, cold, above all, and in one word, dismal. Virgil contrives to leave the reader convinced that he is a very great artist: Homer lets all such matters take care of themselves. But while Virgil creates no impression at all on the mind as to the World of Shades, no image of the timid, vague, and dim belief that was entertained respecting it, Homer has set it all before us with a truthfulness never equalled or approached. And yet Virgil abounds in details and measurements which Homer avoids. Tartarus is twice as deep as the distance from earth to sky[897], and the Hydra has fifty mouths. Yet the details of the one give no impression of reality, while the utter local vagueness and dreaminess of the other is far more definite in its effect, because it is made to minister to the appropriate ideas of sadness, sympathy, and awe. As to particular passages, the appearance of Dido is full of grandeur; but her silence, the basis of it, is borrowed from that of Ajax; while in the Odyssey the striding of Achilles in silence over the meadow of asphodel, when he swells with exultation upon hearing that his son excelled in council and in war, is perhaps one of the most sublime pieces of human representation, which Homer himself ever has produced.

Ethnological dislocations.

Let us now give an instance of Virgil’s utter indifference to historic truth and consistency. It is the more remarkable, because as he was pretending to derive the Julian family from the stock of Æneas, there would apparently have been some advantage in adhering strictly to the Homeric distinctions as to races on both sides in the Trojan war. But this appears to be entirely beneath his attention. For instance, he calls the Homeric Greeks Pelasgi[898]. It may be said he was guided by the Italian traditions, which connected the Greek and Pelasgian names as early colonists of that country. But first, some regard should be paid to Homer in matters which concern Troy; and it is rather violent to call the Greeks Pelasgi, when the only Pelasgi named in the war by the Poet are placed on the side of their enemies. Secondly, as it was his purpose throughout to depress the Greeks, why should he thus thrust them into view as one with an Italian race? Above all, why do this in a case, where Homer had himself supplied a link between Italy and Troy? Again, Virgil calls the Greek camp Dorica castra[899]. But the Dorians at the period of the Trojan war were utterly insignificant, and are never once named by Homer in connection with the contest. Again, Virgil calls Diomed, and the city of Arpi founded by him, Ætolian, and makes him complain that he was not allowed to go back to Calydon[900], simply because his father Tydeus, as a son of Œneus, had been of Ætolian extraction; though he commanded the Argives, and had nothing whatever to do with the Ætolians of Homer. Again, following a late and purposeless tradition, he calls Ulysses Æolides[901], though Homer has given the descent of Ulysses[902] without in any manner attaching it to the line of the Æolids, a collection of families whose descent, on account probably of their historical importance, he is more than ordinarily careful to mark.

With cases of simple inaccuracy, to which I do not seek to attach undue weight, we may connect the manner in which he confounds, on the other side, the distinctions of the Trojan races, so accurately marked by Homer. In the Twentieth Iliad, the genealogy of the reigning families of Troy and of Dardania is given with great precision. The distinction between Trojans and Dardanians is preserved through the Iliad, though the Trojan name is sometimes, but rarely, used to include the whole indigenous army, and sometimes it even signifies the entire force, including the allies, which opposed the Greek army. We might here, however, suppose that it would have been in the interest of Virgil’s aim to maintain, or even sharpen, the distinction between the Dardanian line, which was at most but indirectly worsted by the Greeks, and the line of Ilus, which fatally both sinned and suffered in the conflict of the Troica. But, on the contrary, he is still less discriminating in the use of names here, than he has been for the Greeks. The companions of Æneas are sometimes Teucri, Trojani, or Trojugenæ—sometimes Æneadæ, sometimes Dardanidæ. In the first of these names he entirely contravenes Homer, who produces a Teucer eminent among the Greeks, but nowhere connects the name with Troy, while Virgil makes a Cretan Teucer[903] the founder of the Trojan race. I grant that he here founds himself upon what may be called a separate tradition, though it is vague and slender, of a Teucrian race in Troas. In the two last appellations, without any authority, he wholly alters the effect of the Greek patronymic, and changes the mere family-name into a national appellation. Then again they appear as the Pergamea gens[904]. But Pergamus in Homer was simply the citadel of Troy, and is a correlative to πύργος[905]: the English might almost as well be called the people of the Tower. Not content yet, he will also have the Trojans to be Phryges:

though in Homer the Phrygians are a people both ethnologically and politically separate[907] from the Trojan races. Again as to Æneas himself. He is called Rhæteius heros[908]; but if Virgil chose thus to designate his hero by reference to a single point of the Trojan territory, it should have been one with which he was locally connected, whereas the dominions of his family were not near the promontory or upon the coast, but among the hills at the other extreme of the country. Then again Æneas is Laomedontius heros[909]; but Laomedon was of the branch of Ilus, while Æneas belonged to that of Assaracus; and was moreover perjured, while the line of Assaracus was marked with no such taint. So we have again—

but Dardanus founded Dardania, while Ilium did not exist until the time of his great grandson Ilus. And here Virgil seems wholly to forget that he had himself made Teucer the head of the race[911]. In describing the migration of this hero from Crete to Troas, he says:

Here he not only rejects Homer, who places Dardanus and the original settlement among the mountains, but likewise represents what is in itself improbable, since eminences, and not bottoms, were commonly sought by the first colonists with a view to security. Choosing to depart from Homer, he does not even agree with Apollodorus[913]. Lastly, he is not less neglectful of the actual topography; for he implies that Ilium is among the hills, while it was, according to Homer’s express words and according to universal opinion, on the plain as opposed to the hills. Again we have from Virgil the allusion—

Here is another case of metre against history, and in all such cases history must go (as is said) to the wall. Ilium would not satisfactorily admit the genitive case; there could therefore be no glory of Ilium, and on this account Virgil liberally assigns vast renown to Dardania, which was a place of no renown whatever. But he is quite as ready, it must be admitted, to contradict himself as he is to contradict Homer. In Æn. ii. 540, he gives it to be understood that the city of Troy alone was the kingdom of Priam, and that the Greek camp was beyond it, for he makes Priam say of his return from the camp,

But a very little further on he calls Priam (v. 556),

Each account is alike inaccurate: Priam had more than a city, but his dominions were confined to a mere nook of Asia Minor. And again, before quitting this part of the subject, let us observe how, in the case of Anchises, he departs from Homer, even where it would have served the purpose of his story to follow him closely. The Anchises of Homer is an ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν; he does not appear at Troy among the δημογέροντες of the city, or of Priam’s court, which would have made him a secondary figure; he resides at Dardania as an independent sovereign, and it seems not unlikely that in lineal dignity, at least, he was even before Priam. But the Anchises of Virgil is resident in Troy[915]; and is therefore, of course, to be taken for a subject of Priam. Here the alteration very much lowers the rank of Æneas, and so far, therefore, of Augustus.

The effect of all this is, without any real gain either moral or poetical, entirely to bewilder the mind of the reader of the Æneid, in regard to a subject of real interest both historical and ethnological, with respect to which Homer has left on record a most careful and clear representation. It must indeed be admitted, that the intervening poets had set many examples of similar license; indeed they had made irregularity a rule; but they had no such powerful reasons as Virgil had for imitating, in some points at least, the precision of Homer, and besides, he has perhaps exceeded them all in the multitude and variety of his departures from it. On the other hand, some allowance, I admit, should be made for the less flexible character of the Latin tongue, which might have made the peculiar accuracy of Homer a real difficulty to Virgil.

I have thus minutely traced out this course of inconsistency and contradiction in particular instances, because they are highly illustrative of the character of Virgil’s work, if not of his mind. After the political and courtly idea of the poem, he seems to have abandoned all solicitude except for its form and sound, and to have been totally indifferent as to presenting any veracious, or if that word imply too much credulity, any self-consistent pattern, of manners, places, events, or characters.

Virgil must, materially at least, have saturated himself with the Iliad before he planned the Æneid, for his borrowing is alike incessant and diversified; and this it is which renders it so singular that he should at once have exposed himself to the double charge of servilely imitating and of gratuitously disfiguring his original.

If we look to the action of the Twelfth Book of the Æneid, it is all made up from Homer cut in pieces and recast. It begins with the idea of the single combat, borrowed from the Third and Seventh Iliads. Then come the pact and the breach of it by Juturna, under Juno’s influence, which are borrowed from the treachery of Pandarus, prompted by Minerva, under the same instigation. Next, the flight of Turnus before Æneas is borrowed from that of Hector before Achilles. After this, Turnus is disabled by a divine agency, like Patroclus before Hector; a downfall brought about in the one case, as in the other, without peril and without honour, so that here we have a copy even of one among the few points where the Iliad was little worthy to be imitated. Lastly, the thought of Pallas in the mind of Æneas (more highly wrought, however, and very effective), plays the part of the recollection of Patroclus[916] in the mind of Achilles.

Unfaithful imitations of detail.

Both here and elsewhere, the imitations in detail are too numerous to be noted. Some of them even descend to a character which, independently of their minuteness, approaches the ludicrous. The very dung, in which the Oilean Ajax loses his footing[917], in the Twenty-third Iliad, is reproduced in the Fifth Æneid, that Nisus may flounder in it. But even here we may note two characteristic differences. Homer trips up a personage, whom he has no particular occasion to set off favourably. Virgil chooses for the object of derision Nisus, on whom, in the beautiful episode which soon after follows, he is about to concentrate all the tenderest sympathies of his hearers. And again, Homer makes Ajax slip where, as he says, the oxen had just been slain over Patroclus: Virgil has no such probable cause to allege for the presence of the obnoxious material[918], but says cæsis forte juvencis. Now the Trojans had in fact left the tomb of Anchises, and had gone to a chosen spot to celebrate the foot-races[919]; so that even his gore and ordure are quite out of place.

So again, of all the formulæ in Homer, it is not very clear why Virgil should have chosen to recall the rather commonplace line

in his own more ambitious and resounding verse,

but it is still more singular that, instead of saying that hunger and thirst were satisfied, he should leave out thirst altogether, and fill up his hexameter by mentioning hunger twice over.

Still it seems not a little strange, notwithstanding the power of the disabling causes which have been enumerated, that, with so vast an amount of material imitation, Virgil should not have acquired, even by accident or by sheer force of use, some traits of nearer resemblance in feeling, and in ethical handling, to his great original.

His maltreatment of the Homeric characters is most conspicuous, perhaps, in the instance of Helen. This case, indeed, deserves a separate consideration of the causes which have reduced a beautiful, touching, and remarkably original portrait to a gross and most common caricature. But Ulysses, as the prince of policy, had perhaps a better claim to be comprehended by a Roman at the court of Augustus. Yet the Ulysses of Virgil simply represents the naked ideas of hardness, cunning, and cruelty. He is never named but to be abused; and, though the mention of him is not very frequent, it is easy to construct from the poem a pretty large catalogue of vituperative epithets, unmitigated by any single one of an opposite character. He is durus, dirus, sævus, pellax, fandi fictor, artifex, inventor scelerum, and scelerum hortator. Even physical circumstances, however, and those too of the broadest notoriety, Virgil entirely overlooks. Nothing can be more at variance with the effeminate character of the Homeric Paris, his impotence in fight, and his distinction limited to the bow, which was then the coward’s weapon, than to represent him as possessed of vast physical force. Yet even on this Virgil has ventured. In the games of the Fifth Book, when Æneas invites candidates for the pugilistic encounter, the huge Dares immediately presents himself, and he is described as the only person who could box with Paris[921]!

Heyne urges by way of apology the authority of Hyginus, who was no more than the contemporary of Virgil himself; and presumes that Virgil followed authorities now lost: a sorry defence, because the representation is inconsistent not merely with the facts, but with the essential idea of the Paris of Homer, and therefore proves that Virgil did not try or care to understand the character, or to be faithful to his master.

Maltreatment of Mythology and Ethics.

But it is time to give some instances, which show an utter disregard of either mythological or moral consistency.

In the Eighth Æneid, Æneas and Anchises are much troubled in mind; and so it appears they must have continued,

This idea of a Cytherea tonans is as incongruous as it is novel. To preserve the characteristic attributes of the several deities of the Pagan mythology contributes to beauty, and was therefore at least an obligation imposed by the poetic art; but Virgil is not content with simply departing from it by taking the management of thunder and lightning out of the hands of Jupiter and the highest deities; he cannot be satisfied without giving it to Venus. With her Homeric character, and with any consistent conception of her attributes, it is utterly irreconcilable.

But again, in the Second Æneid, Virgil makes Venus address to her son the following majestic lines, when he was about to slay Helen amidst the conflagration of Troy:

In which he plainly imitates the words of Priam,

Now, even with reference to the acquittal of Helen, the cases are quite dissimilar. What Homer puts into the mouth of Priam, Virgil stamps with the authority of a deity: what Priam says of the Homeric Helen, who had been carried off by Paris, and whose general character was very far from depraved, the Venus of Virgil says of a hardened traitress as well as adulteress. Again, what Priam says relative to himself, ‘I do not blame thee,’ seems in the Æneid to resemble the unlimited enunciation of an abstract proposition. But, above all, let us notice how lamentably Virgil has mauled the sentiment by introducing Paris into the passage, of whose moral guilt, if there be such a thing as moral guilt upon earth, there could be no doubt, and whom Homer, with true poetic justice, has taken care to punish by making him the object of the general reprobation and hatred of his countrymen[925]. In acquitting such an offender, and throwing the charge of his crimes upon the Immortals, by the mouth, too, of one belonging to their number, Virgil has given into the worst form of fatalism, that namely which annihilates all moral sanctions and ideas as applicable to human conduct.