coffee may be made with burnt crusts of bread--an ingenious plan and a
frugal! Am engaged to eat my mutton with the Vicar of the next parish,
so that I have leisure to speculate for to-morrow. 12 o’clock.--Rode
over to my Aunt Picquet’s. N.B. A plaguy old woman, but has excellent
cherry-brandy, and all the fruits of Alcinous in her garden. Managed to
oblige her by conveying home some fine pines in a basket. 5
o’clock.--Dinner. Old Decker, his wife, and young Decker of Brasenose.
_Mem._ Young Decker a great fool, but takes good care of the cellar. On
my return sent my pines to the Hall (know Sir Harry’s have failed this
year), and received, per bearer, an invitation to join in the eating
to-morrow.
“Tuesday.--After breakfast a water-excursion with the Hon. F. Goree. The
poor little fellow very ingeniously fell out of the boat. I contrived to
catch him by the collar in time to prevent him from spoiling his curls;
but he was quite outrageous because I ruined his neckcloth. _Eh bien!_ I
lose nothing, for I never compassed a dinner with the Countess yet. 7
o’clock.--Dinner at the Hall. A large party. Began my manœuvres very
badly, by correcting a mistake of the old gentleman’s about ‘Hannibal,
the Roman general;’ recovered my ground, unconsciously, by a lucky
dispute I had with his opponent in politics. A good dinner. Hinted how
much I preferred a saddle of mutton cold. Praised the wine and drank it
with equal avidity. In the evening played the flute, joined in a catch,
and took a beating at chess from her ladyship with all imaginable
complacency. Have certainly made great progress at the Hall. Must dance
with the Baronet’s daughter at the ball on Thursday.
“Wednesday.--Wet morning. Nothing to be done. Cold saddle, with
compliments, sent over from the Hall. Pocketed the affront and dined on
the mutton.
“Thursday.--My mare has sprained her shoulder. How am I to get to the
rooms to-night? 1 o’clock.--Walked out. Met young Lawson. Hinted
Rosinante’s calamity, and secured a seat in the curricle. 10
o’clock.--The curricle called. L. nearly lodged me in a ditch. _Au
reste_, a pleasant drive. _Mem._ To dine with him at six to-morrow, and
he is to take me in the evening to a quadrille at the Landrishes’. The
rooms very full. Certainly intended to dance with the Baronet’s beauty.
Made a villanous mistake, and stood up with Caroline Berry. My Roxana
avoided me all the rest of the evening. How stupid! Have certainly
ruined myself at the Hall!”
This sort of life must have been very annoying to such a man as Charles
Torrens; however, he has now freed himself from it. “Good-by,” he said,
as we shook hands, and parted; “you’ll come to us again, Perry. I was a
harum-scarum dog when you knew me last; but if the river of life is
rough, there is nothing like an affectionate wife to steady the boat!”
ESSAY ON THE POEMS OF HOMER, AND THE MANNERS OF THE AGE IN WHICH HE
LIVED.
“Philo-Musus” has sent us an essay, of considerable length, upon the
merits and beauties of the Art of Poetry. We are persuaded, however,
that of such merits and beauties none of our readers need to be
informed; and therefore “Philo-Musus” lies at our publisher’s till
called for.
We are going, however, to make some observations upon one advantage to
be derived from poetry, which our good friend has altogether omitted. We
mean the power which it possesses of handing down to posterity an exact
picture of the customs and manners of a very distant age. By its aid we
can trace through successive years the variations which gradually take
place in warfare and in letters, in habits and in costume; we can gaze
with reverence upon the superstitions which have become extinct, and
smile upon comparing the nascent follies of the age of demigods with the
full-blown follies of the age of men. Homer, as he stands pre-eminent
among the ancient bards in all other requisites, is equally so in this.
Notwithstanding the force of his numbers, the fertility of his
invention, the grandeur of his story, and the excellency of the moral
precepts which are interspersed throughout it, we are inclined to value
him less upon these considerations than upon the faithful representation
which he has given us of the manners of his heroes. For these reasons we
have put his name at the top of this paper, although in the course of it
we shall probably indulge ourselves in more frequent digressions than
ever the old gentleman himself made use of. To those who had rather have
from us a well-digested essay than a series of straggling remarks, we
must say what we have often said before:--“We are boys, and we have not
the presumption to suppose ourselves capable of criticising the studies,
or regulating the taste, of our schoolfellows. Our aim has not been,
and is not, to instruct, but to amuse.” With this preface, we put our
Homer before us, mend our pen, and begin.
The “Odyssey,” which describes the travels and sufferings of an
individual, has, of course, more numerous sketches of private life than
the “Iliad,” the actors in which seem, as it were, to be upon a public
stage, and to stalk in the tragic buskin from one end of the poem to the
other. But we cannot help wondering at the manner in which the poet has
so frequently interwoven in his most gorgeous descriptions some allusion
to the commerce or the arts of his countrymen; his similes, in
particular, are perpetually borrowed from the works of the farmer or the
mechanic. Some have found fault with Homer upon this head, arguing that
the images which he introduces are, in some instances, too mean for the
dignity of the epic style. He has been defended from the charge by abler
pens than ours; and therefore we shall only observe, at present, that
allowing these passages to be blemishes, they are blemishes more
valuable to us than the greatest beauties could have been: if his
descriptions of rustic manners are faults, Homer, like his own Achilles,
would be less interesting were he less faulty.
The first observation which occurs to us (for we intend to write, like
sentimental ladies, quite at random) is that the besiegers of Ilium were
ignorant of one of the fiercest pests of modern times, coined money.
Ἔνθεν ἄρ’ οἰνίζοντο καρῃκομόωντες Ἀχαιοἰ,
Ἄλλοι μὲν χαλκῷ, ἄλλοι δ’ αίθωνι σιδήρῳ,
Ἄλλοι δὲ ῥινοῖς, ἄλλοι δ’ αὺτοῖσι βόεσσιν,
Ἄλλοι δ’ ἀνδραπόδεσσι·
Each, in exchange, proportioned treasures gave;
Some brass, or iron; some an ox, or slave.
Not a word in the bargain of pounds, shillings, and pence. If these
noxious ideas had then existed, we should have had the sellers of the
wine exclaiming, in the style of one of our old ballad writers:
Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so round!
And we should have had the buyers replying, in all the lengthy insolence
of Homeric compounds:
I have gold to discharge all that I call!
If it be forty pence, I will pay all.
Again, when Agamemnon endeavours to appease the anger of Achilles by the
offer of sumptuous presents, he presents him with a magnificent list of
the cities in his gift; and, in order to describe the value of them, is
obliged to have recourse to the vague epithets of “εὖ
ναιομένα”--“ποιήεσσαν”--“βαθύλειμον”--“ἀμπελόεσσαν.” Now, if Ηomer’s
heroes had understood anything of coinage, the poet would have avoided
all this circumlocution, and presented us at once with a clear statement
of the yearly revenues, in the style of the above-quoted songster:
For Plumpton Park I will give thee,
With tenements fair beside;
’Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,
To maintain thy good cow-hide.
This, however, is mere jesting. The next consideration we shall offer
will be a more serious one. How happy were the men of that age! They had
no such crime as forgery, no discussions about stocks, no apprehensions
of a paper currency. There was no liability to imposition; no necessity
for pamphlets. At the present crisis, when the increase of forgery and
the dread of national bankruptcy occupy so large a portion of public
attention, we, in common with other more practised quacks, come humbly
forward with our nostrum. Is it not “a consummation devoutly to be
wished” that Britain would consent to forego the use of these horrible
mischief-workers, these bits of silver, or of silver paper, and return
contentedly to the original method of traffic, making her payments in
oxen or in sheep? The veriest bungler may forge a shilling, but the
veriest adept would find it plaguy difficult to forge an ox.
If it be true that the ancient Greeks were thus ignorant of stamped
money (for we are only repeating what has been observed upon the subject
before us), it cannot but surprise us that they had made so great a
proficiency in other arts, without the use of what appears in modern
times absolutely indispensable to social intercourse. From the
descriptions of Homer they should seem to have been, in a great measure,
in possession of our arts, our ideas of policy, our customs, our
superstitions. Although living at so remote a period they enjoyed many
of our luxuries; although corrupted and debased by the grossest of
religious codes, they entertained many of our notions of morality: the
most skilful artisan, and the most enlightened sage, may, even in our
days, find in the poems of Homer always an incitement to curiosity, and
frequently a source of instruction.
Many a lady of _ton_ (if ladies of _ton_ were in the habit of studying
Homer) would be astonished at learning that her last new lustres would
sink into insignificance by the side of the candelabras of Alcinous:
Χρύσειοι δ’ ἄρα κοῦροι ἐϋδμήτων ἐπὶ βωμῶν,
Ἔστασαν, αἰθομένας δαΐδας μετὰ χερσὶν ἔχοντες,
Φαίνοντες νύκτας κατὰ δώματα δαιτυμόνεσσιν.
Refulgent pedestals the walls surround,
Which boys of gold with flaming torches crowned;
The polished ore, reflecting every ray,
Blazed on the banquets with a double day.
Nor would she be less amazed, upon turning from these inanimate
attendants, and learning the number and duties of the housemaids:
Πεντήκοντα δέ οἱ δμωαὶ κατὰ δῶμα γυναίκες, κ. τ. λ.
Full fifty handmaids form the household train;
Some turn the mill, or sift the golden grain;
Some ply the loom; their busy fingers move
Like poplar-trees when Zephyr fans the grove.
Indeed, throughout his whole description of the palace and gardens of
Alcinous, the poet seems, to have expended all his ideas of luxury and
magnificence. The colouring of the picture must of course be supposed to
be much heightened by the graces of fiction and ornament; but
nevertheless the objects of it must certainly have been sketched from
the manners and usages which were before the eyes of the designer. Upon
the first of these passages it is to be observed that the Greeks of
those days were ignorant of any contrivance in the way of lamps: they
banqueted or deliberated by the light of fires or the blaze of
torches--rude even in their refinements and barbarous in their most
surpassing splendour. As to the fifty housemaids, we must recollect that
it was necessary to retain a great number of female attendants, where
the women had the charge of almost every menial employment, and the
males seemed to live for little else but pleasure and war.
One example we may derive from the rude manners of that age, which it
would be well if the more polished society of this would remember and
imitate: we allude to the constant reliance which was placed upon
religion in affairs of every kind. No voyage was commenced--no war
undertaken--no treaty concluded--without a recurrence of sacrifice and
ceremony. Hence the extraordinary sanctity which was always attached to
the persons of their priests; hence also the veneration which was paid
to their poets; for as the themes of their earliest songs were generally
the praise or the actions of some member of their multifarious
mythology, the celebrators partook of the honours which were paid to
those whom they celebrated; and the verse which flowed in the name of
any of their divinities was supposed to proceed from their immediate
inspiration. Princes therefore generally retained in their household a
bard or sage (for the terms were nearly synonymous), though we are not
so wicked as to suppose that the office of fool, among the ancient
Saxons, bore any analogy to that of bard among the ancient Greeks. There
is an example of this custom in the opening of the “Odyssey” which has
always pleased us very much. The poet has been describing the debauchery
and insolence of the suitors of Penelope--
A brutal crowd,
With insolence, and wine, elate and loud.
And when his readers are disgusted by the extravagance and luxury which
revels in the property of another, he introduces, by way of relief to
the glaring colouring of the rest of the picture, the person of an old
man, who still retains the post which he had held under Ulysses, and is
compelled reluctantly to sweep the strings of his lyre by the mandate of
the dissolute usurpers:
Κήρυξ δ’ ὲν χερσὶν κίθαριν περικαλλέα θῆκε
Φημίῳ, ὄς ῥ’ ἤειδε παρὰ μνηστῆρσιν ἀνάγκῃ·
Ἦτοι ὂ φορμίζων άνεβάλλετο καλὸν ἀείδειν·
To Phemius was consigned the chorded lyre,
Whose hand reluctant touched the warbling wire;
Phemius, whose voice divine could sweetest sing
High strains, responsive to the vocal string.
This, however, is a custom by no means peculiar to the Greeks. We know
that each of the Highland clans retained a bard expressly for the
purpose of celebrating the clan and its chief. We imagine we have seen
something of the same kind mentioned relative to the American and Indian
tribes.
The subject of the “Iliad” of course calls forth long and spirited
descriptions of the mode of warfare in use among the ancient Greeks.
This appears to us to exhibit plainer marks of barbarism than any other
part of their character. They had all the untutored ferocity, the
dependence on personal strength or courage, which is characteristic of
the earliest ages, without the studied manœuvres and the laboured
machines which malicious invention afterwards introduced. The greatest
quality inherent in a commander was not skill of head, but strength of
limb; few seemed to lay claim to any nobler distinctions than those
which were to be found in the space between their shoulders. We know not
whether the rude struggling of these uncultivated warriors is not a more
interesting spectacle than the cold-blooded massacres of modern days. In
the hand-to-hand conflict of two princes there is passion, and fury, and
enthusiasm, for which we look in vain to the cold and calculating
tactics of _l’art militaire_.
The war, indeed, of those times was naturally deficient in everything
technical or scientific. It abounded in instances of individual devotion
and of desperate enterprise, but had no means of supplying by art the
defect of numbers, or of overcoming an obstinate enemy by a regular
siege. It rather resembled the foray of a few pillaging tribes, than the
contest between two powerful nations.
We shall see nothing to wonder at in this their undisciplined warfare,
when we remember that piracy, which it so nearly resembled, was a mode
of life to which they were greatly addicted. They saw in it nothing
dishonourable; but on the contrary esteemed it a brave and worthy
employment: their greatest heroes exercised it without the smallest
scruple. They rather gloried in their robberies, and recounted with a
feeling of pride their achievements and their plunder. Here again there
is a manifest similarity between their ideas and those of the Highland
clans. We do not know indeed if a very close parallel might not be drawn
between the greaved Greek and the plaided mountaineer. We shall throw
out a hint or two upon the subject, and recommend the plan to Mr.
Golightly, if he wishes to be witty in our next Number.
In the first place, the love of rapine which we have just mentioned is
inherent in both: the towns which fall beneath the ravages of the Greek
are probably little superior in importance to the villages which excite
the cupidity of the Scot. Both nations possess the same romantic notions
of individual bravery: both value their booty rather from its being the
prize of battle, than from the weight of the gold, or the number of the
cattle, of which it consists. And to say the truth, when we behold, on
the one side, Achilles retiring from his conquests, with his captives,
and his treasures, and his beeves; and when we see, on the other, the
chieftain of some kilted clan returning to his native fastnesses, and
driving the fat of the land before him, we hardly know which of the two
cuts the more respectable figure. Why do we attach such splendid ideas
to the terror of Troy? His rival is a more picturesque object for the
design of the painter, he is as muscular a model for the chisel of the
sculptor; but the piracies of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated
like the piracies of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so
classical as Greek!
Many of the superstitions of the one nation bear a striking resemblance
to those of the other. Both of them believe that their sages have the
faculty of foreseeing and predicting future events; both of them place
great reliance on signs and auguries; both imagine that the soul exists
after death, and that it continues to take an interest in the pursuits
and the friends whom it left upon earth. Much as we are attached to the
fooleries of our old friends before Troy--to the victims, and the
priests, and the oracles, we must confess that, to our taste, the
plaided seer, rapt up in his vacant trance of second-sight, is a more
interesting and a more poetical object than all the mummeries of Delphos
or Dodona. But there is one point in this legendary species of religion,
in which the similarity appears to us rather remarkable. We allude to
that extraordinary union of the opposite doctrines of free-will and
predestination, which so forcibly obtrudes itself upon our notice in
examining the traditions of both countries. To discuss this point at any
length would require a greater portion of time than we can devote to it;
and we shall therefore content ourselves with observing that the
fabulous self-devotion of Achilles, who is said to have remained at
Troy, although conscious that he was destined to die there, appears to
us to have taken its rise from those notions of an unavoidable fate
which Homer so frequently expresses. But this trait, which, as has been
often observed, adds such an exalted merit to the character of the hero,
has many parallels in the conduct of the Scottish clansmen, whose
chieftains we frequently find going with alacrity to battle, although
feeling a consciousness that they are seeking their death. But look you
there again!--the self-devotion of the Mountaineer will never be
celebrated like the self-devotion of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic
will never sound so classical as Greek!
Another conspicuous ingredient in the character of both is the pride
which both take in ancestry. The Greek and the Highlander take an equal
delight in tracing the river of their blood through distant generations,
although we fancy that the latter pays rather the most attention to the
purity of the stream. When he looks over the tree of his genealogy, and
exults in the glorious names which he finds among its foliage, his
feelings are not the less honest, nor his happiness the less fervent,
because he sees no Jupiter in the root and no Venus perched among the
branches. And truly we do not see why the descent of the Greek is of
greater moment than the descent of the Scot, except that patronymics in
_ides_, and _ion_, and _iades_ have certainly a nobler sound than plain,
simple, unsophisticated _Mac_. But look you there again!--the ancestry
of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the ancestry of the
Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!
When any important quarrel calls for a union of the forces under their
numerous petty princes, the gathering of the Greek nations is precisely
the gathering of the Highland clans. In both the Commander-in-chief is
chosen by the vote of the assembled leaders; in both, his authority is
cramped and frustrated by the exclusive allegiance which is owed by each
separate clan to its respective chieftain. In both, as may be supposed
from the ill-concocted materials of which both armies are composed,
quarrels and dissensions are perpetually taking place. And why are not
the disputes of the tartans as worthy of song as the disputes of the
spears and the helmets? They often arise from the same passions; they
often spring from equally insignificant causes; they often lead to
equally tragical results. But look you there again!--the quarrels of the
Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the quarrels of the Myrmidon;
for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!
We might go on to trace the simile, in the same strain, through many
other qualities and customs. We might instance their mutual fondness for
athletic exercises--the absolute authority exercised by the chiefs over
the persons of their followers--the belief prevalent among both nations
of the efficacy of music and charms in the cure of wounds--the custom of
being constantly attended by large dogs--the union of heart and hand,
which in both cases exists between the chief and his foster-brother. But
this is idle--the _tout-ensemble_ of the Mountaineer will never be
celebrated like the _tout-ensemble_ of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic
will never sound so classical as Greek!
And now that we come to the end of what ought to have been ended a page
ago, we recollect that we have been wandering through a great tract of
paper; and we hear Mr. Golightly bellowing in our ears a reproof, in
which we fear our readers will join him: “Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Swinburne,
_Quid ad rem?_”
THE WEDDING:
A ROMAN TALE.
“Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb!”
BYRON.
By the side of the Latin Way, amidst many other mementoes of fallen
greatness or faded beauty, there arose a small pillar of white marble,
bearing neither emblem nor inscription. The singular simplicity of its
appearance frequently excited the attention and inquiries of the
passers-by, but no one gratified their curiosity. She whom that marble
commemorated was known to few; and those who remembered her told not of
her virtues, for they shrank from the pain they felt in the recital.
Julia was the daughter of distinguished and wealthy parents, in the
reign of Tiberius. She was an only child, and had been educated with the
fondest attention. When she attained her eighteenth year she was very
beautiful: she was taller than most women; her nose was aquiline, her
hair dark and glossy; the smile that played on her lips was provokingly
arch, and in her large blue eyes dignity was inexpressibly combined with
tenderness. The qualities of her heart were not inferior to those of her
person; so that it is not to be wondered at that the hand of Julia was
solicited in marriage by the heirs of many of the first families in
Rome.
But she had early given away her affections to the son of her father’s
brother. Young Cœlius was younger than his cousin, and fortune had given
him a lower station in life and a humbler property. He was very
handsome, however, very accomplished, and perfectly amiable; so that the
parents of Julia made no difficulty of acceding to the match. The
preliminary ceremonies had been gone through: the hallowed straw[5] had
been broken between the young couple; the dower had been settled; the
augurs had been consulted, and had returned a favourable answer.
Finally, Cœlius had presented to his future bride the sacred ring which
was to be the pledge of their eternal affection. It was a plain circle
of gold, with the inscription “_in æternum!_” It was customary to put
these rings upon the fourth finger of the left hand, because it was
imagined that a vein ran immediately from that finger to the heart. It
was a foolish superstition, but Cœlius was observed to shudder when
Julia placed her ring upon the wrong finger.