Chapter 7

Lintot printed two hundred and fifty on royal paper in folio for two guineas a volume; of the small folio, having printed seventeen hundred and fifty copies of the first volume, he reduced the number in the other volumes to a thousand. It is unpleasant to relate that the bookseller, after all his hopes and all his liberality, was, by a very unjust and illegal action, defrauded of his profit. An edition of the English “Iliad” was printed in Holland in duodecimo, and imported clandestinely for the gratification of those who were impatient to read what they could not yet afford to buy. This fraud could only be counteracted by an edition equally cheap and more commodious; and Lintot was compelled to contract his folio at once into a duodecimo, and lose the advantage of an intermediate gradation. The notes which in the Dutch copies were placed at the end of each book as they had been in the large volumes, were now subjoined to the text in the same page, and are therefore more easily consulted. Of this edition two thousand five hundred were first printed, and five thousand a few weeks afterwards; but indeed great numbers were necessary to produce considerable profit.

Pope, having now emitted his proposals, and engaged not only his own reputation but in some degree that of his friends who patronised his subscription, began to be frightened at his own undertaking, and finding himself at first embarrassed with difficulties which retarded and oppressed him, he was for a time timorous and uneasy, had his nights disturbed by dreams of long journeys through unknown ways, and wished, as he said, “that somebody would hang him.” This misery, however, was not of long continuance; he grew by degrees more acquainted with Homer’s images and expressions, and practice increased his facility of versification. In a short time he represents himself as despatching regularly fifty verses a day, which would show him by an easy computation, the termination of his labour. His own diffidence was not his only vexation. He that asks a subscription soon finds that he has enemies. All who do not encourage him defame him. He that wants money would rather be thought angry than poor; and he that wishes to save his money conceals his avarice by his malice. Addison had hinted his suspicion that Pope was too much a Tory; and some of the Tories suspected his principles because he had contributed to the _Guardian_, which was carried on by Steele.

To those who censured his politics were added enemies more dangerous, who called in question his knowledge of Greek, and his qualifications for a translator of “Homer.” To these he made no public opposition, but in one of his letters escapes from them as well as he can. At an age like his, for he was not more than twenty-five, with an irregular education and a course of life of which much seems to have passed in conversation, it is not very likely that he overflowed with Greek. But when he felt himself deficient he sought assistance, and what man of learning would refuse to help him? Minute inquiries into the force of words are less necessary in translating Homer than other poets, because his positions are general, and his representations natural, with very little dependence on local or temporary customs, on those changeable scenes of artificial life, which, by mingling original with accidental notions and crowding the mind with images which time effaces, produces ambiguity in dictation and obscurity in books. To this open display of unadulterated nature it must be ascribed that Homer has fewer passages of doubtful meaning than any other poet either in the learned or in modern languages. I have read of a man who, being by his ignorance of Greek compelled to gratify his curiosity with the Latin printed on the opposite page, declared that from the rude simplicity of the lines literally rendered he formed nobler ideas of the Homeric majesty than from the laboured elegance of polished versions. Those literal translations were always at hand, and from them he could easily obtain his author’s sense with sufficient certainty and among the readers of Homer the number is very small of those who find much in the Greek more than in the Latin, except the music of the numbers.

If more help was wanting he had the poetical translation of Eobanus Hessus, an unwearied writer of Latin verses; he had the French Homers of La Valterie and Dacier, and the English of Chapman, Hobbes, and Ogilby. With Chapman, whose work, though now totally neglected, seems to have been popular almost to the end of the last century, he had very frequent consultations, and perhaps never translated any passage till he had read his version, which he indeed has been sometimes suspected of using instead of the original. Notes were likewise to be provided, for the six volumes would have been very little more than six pamphlets without them. What the mere perusal of the text could suggest Pope wanted no assistance to collect or methodise; but more was necessary. Many pages were to be filled, and learning must supply materials to wit and judgment. Something might be gathered from Dacier, but no man loves to be indebted to his contemporaries, and Dacier was accessible to common readers. Eustathius was therefore necessarily consulted. To read Eustathius, of whose work there was then no Latin version, I suspect Pope if he had been willing not to have been able. Some other was therefore to be found who had leisure as well as abilities, and he was doubtless most readily employed who would do much work for little money.

The history of the notes has never been traced. Broome, an his preface to his poems, declares himself the commentator “in part upon the ‘Iliad,’” and it appears from Fenton’s letter, preserved in the Museum, that Broome was at first engaged in consulting Eustathius; but that after a time, whatever was the reason, he desisted. Another man of Cambridge was then employed, who soon grew weary of the work, and a third, that was recommended by Thirlby, is now discovered to have been Jortin, a man since well known to the learned world, who complained that Pope, having accepted and approved his performance, never testified any curiosity to see him, and who professed to have forgotten the terms on which he worked. The terms which Fenton uses are very mercantile: “I think at first sight that his performance is very commendable, and have sent word for him to finish the seventeenth book, and to send it with his demands for his trouble. I have here enclosed the specimen; if the rest come before the return, I will keep them till I receive your order.”

Broome then offered his service a second time, which was probably accepted, as they had afterwards a closer correspondence. Parnell contributed the “Life of Homer,” which Pope found so harsh, that he took great pains in correcting it; and by his own diligence, with such help as kindness or money could procure him, in somewhat more than five years he completed his version of the “Iliad,” with the notes. He began it in 1712, his twenty-fifth year, and concluded it in 1718, his thirtieth year. When we find him translating fifty lines a day, it is natural to suppose that he would have brought his work to a more speedy conclusion. The “Iliad,” containing less than sixteen thousand verses, might have been despatched in less than three hundred and twenty days by fifty verses in a day. The notes, compiled with the assistance of his mercenaries, could not be supposed to require more time than the text. According to this calculation, the progress of Pope may seem to have been slow; but the distance is commonly very great between actual performances and speculative possibility. It is natural to suppose, that as much as has been done to-day may be done to-morrow; but on the morrow some difficulty emerges, or some external impediment obstructs.

Indolence, interruption, business, and pleasure, all take their turns of retardation; and every long work is lengthened by a thousand causes that can, and ten thousand that cannot, be recounted. Perhaps no extensive and multifarious performance was ever effected within the term originally fixed in the undertaker’s mind. He that runs against time has an antagonist not subject to casualties.

The encouragement given to this translation, though report seems to have overrated it, was such as the world has not often seen. The subscribers were five hundred and seventy-five. The copies, for which subscriptions were given, were six hundred and fifty-four; and only six hundred and sixty were printed. For these copies Pope had nothing to pay. He therefore received, including the two hundred pounds a volume, five thousand three hundred and twenty pounds, four shillings, without deduction, as the books were supplied by Lintot.

By the success of his subscription Pope was relieved from those pecuniary distresses with which, notwithstanding his popularity, he had hitherto struggled. Lord Oxford had often lamented his disqualification for public employment, but never proposed a pension. While the translation of “Homer” was in its progress, Mr. Craggs, then Secretary of State, offered to procure him a pension, which, at least during his ministry, might be enjoyed with secrecy. This was not accepted by Pope, who told him, however, that, if he should be pressed with want of money, he would send to him for occasional supplies. Craggs was not long in power, and was never solicited for money by Pope, who disdained to beg what he did not want.

With the product of this subscription, which he had too much discretion to squander, he secured his future life from want, by considerable annuities. The estate of the Duke of Buckingham was found to have been charged with five hundred pounds a year, payable to Pope, which doubtless his translation enabled him to purchase.

It cannot be unwelcome to literary curiosity, that I deduce thus minutely the history of the English “Iliad.” It is certainly the noblest version of poetry which the world has ever seen, and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the great events in the annals of learning. To those who have skill to estimate the excellence and difficulty of this great work, it must be very desirable to know how it was performed, and by what gradations it advanced to correctness. Of such an intellectual process the knowledge has very rarely been attainable; but happily there remains the original copy of the “Iliad,” which, being obtained by Bolingbroke as a curiosity, descended from him to Mallet, and is now, by the solicitation of the late Dr. Maty, reposited in the Museum. Between this manuscript, which is written upon accidental fragments of paper, and the printed edition, there must have been an intermediate copy, that was perhaps destroyed as it returned from the press.

From the first copy I have procured a few transcripts, and shall exhibit first the printed lines; then, in a small print, those of the manuscripts, with all their variations. Those words in the small print, which are given in italics, are cancelled in the copy, and the words placed under them adopted in their stead:

The beginning of the first book stands thus:—

The wrath of Peleus’ son, the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing, That wrath which hurled to Pluto’s gloomy reign The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain.

The stern Pelides’ _rage_, O Goddess, sing, wrath Of all the woes _of Greece_ too fatal spring, Grecian That screwed with warriors dead the Phrygian plain, heroes And _peopled the dark with heroes_ slain: filled the shady hell with chiefs untimely

Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore, Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore, Since great Achilles and Atrides strove; Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Whose limbs, unburied on the hostile shore, Devouring dogs and greedy vultures tore, Since first _Atrides_ and _Achilles_ strove; Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.

Declare, O Muse, in what ill-fated hour Sprung the fierce strife from what offended Power? Latona’s son a dire contagion spread, And heaped the camp with mountains of the dead; The King of Men his reverend priest defied, And for the King’s offence the people died.

Declare, O Goddess, what offended Power Enflamed their _rage_ in that _ill-omened_ hour; anger fatal, hapless Phœbus himself the _dire_ debate procured, fierce To avenge the wrongs his injured priest endured; For this the god a dire infection spread, And heaped the camp with millions of the dead: The King of men the sacred sire defied, And for the King’s offence the people died.

For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain His captive daughter from the Victor’s chain; Suppliant the venerable father stands, Apollo’s awful ensigns grace his hands, By these he begs, and, lowly bending down, Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown.

For Chryses sought by _presents to regain_ costly gifts to gain His captive daughter from the Victor’s chain; Suppliant the venerable father stands, Apollo’s awful ensigns graced his hands. By these he begs, and, lowly bending down _The golden sceptre_ and the laurel crown, Presents the sceptre _For these as ensigns of his god he bare_, _The god who sends his golden shaft afar_; Then low on earth the venerable man, Suppliant before the brother kings began.

He sued to all, but chief implored for grace, The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race; Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crowned, And Troy’s proud walls lie level with the ground; May Jove restore you, when your toils are o’er, Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

To all he sued, but chief implored for grace The brother kings of Atreus’ royal race. Ye _sons of Atreus_, may your vows be crowned, kings and warriors _Your labours_, _by the gods be all your labours crowned_; _So may the gods your arms with conquest bless_, _And_ Troy’s proud walls _lie_ level with the ground; Till laid _And crown your labours with desired success_; May Jove restore you when your toils are o’er Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.

But, oh! relieve a wretched parent’s pain, And give Chryses to these arms again; If mercy fail, yet let my present move, And dread avenging Phœbus, son of Jove.

But, oh! relieve a hapless parent’s pain, And give my daughter to these arms again; _Receive my gifts_, if mercy fails, yet let my present move, And fear _the god who deals his darts around_, avenging Phœbus, son of Jove.

The Greeks, in shouts, their joint assent declare, The priest to reverence, and release the fair: Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride, Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied.

He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare, _The father said_, _the generous Greeks relent_, To accept the ransom, and restore the fair: _Revere the priest_, _and speak their joint assent_; Not so _the tyrant_; he, with kingly pride, Atrides, Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied [Not so the tyrant. DRYDEN.]

Of these lines, and of the whole first book, I am told that there was yet a former copy, more varied, and more deformed with interlineations.

The beginning of the second book varies very little from the printed page, and is therefore set down without any parallel. The few slight differences do not require to be elaborately displayed.

Now pleasing sleep had sealed each mortal eye: Stretched in the tents the Grecian leaders lie; The Immortals slumbered on their thrones above, All but the ever-wakeful eye of Jove. To honour Thetis’ son he bends his care, And plunge the Greeks in all the woes of war. Then bids an empty phantom rise to sight, And thus _commands_ the vision of the night: directs Fly hence, delusive dream, and, light as air, To Agamemnon’s royal tent repair; Bid him in arms draw forth the embattled train, March all his legions to the dusty plain. _Now tell the King_ ’tis given him to destroy Declare even now The lofty _walls_ of wide-extended Troy; towers For now no more the gods with fate contend; At Juno’s suit the heavenly factions end. Destruction _hovers_ o’er yon devoted wall, hangs And nodding Ilion waits the impending fall.

Invocation to the catalogue of ships.

Say, virgins, seated round the throne divine, All-knowing goddesses! immortal nine! Since earth’s wide regions, heaven’s unmeasured height, And hell’s abyss, hide nothing from your sight (We, wretched mortals! lost in doubts below, But guess by rumour, and but boast we know), Oh! say what heroes, fired by thirst of fame, Or urged by wrongs, to Troy’s destruction came! To count them all demands a thousand tongues, A throat of brass and adamantine lungs.

Now virgin goddesses, immortal nine! That round Olympus’ heavenly summit shine, Who see through heaven and earth, and hell profound, And all things know, and all things can resound! Relate what armies sought the Trojan land, What nations followed, and what chiefs command; (For doubtful fame distracts mankind below, And nothing can we tell, and nothing know) Without your aid, to count the unnumbered train, A thousand mouths, a thousand tongues, were vain.

Book V. _v._ 1.

But Pallas now Tydides’ soul inspires, Fills with her force, and warms with all her fires: Above the Greeks his deathless fame to raise, And crown her hero with distinguished praise, High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield emits a living ray; The unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies. But Pallas now Tydides’ soul inspires, Fills with her _rage_, and warms with all her fires; force O’er all the Greeks decrees his fame to raise, Above the Greeks _her warrior’s_ fame to raise, his deathless And crown her hero with _immortal_ praise: distinguished _Bright from_ his beamy _crest the_ lightnings play, High on helm From his broad buckler flashed the living ray; High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield emits a living ray; The goddess with her breath the flame supplies, Bright as the star whose fires in autumn rise; Her breath divine thick streaming flames supplies, Bright as the star that fires the autumnal skies: The unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies.

When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight, And bathed in ocean shoots a keener light, Such glories Pallas on the chief bestowed, Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flowed; Onward she drives him, furious to engage, Where the fight burns, and where the thickest rage.

When fresh he rears his radiant orb to sight, And gilds old ocean with a blaze of light, Bright as the star that fires the autumnal skies, Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies: Such glories Pallas on her chief bestowed, Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flowed, Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flowed, Onward she drives him _headlong_ to engage, furious Where the _war bleeds_, and where the _fiercest_ rage. fight burns thickest

The sons of Dares first the combat sought, A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault; In Vulcan’s fane the father’s days were led, The sons to toils of glorious battle bred;

There lived a Trojan—Dares was his name, The priest of Vulcan, rich, yet void of blame; The sons of Dares first the combat sought, A wealthy priest, but rich without a fault.

_Conclusion of_ Book VIII. _v._ 687.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O’er heaven’s clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole: O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain’s head: Then shine the vales—the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays; The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires. A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field; Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, Whose umbered arms by fits thick flashes send; Loud neigh the coursers o’er their heaps of corn, And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

As when in stillness of the silent night, As when the moon in all her lustre bright, As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O’er Heaven’s _clear_ azure _sheds_ her _silver_ light; pure spreads sacred As still in air the trembling lustre stood, And o’er its golden border shoots a flood; When _no loose gale_ disturbs the deep serene, not a breath And _no dim_ cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene; not a Around her silver throne the planets glow, And stars unnumbered _trembling beams bestow_; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole: Clear gleams of light _o’er the dark trees are seen_, o’er the dark trees a yellow sheds O’er the dark trees a yellower _green_ they shed, gleam verdure And tip with silver _all the mountain heads_ forest And tip with silver every mountain’s head. The valleys open, and the forests rise, The vales appear, the rocks in prospect rise, Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, All nature stands revealed before our eyes; A flood of glory bursts from all the skies. The conscious shepherd, joyful at the sight, Eyes the blue vault, and numbers every light. The conscious swains _rejoicing at the sight_, shepherds gazing with delight Eye the blue vault, and bless the _vivid_ light. glorious useful So many flames before _the navy_ blaze, proud Ilion And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays, Wide o’er the fields to Troy extend the gleams, And tip the distant spires with fainter beams; The long reflections of the distant fires Gild the high walls, and tremble on the spires; Gleam on the walls, and _tremble on the_ spires; A thousand fires at distant stations bright, Gild the dark prospect, and dispel the night.

Of these specimens every man who has cultivated poetry, or who delights to trace the mind from the rudeness of its first conceptions to the elegance of its last, will naturally desire a great number; but most other readers are already tired, and I am not writing only to poets and philosophers.