The poet’s exordium is of the very briefest. His invocation to the goddess of song is in just three words:—
We have here the key-note of the poem brought before us in the very first line—nay, in the very first word, according to the original, for “wrath” stands first in the Greek, which it cannot very conveniently do in the English. The two great heroes of the Greek chivalry7, Agamemnon and Achilles, always jealous of each other, come to an open quarrel in full council of the princes of the League. Their quarrel is—like the original cause of the war, like so many quarrels before and since—about a woman, a beautiful captive. A fatal pestilence8 is raging in the camp. The Sun-god, Apollo, is angry. To him and to his twin-sister Diana, the Moon, all mysterious diseases were attributed—not without some sufficient reasons, in a hot climate. Pestilence and disease were the arrows of Apollo and Diana. Therefore the Greeks have no doubt as to the author of the present calamity9. It is “the god of the silver bow” who is sending his swift shafts10 of death amongst them. The poet’s vision even sees the dread11 Archer12 in bodily shape. It is a fine picture; the English reader will lose little of its beauty in Lord Derby’s version:—
“Along Olympus’ heights he passed, his heart
Burning with wrath; behind his shoulders hung
His bow and ample quiver; at his back{v.i-27}
Like the night-cloud he passed, and from afar
And fierce and deadly twanged the silver bow.
Was poured the arrowy storm; and through the camp
Constant and numerous blazed the funeral-fires.”
In their misery16 the Greeks appeal to their soothsayer Calchas, to divine for them the cause of the god’s displeasure. The Mantis17 or soothsayer, whose skill was in most cases supposed to be hereditary18, accompanied a Greek force on all its expeditions; and no prudent19 general would risk a battle, or engage in any important enterprise, without first ascertaining20 from this authority the will of the gods, as shadowed out in certain appearances of the sacrifice, or some peculiarity22 in the flight of birds, or some phenomena23 of the heavens. In this particular expedition it would appear that Calchas had turned the last branch of his art to good purpose; it must have been his knowledge of the stars which had enabled him, as Homer tells us, to pilot the great fleet from their own shores to Troy. He confesses that he can read the secret of Apollo’s present wrath; but he hesitates to tell it, dreading25, he says, lest he should thereby26 anger the “great chief whom the whole host obeys.” Achilles charges him to speak out boldly without fear or favour; none shall harm him—not even if he should denounce Agamemnon himself as the cause of this visitation, adds the hero, gladly seizing the opportunity of hurling27 a defiance28 at his great rival. Thus supported, the seer speaks out; Agamemnon is indeed the guilty cause. In a late foray he had taken captive the maiden30 daughter of{v.i-28} Chryses, a priest of the Sun-god, and the father had come to the camp of the invaders31 as a suppliant32, pleading the sanctity of his office, and offering a fitting ransom33. The great king had refused to listen, had sent him away with bitter words and threats; and the priest had prayed to his god to punish the insult: hence the pestilence. Immediately the popular voice—expressed loudly through Achilles—demands the maiden’s instant restitution35 to her father. Agamemnon, though burning with indignation alike against the seer and his champion, dares not refuse. His prerogative36, however generally admitted and respected by the confederate army, is dependent in such extremities37 on the popular will. He promises at once to send back the daughter of Chryses unharmed and without ransom. But at the same time, after a stormy and bitter dispute with Achilles, he announces his intention to insist on that chief resigning, by way of exchange, a fair captive named Briseis, carried off in some similar raid, who had been awarded to him as his share of the public spoil. To this insolent38 demand the majority of the council of chiefs, content with their victory on the main question, appear to raise no objection. But Achilles—his impetuous nature roused to madness by the studied insult—leaps up and half unsheathes his sword. Even then—such is the Greek’s reverence39 for authority—he hesitates; and as he stands with his hand upon the hilt, there sweeps down from Olympus[10] Pallas Athene (Minerva), the goddess of{v.i-29} wisdom, sent by Here (Juno) Queen of Heaven to check this fatal strife40 between her favourite Greeks. The celestial41 messenger is visible to Achilles alone. She calms the hero’s wrath so far as to restrain him from any act of violence; but, as she disappears, he turns on his enemy, and swears a mighty42 oath—the royal oath of kings—by the golden-studded staff, or “sceptre,” which was borne by king, priest, and judge as the emblem43 of their authority. Pope’s rendering44 has all the fire of the original, and the additional touches which he throws in are at least in a kindred spirit:—
“By this I swear, when bleeding Greece again
Shall call Achilles, she shall call in vain:
The purpled shore with mountains of the dead,
Then rage in bitterness of soul, to know
He dashes his sceptre on the ground, and sits down in savage50 silence. Agamemnon is ready enough to return the taunt51, when there rises in the assembly a venerable figure, whose grey hairs and tried sagacity in council command at once the respect of all. It is Nestor, the hoary-headed chieftain of the rocky Pylos in the Peloponnese—known in his more vigorous days as “the horse-tamer,” and, in sooth, not a little proud of his past exploits. Two generations of men he has already outlived in his own dominions52, and is now loved and respected by the third. He has joined the great armament still sound in wind and limb; but he is valued now not so much for his
“Red hand in the foray,”
{v.i-30}
as for his
He can clothe this counsel, too, in winning words. The stream of eloquence55 that flowed from his lips, says the poet, was “sweeter than honey.” He gently reproves both disputants for their unseemly strife—a shame to the Greeks, a triumph to the enemy. His words ring like the lament57 of David over the suicide of Saul—“Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines58 rejoice.”
“Alas, deep sorrow on our land doth fall!
Yet shall on Priam and his sons alight
Hope, and a great joy on the Trojans all,
Ye twain, our best in counsel and in fight.” (W.)
He proceeds to tell them something of his own long experience, by way of claim on their attention—with something also, as critics have noticed, of an old man’s garrulity60. But the reader, it should be remembered, really wants to know something about him, even if the Greeks may have been supposed to have heard his story before.
“In times past
I lived with men—and they despised me not—
Abler in counsel, greater than yourselves.
Such men I never saw and ne’er shall see,
As Pirithous and Dryas, wise and brave,
And Theseus, ?geus’ more than mortal son.
The mightiest they, and of the forest beasts
With them I played my part; with them, not one
Would dare to fight of mortals now on earth.
Yet they my counsels heard, my voice obeyed;
And hear ye also—for my words are wise.” (D.)
{v.i-31}
The angry chiefs do hear him so far, that after the interchange of a few more passionate63 words they leave the council. Achilles stalks off gloomily to his tent, accompanied by his faithful friend and henchman, Patroclus (of whom we shall hear more), and followed by his retinue64. Agamemnon proceeds at once to carry out his resolution. He despatches a galley65 with a trusty crew, under the command of the sage Ulysses, to the island of Chrysa, to restore the old priest’s daughter to him in all honour, with expiatory66 presents, and the offer of a hecatomb to the Sun-god. They make the voyage quickly, and arrive safely at the island. The rapid movement here of Homer’s verse has rarely been more happily rendered than in the English hexameters of Mr Landon:—
“Out were the anchors cast, and the ropes made fast to the steerage;
Out Chryseis arose from the ship that sped through the waters.”
So, by the good priest’s prayers, the god is propitiated70, and the plague in the Greek host is stayed.
Meanwhile another embassy, on a very different errand, has been despatched by the King of Men to the tents where Achilles lies, hard by his ships, with his fierce bands of Myrmidons encamped around him. Their name has passed into a by-word, being commonly but incorrectly used to designate an unscrupulous rabble71 of followers72, to whom their leader’s word is law. The notion must be derived73 not from Homer, but from Pope. In his version of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, he makes the former say to his antagonist{v.i-32}—
“Go, threat thine earth-born Myrmidons; but here
’Tis mine to threaten, prince, and thine to fear.”
But to suppose that the Myrmidons were subservient74 to any man’s threats, is to give them a very different character from what we find in Homer. Even the epithet75 “earth-born,” which is Pope’s, not Homer’s, and which may easily be misunderstood, they would have prized as a high compliment, implying that they were no new race, but the aboriginal76 possessors of their native soil; just as the proud Athenians wore the “golden grasshopper” in their hair, because that insect was fabled77 to owe its birth to the spontaneous action of the earth. The followers of Achilles were indeed “fierce as ravening78 wolves,” as the poet has afterwards described them; but they were the very flower of the Greek army, troops of whom any leader might be proud, and if they had a wolfish thirst for blood, they were no worse and no better in this respect than Achilles himself, or any captain in the host before Troy; for an insatiable ferocity, when once the spirit of combativeness79 is aroused, is the characteristic of all Homer’s heroes, as in those of the medieval romances.
The purpose of the king’s embassy to Achilles is, of course, in pursuance of his threat, to demand the surrender of the fair Briseis. Such a message to such a man is no very safe or agreeable errand. But Agamemnon chooses his envoys80 well. He sends two heralds81—Eurybates and Talthybius. The herald’s office, in early Greek warfare, had an especial sanctity. Those who held it were not mere82 officials whose name protected them, but men of noble and even of royal birth, who might have been captains of thousands themselves, if they had not chosen, as it were, the civilian’s place{v.i-33} in warfare. Such diplomacy83 as there was room for in those ages was transacted84 by them. They were under the special protection of Zeus, as the god of oaths and treaties. There was no fear that the noble chief of the Myrmidons, even in his most furious mood, would treat such envoys rudely. But in fact his reception of them is one of the most remarkable85 scenes in the poem, both from its high-toned courtesy and from its strong contrast with the hero’s previous bearing towards Agamemnon. Achilles receives the heralds of the king much as a well-bred gentleman of fifty years ago would have received the “friend” who carried a hostile message from one with whom he had a deadly quarrel a few hours before. The demand which they brought from Agamemnon was pointed86 with the additional threat that, if he refused to give up the damsel, the king would come himself and carry her off by the strong hand,—a threat almost brutal87, because quite unwarranted; since Achilles had declared in the council that if the Greeks, who had awarded her as his battle-prize, chose to acquiesce88 in the injustice89 of demanding her back from him, he should make no resistance. But it does not seem that the heralds delivered themselves of the additional insult which they were charged to convey. They had no need. As they stand at the entrance of his tent, “troubled and awe-stricken,” loath90 to begin their unwelcome tale, Achilles sets them at their ease at once in a few calm and dignified91 words. He recognises in them “the messengers of Zeus”—and if now by accident of Agamemnon, the offence is his, not theirs. He at once bids Patroclus lead forth92 the damsel, and gives her into their custody93, to deal with according to their orders. He repeats his oath, how{v.i-34}ever, though in calmer terms; and calls them to witness before heaven that Agamemnon, in his day of need, shall look in vain for the saving arm of the man he has insulted.
It is something in favour of a tender side to the hero’s character, that the “fair-cheeked” Briseis, spoil of war though she was, parts from him very reluctantly. Achilles, for his share, fairly weeps: but not the most romantic reader of the story dares nurse the idea that it is for his Briseis. They who bring with them, to the pages of classical fiction, a taste which has been built up by modern song and romance, must be warned at once that there is no love-story in either Iliad or Odyssey94. Indeed, one remarkable point of difference between the imaginative writers of antiquity95 and those of our own days, lies in the absence of that which is the motive96 and the key-note of five-sixths of our modern tales in prose and verse. Love between unmarried persons, in the sense in which we commonly use the word, seems very much the product of modern civilisation97. There is indeed a passion which we name by the same English word—the mere animal passion, which Homer, to do him justice, deals with but as a matter of fact, and never paints in attractive colours. There is again a love of another kind—the love of the husband for his wife and of the wife for her husband—which the old poet also well understood, and which furnishes him with scenes of the highest pathos98 and beauty. But as to the sentiment which forms the common staple99 of modern romance and drama, Homer certainly did not know what it meant, nor Achilles or Briseis either. As for the latter, if she shed tears, it was no doubt because she had found in Achilles a{v.i-35} kind and generous lord and master, who had made her captive lot (which might chance to come to the turn of any lady or princess in those warlike times) as tolerable as such a life could be; and because Agamemnon—if she had heard his character from Achilles—did not promise a very favourable100 change in that respect.
Achilles weeps—but not for Briseis. He is touched in a point where he is far more sensitive—his honour. He has been robbed of the guerdon of valour, bestowed101 on him in full conclave102 of the chiefs of the army. He has been robbed of it by Agamemnon—the man for whose especial sake, to avenge103 whose family wrongs, he has come on this long expedition from his home. This was his indignant protest in their dispute at the council—
“Well dost thou know that ’twas no feud of mine
With Troy’s brave sons, that brought me here in arms;
They never did me wrong; they never drove
My cattle, or my horses; never sought
In Phthia’s fertile life-sustaining fields
To waste the crops; for wide between us lay
The shadowy mountains and the roaring sea.
With thee, O void of shame! with thee we sailed,
And now this is his reward! And the whole Greek army, too, have made themselves partakers in the wrong, inasmuch as they have tamely looked on, and allowed the haughty106 king thus to override107 honour, gratitude108, and justice. His indignation is intense. He wanders away, and sits alone on the sea-beach, “gazing vacantly on the illimitable ocean.” Soon there comes a change upon his spirit; and now, with a childlike petulance—these Homeric heroes, with all their fierce ways, are still so very childlike, and therefore so human{v.i-36} and so interesting—he cries to his mother. True, that mother is, as we remember, a goddess—Thetis, daughter of the great Jupiter, and of potent48 influence in the waters beneath the earth. To her he bemoans109 himself. That his days were to be few, he knew when he came here to Troy; but she had promised him undying renown110. It has failed him: his “one crowded hour of glorious life” is darkened in dishonour111. He cries, and his goddess-mother hears him—
In the deep ocean-caves.”
It is the original of our own Milton’s beautiful invocation in Comus—the rough simple outline on which he has painted with a grace and fulness which make it all his own—
“Sabrina fair!
Listen, where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent113 wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honour’s sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen, and save!”
Thetis hears, and rises on the sea—“like as it were a mist”—(the “White Lady of Avenel”) caresses114 him soothingly115 with her hand, as though the stalwart warrior116 were still a child indeed, and asks him the simple question which all mothers, goddesses or not, would put into much the same words—“My son, why weepest thou?” He tells his tale of wrong; and she proceeds to give him, in the first place, advice certainly not wiser than that of some earthly mothers. She does not advise him to make up his quarrel with Agamem{v.i-37}non, but to nurse his wrath, and withdraw himself wholly from the siege. She, meanwhile, will intercede117 with Jupiter, and beseech118 him to grant the Trojans victory for a while, that so the Greeks may learn to feel the loss of the hero whom they have insulted.
There is an obstacle, however, in the way of the immediate34 performance of her promise—a ludicrous obstacle, to our modern taste, though the poet does not so intend it. The King of the Gods has gone out to dinner—or rather to a continuous festival of twelve days, to which he has been invited by “the blameless Ethiopians;”[11] a race with whom the Immortals120 of Olympus have some mysterious connection, which has been held to imply an Eastern origin for the Greek religion and race. With the dawn of the twelfth morning, however, Thetis presents herself in the “brazen-floored” halls of Jupiter, and we are introduced to the Olympian court and household. A strange picture it is—such a travesty121 of a divine life as makes us wonder what the poet himself really conceived of the gods of his adoption122. The life of mortal heroes in the world below is grandeur123 and nobleness itself compared with that of the Olympian heaven. Its pleasures indeed are much the same—those of sensual gratification; the feast, the wine-cup, music and song, are what gods and goddesses delight in as much as those whom the poet pathetically calls “the creatures of a day.” But all their passions are incomparably meaner. The wrath{v.i-38} of Achilles is dignified—Juno’s anger against Troy is mere vicious spite. The subtle craft of Ulysses is at least exercised for the benefit of his countrymen and their cause; but the shifty counsels of Jupiter are the mere expedients124 of a cunning despot who, between queen and ministers and favourites, finds it difficult, in spite of his despotism, to have his own way. The quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles is tragedy: the domestic wrangles125 of the Thunderer and his queen are in the very spirit of low comedy, and not even the burlesques126 of Life in Olympus, which some years ago were popular on our English stage, went far beyond the recognised legends of mythology127. In fact, the comic element, what little there is of it in the Iliad, is supplied (with the single exception of the incident of Thersites) by the powers whom the poet recognises as divinities. The idea of rival wills and influences existing in the supernatural world led the poet necessarily to represent his gods as quarrelling; and quarrels in a primitive128 age are perhaps hardly compatible with dignity. But the conception of gods in human shape has always a tendency to monstrosities and caricature. How close, too, the supernatural and the grotesque129 seem to lie together may be seen even in the existing sculptures and carvings130 of ancient Christendom, and still more remarkably131 in the old Miracle-Plays, which mix buffoonery with the most sacred subjects in a manner which it is hard to reconcile with any real feeling of reverence.
Thetis throws herself at the feet of her father Jupiter, and begs of him, as a personal favour, the temporary humiliation132 of Agamemnon and his Greeks. For a while the Thunderer is silent, and hesitates; Thetis{v.i-39} perseveringly133 clings to his knees. At last he confides134 to her his dread lest a compliance135 with her petition should involve him in domestic difficulties.
“Sad work thou mak’st, in bidding me oppose
My will to Juno’s, when her bitter words
But thou return—that Juno see thee not—
And leave to me the furtherance of thy suit.” (D.)
He pledges his promise to her, and ratifies138 it with the mighty nod that shakes Olympus—a solemn confirmation139 which made his word irrevocable.
And all Olympus trembled at his nod.”
Critics have somewhat over-praised the grandeur of the image; but it is said that the great sculptor141 Phidias referred to it as having furnished him with the idea of his noble statue of Olympian Jove. Satisfied with her success, Thetis plunges down from high Olympus into the sea, and the Thunderer proceeds to take his place in full council of the gods, as calm as if nothing had happened. But there are watchful142 eyes about him which he has not escaped. Juno has been a witness of the interview, and has a shrewd suspicion of its object. A connubial143 dialogue ensues, which, though the poet has thought fit to transfer the scene of it to Olympus, is of an exceedingly earthly, and what we should now call “realistic,” type. Homer’s recognised translators have not condescended144 to give it the homely145 tone of the original. Pope is grandiloquent146, and Lord Derby calmly dignified; but Homer intends to be neither. Mr Gladstone’s translation comes nearest the{v.i-40} spirit of the Greek. The brief encounter between the king and queen of the Immortals is cut short by the former in rather summary fashion. “Thou hast been promising147 honour to Achilles, I trow,” says Juno.
“Zeus that rolls the clouds of heaven
‘Moonstruck! thou art ever trowing;
After all, it boots thee nothing;
So thou hast the worser bargain.
It was done because I willed it.
Lest, if I come near, and on thee
All the gods that hold Olympus
her addressing answered then;
leaves thee of my heart the less:
What if I the fact confess?
Hold thy peace—my word obey,
these unconquered hands I lay,
He bids her, in very plain Greek, sit down and hold her tongue; and gives her clearly to understand—with a threat of violence which is an unusual addition to his many failings as a husband—that it is his fixed149 intention, on this occasion, to be lord and master, not only of Olympus, but of his wife. Juno is silenced, and the whole assembly of the gods is startled by the Thunderer’s violence. Vulcan, the fire-god—the lame56 brawny150 hunchback, always more or less the jester and the butt151 of the court of Olympus, but with more brains in his head than most of his straight-limbed compeers—Vulcan comes to the general relief. He soothes152 his royal mother by the argument, that it were ill indeed to break the peace of heaven for the sake of two or three wretched mortals: and he reminds her—we must suppose in an aside—that they both knew by bitter experience that when the father of gods and men did choose to put forth his might, it went hard with all who resisted.
“When to thy succour once before I came,
From heaven’s high threshold; all the day I fell,{v.i-41}
Lighted, scarce half-alive; there was I found,
He gives the mother-goddess further comfort—in “a double cup,” which he proceeds also to hand round the whole of the august circle. They quaff156 their nectar with unusual zest157, as they break into peals158 of laughter (it must be confessed, rather ungratefully) at the hobbling gait and awkward attentions of their new cup-bearer:—
Nor lacked the banquet aught to please the sense,
Nor sound of tuneful lyre by Ph?bus touched,
Nor Muses’ voice, who in alternate strains
Responsive sung; but when the sun had set
Each to his home departed, where for each
The crippled Vulcan, matchless architect,
And so, at the end of the first book of the poem, the curtain falls on the Olympian happy family.
But Jupiter has but a wakeful night. He is planning how he may best carry out his promise to Thetis. He sends a lying spirit in a dream to Agamemnon at midnight. The vision stands at the head of the king’s couch, taking the shape of old Nestor. In this character it encourages him to muster161 all his forces to storm the city of Troy on the morrow. Now, at last, the false phantom162 assures him, its walls are doomed163 to fall; the strife in heaven is ended; Juno’s counsels have prevailed, and the fate of Troy is sealed irrevocably.
Joyfully164 the King of Men arises from his sleep, and summons at daybreak a council of the chiefs. Already, says the poet, he storms and sacks the royal city in{v.i-42} imagination, little foreseeing the long and bloody165 struggle that lies yet between him and his prey166. In the council he invents a stratagem167 of his own, which complicates168 the story considerably169 without improving it. He suspects the temper of his army; and before he makes up his mind to lead them to the assault, he seeks to ascertain21 whether or no the long ten years’ siege has worn out their patience and broken their spirit. He will try the dangerous experiment of proposing to them to break up the siege and embark171 at once for home. He himself will make the proposal to the whole army; the other leaders, for their part, are to oppose such a base retreat, and urge their followers to make yet another effort for the national honour of Greece.
The clans172, at the summons of their several chiefs, muster in their thousands from tents and ships; and Agamemnon, seated on his throne of state, the immortal sceptre in his hand, harangues173 them in accordance with his preconcerted stratagem. He paints in lively colours the weariness of the nine years’ siege, his own disappointed hopes, the painful yearning174 of their long-deserted wives and children for the return of their husbands and fathers; and ends by proposing an immediate re-embarkation for home. He plays his part only too successfully. The immense host heaves and sways with excitement at his words—“like the long waves of the Icarian Sea, like the deep tall corn-crop as the summer wind sweeps over it”—and with tumultuous shouts of exultation175 they rush down to their galleys176 and begin at once to launch them; so little regard have the multitude for glory, so strong is their yearning for home. It is possible that the poet is no{v.i-43} unconscious satirist177, and that he willingly allowed his hearers to draw, if they pleased, the inference which he hints in more than one passage, that war is the sport of princes, for which the masses pay the cost.
But Juno’s ever-watchful eyes have marked the movement. Again Minerva is her messenger, and shoots down from Olympus to stop this disgraceful flight. She addresses herself to the ear of the sage Ulysses, who knows her voice at once. Wisdom speaks to the wise,—if any reader prefers the moral allegory to the simple fiction. Ulysses is standing178 fixed in disgust and despair at the cowardice179 of his countrymen. The goddess bids him use all his eloquence to check their flight. Without a word he flings off his cloak,[13] and meeting Agamemnon, receives the immortal sceptre from his hand, and armed with this staff of authority rushes down to the galleys. Any king or chieftain whom he encounters he hastily reminds of the secret understanding which had been the result of the previous council, and urges them, at least, to set a braver example. To the plebeian180 crowd he uses argument of another kind. He applies the royal sceptre to them in one of its primitive uses, as a rod of correction, and bids them wait for orders from their superiors. Easily swayed to either course, the crowd are awed181 into quiet by his energetic remonstrances182. One popular orator183 alone lifts his well-known voice loudly in defiance. It is a certain{v.i-44} Thersites, of whom the poet gives a sketch184, brief enough, but with so many marks of individuality, that we may be justified185 in looking at him as a character drawn186 from life.
“The ugliest man was he who came to Troy,
His shoulders round, and buried in his breast
His talent lies in speaking evil of dignities—a talent which, no doubt, he had found popular enough in some circles of camp society, though all the respectable Greeks, we are assured, are shocked at him. He launches out now with bitter virulence—in which there is nevertheless (as in most oratory189 of the kind) a certain amount of truth—against Agamemnon. He denounces his greed, his selfishness, his disregard of the sufferings of his troops, his late treatment of Achilles; they must all be cowards, he says, to obey such a leader—
“Women of Greece! I will not call ye men!”
Why not sail home at once, and leave him, if he can, to take Troy with his own single hand?
The mutineer speaks in an evil hour for himself, this time; for Ulysses hears him. That energetic chief answers him in terms as strong as his own, and warns him that if he should catch him again railing in like fashion—“taking the name of kings in his abusive mouth”—he will strip his garments from him, and flog him naked back to the ships. And, as an earnest of his promise, he lays the mighty sceptre heavily on his back and shoulders. Such prompt and vigorous chastisement190 meets the popular humour at once; and as{v.i-45} the hunchback writhes191 and howls under the blows, the fickle192 feelings of the Greeks break forth in peals of laughter. “Of the many good things Ulysses has done, this last,” they swear, “is the best of all.”
Then, prompted still by the goddess of Wisdom, Ulysses harangues the reassembled troops. He reminds them of their plighted193 oath of service to Agamemnon, of the encouraging oracles194 of heaven, of the disgrace of returning home from an unaccomplished errand. With the art of a true orator, he sympathises with their late feelings—it is bitter for them all, indeed, to waste so many years on a foreign shore, far from home, and wife, and children; but bitterest of all would it be
“Long to remain, and bootless to return.”
The venerable Nestor speaks to the same effect; and Agamemnon himself closes the debate with a call to immediate battle. It is a right royal speech, far more worthy195 of a true “king of men” than his former philippics—moderate in his allusion196 to Achilles, spirited in his appeal to his warriors197.
“Come but new friendship, and our feud destroy,
Then from the evil that is fixed and sealed
But now to dinner, ere we take the field;
Feed well the horses, and each chariot test,
That we may fight it out till one side yield,
Fight in sound harness, and not think of rest,
Till the black night decide it as to Zeus seems best.
While forward in the glittering car they strain;
Round many a breast there battling in the plain;
Here by the ships, and for the fight not fain,
He remembers, too, like a wise general, that a battle may be lost by fighting on an empty stomach. So the oxen and the fatlings are slain206, the choice pieces of the thighs207 and the fat are offered in sacrifice to the gods, and then the whole army feasts their fill. Agamemnon holds a select banquet of six of the chief leaders—King Idomeneus of Crete, Nestor, Ajax the Greater and the Less, and Ulysses, “wise in council as Zeus.” One guest comes uninvited—his brother Menelaus. He is no dinner-loving intruder; he comes, as the poet simply tells us, “because he knew in his heart how many were his brother’s cares and anxieties,”—he might be of some use or support to him. Throughout the whole of the poem, the mutual208 affection borne by these two brothers is very remarkable, and unlike any type of the same relationship which exists in fiction. It is never put forward or specially209 dwelt upon, but comes out simply and naturally in every particular of their intercourse210.
A king and priest, like Abraham at Bethel, Agamemnon stands by his burnt-offering, and lifts his prayer for victory to Jupiter, “most glorious and most great, who dwells in the clouds and thick darkness.” But no favourable omen24 comes from heaven. The god, whether or no he accepts the offering, gives no sign. Nevertheless—we may suppose with a certain wilfulness211 which is part of his character—Agamemnon proceeds to set the battle in array; and the second book of the Iliad closes with the long muster-roll of the Greek{v.i-47} clans under their respective kings or chiefs on the one side, and of the Trojans and their allies on the other, which in our introduction has already been partly anticipated.[14] The long list of chiefs, with their genealogies212 and birthplaces, and the strength of their several contingents213, was evidently composed with a view to recitation: and whatever may be its value as an authentic214 record, we can understand the interest with which a Greek audience would listen to a muster-roll which was to them what the Roll of Battle Abbey was to the descendants of the Normans in England. If here and there, upon occasion, the wandering minstrel inserted in the text the name and lineage of some provincial215 hero on his own responsibility, the popular applause would assuredly be none the less.
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1
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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2
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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3
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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4
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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5
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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6
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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7
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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9
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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10
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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11
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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12
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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13
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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14
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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15
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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16
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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17
mantis
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| n.螳螂 | |
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18
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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19
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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20
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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21
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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22
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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23
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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24
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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25
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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26
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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27
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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28
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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29
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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30
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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31
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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32
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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33
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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34
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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35
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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36
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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37
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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38
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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39
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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40
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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41
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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42
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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43
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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44
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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45
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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46
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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47
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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48
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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49
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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50
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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51
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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52
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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53
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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54
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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55
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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56
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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57
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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58
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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59
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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60
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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61
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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62
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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64
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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65
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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66
expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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67
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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68
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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69
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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70
propitiated
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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72
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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73
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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74
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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75
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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76
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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77
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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78
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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79
combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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80
envoys
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| 使节( envoy的名词复数 )； 公使； 谈判代表； 使节身份 | |
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81
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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84
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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85
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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86
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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87
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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88
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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89
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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90
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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91
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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94
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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95
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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96
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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97
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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98
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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99
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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100
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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101
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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103
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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104
ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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105
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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106
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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107
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
bemoans
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的第三人称单数 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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110
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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111
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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112
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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113
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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114
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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115
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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116
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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117
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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118
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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119
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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120
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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121
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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122
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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123
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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124
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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125
wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
burlesques
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| n.滑稽模仿( burlesque的名词复数 )；（包括脱衣舞的）滑稽歌舞杂剧v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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128
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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129
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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130
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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131
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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132
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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133
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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134
confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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135
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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136
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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137
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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138
ratifies
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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140
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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141
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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142
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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143
connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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144
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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145
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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146
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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147
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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148
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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149
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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150
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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151
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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152
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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153
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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154
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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155
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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156
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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157
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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158
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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159
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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160
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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161
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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162
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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163
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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164
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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165
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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166
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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167
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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168
complicates
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| 使复杂化( complicate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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170
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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171
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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172
clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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173
harangues
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| n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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174
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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175
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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176
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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177
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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178
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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179
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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180
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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181
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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183
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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184
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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185
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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186
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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187
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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188
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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189
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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190
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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191
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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192
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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193
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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194
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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195
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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196
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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197
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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198
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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199
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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200
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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201
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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202
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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203
skulker
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| n.偷偷隐躲起来的人，偷懒的人 | |
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204
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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205
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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206
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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207
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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208
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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209
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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210
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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211
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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212
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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213
contingents
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| （志趣相投、尤指来自同一地方的）一组与会者( contingent的名词复数 )； 代表团； （军队的）分遣队； 小分队 | |
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214
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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215
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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