The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. in Nine Volumes, Volume 08

The history of the notes has never been traced. Broome, in 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 publick 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 smaller print, those of the manuscripts, with all their variations. Those words in the small print, which are given in italicks, 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 springOf all the Grecian woes, O goddess, sing;That wrath which hurl’d to Pluto’s gloomy reignThe souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain.The stern Pelides’ rage, O goddess, sing,wrathOf all the woes of Greece the fatal spring.GrecianThat strew’d with warriors dead the Phrygian plain,heroesAnd peopled the dark hell with heroes slain;fill’d 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 tare,Since first Atrides and Achilles strove;Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove.Declare, O muse, in what ill-fated hourSprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?Latona’s son a dire contagion spread,And heap’d the camp with mountains of the dead;The king of men his reverend priest defy’d,And for the king’s offence the people dy’d.Declare, O goddess, what offended powerEnflam’d their rage, in that ill-omen’d hour;anger,        fatal, haplessPhœbus himself the dire debate procur’d,fierceT’ avenge the wrongs his injur’d priest endur’d;For this the god a dire infection spread,And heap’d the camp with millions of the dead:The king of men the sacred sire defy’d,And for the king’s offence the people dy’d.For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gainHis 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 regaincostly gifts to gainHis captive daughter from the victor’s chain;Suppliant the venerable father stands,Apollo’s awful ensigns grac’d his hands,By these he begs, and, lowly bending downThe golden sceptre and the laurel crown,Presents the sceptreFor these as ensigns of his god he bare,The god that sends his golden shafts afar;Then low on earth, the venerable man,Suppliant before the brother kings began.He sued to all, but chief implor’d for graceThe brother kings of Atreus’ royal race;Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown’d,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 implor’d for graceThe brother kings of Atreus’ royal race.Ye sons of Atreus, may your vows be crown’d,Kings and warriorsYour labours, by the gods be all your labours crown’d;So may the gods your arms with conquest bless,And Troy’s proud walls lie level with the ground:Till                     laidAnd crown your labours with deserv’d successMay 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 Chryseis 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 that deals his darts around,avenging Phosbus, son of Jove.The Greeks, in shouts, their joint assent declareThe priest to reverence, and release the fair.Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride,Repuls’d the sacred sire, and thus reply’d.He said, the Greeks their joint assent declare,The father said, the gen’rons Greeks relent,T’ accept the ransom, and release the fair:Revere the priest, and speak their joint assent:Not so the tyrant, he, with kingly pride,Atrides,Repuls’d 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 a parallel; the few differences do not require to be elaborately displayed.

Now pleasing sleep had seal’d each mortal eye;Stretch’d in their tents the Grecian leaders lie;Th’ immortals slumber’d on their thrones above,All but the ever-watchful 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:directsFly hence, delusive dream, and, light as air,To Agamemnon’s royal tent repair;Bid him in arms draw forth th’ embattled train,March all his legions to the dusty plain.Now tell the king ’tis given him to destroyDeclare ev’n nowThe lofty walls of wide-extended Troy;tow’rsFor now no more the gods with fate contend,At Juno’s suit the heavenly factions end.Destruction hovers o’er yon devoted wall,hangsAnd nodding Ilium waits th’ 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 unmeasur’d 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, fir’d by thirst of fame,Or urg’d 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 follow’d, and what chiefs command;(For doubtful fame distracts mankind below,And nothing can we tell, and nothing know,)Without your aid, to count th’ unnumber’d 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 distinguish’d praise.High on his helm celestial lightnings play,His beamy shield emits a living ray;Th’ unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies.Like the red star that fires th’ 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 deathlessAnd crown her hero with immortal praise:distinguish’dBright from his beamy crest the lightnings play,High on helmFrom his broad buckler flash’d 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 th’ autumnal skies:Th’ unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,Like the red star that fires th’ autumnal skies.When first he rears his radiant orb to sight,And, bath’d in ocean, shoots a keener light.Such glories Pallas on the chief bestow’d,Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow’d;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 th’ autumnal skies;Fresh from the deep, and gilds the seas and skies;Such glories Pallas on her chief bestow’d,Such sparkling rays from his bright armour flow’d;Such from his arms the fierce effulgence flow’d;Onward she drives him headlong to engage,furiousWhere the war bleeds, and where the fiercest rage,fight burns,                thickestThe 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 liv’d 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 unnumber’d 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 firesGleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field.Pull fifty guards each flaming pile attend,Whose umber’d 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 heav’n’s clear azure sheds her silver light;pure          spreads    sacredAs 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 breathAnd no dim cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene;not aAround her silver throne the planets glow,And stars unnumber’d trembling beams bestow:Around her throne the vivid planets roll,And stars unnumber’d 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,gleamverdureAnd tip with silver all the mountain headsforestAnd 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 reveal’d 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,glorioususefulSo many flames before the navy blaze,proud IlionAnd 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 firesGild 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 greater number; but most other readers are already tired, and I am not writing only to poets and philosophers.

The Iliad was published volume by volume, as the translation proceeded: the four first books appeared in 1715. The expectation of this work was undoubtedly high, and every man who had connected his name with criticism, or poetry, was desirous of such intelligence as might enable him to talk upon the popular topick. Halifax, who, by having been first a poet, and then a patron of poetry, had acquired the right of being a judge, was willing to hear some books while they were yet unpublished. Of this rehearsal Pope afterwards gave the following account123:

“The famous lord Halifax was rather a pretender to taste, than really possessed of it. When I had finished the two or three first books of my translation of the Iliad, that lord desired to have the pleasure of hearing them read at his house. Addison, Congreve, and Garth, were there at the reading. In four or five places, lord Halifax stopped me very civilly, and with a speech each time of much the same kind, ‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pope; but there is something in that passage that does not quite please me. Be so good as to mark the place, and consider it a little at your leisure. I’m sure you can give it a little turn.’ I returned from lord Halifax’s with Dr. Garth, in his chariot: and, as we were going along, was saying to the doctor, that my lord had laid me under a great deal of difficulty by such loose and general observations; that I had been thinking over the passages almost ever since, and could not guess what it was that offended his lordship in either of them. Garth laughed heartily at my embarrassment; said, I had not been long enough acquainted with lord Halifax, to know his way yet; that I need not puzzle myself about looking those places over and over when I got home. ‘All you need do,’ says he, ‘is to leave them just as they are; call on lord Halifax two or three months hence, thank him for his kind observations on those passages, and then read them to him as altered. I have known him much longer than you have, and will be answerable for the event.’ I followed his advice; waited on lord Halifax some time after; said, I hoped he would find his objections to those passages removed; read them to him exactly as they were at first; and his lordship was extremely pleased with them, and cried out, ‘Aye, now they are perfectly right: nothing can be better124.’”

It is seldom that the great or the wise suspect that they are despised or cheated. Halifax, thinking this a lucky opportunity of securing immortality, made some advances of favour and some overtures of advantage to Pope, which he seems to have received with sullen coldness. All our knowledge of this transaction is derived from a single letter, Dec. 1,1714, in which Pope says, “I am obliged to you, both for the favours you have done me, and those you intend me. I distrust neither your will nor your memory, when it is to do good; and if I ever become troublesome or solicitous, it must not be out of expectation, but out of gratitude. Your lordship may cause me to live agreeably in the town, or contentedly in the country, which is really all the difference I set between an easy fortune and a small one. It is, indeed, a high strain of generosity in you to think of making me easy all my life, only because I have been so happy as to divert you some few hours; but, if I may have leave to add, it is because you think me no enemy to my native country, there will appear a better reason; for I must of consequence be very much, as I sincerely am, yours, &c.”

These voluntary offers, and this faint acceptance, ended without effect. The patron was not accustomed to such frigid gratitude: and the poet fed his own pride with the dignity of independence. They probably were suspicious of each other. Pope would not dedicate till he saw at what rate his praise was valued; he would be “troublesome out of gratitude, not expectation.” Halifax thought himself entitled to confidence; and would give nothing, unless he knew what he should receive. Their commerce had its beginning in hope of praise on one side, and of money on the other, and ended because Pope was less eager of money than Halifax of praise. It is not likely that Halifax had any personal benevolence to Pope; it is evident that Pope looked on Halifax with scorn and hatred125.

The reputation of this great work failed of gaining him a patron; but it deprived him of a friend. Addison and he were now at the head of poetry and criticism; and both in such a state of elevation, that, like the two rivals in the Roman state, one could no longer bear an equal, nor the other a superiour. Of the gradual abatement of kindness between friends, the beginning is often scarcely discernible by themselves, and the process is continued by petty provocations, and incivilities sometimes peevishly returned, and sometimes contemptuously neglected, which would escape all attention but that of pride, and drop from any memory but that of resentment. That the quarrel of these two wits should be minutely deduced, is not to be expected from a writer to whom, as Homer says, “nothing but rumour has reached, and who has no personal knowledge.”

Pope doubtless approached Addison, when the reputation of their wit first brought them together, with the respect due to a man whose abilities were acknowledged, and who, having attained that eminence to which he was himself aspiring, had in his hands the distribution of literary fame. He paid court with sufficient diligence by his prologue to Cato, by his abuse of Dennis, and with praise yet more direct, by his poem on the Dialogues on Medals, of which the immediate publication was then intended. In all this there was no hypocrisy; for he confessed that he found in Addison something more pleasing than in any other man.

It may be supposed, that as Pope saw himself favoured by the world, and more frequently compared his own powers with those of others, his confidence increased, and his submission lessened; and that Addison felt no delight from the advances of a young wit, who might soon contend with him for the highest place. Every great man, of whatever kind be his greatness, has among his friends those who officiously or insidiously quicken his attention to offences, heighten his disgust, and stimulate his resentment. Of such adherents Addison doubtless had many; and Pope was now too high to be without them.

From the emission and reception of the proposals for the Iliad, the kindness of Addison seems to have abated. Jervas, the painter, once pleased himself, Aug. 20, 1714, with imagining that he had reestablished their friendship; and wrote to Pope that Addison once suspected him of too close a confederacy with Swift, but was now satisfied with his conduct. To this Pope answered, a week after, that his engagements to Swift were such as his services in regard to the subscription demanded, and that the tories never put him under the necessity of asking leave to be grateful. “But,” says he, “as Mr. Addison must be the judge in what regards himself, and has seemed to be no just one to me, so I must own to you I expect nothing but civility from him.” In the same letter he mentions Philips, as having been busy to kindle animosity between them; but in a letter to Addison, he expresses some consciousness of behaviour, inattentively deficient in respect.

Of Swift’s industry in promoting the subscription there remains the testimony of Kennet, no friend to either him or Pope.

“Nov. 2, 1713, Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house, and had a bow from every body but me, who, I confess, could not but despise him. When I came to the ante-chamber to wait, before prayers, Dr. Swift was the principal man of talk and business, and acted as master of requests. Then he instructed a young nobleman, that the best poet in England was Mr. Pope, a papist, who had begun a translation of Homer into English verse, for which he must have them all subscribe; for, says he, the author shall not begin to print till I have a thousand guineas for him.”