The life and writings of Henry Fuseli Volume I Part 6

"'Cyclops! thou hast my n.o.ble name inquired, Which I will tell thee. Give me, in return, The promised boon, some hospitable pledge.

My name is[25] Outis; Outis I am call'd, At home, abroad, wherever I am known.'

"So I; to whom he, savage, thus replied: 'Outis, when I have eaten all his friends, Shall be my last regale. Be that thy boon.'

"He spake, and, downward sway'd, fell resupine, With his huge neck aslant. All conqu'ring sleep Soon seized him. From his gullet gush'd the wine With human morsels mingled, many a blast Sonorous issuing from his glutted maw.

Then, thrusting far the spike of olive-wood Into the embers glowing on the hearth, I heated it, and cheer'd my friends the while, Lest any should, through fear, shrink from his part.

But when that stake of olive-wood, though green, Should soon have flamed, for it was glowing hot, I bore it to his side. Then all my aids Around me gather'd, and the G.o.ds infused Heroic fort.i.tude into our hearts.

They, seizing the hot stake rasp'd to a point, Bored his eye with it, and myself, advanced To a superior stand, twirl'd it about.

As when a shipwright with his wimble bores Tough oaken timber, placed on either side Below, his fellow artists strain the thong Alternate, and the restless iron spins; So grasping hard the stake pointed with fire, We twirl'd it in his eye; the bubbling blood Boil'd round about the brand; his pupil sent A scalding vapour forth that singed his brow, And all his eye-roots crackled in the flame.

As when the smith an hatchet or large axe Temp'ring with skill, plunges the hissing blade Deep in cold water, (whence the strength of steel,) So hiss'd his eye around the olive-wood.

The howling monster with his outcry fill'd The hollow rock, and I, with all my aids, Fled terrified. He, plucking forth the spike From his burnt socket, mad with anguish, cast The implement, all b.l.o.o.d.y, far away.

Then, bellowing, he sounded forth the name Of ev'ry Cyclops dwelling in the caves Around him, on the wind-swept mountain tops; They, at his cry flocking from ev'ry part, Circled his den, and of his ail enquired.

'What grievous hurt hath caused thee, Polypheme!

Thus yelling, to alarm the peaceful ear Of Night, and break our slumbers? Fear'st thou lest Some mortal man drive off thy flocks? or fear'st Thyself to die by cunning or by force?'

"Them answer'd, then, Polypheme from his cave, 'Oh, friends! I die, and Outis gives the blow.'

"To whom with accents wing'd his friends without.

'If no[26] man harm thee, but thou art alone, And sickness feel'st, it is the stroke of Jove, And thou must bear it; yet invoke for aid Thy father Neptune, sov'reign of the floods.'

"So saying, they went, and in my heart I laugh'd; That by the fiction only of a name, Slight stratagem! I had deceived them all."

If translation be chiefly written for those who cannot read the original, it is, we apprehend, self-evident, that Polypheme's charging _Outis_ with an attempt on his life, and the departure of his a.s.sociates in consequence of this information, must remain a problem to those who do not understand the Greek. To them, _Outis_ is the name of somebody, and why that should pacify the giants who came to a.s.sist the Cyclops, appears unsatisfactory, if not inconceivable. Clarke, when he adduces the pa.s.sage from the Acta Eruditorum, which censures Gyphanius for having translated _Outis_, _nemo_, would have done well if he had adduced other reasons in support of his opinion (if indeed he coincided in opinion with that pa.s.sage) than grammatical futilities. The separation of ??-de can be no reason why the brethren of Polypheme should depart; his destruction remained a call equally urgent for their a.s.sistance, whether it was carrying on by fraud or force. In Homer, whenever a man is asked after his name, he replies, they call me so, or my mother has given me such a name; and this is always in the accusative. Ulysses, to deceive Polypheme, consults probability, and the customary reply to a question after a name, and therefore calls him _Outin_, not _Outina_, to escape the suspicion of the Cyclops; but well surmised, or Homer at least for him, that his enemy would p.r.o.nounce his name in the nominative, if he should be asked who was his destroyer. If the deception be puerile, it is to be considered, that no sense can be obtained without it; and on whom is it practised? on something worse than a solitary barbarian not trained up in social craft; it is exerted on a monster of mixed nature, unacquainted with other ideas than the immediate ones of self-preservation, brutal force, and greedy appet.i.te. The whole fiction is indeed one of those which Longinus calls dreams, but the dreams of Jupiter; and the improbabilities of the component parts vanish in the pathos, and the restless anguish of curiosity which overwhelms us in the conduct of the tale.[27]

That the translation of the word ??ata??, in the celebrated pa.s.sage of Sisyphus, should have met with indulgence from those who insist on the preservation of _Outis_, may not be matter of surprise, because, as Mr. C. observes, 'it is now perhaps impossible to ascertain with precision what Homer meant by the word ??ata??, which he only uses here and in the next book, where it is the name of Scylla's dam.' We give it up too, though not willingly, because the ancients appear to have been as ignorant of the being so called as ourselves; some of whom, by cutting the word into two, attempted to make it rather an attribute of the stone itself, than the effect of some external power: but from _him_, we are more surprised at the observation on the word '??a?d??,' in the same pa.s.sage, as 'also of very doubtful explication.' Is it not the constant practice of Homer to diffuse energy by animating the inanimate? has he forgotten the maddening lances, the greedy arrows, the roaring sh.o.r.es, the groaning earth, the winged words, the cruel bra.s.s, and a thousand other metaphors from life? and if these occurred not to his memory, the observation of _Aristotle_ on the pa.s.sage in question, as quoted by Clarke, might have removed all doubts about the true sense of the word ??a?d??, when applied to a rock.

Mr. Cowper, in his interpretation of many words and expressions of dubious explication, has generally chosen that sense which seemed most to contribute to the perspicuity of the pa.s.sage: thus in Iliad, iv. v. 306, seq. when Nestor instructs his troops before the battle, he has, in our opinion, adopted the best and only sense, though rejected by Clarke, with more subtilty than reason. Thus he has subst.i.tuted the word 'monster' for the epithet ?a?a?et??, Iliad, xvi. 329, with sufficient propriety, whether that word be expressive of enormity of dimension, or untameableness of disposition; in both which senses it occurs in Pindar.[28] We might enlarge on the terms ??t????t??a?; t??pa? ?e?????; ??s?????, and a variety of others equally disputed or obscure; but as they will be sufficiently recognized by the scholar, whilst the unlearned reader is enabled to pa.s.s smoothly over them, we shall just observe, that the interpretation of the proverbial pa.s.sage in Odyss. viii. v.

351,

?e??a? t?? de???? ?e ?a? ????a? ????aas?a?

'Lame suitor, lame security,'

is the happiest instance of the superiority of plain sense over learning merely intricate.

When, in Odyss. iv. v. 73, Telemachus describes the mansion of Menelaus, Mr. C., with all the translators, renders ??e?t???

'amber,' contrary to the explanation of Pliny, who defines electrum to be gold, containing a fifth part of silver, and quotes the Homeric pa.s.sage.[29] Amber ornaments, we believe, are not mentioned by Homer in the singular. Thus, in Odyss. xviii. 294-5, the golden necklace presented by Eurymachus, is called ??e?t???s?? ?e?e???, inlaid with amber drops.

Homer, Odyss. xi. v. 579, seq., places two vultures by the sides of t.i.tyus, who entered his entrails, and tore his liver by turns, and adds, to enhance the terror of the image,

? d' ??? ?pa??et? ?e?s?,

'he had not hands to rescue him;' entranced, no doubt, or chained to the ground. This Mr. C. translates--

"----Two vultures on his liver prey'd, Scooping his entrails; nor suffic'd his hands To fray them thence."----

Why not, if he had a hand for each vulture, unless we suppose him chained or entranced?

Odyss. xix. 389, Ulysses removes from the light of the hearth into the shade, lest the nurse, who had already discovered a striking resemblance in his shape, voice, and limbs, to those of her lost master, by handling his thigh, and seeing all at once the scar on it, should be convinced that he could be no other, and betray him.

This Mr. C. translates thus: p. 453.

"Ulysses (for beside the hearth he sat) Turn'd quick _his face_ into the shade, alarm'd Lest, handling him, she should at once remark His scar, and all his stratagem unveil."

He who, unacquainted with the rest, should read these lines, would either conclude that the nurse had not looked at the face before, or that the scar was in the face. Minerva had taken care that Ulysses should not be discovered by his countenance, making ident.i.ty vanish into mere resemblance; but as the scar in such a place, without a miracle, could belong only to Ulysses, he attempted to elude the farther guesses of the nurse, by having his thigh washed in the dark.

Odyss. viii. 400, Euryalus, eager to appease Ulysses for the affront offered to him, addressed Alcinous his chief--

??? d' a?t' ????a??? ?pae?et?, f???se? te ??????e ??e???.----

But Mr. C. turns Alcinous into his father;

"When thus Euryalus his _sire_ addressed."

The sons of Alcinous were Laodamus, Halius, and Clytoneus.

When Mr. C., Odyss. xi. v. 317, seq. tells us that Alcmena bore Megara to Creon, he says surely what Homer has not said,[30] who mentions Megara as the daughter of Creon, and one of the women Ulysses _saw_, and not as the sister and wife of Hercules together.

But enough. Of similar observations, perhaps more might be added.

These at least will show the attention with which we have compared copy and original. If, among the emendations of a future edition, they be not pa.s.sed over as cavils, or treated as nugatory, our purpose will be fully answered. It would be difficult to determine in which of the two poems Mr. C. has succeeded best. We however incline to decide in favour of the Odyssey. The prevalent mixture of social intercourse, domestic manners, and rural images, with the scenes of terror and sublimity, as upon the whole it renders that poem more pleasing, though not more interesting than the Iliad, and what we would call a poem for all hours, appears to us to have been more adapted to the mild tones of our translator, than the uninterrupted sublimity and pathos of the Iliad. In parting from both, we congratulate the author on the production, and the public on the acquisition of so much excellence. We contemplate the whole in its ma.s.s as an immense fabric reared for some n.o.ble purpose: on too near an approach, not perhaps of equal beauty, with parts left rough that might have been smoothed to neatness, and others only neat that might have been polished into elegance; blemishes that vanish at a proper distance: by uniform grandeur of style, the whole strikes with awe and delight, attracts now the eyes of the race who saw it rise, and, secure of duration from the firmness of its base and the solidity of its materials, will command the admiration of posterity.

CHAPTER VI.

Fuseli's proficiency in Italian History, Literature, and the Fine Arts, exemplified in his Criticism on Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici.

The following review of Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici, will shew Fuseli's critical knowledge of Italian history.

ROSCOE'S LORENZO DE MEDICI.

"The close of the fifteenth, (says Mr. R. Pref. p. i.) and the beginning of the sixteenth century, comprehend one of those periods of history which are ent.i.tled to our minutest study and enquiry.

Almost all the great events from which Europe derives its present advantages are to be traced up to those times. The invention of the art of printing, the discovery of the great Western Continent, the schism from the Church of Rome, which ended in the reformation of many of its abuses, and established the precedent of reform; the degree of perfection attained in the fine arts, compose such an ill.u.s.trious a.s.semblage of luminous points, as cannot fail of attracting for ages the curiosity and admiration of mankind.

"A complete history of these times has long been a great desideratum in literature; and whoever considers the magnitude of the undertaking will not think it likely to be soon supplied.

Indeed, from the nature of the transactions that then took place, they can only be exhibited in detail, and under separate and particular views. That the author of the following pages has frequently turned his eye towards this interesting period is true; but he has felt himself rather dazzled than informed by the survey.

A mind of greater compa.s.s, and the possession of uninterrupted leisure, would be requisite to comprehend, to select, and to arrange the immense varieties of circ.u.mstances which a full narrative of those times would involve, when almost every city of Italy was a new Athens, and that favoured country could boast its historians, its poets, its orators, and its artists, who may contend with the great names of antiquity for the palm of mental excellence: when Venice, Milan, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Ferrara, and several other places, vied with each other, not in arms, but in science and in genius, and the splendour of a court was estimated by the number and talents of learned men, who ill.u.s.trated it by their presence, each of whose lives and productions would, in a work of this nature, merit a full and separate discussion.

"From this full blaze of talents, the author has turned towards a period when its first faint gleams afford a subject, if not more interesting, at least more suitable to his powers; when, after a night of unexpected darkness, Florence again saw the sun break forth with a l.u.s.tre more permanent, though perhaps not so bright.

The days of Dante, Boccaccio, and of Petrarch, were indeed past; but under the auspices of the House of Medici, and particularly through the ardour and example of Lorenzo, the empire of science and taste was again restored."

Having thus, with great modesty, stated the motives for his choice of subject, the author presents us with a rapid sketch of the Medician family, the literary and political character of Lorenzo, and his undeserved fate as statesman and writer in the succeeding century: he then proceeds to a critical enumeration of the narratives composed of his life, from the contemporary one of Niccolo Valori to the recent volumes of Fabroni, the ma.s.s of whose valuable doc.u.ments, together with the communications of a learned friend, admitted to the printed and ma.n.u.script treasure of the Laurentian library, and the acquisition of a number of scarce tracts, procured from the sales of the Crevenna and Pinelli books, arranged and concentrated by indefatigable a.s.siduity, he considers as the basis on which he was enabled to erect his own system, and to fill up the chasm that had hitherto separated from legitimate history, the period elapsed between the last stage of decay and final dissolution of the Byzantine empire by Mahommed II. and the brilliant epoch that rose with the accession of Charles the Fifth to the German throne.

The first chapter opens with Florence, its origin, its tempestuous though not improsperous liberty during the political schism of its citizens into the two factions of Ghibelines and Guelphs, or Bianchi and Neri, subsiding at length under the levelling preponderance of the Medicean family, whose annals our author traces from the real or romantic date of Charlemagne to the accession of Cosmo, emphatically decorated with the appellation of _Pater Patriae_, and the height of its commercial and political influence.

'The authority,' observes our author, p. 13, 'which Cosmo and his descendants exercised in Florence during the fifteenth century, was of a very peculiar nature; and consisted rather in a tacit influence on their part, and a voluntary acquiescence on that of the people, than in any prescribed or definite compact between them. The form of government was ostensibly a republic, and was directed by a counsel of ten citizens, and a chief executive officer, called the _Gonfaloniere_, or standard-bearer, who was chosen every two months. Under this establishment, the citizens imagined they enjoyed the full exercise of their liberties; but such was the power of the Medici, that they generally either a.s.sumed to themselves the first offices of the state, or nominated such persons as they thought proper to those employments. In this, however, they paid great respect to popular opinion. That opposition of interests so generally apparent between the people and their rulers, was, at this time, scarcely perceived at Florence, where superior qualifications and industry were the surest recommendations to public authority and favour. Convinced of the benefits constantly received from this family, and satisfied that they could, at any time, withdraw themselves from a connexion that exacted no engagements, and required only a temporary acquiescence, the Florentines considered the Medici as the fathers, and not as the rulers of the republic. On the other hand, the chiefs of this house, by appearing rather to decline than to court the honours bestowed on them, and by a singular moderation of the use of them when obtained, were careful to maintain the character of simple citizens of Florence, and servants of the state. An interchange of reciprocal good offices was the only tie by which the Florentines and the Medici were bound; and, perhaps, the long continuance of this connexion may be attributed to the very circ.u.mstance, of its being in the power of either of the parties, at any time, to have dissolved it.'

The temporary interruption of Cosmo's power by the successful struggle of an opposite party, headed by families eclipsed in his blaze, his exile, and his banishment to the Venetian state, tended only, from the resignation and magnanimity of his conduct, to rivet, at his recall, the voluntary chains of his fellow-citizens;--and he continued the unrivalled arbiter of Florence and it's dependencies, the primary restorer of Greek and Latin literature, and the most enlightened patron of the arts, to the advanced age of seventy-five, and the hour of his death, gratified with the prospect of the continuation of family power, from the character of his son Piero, and that of his two grandsons, Lorenzo and Juliano. The ample and varied detail of this a.s.semblage of important subjects we leave, as preliminary, to the curiosity of our readers, and hasten to the second chapter, and the appearance of Lorenzo.

'Lorenzo de' Medici,' says, Mr. R., p. 69, 'was about sixteen years of age when Cosmo died, and had at that time given striking indications of extraordinary talents. From his earliest years he had exhibited proofs of a retentive and vigorous mind, which was cultivated not only by all the attention which his father's infirmities would permit him to bestow, but by a frequent intercourse with his venerable grandfather. He owed also great obligations, in this respect, to his mother, Lucretia, who was one of the most accomplished women of the age, and distinguished herself not only as a patroness of learning, but by her own writings. Of these some specimens yet remain, which are the more ent.i.tled to approbation, as they were produced at a time when poetry was at its lowest ebb in Italy. The disposition of Lorenzo, which afterwards gave him a peculiar claim to the t.i.tle of _magnificent_, was apparent in his childhood. Having received as a present a horse from Sicily, he sent the donor, in return, a gift of much greater value, and on being reproved for his profuseness, he remarked that there was nothing more glorious than to overcome others in acts of generosity. Of his proficiency in cla.s.sical learning, and the different branches of that philosophy which was then in repute, he has left indisputable proofs. Born to restore the l.u.s.tre of his native tongue, he had rendered himself conspicuous by his poetical talents, before he arrived at manhood.

To these accomplishments he united a considerable share of strong, natural penetration and good sense, which enabled him, amidst the many difficulties that he was involved in, to act with a prompt.i.tude and decision which surprised those who were witnesses of his conduct; whilst the endowments which ent.i.tled him to admiration and respect, were accompanied by others that conciliated, in an eminent degree, the esteem and affections of his fellow-citizens.

'In his person, Lorenzo was tall and athletic, and had more the appearance of strength than of elegance. From his birth, he laboured under some peculiar disadvantages--his sight was weak, his voice harsh and unpleasing, and he was totally deprived of the sense of smell. With all these defects his countenance was dignified, and gave an idea of the magnanimity of his character; and the effects of his eloquence were conspicuous on many important occasions. In his youth, he was much addicted to active and laborious exercises, to hawking, horsemanship, and country sports.

Though not born to support a military character, he gave sufficient proofs of his courage, not only in public tournaments, which were then not unfrequent in Italy, but also upon more trying occasions.