shall have, in spite of Corn Bills, do-nothing Parliaments, and various other practical absurdities. In walking through London streets, and elsewhere, Carlyle meets with soldiers-what he calls "fighting men." The spectacle of ninety thousand such men, all kept in good fighting order, trained to war, and ready, at the word of command, to cut down their brethren, raises in our author's breast several important thoughts. Here, thinks he, is an institution that has been handed down from remotest times, and become quite perfected in our days. It is withal a kind of unnatural institution, for no man may be said naturally to have a wish to kill another without specified cause. This institution has been preserved by Governments, because it is necessary to their existence, and has in its time done pretty considerable service. Now, if Government can so preserve an unnatural institution of this kind, what is to hinder it from preserving natural institutions of other kinds? "I could conceive," says our author, "an Emigration service, a Teaching service, considerable varieties of United and Separate services, of the due thousands strong, all effective as this fighting service is; all doing their work like it;—which work, much more than fighting, is henceforth the necessity of these new ages we are got into ! Much lies among us convulsively, nigh desperately struggling to be born." (p. 351.) But "the one institution" which could effect these things has got into a very ruinous state. It has been elected by gross bribery, and many legislators have taken their seats in it with a lie in their mouths. From such a body of legislators little can be expected, and little, accordingly, has been obtained. Yet how much has this institution in its power to do? example, could it not do something for Manchester? For "Ever-toiling Manchester, its soot and smoke all burned, ought it not, among so many world-wide conquests, to have a hundred acres or so of free greenfield, with trees on it, conquered, for its little children to disport in; for its all-conquering workers to take a breath of twilight air in? You would say so! A willing legislature could say so with effect. A willing legislature could say very many things! And to whatsoever' vested interest' or such like stood up, gainsaying merely 'I shall lose profits,' the willing legislature would answer, "Yes, but my sons and daughters would gain health, and life, and a soul!". "What is to become of our cotton trade?" cried certain spinners when the Factory Bill was proposed; "what is to become of our invaluable cotton trade?" The Humanity of England answered steadfastly; "Deliver me these rickety perishing souls of infants, and let your cotton trade take its chance. God himself commands the one thing; not God, especially, the other thing. We cannot have prosperous cotton trades at the expense of keeping the devil a partner in them." (p. 355.) But the legislature is unwilling, and so things are left to regulate themselves. But the "Bribery" must be put down, and here again comes that everlasting question-How? on which, unfortunately, our author throws little light. He says at page 344 "I conclude with all confidence that England will verily have to put an end to briberies on her election hustings and elsewhere, at what cost soever; and, likewise, that we electors and eligibles, one and all of us, for our own behoof and hers, cannot too soon begin at what cost soever to put an end to bribeabilities in ourselves. The deathleprosy attacked in this manner, by purifying lotions from without, and by rallying of the vital energies and purities from within, will probably abate somewhat. It has, otherwise, no chance to abate." There is another thing on which Carlyle insists as necessary to remedy our evils, and that is, that a greater permanence be given to labour, or other, contracts that are entered into between man and man. He alludes to the permanent hiring of the "fighting man," to life-long marriage contracts, and other permanent things, in order to shew that permanent contracts are the best. But he would go further than this; he would admit workmen into a share of the business at which they wrought, would give them an interest as it were in it, an encouragement for them to do well. In this way does he clench his argument for permanence: "The very horse that is permanent, how much kindlier do he and his rider work, than the temporary one hired on any hack principle yet known. I am for permanence in all things at the earliest possible moment, and to the latest possible. Blessed is he that continueth where he is. Here let us rest, and lay out seed-fields; here let us learn to dwell. Here, even here, the orchards that we plant will yield us fruit; the acorns will be wood and pleasant umbrage if we wait. How much grows everywhere if we do but wait! Through the swamps we will shape causeways, force purifying drains; we will learn to tread the rocky inaccessibilities; and beaten tracks worn smooth by mere travelling of human feet, will form themselves. Not a difficulty but can transfigure itself into a triumph; not even a deformity, but if our own soul have imprinted worth on it, will grow dear to us. The sunny plains and deep indigo transparent skies of Italy are all indifferent to the great sick heart of a Sir Walter Scott: on the back of the Appenines in wild spring weather, the sight of bleak Scotch firs and snow spotted heath and desolation, brings tears into his eyes."-p. 374. Carlyle proclaims himself a Conservative, and if all Conservatives were like him, no Radical in our country would have to complain. He would preserve or conserve all the old that is really good, and lop off all that is bad. A pretty good sort of Conservatism this we would think. Our author concludes by an eloquent appeal to all true workers to "subdue mutiny, discord, wide spread despair by manfulness, justice, mercy, and wisdom. Chaos is dark, deep as Hell; let light be and there is instead a green flowery world. Ō! it is great and there is no other greatness. To make some nook of God's creation a little fruitfuller, better, more worthy of God; to make some human hearts a little wiser, manfuler, happier-more blessed, less accursed! It is work for a God."-p. 398. Nobly spoken! brave Carlyle. It is work for a God; thy call shall be answered, and the god-like work shall be done, it is now beginning to be done, here a little and there a little; by this man and that man. The command to let there be light has gone forth, and already the light is dawning on many benighted minds. The imps of darkness are beginning to flee before it, and overturn ing one another in their fear. Sects and creeds and parties are breaking up and will soon join themselves together again into one band of brothers fighting for the common weal. They of the "shovel hats" and the "horse-hair wigs" are standing with rueful faces in each city, proclaiming loudly to all men that their "craft is in danger," and no true man will stand up and cry "Great are the 'shovel hats' of the English." The evangelising of the world is to be effected by others than they. Scattered all over this land, plying their tasks in silence, cheering and animating the downcast around them, are many manlike heroic hearts, in whom the hopes of the world are centred, and who, in the fullness of time, will come forth from their obscurity to direct and guide the dumb inarticulate thoughts of this nation. The world is weary of quacks, let all true men, therefore, step forth, and they will receive a right royal welcome. CHAPMAN'S HOMER. This is a new edition, by Dr. W. COOKE TAYLOR, of a fine old work,— "THE ILIADS OF HOMER, done according to the Greek, by GEORGE CHAPMAN."-London: Charles Knight. "there is no such name "But who is Chapman?" says some one; in my Penny Cyclopædia, published by Knight, (editor, by the bye, of Shakspere,) and under the auspices of Lord Brougham and his UsefulKnowledge-Society ;"-which indeed is very true;-although, notwithstanding, some so-named man was by Shakspere himself deemed a true poet, admitted as such into his friendship,-baptised too into the "sonship" of "Rare Old Ben," (till growth and rivalry unknit, as their wont is, such parental ties,)—and did veritably once live and speak our English tongue,-and, though since long entranced and well nigh buried, still does so live and speak, as few else have done or do. George Chapman was born in or near London, in the year 1557, entered Oxford in 1574, but from unconquerable aversion to logic, though an excellent scholar, took no degree. Upon coming to London, however, he obtained, through the good repute of some poetical pieces, admission into the society of Shakspere, Spenser, Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher, Sidney, Daniel, Inigo Jones, and others, a glorious galaxy of Nature's nobles, all of whom (except Jones) he eventually survived, dying bodily, in his seventy-seventh year, on the 12th of May, 1635; leaving, however, besides sixteen plays, (several still enjoying a quiet literary life,) his greatest works,-the translations of Homer, of which this, the Iliad, is the chief, and by far the most Homeric we yet possess. Still it must not be concealed, that with great beauties it has great faults. Like all our earlier poets, Shakspere alone excepted, Chapman is throughout unequal,-strong, but rugged,-thoroughly earnest and direct, but unconquerably quaint,-overflowing with imagination, poured forth too often without much choice,-and passionate as poet should be, but not always with that "temperance" which "in the very torrent, tempest, and (as one may say) whirlwind of passion should give it smoothness" perhaps, however, after all, (with the leave of the "Grecians" be it said,) not altogether the worse mirror, on these very accounts, of the ancientest bard himself. In fact,-barring occasional amplifications (if not always really-mostly, at any rate-in the spirit of the original,) and taking the work as a whole,-its general faithfulness, in matter, spirit, metre, becomes the more and more admirable, the deeper and deeper studied. How unlike in every respect is Cowper and Pope, each the very antipode of epic genius, as well as not a little deficient in mere scholarship itself. What, then of Homer was to be expected from either,—what but the mere incidents and a sort of darkling abstract of the ideas, like the watery residium of standing champagne, or the mere carcase or flesh-case of the poet's own spirit. Of the precise Cowper's prosaic muse,-of the flow and polish of Pope, we have, as was natural from purely subjective minds, enough and more than enough;-but of the true Homer less than nothing; whilst Chapman's neglected work is perhaps, with all its imperfections, the most real transfusion of Homer the world has yet seen; for Chapman had not only, in his own fine words, "the key with poesy to open poesy, but the right, the epic key. Let us take a specimen or two from each translator, with a version as literal as readable prose admits. And first from the seventh book,-the celebrated single combat between Ajax and Hector, (the foundation of a scene in Shakspere's latest, if not greatest drama, the Troilus and Cressida,--a perfect treasury of character and wisdom, alas! how little understood and still less appreciated.) LITERAL VERSION. * Then was Ajax armed in shining brass, and, when he had put on all his armour, marched forth like the enormous Mars, when he enters the fight of men, amongst whom Jove has sent the violence of soul-devouring strife. So the vast Ajax came forth, a rampart of the Greeks, smiling yet with terrible aspect, and taking with his feet vast strides over the ground, shaking above his long-shadowed spear. Him the Greeks beheld with great exultation, whilst grievous trembling ran through every Trojan's limbs, and the heart of Hector himself pattered in his bosom; though now he could in no wise fly back or retreat into the crowd, who had himself provoked the fight. * Then sent he forth his long javelin, and struck Ajax's huge seven-hided shield on the uppermost skirt of brass, which was the eighth upon it, and through six folds pierced the untamed dart, but in the seventh skin it stuck. Then the noble Ajax in his turn sent forth his javelin, and struck i'the centre Hector's bright orbicular targe,' and went right through it, and pierced his well made cuirass, and cut through his shirt of mail near the pit of his stomach, but he leaning forward eschewed black death. Then they with both hands dragging back their long javelins fell to it again, like raw devouring lions, or wild boars, whose strength is not easy to be wasted; and Hector with his spear struck the middle of Ajax's shield, but pierced it not, his lance-point being bent aside; but Ajax with a leap forward went with his spear right through Hector's shield, and checking him, as he would have closed in, and grazing his neck, drew forth the black gushing blood. Not so, however, would the helmet-shaking Hector cease from the fight, but drawing back he seized with his strong hand a stone lying in the field, black, sharp, and big, and struck with it Ajax's huge seven-hided shield right on the boss, and straitway the brass rung about; but Ajax lifting up a far greater stone, and wreathing it round sent it forth with unmeasured nerve, till it broke within Hector's shield, striking it like a millstone rock; and his loved knees failed him, and he leaned forward, stretched out, and supported on his shield. CHAPMAN'S VERSION. In bright arms shone The good strong Ajax, who, when all his war attire was on, Then sent he his long javelin forth; it struck his foe's huge shield Six folds th' untamed dart struck through, but in the seventh tough hide. Or boars, whose strength wild nourishment doth make so wond'rous great. Yet pierced not through the upper plate, the head reflected was: POPE'S VERSION. * Now Ajax brac'd his dazzling armour on, * * * |