actions comes out with him, as, the opening of a door or box with a key. He tells who made Juno's earrings or veil or the shield of Ajax, the history of Agamemnon's breast-*plate, and in what detail a hero puts on his pieces of armour. I would not press the chattiness of Pandarus, Glaucus, Nestor, Æneas, in the midst of battle; I might press his description of wounds. Indeed I have said enough, and more than enough, against Mr Arnold's novel, unsupported, paradoxical assertion.—But this is connected with another subject. I called Homer's manner 'direct': Mr Arnold (if I understand) would supersede this by his own epithet 'rapid'. But I cannot admit the exchange: Homer is often the opposite of rapid. Amplification is his characteristic, as it must be of every improvisatore, every popular orator: condensation indeed is improper for anything but written style; written to be read privately. But I regard as Homer's worst defect, his lingering over scenes of endless carnage and painful wounds. He knows to half an inch where one hero hits another and how deep. They arm: they approach: they encounter: we have to listen to stereotype details again and again. Such a style is anything but 'rapid'. Homer's garrulity often leads him into it; yet he can do far better, as in a part of the fight over Patroclus's body, and other splendid passages.
