And that wonderful genius to whom we owe the Iliad and the Odyssey belongs to this thankful posterity:  he, too, sacrificed his name on the altar of the primeval father of the Homeric epic, Homeros.

Up to this point, gentlemen, I think I have been able to put before you the fundamental philosophical and aesthetic characteristics of the problem of the personality of Homer, keeping all minor details rigorously at a distance, on the supposition that the primary form of this widespread and honeycombed mountain known as the Homeric question can be most clearly observed by looking down at it from a far-off height.  But I have also, I imagine, recalled two facts to those friends of antiquity who take such delight in accusing us philologists of lack of piety for great conceptions and an unproductive zeal for destruction.  In the first place, those “great” conceptions—­such, for example, as that of the indivisible and inviolable poetic genius, Homer—­were during the pre-Wolfian period only too great, and hence inwardly altogether empty and elusive when we now try to grasp them.  If classical philology goes back again to the same conceptions, and once more tries to pour new wine into old bottles, it is only on the surface that the conceptions are the same:  everything has really become new; bottle and mind, wine and word.  We everywhere find traces of the fact that philology has lived in company with poets, thinkers, and artists for the last hundred years:  whence it has now come about that the heap of ashes formerly pointed to as classical philology is now turned into fruitful and even rich soil.[2]

[2] Nietzsche perceived later on that this statement was, unfortunately, not justified.—­TR.

And there is a second fact which I should like to recall to the memory of those friends of antiquity who turn their dissatisfied backs on classical philology.  You honour the immortal masterpieces of the Hellenic mind in poetry and sculpture, and think yourselves so much more fortunate than preceding generations, which had to do without them; but you must not forget that this whole fairyland once lay buried under mountains of prejudice, and that the blood and sweat and arduous labour of innumerable followers of our science were all necessary to lift up that world from the chasm into which it had sunk.  We grant that philology is not the creator of this world, not the composer of that immortal music; but is it not a merit, and a great merit, to be a mere virtuoso, and let the world for the first time hear that music which lay so long in obscurity, despised and undecipherable?  Who was Homer previously to Wolf’s brilliant investigations?  A good old man, known at best as a “natural genius,” at all events the child of a barbaric age, replete with faults against good taste and good morals.  Let us hear how a learned man of the first rank writes about Homer even so late as 1783:  “Where does the good man live?  Why did he remain so long incognito?  Apropos, can’t you get me a silhouette of him?”