Chapter II: Part 2

Menelaus gave them a kindly welcome and a casual mention of his father's name stirred Telemachus to tears. At that moment Helen entered; her quicker perception at once traced the resemblance between the young stranger and Odysseus. When Telemachus admitted his identity, Helen told some of his father's deeds. Once he entered Troy disguised as a beggar, unrecognised of all save Helen herself. "After he made her swear an oath that she would not betray him, he revealed all the plans of the Greeks. Then, after slaying many Trojans, he departed with much knowledge, while Helen's heart rejoiced, for she was already bent on a return home, repenting of the blindness which Aphrodite had sent her in persuading her to abandon home and daughter and a husband who lacked naught, neither wit not manhood." Menelaus then recounted how Odysseus saved him when they were in the wooden horse, when one false sound would have betrayed them. On the next morning Telemachus told the story of the ruin of his home; Menelaus prophesied the end of the suitors, then preceded to recount how in Egypt he waylaid and captured Proteus, the changing god of the sea, whom he compelled to relate the fate of the Greek leaders and to prophesy his own return; from him he heard that Odysseus was with Calypso who kept him by force. On learning this important piece of news Telemachus was eager to return to Ithaca with all speed.

Meanwhile the suitors had learned of the departure of Telemachus and plotted to intercept him on his return. Their treachery was told to Penelope, who was utterly undone on hearing it; feeling herself left without a human protector she prayed to Athena, who appeared to her in a dream in the likeness of her own sister to assure her that Athena was watching over her, but refusing to say definitely whether Odysseus was alive.

The poem at this point takes up the story of Odysseus himself. Going to the isle where he was held captive, Hermes after admiring its great beauty delivered Zeus' message to Calypso to let the captive go. She reproached the gods for their jealousy and reluctantly promised to obey. She found Odysseus on the shore, eating out his heart in the desire for his home. When she informed him that she intended to let him go, he first with commendable prudence made her swear that she did not design some greater evil for him. Smiling at his cunning, she swore the most solemn of all oaths to help him, then supplied tools and materials for the building of his boat. When he was out on the deep, Poseidon wrecked his craft, but a sea goddess Leucothea, once a mortal, gave him a scarf to wrap round him, bidding him cast it from him with his back turned away when he got to land. After two nights and two days on the deep he at length saw land. Finding the mouth of a small stream, he swam up it, then utterly weary flung himself down on a heap of leaves under a bush, guarded by Athena.

The next episode introduces one of the most charming figures in ancient literature. Nausicaa was the daughter of Alcinous, King of Phaeacia, on whose island Odysseus had landed. To her Athena appeared in a dream, bidding her obtain from her father leave to go down to the sea to wash his soiled garments. The young girl obeyed, telling her father that it was but seemly that he, the first man in the kingdom, should appear at council in raiment white as snow. He gave her the leave she desired. After their work was done, she and her handmaids began a game of ball; their merry cries woke up Odysseus, who started up on hearing human voices. Coming forward, he frightened by his appearance the handmaids, but Nausicaa, emboldened by Athena, stood still and listened to his story. She supplied him with clean garments after she had given him food and drink. On the homeward journey Nausicaa bade Odysseus bethink him of the inconvenient talk which his presence would occasion if he were seen with her near the city. She therefore judged it best that she should enter first, at the same time she gave him full information of the road to the palace; when he entered it he was to proceed straight to the Queen Arete, whose favour was indispensable if he desired a return home.

Just outside the city Athena met him in the guise of a girl to tell him his way; she further cast about him a thick cloud to protect him from curious eyes. Passing through the King's gardens, which were a marvel of beauty and fruitfulness, Odysseus entered the palace and threw his arms in supplication about Arete's knees. She listened kindly to him and begged Alcinous give him welcome. When all the courtiers had retired to rest, Arete, noticing that the garments Odysseus wore had been woven by her own hands, asked him whence he had them and how he had come to the island. On hearing the story of his shipwreck Alcinous promised him a safe convoy to his home on the morrow.

At an assembly Alcinous consulted with his counsellors about Odysseus; all agreed to help in providing him with a ship and rowers. At a trial of skill Odysseus, after being taunted by some of the Phaeacians, hurled the quoit beyond them all. Later, a song of the wooden horse of Troy moved him to tears; though unnoticed by the others, he did not escape the eye of Alcinous who bade him tell them plainly who he was. Then he revealed himself and told the marvellous story of his wanderings.

First he and his companions reached the land of the Lotus-eaters. Finding out that the lotus made all who ate it lose their desire for home, Odysseus sailed away with all speed, forcing away some who had tasted the plant. Thence they reached the island of the Cyclopes, a wild race who knew no ordinances; each living in his cave was a law to himself, caring nothing for the others. Leaving his twelve ships, Odysseus proceeded with some of his men to the cave of one of the Cyclopes, a son of Poseidon, taking with him a skin of wine. When the one-eyed monster returned with his flock of sheep, he shut the mouth of the cave with a mighty stone which no mortal could move; then lighting a fire he caught sight of his visitors and asked who they were. Odysseus answered craftily, whereupon the monster devoured six of his company. Odysseus opened his wine-skin and offered some of the wine; when the Cyclops asked his name, Odysseus told him he was called Noman; in return for his kindness in offering him the strangely sweet drink the Cyclops promised to eat him last of all. But the wine soon plunged the monster into a slumber, from which he was awakened by the burning end of a great stake which Odysseus thrust into his eye. On hearing his cries of agony the other Cyclopes came to him, but went away when they heard that Noman was killing him. As it was impossible for anyone but the Cyclops to open the cave, Odysseus tied his men beneath the cattle, putting the beast which carried a man between two which were unburdened; he himself hung on to the ram. As the animals passed out, the Cyclops was a little surprised that the ram went last, but thought he did so out of grief for his master. When they were all safely outside, Odysseus freed his friends and made haste to get to the ship. Thrusting out, when he was at what seemed a safe distance he shouted to the Cyclops, who then remembered an old prophecy and hurled a huge rock which nearly washed them back; a second rock which he hurled on learning Odysseus' real name narrowly missed the ship. Then the Cyclops prayed to Poseidon to punish Odysseus; the god heard him, persecuting him from that time onward. Reassembling his ships, Odysseus proceeded on his voyage.

He next called at the isle of Aeolus, king of the winds, who gave him in a bag all the winds but one, a favouring breeze which was to waft him to his own island. For nine days Odysseus guarded his bag, but at last, when Ithaca was in sight, he sank into a sleep of exhaustion. Thinking that the bag concealed some treasure, his men opened it, only to be blown back to Aeolus who bid him begone as an evil man when he begged aid a second time.

After visiting the Laestrygones, a man-eating people, who devoured all the fleet except one ship's company, the remainder reached Aeaea, the island where lived the dread goddess Circe. Odysseus sent forward Eurylochus with some twenty companions who found Circe weaving at a loom. Seeing them she invited them within; then after giving them a charmed potion she smote them with her rod, turning them into swine. Eurylochus who had suspected some trickery hurried back to Odysseus with the news. The latter determined to go alone to save his friends. On the way he was met by Hermes, who showed him the herb moly, an antidote to Circe's draught. Finding that her magic failed, she at once knew that her visitor was Odysseus whose visit had been prophesied to her by Hermes. He bound her down by a solemn oath to refrain from further mischief and persuaded her to restore to his men their humanity. When Odysseus desired to depart home, she told him of the wanderings that awaited him. First he must go to the land of the dead to consult the shade of Teiresias, the blind old prophet, who would help him.

Following the goddess' instructions, they sailed to the land of the Cimmerians on the confines of the earth. There Odysseus dug a trench into which he poured the blood of slain victims which he did not allow the dead spirits to touch till Teiresias appeared. The seer told him of the sorrows that awaited him and vaguely indicated that his death should come upon him from the sea; he added that any spirit he allowed to touch the blood would tell him truly all whereof he was as yet ignorant, and that those ghosts he drove away would return to the darkness.

First arose the spirit of his dead mother Anticleia who told him that his wife and son were yet alive and his father was living away from the town in wretchedness.

"For me, it was not the visitation of Apollo that took me, nor any
sickness whose corruption drove the life from my frame; rather it
was longing for thee and thy counsels and thy gentleness which
spoiled me of my spirit."

Thrice he tried to embrace her, and thrice the ghost eluded him, for it was "as a dream that had fled away from the white frame of the body". A procession of famous women followed, then came the wraith of Agamemnon who told how he had been foully slain by his own wife, as faithless as Penelope was prudent. Achilles next approached; when Odysseus tried to console him for his early death by reminding him of the honour he had when he was alive, he answered:

"Speak not comfortingly of death; I would rather be a clown and a
thrall on earth to another man than rule among the departed."

On hearing that his son Neoptolemus had won great glory in the capture of Troy, the spirit left him, exulting with joy that his son was worthy of him. Ajax turned from Odysseus in anger at the loss of Achilles' armour for the possession of which they had striven. The last figure that came was the ghost of Heracles, though the hero himself was with the gods in Olympus.

"Round him was the whirr of the dead as of birds fleeing in panic.
Like to black night, with his bow ready and an arrow on the string,
he glared about him terribly, as ever intending to shoot. Over his
breast was flung a fearful belt, whereon were graven bears and lions
and fights, battles, murders and man-slayings."

He recognised Odysseus before he passed back to death; when a crowd of terrifying apparitions came thronging to the trench, Odysseus fled to his ship lest the Gorgon might be sent from the awful Queen of the dead.

Returning to Circe, he learned from her of the remaining dangers. The first of these was the island of the Sirens, who by the marvellous sweetness of their song charmed to their ruin all who passed. Odysseus filled the ears of his crews with wax, bidding them to tie him to the mast of his ship and to row hard past the temptresses in spite of his strugglings. They then entered the dangerous strait, on one side of which was Scylla, a dreadful monster who lived in a cave near by, on the other was the deadly whirlpool of Charybdis. Scylla carried off six of his men who called in vain to Odysseus to save them, stretching out their hands to him in their last agony. From the strait they passed to the island of Trinacria, where they found grazing the cattle of the Sun. Odysseus had learned from both Teiresias and Circe that an evil doom would come upon them if they touched the animals; he therefore made his companions swear a great oath not to touch them if they landed. For a whole month they were wind-bound in the island and ate all the provisions which Circe had given them. At a time when Odysseus had gone to explore the island Eurylochus persuaded his men to kill and eat; as he returned Odysseus smelled the savour of their feast and knew that destruction was at hand. For nine days the feasting continued. When the ship put out to sea Zeus, in answer to the prayer of the offended Sun-God, sent a storm which drowned all the crew and drove Odysseus back to the dreaded strait. Escaping through it with difficulty, he drifted helplessly over the deep and on the tenth day landed on the island of "the dread goddess who used human speech", Calypso, who tended him and kept him in captivity.

On the next day the Phaeacians loaded Odysseus with presents and landed him on his own island while he slept. Poseidon in anger at the arrival of the hero changed the returning Phaeacian ship into stone when it was almost within the harbour of the city. When Odysseus awoke he failed to recognise his own land. Athena appeared to him disguised as a shepherd, telling him he was indeed in Ithaca:

"Thou art witless or art come from afar, if thou enquirest about
this land. It is not utterly unknown; many know it who dwell in the
East and in the West. It is rough and unfitted for steeds, yet it is
not a sorry isle, though narrow. It hath plenteous store of corn and
the vine groweth herein. It hath alway rain and glistening dew. It
nourisheth goats and cattle and all kinds of woods and its streams
are everlasting."

Such is the description of the land for which Odysseus forsook Calypso's offer of immortality. After smiling at Odysseus' pretence that he was a Cretan Athena counselled him how to slay the suitors and hurried to fetch Telemachus from Sparta. The poet tells why Athena loved Odysseus more than all others.

"Crafty would he be and a cunning trickster who surpassed thee in
wiles, though it were a god who challenged thee. We know craft
enough, both of us, for thou art by far the best of mortals in speech
and counsel and I among the gods am famed for devices and cunning."

Transformed by her into an old beggar, Odysseus went to the hut of his faithful old swineherd Eumaeus; the dogs set upon him, but Eumaeus scared them away and welcomed him to his dwelling. In spite of Odysseus' assurance that the master would return Eumaeus, who had been often deceived by similar words, refused to believe. Feigning himself to be a Cretan, Odysseus saw for himself that the old servant's loyalty was steadfast; a deft touch brings out his care for his master's substance:

"laying a bed for Odysseus before the fire, he went out and slept
among the dogs in a cave beneath the breath of the winds."

By the intervention of Athena the two leading characters are brought together. She stood beside the sleeping Telemachus in Sparta, warning him of the ambush set for him in Ithaca and bidding him to land on a lonely part of the coast whence he was to proceed to the hut of Eumaeus. On his departure from Sparta an omen was interpreted by Helen to mean that Odysseus was not far from home. As he was on the point of leaving Pylos on the morrow a bard named Theoclymenus appealed to him for protection, for he had slain a man and was a fugitive from justice. Taking him on board Telemachus frustrated the ambush, landing in safety; he proceeded to Eumaeus' hut, where Odysseus had with some difficulty been persuaded to remain.

The dogs were the first to announce the arrival of a friend, gambolling about him. After speaking a word of cheer to Eumaeus Telemachus enquired who the stranger was; hearing that he was a Cretan he lamented his inability to give him a welcome in his home owing to the insolence of his enemies. Remembering the anxiety of his mother during his absence he sent Eumaeus to the town to acquaint her with his arrival. Athena seized the opportunity to reveal Odysseus to his son, transforming him to his own shape. After a moment of utter amazement at the marvel of the change, Telemachus ran to his father and fell upon his neck, his joy finding expression in tears. The two then laid their plans for the destruction of the suitors. By the time Eumaeus had returned Odysseus had resumed his sorry and tattered appearance.

Telemachus went to the town alone, bidding Eumaeus bring the stranger with him. They were met by one Melanthius a goatherd, who covered them with insults. "In truth one churl is leading another, for the god ever bringeth like to like. Whither art thou taking this glutton, this evil pauper, a kill-joy of the feast? He hath learned many a knavish trick and is like to refuse to labour; creeping among the people he would rather ask alms to fill his insatiate maw." Leaping on Odysseus, he kicked at him, yet failed to stir him from the pathway. Swallowing the insult Odysseus walked towards his house. A superb stroke of art has created the next incident. In the courtyard lay Argus, a hound whom Odysseus had once fed. Neglected in the absence of his master he had crept to a dung-heap, full of lice. When he marked Odysseus coming towards him he wagged his tail and dropped his ears, but could not come near his lord. Seeing him from a little distance Odysseus wiped away his tears unnoticed of Eumaeus and asked whose the hound was. Eumaeus told the story of his neglect: "but the doom of death took Argus straightway after seeing Odysseus in the twentieth year". In the palace Telemachus sent his father food, bidding him ask a charity of the wooers. Antinous answered by hurling a stool which struck his shoulder. The noise of the high words which followed brought down Penelope who protested against the godless behaviour of the suitors and asked to interview the stranger in hope of learning some tidings of her husband, but Odysseus put her off till nightfall when they would be less likely to suffer from the insolence of the suitors.

In Ithaca was a beggar named Irus, gluttonous and big-boned but a coward. Encouraged by the winkings and noddings of the suitors he bade Odysseus begone. A quiet answer made him imagine he had to deal with a poltroon and he challenged him to a fight. The proposal was welcomed with glee by the suitors, who promised on oath to see fair play for the old man in his quarrel with a younger. But when they saw the mighty limbs and stout frame of Odysseus, they deemed that Irus had brought trouble on his own head. Chattering with fear Irus had to be forced to the combat. One blow was enough to lay him low; the ease with which Odysseus had disposed of his foe made him for a time popular with the suitors.

Under an inspiration of Athena, Penelope came down once more to chide the wooers for their insolence; she also upbraided them for their stinginess.

"Yours is not the custom of wooers in former days who were wont to
sue for wedlock with the daughter of a rich man and contend among
themselves. Such men offer oxen and stout cattle and glorious gifts;
they will never consume another's substance without payment."

Stung by the taunt, they gave her the accustomed presents, while Odysseus rejoiced that she flattered their heart in soft words with a different intent in her spirit. The insolence of the suitors was matched by the pertness of the serving maids, of whom Melantho was the most impudent. A threat from Odysseus drew down upon him the wrath of the suitors who were with difficulty persuaded by Telemachus to depart home to their beds.

That night Odysseus and his son removed the arms from the walls, the latter being told to urge as a pretext for his action the necessity of cleaning from them the rust and of removing a temptation to violence when the suitors were heated with wine. At the promised interview with his wife Odysseus again pretended he was a Cretan; describing the very dress which Odysseus had worn, he assured her that he would soon return with the many treasures which he had collected. Half persuaded by the exact description of a garment she had herself made, she bade her maids look to him, but he would not suffer any of them to approach him save his old nurse Eurycleia. As she was washing him in the dim light of the fireside her fingers touched the old scar above his knee, the result of an accident in a boar-hunt during his youth.

"Dropping the basin she fell backwards; joy and grief took her
heart at once, her eyes filled with tears and her utterance was
checked. Catching him by his beard, she said: 'In very sooth thou
art Odysseus, my dear boy; and I knew thee not before I had touched
the body of my lord.' So speaking she looked at Penelope, fain to
tell her that her lord was within. But Odysseus laid his hand upon
the nurse's mouth, with the other he drew her to him and whispered:
'Nurse, wouldst thou ruin me? Thou didst nourish me at thy breast,
and now I am come back after mighty sufferings. Be silent, lest
another learn the news, or I tell thee that when I have punished
the suitors I will not even refrain from thee when I destroy the
other women in my halls.'"

Concealing the scar carefully under his rags by the fireside he put a good interpretation on a strange dream which had visited his wife.

That night Odysseus with his own eyes witnessed the intrigues between his women and the suitors. He heard his wife weeping in her chamber for him and prayed to Zeus for aid in the coming trial. On the morrow he was again outraged; the suitors were moved to laughter by a prophecy of Theoclymenus:

"Yet they were laughing with alien lips, the meat they ate was
dabbled with blood, their eyes were filled with tears and their
hearts boded lamentation. Among them spake Theoclymenus; 'Wretched
men, what is this evil that is come upon you? Your heads and faces
and the knees beneath you are shrouded in night, mourning is kindled
among you, your cheeks are bedewed with tears, the walls and the
fair pillars are sprinkled with blood, the forecourt and the yard is
full of spectres hastening to the gloom of Erebus; the sun hath
perished from the heaven and a mist of ruin hath swept upon you.'"

In answer Eurymachus bade him begone if all within was night; taking him at his word, the seer withdrew before the coming ruin.

Then Athena put it into the heart of Penelope to set the suitors a final test. She brought forth the bow of Odysseus together with twelve axes. It had been an exercise of her lord to set up the axes in a line, string the bow and shoot through the heads of the axes which had been hollowed for that purpose. She promised to follow at once the suitor who could string the bow and shoot through the axes. First Telemachus set up the axes and tried to string the weapon; failing three times he would have succeeded at the next effort but for a glance from his father. Leiodes vainly tried his strength, to be rebuked by Antinous who suggested that the bow should be made more pliant by being heated at the fire.

Noticing that Eumaeus and Philoetius had gone out together Odysseus went after them and revealed himself to them; the three then returned to the hall. After all the suitors had failed except Antinous, who did not deem that he should waste a feast-day in stringing bows, Odysseus begged that he might try, Penelope insisting on his right to attempt the feat. When she retired Eumaeus brought the bow to Odysseus, then told Eurycleia to keep the woman in their chambers while Philoetius bolted the hall door.

"But already Odysseus was turning the bow this way and that testing
it lest the worms had devoured it in his absence. Then when he had
balanced it and looked it all over, even as when a man skilled in
the lyre and song easily putteth a new string about a peg, even so
without an effort Odysseus strung his mighty bow. Taking it in his
right hand he tried the string which sang sweetly beneath his touch
like to the voice of a swallow. Then he took an arrow and shot it
with a straight aim through the axes, missing not one. Then he spake
to Telemachus: 'Thy guest bringeth thee no shame as he sitteth in
thy halls, for I missed not the mark nor spent much time in the
stringing. My strength is yet whole within me. But now it is time to
make a banquet for the Achaeans in the light of day and then season
it with song and dance, which are the crown of revelry.' So speaking
he nodded, and his son took a sword and a spear and stood by him
clad in gleaming bronze."

The first victim was Antinous, whom Odysseus shot through the neck as he was in the act of drinking, never dreaming that one man would attack a multitude of suitors. Eurymachus fell after vainly attempting a compromise. Melanthius was caught in the act of supplying arms to the rest and was left bound to be dealt with when the main work was done. Athena herself encouraged Odysseus in his labour of vengeance, deflecting from him any weapons that were hurled at him. At length all was over, the serving women were made to cleanse the hall of all traces of bloodshed; the guiltiest of them were hanged, while Melanthius died a horrible death by mutilation. Odysseus then summoned his wife to his presence.

Eurycleia carried the message to her, laughing with joy so much that Penelope deemed her mad. The story of the vengeance which Odysseus had exacted was so incredible that it must have been the act of a god, not a man. When she entered the hall Telemachus upbraided her for her unbelief, but Odysseus smiled on hearing that she intended to test him by certain proofs which they two alone were aware of. He withdrew for a time to cleanse him of his stains and to put on his royal garments, after ordering the servants to maintain a revelry to blind the people to the death of their chief men.

When he reappeared, endued with grace which Athena gave him, he marvelled at the untoward heart which the gods had given his wife and bade his nurse lay him his bed. Penelope caught up his words quickly; the bed was to be laid outside the chamber which he himself had made. The words filled Odysseus with dismay:

"Who hath put my bed elsewhere? It would be a hard task for any man
however cunning, except a god set it in some other place. Of men
none could easily shift it, for there is a wonder in that cunningly
made bed whereat I laboured and none else. Within the courtyard was
growing the trunk of an olive; round it I built my bed-chamber with
thick stones and roofed it well, placing in it doors that shut tight.
Then I cut away the olive branches, smoothed the trunk, made a
bedpost, and bored all with a gimlet. From that foundation I smoothed
my bed, tricking it out with gold and silver and ivory and stretching
from its frame thongs of cow-hide dyed red. Such is the wonder I tell
of, yet I know not, Lady, whether the bed is yet fixed there, or
whether another hath moved it, cutting the foundation of olive from
underneath."

On hearing the details of their secret Penelope ran to him casting her arms about him and begging him to forgive her unbelief, for many a pretender had come, making her ever more and more suspicious. Thus reunited the two spent the night in recounting the agonies of their separation; Odysseus mentioned the strange prophecy of Teiresias, deciding to seek out his father on the morrow.

A vivid description tells how the souls of the suitors were conducted to the realm of the dead, the old comrades of Odysseus before Troy recognising in the vengeance all the marks of his handiwork. Odysseus found his father in a wretched old age hoeing his garden, clad in soiled garments with a goat-skin hat on his head which but increased his sorrow. At the sight Odysseus was moved to tears of compassion. Yet even then he could not refrain from his wiles, for he told how he had indeed seen Odysseus though five years before. In despair the old man took the dust in his hands and cast it about his head in mighty grief.

"Then Odysseus' spirit was moved and the stinging throb smote his
nostrils. Clinging to his father he kissed him and told him he was
indeed his son, returned after twenty years."

For a moment the old man doubted, but believed when Odysseus showed the scar and told him the number and names of the trees they had planted together in their orchard.

Meanwhile news of the death of the wooers had run through the city. The father of Antinous raised a tumult and led a body of armed men to demand satisfaction. The threatening uproar was stopped by the intervention of Athena who thus completed the restoration of her favourite as she had begun it.

* * * * *

It is strange that this poem, which is such a favourite with modern readers, should have made a less deep impression on the Greeks. To them, Homer is nearly always the _Iliad_, possibly because Achilles was semi-divine, whereas Odysseus was a mere mortal. But the latter is for that very reason of more importance to us, we feel him to be more akin to our own life. Further, the type of character which Odysseus stands for is really far nobler than the fervid and somewhat incalculable nature of the son of Thetis. Odysseus is patient endurance, common sense, self-restraint, coolness, resource and strength; he is indeed a manifold personality, far more complex than anything attempted previously in Greek literature and therefore far more modern in his appeal. It is only after reading the _Odyssey_ that we begin to understand why Diomedes chose Odysseus as his companion in the famous Dolon adventure in Noman's land. Achilles would have been the wrong man for this or any other situation which demanded first and last a cool head.

The romantic elements which are so necessary a part of all Epic are much more convincing in the _Odyssey_; the actions and adventures are indeed beyond experience, but they are treated in such a masterly style that they are made inevitable; it would be difficult to improve on any of the little details which force us to believe the whole story. Added to them is another genuine romantic feature, the sense of wandering in strange new lands untrodden before of man's foot; the beings who move in these lands are gracious, barbarous, magical, monstrous, superhuman, dreamy, or prophetic by turns; they are all different and all fascinating. The reader is further introduced to the life of the dead as well as of the living and the memory of his visit is one which he will retain for ever. Not many stories of adventure can impress themselves indelibly as does the _Odyssey_.

To English readers the poem has a special value, for it deals with the sea and its wonders. The native land of its hero is not very unlike our own, "full of mist and rain", yet able to make us love it far more than a Calypso's isle with an offer of immortality to any who will exchange his real love of home for an unnatural haven of peace. A splendid hero, a good love-story, admirable narrative, romance and excitement, together with a breath of the sea which gives plenty of space and pure air have made the _Odyssey_ the companion of many a veteran reader in whom the Greek spirit cannot die.

* * * * *

Of the impression which Homer has made upon the mind of Europe it would be difficult to give an estimate. The Greeks themselves early came to regard his text with a sort of veneration; it was learned by heart and quoted to spellbound audiences in the cities and at the great national meetings at Olympia. Every Greek boy was expected to know some portion at least by heart; Plato evidently loved Homer and when he was obliged to point out that the system of morality which he stood for was antiquated and needed revision, apologised for the criticism he could not avoid. It is sometimes said that Homer was the Bible of the Greeks; while this statement is probably inaccurate--for no theological system was built on him nor did he claim any divine revelation--yet it is certain that authors of all ages searched the text for all kinds of purposes, antiquarian, ethical, social, as well as religious. This careful study of Homer culminated in the learned and accurate work of the great Alexandrian school of Zenodotus and Aristarchus.

In Roman times Homer never failed to inspire lesser writers; Ennius is said to have translated the _Odyssey_, while Virgil's _Aeneid_ is clearly a child of the Greek Homeric tradition. In the Middle Ages the Trojan legend was one of the four great cycles which were treated over and over again in the Chansons. Even drama was glad to borrow the great characters of the _Iliad_, as Shakespeare did in _Troilus and Cressida_. In England a number of famous translations has witnessed to the undying appeal of the first of the Greek masters. Chapman published his _Iliad_ in 1611, his _Odyssey_ in 1616; Pope's version appeared between 1715 and 1726; Cowper issued his translation in 1791. In the next century the Earl Derby retranslated the _Iliad_, while an excellent prose version of the _Odyssey_ by Butcher and Lang was followed by a prose version of the _Iliad_ by Lang Myers and Leaf. At a time when Europe had succeeded in persuading itself that the whole story of a siege of Troy was an obvious myth, a series of startling discoveries on the site of Troy and on the mainland of Greece proved how lamentably shallow is some of the cleverest and most destructive Higher Criticism.

The marvellous rapidity and vigour of these two poems will save them from death; the splendid qualities of direct narration, constructive skill, dignity and poetical power will always make Homer a name to love. Those who know no Greek and therefore fear that they may lose some of the directness of the Homeric appeal might recall the famous sonnet written by Keats who had had no opportunity to learn the great language. His words are no doubt familiar enough; that they have become inseparable from Homer must be our apology for inserting them here.

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and Kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

TRANSLATIONS. As INDICATED IN THE TEXT OF THE ESSAY.

The whole of the Homeric tradition is affected by the recent discoveries made in Crete. The civilisation there unearthed raises questions of great interest; the problems it suggests are certain to modify current ideas of Homeric study.

See _Discoveries in Crete_, by R. Burrows (Murray, 1907).

A very good account of the early age of European literature is in _The Heroic Age_, by Chadwick (Cambridge, 1912).

The best interpretation of Greek poetry is Symonds' _Greek Poets_, 2 vols. (Smith Elder).

Jebb's _Homer_ is the best introduction to the many difficulties presented by the poems.

Flaxman's engravings for the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ are of the highest order.

AESCHYLUS

Towards the end of the sixth century before Christ, one of the most momentous advances in literature was made by the genius of Aeschylus. European drama was created and a means of utterance was given to the rapidly growing democratic spirit of Greece. Before Aeschylus wrote, rude public exhibitions had been given of the life and adventures of Dionysus, the god of wine. Choruses had sung odes to the deity and variety was obtained by a series of short dialogues between one of the Chorus and the remainder. Aeschylus added a second actor to converse with the first; he thus started a movement which eventually ousted the Chorus from its place of importance, for the interest now began to concentrate on the two actors; it was their performance which gave drama its name. In time more characters were added; the Chorus became less necessary and in the long run was felt to be a hindrance to the movement of the story. This process is plainly visible in the extant works of the Attic tragedians.

Aeschylus was born at Eleusis in 525; before the end of the century he was writing tragedies. In 490 he fought in the great battle of Marathon and took part in the victory of Salamis in 480. This experience of the struggle for freedom against Persian despotism added a vigour and a self-reliance to his writing which is characteristic of a growing national spirit. He is said to have visited Sicily in 468 and again in 458, various motives being given for his leaving Athens. His death at Gela in 456 is said to have been due to an eagle, which dropped a tortoise upon his head which he mistook for a stone. He has left to the world seven plays in which the rapid development of drama is conspicuous.

One of the earliest of his plays is the _Suppliants_, little read owing to the uncertainty of the text and the meagreness of the dramatic interest. The plot is simple enough. Danaus, sprung from Io of Argos, flees from Egypt with his fifty daughters who avoid wedlock with the fifty sons of Aegyptus. He sails to Argos and lays suppliant boughs on the altars of the gods, imploring protection. The King of Argos after consultation with his people decides to admit the fugitives and to secure them from Aegyptus' violence. A herald from the latter threatens to take the Danaids back with him, but the King intervenes and saves them. There is little in this play but long choral odes; yet one or two Aeschylean features are evident. The King dreads offending the god of suppliants

"lest he should make him to haunt his house, a dread visitor who
quits not sinners even in the world to come."

The Egyptian herald reverences no gods of Greece "who reared him not nor brought him to old age". The Chorus declare that "what is fated will come to pass, for Zeus' mighty boundless will cannot be thwarted". Here we have the three leading ideas in the system of Aeschylus--the doctrine of the inherited curse, of human pride and impiety, and the might of Destiny.

The _Persians_ is unique as being the only surviving historical play in Greek literature. It is a poem rather than a drama, as there is little truly dramatic action. The piece is a succession of very vivid sketches of the incidents in the great struggle which freed Europe from the threat of Eastern despotism. A Chorus of Persian elders is waiting for news of the advance of the great array which Xerxes led against Greece in 480. They tell how Persia extended her sway over Asia. Yet they are uneasy, for

"what mortal can avoid the crafty deception of Heaven? In seeming
kindness it entices men into a trap whence they cannot escape."

The Queen-mother Atossa enters, resplendent with jewels; she too is anxious, for in a dream she had seen Xerxes yoke two women together who were at feud, one clad in Persian garb, the other in Greek. The former was obedient to the yoke, but the latter tore the car to pieces and broke the curb. The Chorus advises her to propitiate the gods with sacrifice, and to pray to Darius her dead husband to send his son prosperity. At that moment a herald enters with the news of the Greek victory at Salamis. Xerxes, beguiled by some fiend or evil spirit, drew up his fleet at night to intercept the Greeks, supposed to be preparing for flight. But at early dawn they sailed out to attack, singing mightily

"Ye sons of Greece, onward! Free your country, your children and
wives, the shrines of your fathers' gods, and your ancestral tombs.
Now must ye fight for all."

Winning a glorious victory, they landed on the little island (Psyttaleia) where the choicest Persian troops had been placed to cut off the retreat of the Greek navy, and slew them all. Later, they drove back the Persians by land; through Boeotia, Thessaly and Macedonia the broken host retreated, finally recrossing to Asia over the Hellespont.

On hearing the news Atossa disappears and the Persian Chorus sing a dirge. The Queen returns without her finery, attired as a suppliant; she bids the Chorus call up Darius, while she offers libations to the dead. The ghost of the great Empire-builder rises before the astonished spectators, enquiring what trouble has overtaken his land. His release from Death is not easy, "for the gods of the lower world are readier to take men's spirits than to let them go". On learning that his son has been totally defeated, he delivers his judgment. The oracles had long ago prophesied this disaster; it was hurried on by Xerxes' rashness, for when a man is himself hurrying on to ruin Heaven abets him. He had listened to evil counsellors, who bade him rival his father's glory by making wider conquests. The ruin of Persia is not yet complete, for when insolence is fully ripe it bears a crop of ruin and reaps a harvest of tears. This evil came upon Xerxes through the sacrilegious demolition of altars and temples. Zeus punishes overweening pride, and his correcting hand is heavy. Darius counsels Atossa to comfort their son and to prevent him from attacking Greece again; he further advises the Chorus to take life's pleasures while they can, for after death there is no profit in wealth. A distinctly grotesque touch is added by the appearance of Xerxes himself, broken and defeated, filling the scene with lamentations for lost friends and departed glory, unable to answer the Chorus when they demand the whereabouts of some of the most famous Persian warriors.

The play is valuable as the result of a personal experience of the poet. As a piece of literature it is important, for it is a poetic description of the first armed conflict between East and West. It directly inspired Shelley when he wrote his _Hellas_ at a time when Greece was rousing herself from many centuries of Eastern oppression. As a historical drama it is of great value, for it is substantially accurate in its main facts, though Aeschylus has been compelled to take some liberties with time and human motives in order to satisfy dramatic needs. From Herodotus it seems probable that Darius himself hankered after the subjugation of Greece, while Xerxes at the outset was inclined to leave her in peace.

One or two characteristic features are worth note. The genius of Aeschylus was very bold; it was a daring thing to bring up a ghost from the dead, for the supernatural appeal does not succeed except when it is treated with proper insight; yet even Aeschylus' genius has not quite succeeded in filling his canvas, the last scenes being distinctly poor in comparison with the splendour of the main theme. On the other hand a notable advance in dramatic power has been made. The main actors are becoming human; their wills are beginning to operate. Tragedy is based on a conflict of some sort; here the wilful spirit of youth is portrayed as defying the forces of justice and righteousness; it is insolence which brings Xerxes to ruin. The substantial creed of Aeschylus is contained in Darius' speech; as the poet progresses in dramatic cunning we shall find that he constantly finds his sources of tragic inspiration in the acts of the sinners who defy the will of the gods.

_The Seven against Thebes_ was performed in 472. It was one of a trilogy, a series of three plays dealing with the misfortunes of Oedipus' race. After the death of Oedipus his sons Polyneices and Eteocles quarrelled for the sovereignty of Thebes. Polyneices, expelled and banished by his younger brother, assembled an army of chosen warriors to attack his native land. Eteocles opens the play with a speech which encourages the citizens to defend their town. A messenger hurries in telling how he left the besiegers casting lots to decide which of the seven gates of Thebes each should attack. Eteocles prays that the curse of his father may not destroy the town and leaves to arrange the defences. In his absence the Chorus of virgins sing a wild prayer to the gods to save them. Hearing this, the King returns to administer a vigorous reproof; he declares that their frenzied supplications fill the city with terrors, discouraging the fighting men. He demands from them obedience, the mother of salvation; if at last they are to perish, they cannot escape the inevitable. His masterful spirit at last cows them into a better frame of mind; this scene presents to us one of the most manly characters in Aeschylus' work.

After a choral ode a piece of intense tragic horror follows. The messenger tells the names of the champions who are to assault the gates. As he names them and the boastful or impious mottoes on their shields, the King names the Theban champions who are to quell their pride in the fear of the gods. Five of the insolent attackers are mentioned, then the only righteous one of the invading force, Amphiaraus the seer; he it was who rebuked the violence of Tydeus, the evil genius among the besiegers, and openly reviled Polyneices for attacking his own native land. He had prophesied his own death before the city, yet resolved to meet his fate nobly; on his shield alone was no device, for he wished to be, not to seem, a good man. The pathos of the impending ruin of a great character through evil associations is heightened by the terror of what follows. Only one gate remains without an assailant, the gate Eteocles is to defend; it is to be attacked by the King's own brother, Polyneices. Filled with horror, the Chorus begs him send another to that gate, for "there can be no old age to the pollution of kindred bloodshed". Recognising that his father's curse is working itself out, he departs to kill and be killed by his own brother, for "when the gods send evil none can avoid it".

In an interval the Chorus reflect on their King's impending doom. His father's curse strikes them with dread; Oedipus himself was born of a father Laius who, though warned thrice by Apollo that if he died without issue he would save his land, listened to the counsels of friends and in imprudence begat his own destroyer. Their song is interrupted by a messenger who announces that they have prospered at six gates, but at the seventh the two brothers have slain each other. This news inspires another song in which the joy of deliverance gradually yields to pity for an unhappy house, cursed and blighted, the glory of Oedipus serving but to make more acute the shame of his latter end and the triumph of the ruin he invoked on his sons. The agony of this scene is intensified by the entry of Ismene and Antigone, Oedipus' daughters, the latter mourning for Polyneices, the former for Eteocles. The climax is reached when a herald announces a decree made by the senate and people. Eteocles, their King who defended the land, was to be buried with all honours, but Polyneices was to lie unburied. Calmly and with great dignity Antigone informs the herald that if nobody else buries her brother, she will. A warning threat fails to move her. The play closes with a double note of terror at the doom of Polyneices and pity for the death of a brave King.

Further progress in dramatic art has been made in this play. One of the main sources of the pathos of human life is the operation of what seems to us to be mere blind chance. Just as the casual dropping of Desdemona's handkerchief gave Iago his opportunity, so the casual allotting of the seven gates brings the two brothers into conflict. But behind it was the working of an inherited curse; yet Aeschylus is careful to point out that the curse need never have existed at all but for the wilfulness of Laius; he was the origin of all the mischief, obstinately refusing to listen to a warning thrice given him by Apollo. Another secret of dramatic excellence has been discovered by the poet, that of contrast. Two brothers and two sisters are balanced in pairs against one another. The weaker sister Ismene laments the stronger brother, while the more unfortunate Polyneices is championed by the more firmly drawn sister. Equally admirable is the contrast between the righteous Amphiaraus and his godless companions. The character of each of these is a masterpiece. War, horror, kindred bloodshed, with a promise of further agonies to arise from Antigone's resolve are the elements which Aeschylus has fused together in this vivid play.

"There was war in Heaven" between the new gods and the old. The _Prometheus Bound_ contains the story of the proud tyranny of Zeus, the latest ruler of the gods. Hephaestus, the god of fire, opens a conversation with Force and Violence who are pinning Prometheus with chains of adamant to the rocks of Caucasus. Hephaestus performs his task with reluctance and in pity for the victim, the deep-counselling son of right-minded Law. Yet the command of Zeus his master is urgent, overriding the claims of kindred blood. Force and Violence, full of hatred, hold down the god who has stolen fire, Hephaestus' right, and given it to men. They bid the Fire-God make the chains fast and drive the wedge through Prometheus' body. When the work is done they leave him with the taunt:

"Now steal the rights of the gods and give them to the creatures
of the day; what can mortals do to relieve thy agonies? The gods
wrongly call thee a far-seeing counsellor, who thyself lackest a
counsellor to save thee from thy present lot."