Chapter C: J. Stone's Cradle-land of Arts and Creeds, 1880, pp. 36-49; (3)

"During the night I tied together the rams, three and three with osier twigs, and instructed my comrades, as he drove them out, to cling under the middle one. I hid myself under the fleecy belly of a huge ram, the finest of the flock. He touched their backs as he drove them out, but he did not penetrate my cunning, and we all escaped. After we had driven the flock on board, however, and had pushed out our galley, I could not forbear a taunting shout, at which he hurled a huge fragment of rock after us, just missing our galley.

"With Aeolus, King of the Winds, we remained a month, reciting the events connected with the fall of Troy. So pleased was the king with my story, that on our departure he presented me with a bag tied up with a silver cord, which contained the adverse winds. One day, as I slumbered, my unhappy sailors, suspecting some treasure concealed therein, opened it, and we were immediately blown back to Aeolus's isle, from which he, enraged at our folly, indignantly drove us.

"At the land of the Laestrygonians all our galleys were lost and our men devoured by the cannibal inhabitants, with the exception of my own ship, which by good fortune I had moored without the harbor. Overcome with grief, we rowed wearily along until we arrived at the land of Circe. With caution born of experience, we drew lots to see who should venture into the unknown isle. The lot fell to Eurylochus, who, with twenty-two brave men, went forward to the fair palace of Circe, around which fawned tamed mountain lions and wolves. Within sat the bright haired goddess, singing while she threw her shuttle through the beautiful web she was weaving.

"All the men entered the palace at her invitation but Eurylochus, who, suspecting some guile, remained without. He saw his comrades led within, seated upon thrones and banqueted; but no sooner was the feast over, than she touched them with her wand, and transformed them into swine that she drove scornfully to their cells.

"Eurylochus hastened back to our ships with the sorrowful tidings. As soon as grief had permitted him to tell the story, I flung my sword over my shoulders and hastened away to the palace. As I entered the valley, not far from the palace, I was met by a youth, none save the Argus-queller himself, who revealed to me Circe's guile, and presented me with a plant, the moly, which would enable me to withstand her charms.

"The goddess received me kindly, seated me upon a throne, and invited me to feast with her. After the feast she struck me with her wand, as she had done my comrades, ordering me to go to my sty; but when I remained unchanged, she perceived that her guest was Ulysses, whose coming had long been foretold to her.

"Softened by her entreaties, I sheathed my sword, after having made her promise to release my friends and do us no further harm. Then the others were called from the ships, and we banqueted together.

"Time passed so happily on Circe's isle that we lingered a whole year, until, roused by the words of my friends, I announced my intended departure, and was told by Circe that I must first go to the land of the dead to get instructions as to my future course from Tiresias. Provided with the proper sacrifices by Circe, we set sail for the land of the Cimmerians, on the confines of Oceanus. The sacrifices having been duly performed, the spirits appeared,--Elpenor, my yet unburied comrade, whose body lay on Circe's isle, my own dead mother, and the Theban seer, Tiresias, with his golden wand. 'Neptune is wroth with thee,' he said, 'but thou mayst yet return if thou and thy comrades leave undisturbed the cattle of the Sun. If thou do not, destruction awaits thee. If thou escape and return home it will be after long journeyings and much suffering, and there thou wilt slay the insolent suitor crew that destroy thy substance and wrong thy household.' After Tiresias had spoken I lingered to speak with other spirits,--my mother, Ajax, Antiope, Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, and Antilochus. Having conversed with all these, we set sail for Circe's isle, and thence started again on our homeward voyage.

"Circe had instructed me to stop the ears of my men with wax as we approached the isle of the Sirens, and to have myself tied to the boat that I might not leap into the ocean to go to the beautiful maidens who sang so entrancingly. We therefore escaped without adding our bones to those on the isle of the Sirens, and came next to Scylla and Charybdis. Charybdis is a frightful whirlpool. The sailor who steers too far away in his anxiety to escape it, is seized by the six arms of the monster Scylla and lifted to her cavern to be devoured. We avoided Charybdis; but as we looked down into the abyss, pale with fear, six of my comrades were seized by Scylla and snatched up to her cave.

"As we neared the Island of the Sun I told my comrades again of the warning of Tiresias, and begged them to sail past without stopping. I was met, however, by the bitterest reproaches, and at last consented to a landing if they would bind themselves by a solemn oath not to touch the cattle of the Sun. They promised, but when adverse winds prolonged our stay and food became scarce, fools, madmen, they slew the herds, and in spite of the terrible omens, the meat lowing on the spits, the skins crawling, they feasted for six days. When, on the seventh, the tempest ceased and we sailed away, we went to our destruction. I alone was saved, clinging to the floating timbers for nine long days, until on the tenth I reached Calypso's isle, Ogygia, where, out of love for me, the mighty goddess cherished me for seven years."

The Phæacians were entranced by this recital, and in addition to their former gifts, heaped other treasures upon the "master of stratagems" that he might return home a wealthy man. The swift ship was filled with his treasures, and after the proper sacrifices and long farewells, the chieftain embarked. It was morn when the ship arrived in Ithaca, and Ulysses, worn out from his long labors, was still asleep. Stopping at the little port of Phorcys, where the steep shores stretch inward and a spreading olive-tree o'ershadows the grotto of the nymphs, the sailors lifted out Ulysses, laid him on the ground, and piling up his gifts under the olive-tree, set sail for Phæacia. But the angry Neptune smote the ship as it neared the town and changed it to a rock, thus fulfilling an ancient prophecy that Neptune would some day wreak his displeasure on the Phæacians for giving to every man who came to them safe escort home.

When Ulysses awoke he did not recognize the harbor, and thinking that he had been treated with deceit, he wept bitterly. Thus Pallas, in the guise of a young shepherd, found him, and showed him that it was indeed his own dear land. She helped him to conceal his treasures in the grotto, and told him that Telemachus was even now away on a voyage of inquiry concerning him, and his wife was weeping over his absence and the insolence of the suitors. But he must act with caution. To give him an opportunity to lay his plans for the destruction of these men without being recognized, she changed him to a beggar, wrinkled and old, and clad in ragged, soiled garments. Then directing him to the home of his old herdsman, she hastened to warn Telemachus to avoid the ship the suitors had stationed to destroy him on his way home.

The old Eumaeus was sitting in his lodge without whose hedge lay the many sties of swine that were his care. He greeted the beggar kindly, and spread food before him, lamenting all the while the absence of his noble master and the wickedness of the suitors. Ulysses told him that he was a wanderer who had heard of his master, and could speak surely of his return. Though Eumaeus regarded this as an idle speech spoken to gain food and clothing, he continued in his kindness to his guest.

To this lodge came Telemachus after the landing of his ship, that he might first hear from Eumaeus the news from the palace,--Telemachus, who had grown into sudden manliness from his experience among other men. He also was kind to the beggar, and heard his story. While he remained with the beggar, Eumaeus having gone to acquaint Penelope of her son's return, Pallas appearing, touched the beggar with her golden wand, and Ulysses, with the presence of a god, stood before his awed and wondering son.

Long and passionate was their weeping as the father told the son of his sufferings, and the son told of the arrogance of the one hundred and fourteen suitors.

"There are we two with Pallas and her father Jove against them," replied his father. "Thinkest thou we need to fear with two such allies?"

On the day after Telemachus's return, Ulysses, accompanied by Eumaeus, visited the palace. No one recognized him except his old dog, Argus, long neglected and devoured by vermin, who, at the sound of his master's voice, drew near, wagged his tail, and fell dead.

According to their carefully laid plans, Telemachus feigned not to know his father, but sent to the beggar some food. Ulysses asked the same of the suitors, but was repulsed with taunts and insults, Antinoüs, the most insolent, striking him with a footstool.

To Penelope, weaving in her chamber, was carried the story of the beggar at whom the abhorred Antinoüs had thrown a stool, and she sent for him to ask if he had tidings of Ulysses. He refused to go to her, however, until the suitors had withdrawn for the night; and as he sat among the revellers, he caught the first glimpse of his wife, as she came down among her maids, to reproach her son for exposing himself to danger among the suitors, and for allowing the beggar to be injured.

When darkness fell and the hall was deserted, Telemachus, with the assistance of his father, removed all the weapons from the walls. After Telemachus had retired to his chamber, Penelope came down, and sitting upon her ivory throne conversed with the beggar, questioning him about his story until he was driven to invent tales that seemed like truth, and asking about her husband while the tears ran down her fair cheeks. By a great effort Ulysses kept his tears from falling as he beheld his wife weeping over him; he assured her that her husband would soon return, but he would accept no clothing as a reward for his tidings. The aged Eurycleia, who was called forth to wash his feet, came near betraying her master when she recognized a scar made by a wild boar's tusk, but he threatened her into silence. Soon after, Penelope and her maids withdrew, and left Ulysses to meditate vengeance through the night.

The next morning, when the suitors again sat in the banquet-hall, Penelope descended to them and declared that she had determined to give her hand to the one of the suitors who could draw the great bow of Ulysses and send the arrow through twelve rings set on stakes planted in the ground. Up to the polished treasure-chamber she went, and took down the great bow given to Ulysses by Iphitus. As she took it from its case her tears fell, but she dried them and carried it and the steel rings into the hall. Gladly Ulysses hailed this hour, for he knew the time had come when he should destroy the suitor band. That morn many omens had warned him, and he had revealed himself to his faithful men, Eumaeus, and Philoetius the master-herdsman, that they might assist him. Telemachus, though astonished at his mother's decision, first took the bow; if he succeeded in bending it, his mother would not have to leave her home. He would have bent the bow at the fourth attempt had not his father's glance warned him to yield it to the suitors.

Although the bow was rubbed and softened with oil, all failed in their attempts to draw it; and when the beggar asked to be allowed to try, their wrath burst forth. What shame would be theirs if the beggar succeeded in doing that in which they had failed! But Telemachus, who asserted his rights more day by day, insisted that the beggar should try to bend the bow, if he so desired. Sending his mother and her maids to their bower, he watched his father as he easily bent the mighty bow, snapped the cord with a sound at which the suitors grew pale, and sent the arrow through the rings. Then casting aside his rags, the supposed beggar sprang upon the threshold, and knowing that by his orders, Eumaeus, Philoetius, and Eurycleia had secured the portals so that escape was impossible, he sent his next shaft through the throat of Antinoüs. "Dogs! ye thought I never would return! Ye dreaded not the gods while ye devoured my substance and pursued my wife! Now vengeance is mine! Destruction awaits you all!"

Too late Eurymachus sprang up and besought the monarch to grant them their lives if they made good their waste and returned to their homes. Ulysses had brooded too long over his injuries; his wife and son had suffered too many years from their persecutions for him to think of mercy. Eurymachus fell by the next brass-tipped shaft, and for every arrow in the quiver a suitor lay dead until the quiver was empty. Then Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, provided with weapons and armor, stood forth with Ulysses, and withstood the suitors until all were slain, save Medon the herald and Phemius the minstrel, for both of whom Telemachus pleaded, since they had been coerced by the others. Giving the destruction of the false serving-maids to his three assistants, Ulysses ordered the hall to be cleansed, and after greeting his faithful servants and weeping with them, sent Eurycleia up to the bower to tell Penelope that her master had at last arrived.

Penelope was too fearful of deceit to believe instantly that the beggar sitting beside the lofty column was her husband, though as she looked at him wonderingly, she sometimes fancied that she saw Ulysses, and again could not believe that it was he. So long was she silent that Telemachus reproached her for her hardness of heart; but Ulysses, better guessing the difficulty, ordered that all should take the bath and array themselves in fresh garments while the harper played gay melodies, that those passing should not guess the slaughter that had occurred, but should fancy that a wedding was being celebrated. When Ulysses again appeared, refreshed and handsomely attired, Penelope, still uncertain, determined to test his knowledge of her chamber. "Bear out the bed made by his own hands," she commanded Eurycleia, "that he may rest for the night."

"Who has dared move my bed?" cried Ulysses; "the couch framed upon the stump of an olive-tree, round which I built a stone chamber! I myself cunningly fitted it together, and adorned it with gold, silver, and ivory."

Then Penelope, who knew that no one save herself, Ulysses, and one handmaiden had ever seen the interior of that chamber, fell on his neck and welcomed the wanderer home. "Pray, be not angry with me, my husband. Many times my heart has trembled lest some fraud be practised on me, and I should receive a stranger to my heart."

Welcome as land to the shipwrecked mariner was Ulysses to Penelope. Both wept as he held her in his arms, and the rosy-fingered morn would have found them thus, weeping, with her fair, white arms encircling his neck, had not Pallas prolonged the night that he might relate to her the story of his wanderings. Then, happy in their reunion, the years of sorrow all forgotten, sleep overcame them. At dawn, bidding a brief farewell to his wife, Ulysses went forth to visit his father, and settle as best he might the strife which he knew would result from the slaughter of the suitors.

After Ulysses' mother had died of grief at the prolonged absence of her son, Laertes passed his days wretchedly in a little habitation remote from the palace. There Ulysses found him and made himself known; and there he, Laertes, Telemachus, the aged Dolius, and his six sons faced the people who had been roused to battle by the speech of Eupeithes, whose son Antinoüs had been the first of the suitors to fall by the hand of Ulysses. Not heeding the warning of the herald Medon that the suitors had been slain justly, they attacked Ulysses and his handful of followers.

Eupeithes fell first by the spear of Laertes, and a great slaughter would have ensued, had not the combatants been silenced by the voice of Pallas, who commanded all strife to cease. Frightened by this divine command, the enemy fled; and Pallas, descending in the form of Mentor, plighted a covenant between them that Ulysses might live peacefully among them the remainder of his life.

SELECTIONS FROM THE ODYSSEY.

THE PALACE OF ALCINOÜS.

Ulysses, having been directed by Nausicaa, reached the gate of the city, and was there met by Pallas in the guise of a maiden with an urn, who instructed him how to approach the king and queen. He passed through the town, wrapped in a cloud by Pallas, and paused on the threshold of Alcinoüs's palace.

For on every side beneath
The lofty roof of that magnanimous king
A glory shone as of the sun or moon.
There from the threshold, on each side, were walls
Of brass that led towards the inner rooms,
With blue steel cornices. The doors within
The massive building were of gold, and posts
Of silver on the brazen threshold stood,
And silver was the lintel, and above
Its architrave was gold; and on each side
Stood gold and silver mastiffs, the rare work
Of Vulcan's practised skill, placed there to guard
The house of great Alcinoüs, and endowed
With deathless life, that knows no touch of age.
Along the walls within, on either side,
And from the threshold to the inner rooms,
Were firmly planted thrones on which were laid
Delicate mantles, woven by the hands
Of women. The Phæacian princes here
Were seated; here they ate and drank, and held
Perpetual banquet. Slender forms of boys
In gold upon the shapely altars stood,
With blazing torches in their hands to light
At eve the palace guests; while fifty maids
Waited within the halls, where some in querns
Ground small the yellow grain; some wove the web
Or twirled the spindle, sitting, with a quick
Light motion, like the aspen's glancing leaves.
The well-wrought tissues glistened as with oil.
As far as the Phæacian race excel
In guiding their swift galleys o'er the deep,
So far the women in their woven work
Surpass all others. Pallas gives them skill
In handiwork and beautiful design.
Without the palace-court and near the gate,
A spacious garden of four acres lay.
A hedge enclosed it round, and lofty trees
Flourished in generous growth within,--the pear
And the pomegranate, and the apple-tree
With its fair fruitage, and the luscious fig
And olive always green. The fruit they bear
Falls not, nor ever fails in winter time
Nor summer, but is yielded all the year.
The ever-blowing west-wind causes some
To swell and some to ripen; pear succeeds
To pear; to apple, apple, grape to grape,
Fig ripens after fig. A fruitful field
Of vines was planted near; in part it lay
Open and basking in the sun, which dried
The soil, and here men gathered in the grapes,
And there they trod the wine-press. Farther on
Were grapes unripened yet, which just had cast
The flower, and others still which just began
To redden. At the garden's furthest bound
Were beds of many plants that all the year
Bore flowers. There gushed two fountains: one of them
Ran wandering through the field; the other flowed
Beneath the threshold to the palace-court,
And all the people filled their vessels there.
Such were the blessings which the gracious gods
Bestowed on King Alcinoüs and his house.
_Bryant's Translation, Book VII._

THE BENDING OF THE BOW.

Penelope, weary of the importunities of the suitors, determined to end the contest by giving them the bow of Ulysses and allowing the one who could successfully send the arrow through the steel rings to become her husband. Having announced her intention, she ascended the stairs to the treasure chamber, where the bow was kept.

Now when the glorious lady reached the room,
And stood upon the threshold, wrought of oak
And polished by the workman's cunning hand,
Who stretched the line upon it, and set up
Its posts, and hung its shining doors, she loosed
With a quick touch the thong that held the ring,
Put in the key, and with a careful aim
Struck back the sounding bolts. As when a bull
Roars in the field, such sound the beautiful doors,
Struck with the key, gave forth, and instantly
They opened to her. Up the lofty floor
She stepped, where stood the coffer that contained
The perfumed garments. Reaching forth her hand,
The queen took down the bow, that hung within
Its shining case, and sat her down, and laid
The case upon her knees, and, drawing forth
The monarch's bow, she wept aloud. As soon
As that new gush of tears had ceased to fall,
Back to the hall she went, and that proud throng
Of suitors, bearing in her hand the bow
Unstrung, and quiver, where the arrows lay
Many and deadly. Her attendant maids
Brought also down a coffer, where were laid
Much brass and steel, provided by the king
For games like these. The glorious lady then,
In presence of the suitors, stood beside
The columns that upheld the stately roof.
She held a lustrous veil before her cheeks,
And while on either side of her a maid
Stood modestly, bespake the suitors thus:--

"Hear, noble suitors! ye who throng these halls,
And eat and drink from day to day, while long
My husband has been gone; your sole excuse
For all this lawlessness the claim ye make
That I become a bride. Come then, for now
A contest is proposed. I bring to you
The mighty bow that great Ulysses bore.
Whoe'er among you he may be whose hand
Shall bend this bow, and send through these twelve rings
An arrow, him I follow hence, and leave
This beautiful abode of my young years,
With all its plenty,--though its memory,
I think, will haunt me even in my dreams."

She spake, and bade the master of the swine,
The good Eumaeus, place the bow and rings
Of hoary steel before the suitor train.
In tears he bore the bow and laid it down.
The herdsman also wept to see again
His master's bow.

* * * * *

He (Telemachus) spake and, rising, from his shoulders took
The purple cloak, and laid the trenchant sword
Aside; and first he placed the rings of steel
In order, opening for them in the ground
A long trench by a line, and stamping close
The earth around them. All admired the skill
With which he ranged them, never having seen
The game before. And then he took his place
Upon the threshold, and essayed the bow;
And thrice he made the attempt, and thrice gave o'er,
Yet hoping still to draw the cord, and send
An arrow through the rings. He would have drawn
The bow at the fourth trial, but a nod
Given by his father caused him to forbear,
Though eager for the attempt.

* * * * *

... And then Eupeithes' son,
Antinoüs, to the crowd of suitors said:--

"Rise one by one, my friends, from right to left.
Begin where he begins who pours the wine."
So spake Antinoüs, and the rest approved.
Then rose Leiodes, son of Oenops, first.
He was their seer, and always had his seat
Beside the ample bowl. From deeds of wrong
He shrank with hatred, and was sore incensed
Against the suitors all. He took the bow
And shaft, and, going to the threshold, stood
And tried the bow, yet bent it not; it galled
His hands, for they were soft, and all unused
To such a task.

... The swineherd went
Forward along the hall, and, drawing near
The wise Ulysses, gave into his hands
The bow.

* * * * *

... but when the wary chief
Had poised and shrewdly scanned the mighty bow,
Then, as a singer, skilled to play the harp,
Stretches with ease on its new fastenings
A string, the twisted entrails of a sheep,
Made fast at either end, so easily
Ulysses bent that mighty bow. He took
And drew the cord with his right hand; it twanged
With a clear sound as when a swallow screams.
The suitors were dismayed, and all grew pale.
Jove in loud thunder gave a sign from heaven.
The much-enduring chief, Ulysses, heard
With joy the friendly omen, which the son
Of crafty Saturn sent him. He took up
A winged arrow, that before him lay
Upon a table drawn; the others still
Were in the quiver's womb; the Greeks were yet
To feel them. This he set with care against
The middle of the bow, and toward him drew
The cord and arrow-notch, just where he sat,
And aiming opposite, let fly the shaft.
He missed no ring of all; from first to last
The brass-tipped arrow threaded every one.
Then to Telemachus Ulysses said:--

"Telemachus, the stranger sitting here
Hath not disgraced thee. I have neither missed
The rings, nor found it hard to bend the bow;
Nor has my manly strength decayed, as these
Who seek to bring me to contempt pretend;
And now the hour is come when we prepare
A supper for the Achaians, while the day
Yet lasts, and after supper the delights
Of song and harp, which nobly grace a feast."

He spake, and nodded to Telemachus,
His well-beloved son, who girded on
His trenchant sword, and took in hand his spear,
And, armed with glittering brass for battle, came
And took his station by his father's seat.

Then did Ulysses cast his rags aside,
And, leaping to the threshold, took his stand
On its broad space, with bow and quiver filled
With arrows. At his feet the hero poured
The winged shafts, and to the suitors called:--

"That difficult strife is ended. Now I take
Another mark, which no man yet has hit.
Now I shall see if I attain my aim,
And, by the aid of Phoebus, win renown."

He spake; and, turning, at Antinoüs aimed
The bitter shaft--Antinoüs, who just then
Had grasped a beautiful two-eared cup of gold,
About to drink the wine. He little thought
Of wounds and death; for who, when banqueting
Among his fellows, could suspect that one
Alone against so many men would dare,
However bold, to plan his death, and bring
On him the doom of fate? Ulysses struck
The suitor with the arrow at the throat.
The point came through the tender neck behind,
Sideways he sank to earth; his hand let fall
The cup; the dark blood in a thick warm stream
Gushed from the nostrils of the smitten man.
He spurned the table with his feet, and spilled
The viands; bread and roasted meats were flung
To lie polluted on the floor. Then rose
The suitors in a tumult, when they saw
The fallen man; from all their seats they rose
Throughout the hall, and to the massive walls
Looked eagerly; there hung no buckler there,
No sturdy lance for them to wield. They called
Then to Ulysses with indignant words:--

"Stranger! in evil hour hast thou presumed
To aim at men; and thou shalt henceforth bear
Part in no other contest. Even now
Is thy destruction close to thee. Thy hand
Hath slain the noblest youth in Ithaca.
The vultures shall devour thy flesh for this."

So each one said; they deemed he had not slain
The suitor wittingly; nor did they see,
Blind that they were, the doom which in that hour
Was closing round them all. Then with a frown
The wise Ulysses looked on them, and said:--

"Dogs! ye had thought I never would come back
From Ilium's coast, and therefore ye devoured
My substance here, and offered violence
To my maid-servants, and pursued my wife
As lovers, while I lived. Ye dreaded not
The gods who dwell in the great heaven, nor feared
Vengeance hereafter from the hands of men;
And now destruction overhangs you all."

He spake, and all were pale with fear, and each
Looked round for some escape from death.

_Bryant's Translation, Books XXI., XXII_.

THE KALEVALA.

"Songs preserved from distant ages."

The national epic of Finland, the Kalevala, or Place of Heroes, stands midway between the purely epical structure, as exemplified in Homer, and the epic songs of certain nations.

It is a purely pagan epic, and from its complete silence as to Finland's neighbors, the Russians, Germans, and Swedes, it is supposed to date back at least three thousand years.

The first attempt to collect Finnish folk-song was made in the seventeenth century by Palmsköld and Peter Bäng. In 1733, Maxenius published a volume on Finnish national poetry, and in 1745 Juslenius began a collection of national poems. Although scholars saw that these collected poems were evidently fragments of a Finnish epic, it remained for two physicians, Zacharias Topelius and Elias Lönnrot, to collect the entire poem. Topelius, though confined to his bed by illness for eleven years, took down the songs from travelling merchants brought to his bedside. His collections were published in 1822 and 1831. Lönnrot travelled over Finland, collecting the songs, which he published, arranged in epical form, in 1835. A revised edition was published in 1849.

The Kalevala consists of fifty parts, or runes, containing twenty-two thousand seven hundred and ninety-three lines. Its historical foundation is the contests between the Finns and the Lapps.

Its metre is the "eight syllabled trochaic with the part-line echo," alliteration also being used, a metre familiar to us through Longfellow's "Hiawatha."

The labors of a Wolf are not necessary to show that the Kalevala is composed of various runes or lays, arranged by a compiler. Topelius and Lönnrot were conscientious collectors and compilers, but they were no Homers, who could fuse these disconnected runes into one great poem. The Kalevala recites many events in the lives of different heroes who are not types of men, like Rama, or Achilles, or Ulysses, but the rude gods of an almost savage people, or rather, men in the process of apotheosis, all alike, save in the varying degrees of magic power possessed by each.

The Finnish lays are interesting to us because they are the popular songs of a people handed down with few changes from one generation to another; because they would have formed the material for a national epic if a great poet had arisen; because of their pictures of ancient customs, and particularly the description of the condition of women, and because of their frequently beautiful descriptions of nature. But because they are simply runes "loosely stitched together" we can regard them only with interest and curiosity, not with admiration.

BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE KALEVALA.

Andrew Lang's Homer and the Epic, pp. 412-419;

Andrew Lang's Kalevala, or the Finnish National Epic (in his Custom and Myth), 1885, pp. 156-179;