precious gifts safely stowed in the ship he had provided. Then they
pledged one another in a parting cup, and Ulysses bade farewell to his
generous and great-hearted hosts. Worn out with the emotions of those
crowded hours he wrapped himself in his mantle and lay down to sleep
in the stern, while the spread sails caught the freshening breeze and
the galley flew over the waters.
When the morning star shone bright in the heavens, the hills of Ithaca
appeared like a cloud upon the horizon, and as day broke the ship drew
into a little bay and grounded on the sands. Seeing that Ulysses was
still wrapped in unbroken slumber, the sailors took him gently upon
his couch and placed him on the rocky shore of his own Ithaca.
Alcinous' royal gifts they placed beside him in the shade of a wild
olive tree. Then they relaunched their bark and sped back across the
main.
Thus Ulysses reached once more his native land, but the end of his
perils was not yet.
THE HOMECOMING OF ULYSSES
BY M. M. BIRD
After ten long years of fighting Troy had fallen and the kings and
captains had sailed away bearing home to Greece the spoils of the
sacked city. Among these chieftains was Ulysses, lord of the small and
rocky island of Ithaca, and none more famous than he for prowess in
arms and yet more for the spirit of wisdom that the wise goddess
Minerva put into the heart of her favored warrior.
But while the other leaders straightway sought their homes, Ulysses
roamed the seas for another ten years. The goddess Juno loved him not,
and often drove him from his course; and he, ever yearning to gain
knowledge of lands and men, encountered the strangest adventures in
his wanderings, some of which you have already heard. But it is of his
homecoming that I have now to tell.
His perils and adventures were not ended yet, and without Minerva's
aid he must surely have perished.
When he landed on the rocky coast of Ithaca he found himself a
complete stranger in his own land after twenty years of absence, so by
Minerva's advice he disguised himself as a beggar that he might
discover something of the state of his kingdom before making himself
known. His queen, Penelope, had suffered great troubles and
perplexities all these years. She had the care of all the lands and
vast herds of cattle that made up the riches of the kingdom; many of
her servants proved both dishonest and rebellious; and now a number
of the neighboring princes had come seeking her hand in marriage. For
all men held that Ulysses must have perished or he would surely have
returned ere this. Telemachus, her young son, had just reached
manhood, but was not yet strong enough unaided to drive out his
mother's bold and shameless suitors and restore order to his realm. So
the suitors continued to live in the palace, feasting daily and
wasting Ulysses' goods and cattle with their wanton extravagances,
while they continually urged Penelope to marry one of their number and
give him the right to rule her kingdom for her. To this she would not
give consent, for she loved Ulysses, and wept in secret over his
absence and longed for his return, though she scarcely dared to hope
for it after so many years had passed without news of his safety.
At length Telemachus was inspired by Minerva to set out on a journey
to seek his father. The goddess accompanied him in the guise of a wise
old man named Mentor, to assist him in his search. After adventurous
wanderings he reached the city of Sparta, where King Menelaus reigned,
who gave him news of Ulysses and counseled him to return at once to
Ithaca since his father was on his way thither. Telemachus hastened
back, and, arriving before he was expected, went secretly to the house
of Eumaeus, a faithful servant of the King, who for many years had
filled the post of chief herdsman and keeper of the royal swine. This
was an office of trust, for much of the wealth of the kingdom was in
these herds of swine, which were required as sacrifices to the gods as
well as for human food.
Ulysses by this time had reached the house of Eumaeus, who had
received him with kindness, and fed him, although he did not
recognize his King in the aged beggar he found at his door. To this
beggar he made complaint of the King's wasted substance, and the
insufferable behavior of these suitors of the Queen. His tales of
their doings made Ulysses' blood boil. He could hardly contain his
indignation sufficiently to sustain the character of a wandering
beggar whom these things did not concern. But he succeeded so well
that Eumaeus had no suspicion who his strange guest could be.
When Telemachus appeared, Eumaeus greeted him with the tenderness of a
father, for he loved the young man dearly, and at once hastened to
announce the joyful news of his safe return to his mother Penelope.
When thus left alone, Ulysses threw off his disguise and declared
himself to his son. Long time they discussed how best to take
vengeance on these wicked and insolent princes who were plotting to
deprive them of their kingdom; and they decided that as they were many
and powerful it was needful to exercise caution and overcome them by
cunning. Therefore Telemachus departed to the palace and disclosed to
no one the news of Ulysses' return, not even to the Queen his mother.
The wicked suitors had planned an ambush to slay the young prince as
he made his way home from his journey in search of his father, but
thanks to his secret and unexpected arrival, he had escaped their
clutches.
According to their daily custom they sat down to a feast in the hall
of the palace, where Telemachus, putting on an appearance of great
friendliness, joined them. Thither Eumaeus persuaded his aged guest to
accompany him. In fluttering rags and leaning on his staff as though
weighed down by age and weakness, Ulysses passed along the road to the
palace that was his own. Outside the gate they were met by
Melanthius, the faithless steward, whose own ill deeds made him show
spite and jealousy to the blameless Eumaeus. He rated the old beggar
soundly and ordered him away, and when he protested, cursed him and
muttered a prayer that some suitor's sword might pierce the heart of
Telemachus and rid them of a son no better than his dead father.
Ulysses stood a moment in speechless rage, doubting whether to strike
the wretch to earth with one blow of his mighty arm; but wiser
counsels prevailed, and he curbed his anger and bore all affronts and
insults with a noble fortitude that steadfastly awaited the right
moment to strike.
Passing the insolent Melanthius with disdain they approached the door.
Lying on a dunghill beside the way Ulysses beheld his aged hound
Argus, the hero of many a gallant chase. Now neglected, starved,
forlorn, he had crept forth to die. But at the sound of his master's
voice he strove in vain to raise the wasted body that was too weak to
move from the dunghill where it lay. But with tail and ears and eyes
he proclaimed his joy. A tear stole unperceived down Ulysses' cheek.
He questioned Eumaeus about the hound, and as he paused, the noble
creature, to whom fate had granted a sight of his master after twenty
years of patient waiting, took one last look and died.
When Eumaeus introduced the old beggar into the banqueting hall, true
to the character he had adopted Ulysses went round to each reveler in
turn and begged for food. Some carelessly flung him a few scraps,
giving away readily what was not their own, but Antinous, the most
lawless and violent of all the suitors, abused him and threw a
footstool at him, striking him on the shoulder. Telemachus indignantly
protested against this act of violence, and Ulysses was permitted to
sit down by the door, with his scrip full of scraps from the princes'
well-filled table.
Presently there entered another beggar, a surly vagrant of great
stature, named Irus, well known at the tables of the rich. He was
enraged to find that another had been before him, and attacked the old
man with loud abuse, finally challenging him to a fight, thinking him
too weak with age to defend himself.
The princes applauded him and urged on the fight between the two
beggars. Ulysses pretended to fear, but when he threw off his rags and
displayed his well-knit limbs and great muscles, all gazed at him
astonished, and Irus tried to escape. He was caught and dragged before
Ulysses and forced to engage in the combat he had provoked. Ulysses,
knowing his own strength to be invincible, did not strike with more
than half his force, but the first blow broke the sturdy beggar's jaw
and flung him to the ground, from whence he was unable to rise.
Ulysses was then given as the prize of victory a stew of savory meat.
When the revelers were deep in their cups Ulysses and his son
Telemachus stole away from the hall and conferred together in secret.
They gathered all the best of the weapons in the armory and hid them
in a convenient chamber, to be at hand in case of need.
Telemachus then introduced Ulysses to the chamber of his mother
Penelope, who failed to pierce his disguise, but listened with
eagerness to the account the beggar gave of his wanderings and
adventures. He claimed to have formerly entertained her husband in
Crete, described his appearance exactly, and declared to her joy that
his return within a month was certain. She then sent him to the bath,
and bade Euryclea wait upon him. It happened that Euryclea was his old
nurse, and her heart went out to the stranger, for in his look and
voice there was something that reminded her of her absent lord. Gladly
she fetched water to refresh him and knelt before him to bathe his
feet. He remembered the long scar on his thigh, made by the tusk of a
wild boar when as a youth he had hunted on Parnassus, and he strove to
keep it concealed. But the loving eyes of his faithful nurse pierced
the tattered rags that he wore, and she knew him for her lord and
master. "My son--my King!" she cried. He laid his hand on her lips to
stay the cry of joy that broke from her, and gravely warned her not to
betray his return.
When he returned from his bath, the Queen, still more impressed by his
noble presence, though yet she knew him not, confided to him a design
she had planned to assist her choice among these suitors who were all
distasteful to her. She proposed to set them a superhuman task--to
bend the great bow of Ulysses and perform the feat in which he used to
excel. Two rows of beams, six in each row, should be set at equal
distances apart, to support twelve silver ax rings, and through each
line of six rings the archer must let fly his arrow straight and true.
And the noble archer who should perform this feat should be rewarded
by her hand.
Ulysses applauded this design, urging her not to fear to name herself
the prize, since Ulysses himself would enter the lists before the
trial was over, win the prize, and claim her for his own.
The following day another great feast was set, and the princes sat
down to their feasting. Ulysses by this had watched the behavior of
his people, and now understood who were faithful to him and who
deserved no trust. Into this scene of revelry Penelope entered with
her maidens, bearing the great bow and arrows of Ulysses, and
challenged the princes to bend this bow and shoot the arrow through
the silver rings as her lord Ulysses had been used to do, promising
that he who could accomplish this should be her husband.
The beams were already set in place, and Telemachus claimed his right
to try his skill first among the suitors, since victory meant to him
the safeguarding of a kingdom already his by right of descent. He set
the axes in line upon the beams, with the rings ready for the flight
of his arrow. Three times his young arm tried to bend the bow, three
times he failed.
Then all the princes in order, from right to left, took up the bow in
turn and tried their skill. In vain they strained their muscles; they
rubbed the bow with fat; they warmed it at the flame to make it
supple; they tried every device to bend it. The tough bow bent not in
their impious hands!
While they strove Ulysses took aside Eumaeus, and Philaetus a herdsman
and one who had remained faithful to him, and revealed himself to
them. He then ordered that every door of the palace should be guarded
by a trusty matron, and the main gate secured by a cable, and bade
them then attend on him in the hall. Telemachus had sent his mother
and her maids away to their own apartments, and asserting his
authority now directed Eumaeus to bear the bow to the disguised
beggar, that he might try his skill and strength. All the suitors were
furious at this strange favor shown to a common beggar, and it was
amidst a scene of tumult and confusion that Ulysses, without rising
from his seat, bent the bow and sent his arrow straight and true
through the silver rings. There was a moment of silent astonishment.
Telemachus hastened to gird on his sword and, taking his javelin in
his hand, stood by his father's side. Ulysses cried aloud to the
suitors that he had won the first game he had tried to-day, and was
ready to play a second with them. And another arrow winged its way
straight at the throat of Antinous, who had raised a golden bowl and
was drinking deep of the wine. The arrow pierced his neck and he
dropped the goblet and fell lifeless on the marble floor.
There was panic in the hall; the princes looked in vain for weapons or
a way of escape from the doom that menaced them. "Aimest thou at
princes?" they cried to Ulysses in their terror.
"Dogs! ye have had your day!" cried he, and declared his name and
estate to them. Some drew their swords and rushed on him, but the
flying arrows pinned them, and they fell dead in heaps, while the
sword and javelin of young Telemachus did good service. At length
every suitor lay dead. The hall was like a shambles.
Then the unfaithful servants were made to purify the palace and
afterwards paid with their lives for their misdeeds, while those who
had been true to their lord crowded around him with joy.
Euryclea flew to summon the sleeping Penelope. She was unable to
believe the glad news. "Ulysses comes! The suitors are no more!" She
could not think it true. At last she stood trembling before her lord,
still afraid to believe it was he, age and time seemed to have made
him so strange to her eyes.
Then Minerva crowned her watchful care of the hero by restoring to him
the beauty of his youth; but still the Queen hesitated. Ulysses
therefore described to her the marvels of the bridal bed he had
contrived for her of the huge olive tree that grew in the courtyard.
Penelope saw then that it was indeed the King, who alone could have
known the secret of the bed. She fell fainting into his arms in a
transport of joy, and Ulysses once more resumed his sway over the
kingdom.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
BY H. P. MASKELL
On the slopes of the Phrygian hills there once dwelt a pious old
couple named Baucis and Philemon. They had lived all their lives in a
tiny cottage of wattles thatched with straw, cheerful and contented in
spite of their poverty. Servants never troubled them, because they
waited on themselves, and they never had to consider the whims of
other people, because they were their own masters.
As this worthy old couple sat dozing by the fireside one evening in
the late autumn, two strangers came and begged a shelter for the
night. They had to stoop to enter the humble doorway, where the old
man welcomed them heartily and bade them rest their weary limbs on the
settle. Meanwhile Baucis stirred the embers, blowing them into a flame
with dry leaves, and heaping on fagots and logs to boil the
stewing-pot. Hanging from the blackened beams was a rusty side of
bacon. Philemon cut off a rasher to roast; and while his guests
refreshed themselves with a wash at the rustic trough, he gathered
what pot herbs could be culled from his patch of garden. Then the old
woman, her hands trembling with age, laid the cloth and spread the
board. It was a rickety old table. One leg was too short, and had to
be propped up with a potsherd.
It was but a frugal meal, but one that hungry wayfarers could relish.
The first course was a sort of omelet of curdled milk and eggs
garnished with radishes and candied cornel berries, served on rude
oaken platters. The cups of turned beechwood were filled with
home-made wine from an earthenware jug. With the second course there
were nuts, dried figs, and dates--plums too, and sweet-smelling
apples, grapes, and a piece of clear white honeycomb. What made it the
more grateful to the guests was the hearty spirit in which all was
offered. Their hosts gave all they had to give without stint or
grudging.
But all at once something happened which startled and amazed Baucis
and Philemon. They poured out wine for their guests, and lo! each time
the pitcher filled itself again to the brim! In alarm they knelt down
and implored the pardon of their visitors, for they now saw that these
were not mere mortals. They were indeed none other than Jupiter and
Mercury, who had come down to earth in disguise. The old couple
excused themselves; by reason of their poverty and the lack of time,
they had not been able to provide them a better entertainment. And
Philemon hurried out and gave chase to their single goose, who served
them for a watch-dog, intending to kill it and roast it for their
guests. However, these forbade him, saying: "We are from above, and we
have come down to punish the impious dwellers of the plains. In mortal
shape we came down, and at a hundred houses asked for lodging and for
rest. For answer a hundred doors were locked and barred against us.
You alone, the poorest of all, have received us gladly, and given us
of your best. Now it is for us to punish those who treat strangers so
churlishly, while you shall be spared. Only leave your cottage and
follow us to the mountain-top."
So saying, the deities led the way up the hill, and the two old folk
hobbled after them on their crutches. Presently they stopped to take
rest, and, looking round, saw all the country round sinking into a
marsh, their own hut alone left standing. And while they gazed, before
their very eyes their cabin was changed into a temple. The stakes in
the porch turned into marble columns, and the door expanded into a
great carved and inlaid gate of bronze. The thatch grew yellow, till
at last they saw that it had become a roof of gold tiles. Then
Jupiter, regarding them with kindly eyes, inquired: "Tell us, good old
man, and you, good wife, well worthy of such a husband, what boon
would you crave of us?"
Philemon whispered for a moment with Baucis, and she nodded her
approval. "We desire," he replied, "to be your servants, and have the
care of this temple. One other favor only we would ask. From boyhood I
have loved only Baucis, and she has lived only for me. Let the same
hour take us both away together. Let me never see the tomb of my wife,
nor let her suffer the misery of mourning my death."
The gods willingly granted both these requests, and endowed them with
youth and strength as well. So long as their lives lasted Baucis and
Philemon were guardians of the temple. And when once more old age and
feebleness overtook them, they were standing, one day, in front of the
sacred porch and relating to visitors the story of the temple. Baucis
happened to turn her gaze on her husband and saw him slowly changing
into a gnarled oak. And Philemon, as he felt himself rooted to the
ground, saw Baucis at the same time turning to a leafy linden; and as
their faces disappeared behind the green foliage, each cried to the
other, "Farewell, dearest love"; and again, "Dearest love, farewell";
and trunks and branches took the place of their human forms.
For long years these two trees were pointed out to all who came to
worship at the temple, and many loved to bring garlands and hang them
on the trees, in honor of two souls whose virtue the gods had so
signally rewarded.
And still, if you visit the spot, you may see an oak and a linden with
branches intertwined. What more proof would you have that this tale is
true?
HYPERMNESTRA
BY V. C. TURNBULL
Danaüs and Ægyptus, two brothers, ruled together over Egypt. And to
Danaüs fifty daughters were born, while Ægyptus begot fifty sons. Yet
was not Danaüs happy; nay, he went all day in fear. For the mysterious
voice of the Theban oracle had sounded terribly in his ears:
WHEN THY DAUGHTER MARRIETH,
DANAÜS, THOU ART DOOMED TO DEATH!
Never could Danaüs put these words from his mind. Walking alone in the
gardens of his palace, he started, thinking one whispered them in his
ear; at the banquet they sounded like thunder above the singing of the
minstrels; and at night he lay trembling on his bed, hearing the doom
of the oracle spoken in low tones out of the darkness. So the life of
Danaüs became dark and bitter, and his heart grew hard and cruel with
fear.
Now the sons of Ægyptus were grown into comely youths, and to their
father it seemed but fitting that they should marry their cousins, the
daughters of Danaüs, beautiful maidens all. But when he spoke thereon
to his brother, a great terror fell on Danaüs. For casting his eyes on
the young men as they strove together in their sports, he thought with
bitterness: "Yea, and shall one of these be my murderer?" Then, in
fear and rage, he turned to his brother, and, snarling like a wolf,
cried, "Child of mine weds not child of thine!" Whereat Ægyptus raged
mightily, swearing to fulfil his purpose, so that Danaüs, ever cunning
rather than valiant, made amends for his hasty words and promised to
tell his daughters of their uncle's pleasure.
Howbeit, that night Danaüs gathering together his daughters, his
slaves, and his goods, secretly left the palace, and flying northward
to the coast of the Great Sea, there took ship and came at length to
Argos in Greece. Gelanor, King of Argos, received Danaüs and his
daughters with kindness and feasted them with royal cheer. But the
heart of Danaüs knew not gratitude, and having left the throne of
Egypt, he sought how to take that of Argos. Nor was this difficult,
for Gelanor was at strife with his people, who were but too ready to
seek a new ruler. Therefore, when Danaüs spoke to them fair words,
promising them many things, they gave glad heed, and ere many days had
passed Gelanor was driven forth and Danaüs ruled over Argos in his
stead.
But not long was he left in peace. For his brother Ægyptus, enraged to
find Danaüs forsworn, and hearing of his fortune in Argos, called his
sons together and cried to them, saying: "Sons, will ye suffer
yourselves to be fooled? Shall this man snatch from you your brides
and rule in peace on the throne which he hath stolen? Nay, if ye be
sons of mine, go, gather to yourselves a mighty army and take from him
his daughters and his land, and the gods prosper you and protect your
rights."
Then the young men, kindling at their father's words, gathered quickly
a great host, and sailing in a fleet to Argos, they harried the
country before Danaüs knew of their landing. And when one ran to tell
him of their coming, a great fear struck upon his heart, for louder
than ever in Egypt sounded in his ear:
WHEN THY DAUGHTER MARRIETH,
DANAÜS, THOU ART DOOMED TO DEATH!
So with fear and hatred in his breast, but with smooth words upon his
lips, he went forth to meet the young men and their followers, who
were even now at the palace gates. All that they demanded he promised.
"Take my daughters to wife," he cried; "reign over Argos in my stead,
for I am old, and weary of ruling a strange people!"
So the young men were admitted into the palace, and the maidens their
cousins received them with mirth and feasting, and the day of their
nuptials was appointed.
But before the day came, the crafty Danaüs called his daughters to him
and commanded them on peril of their lives to slay their husbands so
soon as they should be wedded. And to each he gave a sharp dagger to
conceal under her wedding robe. These, therefore, the daughters of
Danaüs took, purposing to obey their father. For many of them were
cruel even as he, while others, caring nothing for their affianced
husbands, feared greatly to disobey Danaüs. So it was that as they
took counsel together in the women's chamber after leaving their
father's presence, there was but one voice among the maidens as to the
wisdom of obeying his word.
But the youngest, Hypermnestra, was silent. For her heart was tender
and pitiful, and Lynceus, her betrothed, youngest of the sons of
Ægyptus and the fairest, had moved her heart to love and tenderness.
Like her sisters, she feared her father, and never before had she
disobeyed his orders; but love conquered fear, and pity was stronger
than filial duty.