Nothing in all Homer pleases me more than the bedstead of Odysseus. I
have tried to turn the passage describing it into English verse, thus:--
Here in my garth a goodly olive grew;
Thick was the noble leafage of its prime,
And like a carven column rose the trunk.
This tree about I built my chamber walls,
Laying great stone on stone, and roofed them well,
And in the portal set a comely door,
Stout-hinged and tightly closing. Then with axe
I lopped the leafy olive's branching head,
And hewed the bole to four-square shapeliness,
And smoothed it, craftsmanlike, and grooved and pierced,
Making the rooted timber, where it grew,
A corner of my couch. Labouring on,
I fashioned all the bed-frame; which complete,
The wood I overlaid with shining gear
Of gold, of silver, and of ivory.
And last, between the endlong beams I stretched
Stout thongs of ox-hide, dipped in purple dye.
_Odyssey_, xxiii. 190-201.
Did anyone ever imitate the admirable precedent? Were I a young man, and
an owner of land, assuredly I would do so. Choose some goodly tree,
straight-soaring; cut away head and branches; leave just the clean trunk
and build your house about it in such manner that the top of the rooted
timber rises a couple of feet above your bedroom floor. The trunk need
not be manifest in the lower part of the house, but I should prefer to
have it so; I am a tree-worshipper; it should be as the visible presence
of a household god. And how could one more nobly symbolize the
sacredness of Home? There can be no home without the sense of
permanence, and without home there is no civilization--as England will
discover when the greater part of her population have become
flat-inhabiting nomads. In some ideal commonwealth, one can imagine the
Odyssean bed a normal institution, every head of a household, cottager or
lord (for the commonwealth must have its lords, go to!), lying down to
rest, as did his fathers, in the Chamber of the Tree. This, one fancies,
were a somewhat more fitting nuptial chamber than the chance bedroom of a
hotel. Odysseus building his home is man performing a supreme act of
piety; through all the ages that picture must retain its profound
significance. Note the tree he chose, the olive, sacred to Athena,
emblem of peace. When he and the wise goddess meet together to scheme
destruction of the princes, they sit [Greek text]. Their talk is of
bloodshed, true; but in punishment of those who have outraged the
sanctity of the hearth, and to re-establish, after purification, domestic
calm and security. It is one of the dreary aspects of modern life that
natural symbolism has all but perished. We have no consecrated tree. The
oak once held a place in English hearts, but who now reveres it?--our
trust is in gods of iron. Money is made at Christmas out of holly and
mistletoe, but who save the vendors would greatly care if no green branch
were procurable? One symbol, indeed, has obscured all others--the minted
round of metal. And one may safely say that, of all the ages since a
coin first became the symbol of power, ours is that in which it yields to
the majority of its possessors the poorest return in heart's contentment.