PART I. A COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE AT SARAGOSSA.--The Song of

THE BOOK OF THE EPIC

The World's Great Epics Told in Story

by

H. A. GUERBER

Author of _Myths of Greece and Rome_, _Myths of Northern Lands_,

_Legends of the Middle Ages_, etc.

With an Introduction by J. Berg Esenwein, Litt. D.

With Sixteen Illustrations from the Masters of Painting

1913

INTRODUCTION

Every now and then in our reading we come suddenly face to face with

_first_ things,--the very elemental sources beyond which no man may

go. There is a distinct satisfaction in dealing with such beginnings,

and, when they are those of literature, the sense of freshness is

nothing short of inspiring. To share the same lofty outlook, to

breathe the same high air with those who first sensed a whole era of

creative thoughts, is the next thing to being the gods' chosen medium

for those primal expressions.

All this is not to say that the epic is the oldest form of literary

expression, but it is the expression of the oldest literary ideas,

for, even when the epic is not at all primitive in form, it deals

essentially with elemental moods and ideals. Epical poetry is poetic

not because it is metrical and conformative to rhythmical

standards,--though it usually is both,--but it is poetry because of

the high sweep of its emotional outlook, the bigness of its thought,

the untamed passion of its language, and the musical flow of its

utterance.

Here, then, we have a veritable source book of the oldest ideas of the

race; but not only that--we are also led into the penetralia of the

earliest thought of many separate nations, for when the epic is

national, it is true to the earliest genius of the people whose spirit

it depicts.

To be sure, much of literature, and particularly the literature of the

epic, is true rather to the tone of a nation than to its literal

history--by which I mean that Achilles was more really a Greek hero

than any Greek who ever lived, because he was the apotheosis of Greek

chivalry, and as such was the expression of the Greeks rather than

merely a Greek. The Iliad and the Odyssey are not merely epics of

Greece--they are Greek.

This is an age of story-telling. Never before has the world turned so

attentively to the shorter forms of fiction. Not only is this true of

the printed short-story, of which some thousands, more or less new,

are issued every year in English, but oral story-telling is taking its

deserved place in the school, the home, and among clubs specially

organized for its cultivation. Teachers and parents must therefore be

increasingly alert, not only to invent new stories, but--this even

chiefly--to familiarize themselves with the oldest stories in the

world.

So it is to such sources as these race-narratives that all

story-telling must come for recurrent inspirations. The setting of

each new story may be tinged with what wild or sophisticated life

soever, yet must the narrator find the big, heart-swelling movements

and passions and thraldoms and conquests and sufferings and elations

of mankind stored in the great epics of the world.

It were a life-labor to become familiar with all of these in their

expressive originals; even in translation it would be a titanic task

to read each one. Therefore how great is our indebtedness to the ripe

scholarship and discreet choice of the author of this "Book of the

Epic" for having brought to us not only the arguments but the very

spirit and flavor of all this noble array. The task has never before

been essayed, and certainly, now that it has been done for the first

time, it is good to know that it has been done surpassingly well.

To find the original story-expression of a nation's myths, its

legends, and its heroic creations is a high joy--a face-to-face

interview with any great first-thing is a big experience; but to come

upon whole scores of undefiled fountains is like multiplying the

Pierian waters.

Even as all the epics herein collected in scenario were epoch-making,

so will the gathering of these side by side prove to be. Literary

judgments must be comparative, and now we may place each epic in

direct comparison with any other, with a resultant light, both

diffused and concentrated, for the benefit of both critics and the

general reader.

The delights of conversation--so nearly, alas, a lost art!--consist

chiefly in the exchange of varied views on single topics. So, when we

note how the few primal story-themes and plot developments of all time

were handled by those who first told the tales in literate form, the

satisfaction is proportionate.

One final word must be said regarding the interest of epical material.

Heretofore a knowledge of the epics--save only a few of the better

known--has been confined to scholars, or, at most, students; but it

may well be hoped that the wide perusal of this book may serve to show

to the general reader how fascinating a store of fiction may be found

in epics which have up till now been known to him only by name.

J. Berg Esenwein

CONTENTS

Introduction by J. Berg Esenwein

Foreword

Greek Epics

The Iliad

The Odyssey

Latin Epics

The Aeneid

French Epics

The Song of Roland

Aucassin and Nicolette

Spanish Epics

The Cid

Portuguese Epics

The Lusiad

Italian Epics

Divine Comedy

The Inferno

Purgatory

Paradise

The Orlandos

Gerusalemme Liberata, or Jerusalem Delivered

Epics of the British Isles

Beowulf

The Arthurian Cycle

Robin Hood

The Faerie Queene

Paradise Lost

Paradise Regained

German Epics

The Nibelungenlied

Story of the Holy Grail

Epics of the Netherlands

Scandinavian Epics

The Volsunga Saga

Russian and Finnish Epics

The Kalevala, or the Land of Heroes

Epics of Central Europe and of the Balkan Peninsula

Hebrew and Early Christian Epics

Arabian and Persian Epics

The Shah-Nameh, or Epic of Kings

Indian Epics

The Ramayana

The Mahabharata

Chinese and Japanese Poetry

American Epics

Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

Odin Bids Farewell to Brunhild before He Surrounds Her by a

Barrier of Fire (Frontispiece)

From the painting by Th. Pixis

Oedipus Solving the Sphinx's Riddle

From the painting by Ingres

Achilles Disguised as a Girl Testing the Sword in Ulysses' Pack

From the painting by Battoni

Circe and Ulysses' Companions Turned into Swine

By L. Chalon

Venus Meeting Aeneas and Achates Near Carthage

From the painting by Cortona

Roland at Roncevaux

From the painting by L.F. Guesnet

The Palace Where Inez de Castro Lived and was Murdered

Dante Interviewing Hugues Capet

From an illustration by R. Galli

Hermione Finds Tancred Wounded

From the painting by Nicolas Poussin

The Body of Elaine on its Way to King Arthur's Palace

By Gustave Dora

Una and the Red Cross Knight

From the painting by George Frederick Watts

The Heralds Summon Lucifer's Host to a Council at Pandemonium

By Gustave Dore

The Dead Sigfried Rome Back to Worms

From the painting by Th. Pixis

St. John the Evangelist at Patmos Writing the Apocalypse

From the painting by Correggio

Sita Soothing Rama to Sleep

From a Calcutta print

The Monk Breaks into the Robbers' House to Rescue White Aster

From a Japanese print

"It is in this vast, dim region of myth and legend the

sources of the literature of modern times are hidden; and it

is only by returning to them, by constant remembrance that

they drain a vast region of vital human experience, that the

origin and early direction of that literature can be

recalled."--Hamilton Wright Mabie.

FOREWORD

Derived from the Greek _epos_, a saying or oracle, the term "epic" is

generally given to some form of heroic narrative wherein tragedy,

comedy, lyric, dirge, and idyl are skilfully blended to form an

immortal work.

"Mythology, which was the interpretation of nature, and legend, which

is the idealization of history," are the main elements of the epic.

Being the "living history of the people," an epic should have "the

breadth and volume of a river." All epics have therefore generally

been "the first-fruits of the earliest experience of nature and life

on the part of imaginative races"; and the real poet has been, as a

rule, the race itself.

There are almost as many definitions of an epic and rules for its

composition as there are nations and poets. For that reason, instead

of selecting only such works as in the writer's opinion can justly

claim the title of epic, each nation's verdict has been accepted,

without question, in regard to its national work of this class, be it

in verse or prose.

The following pages therefore contain almost every variety of epic,

from that which treats of the deity in dignified hexameters, strictly

conforms to the rule "one hero, one time, and one action of many

parts," and has "the massiveness and dignity of sculpture," to the

simplest idylls, such as the Japanese "White Aster," or that exquisite

French mediaeval compound of poetry and prose, "Aucassin et Nicolette."

Not only are both Christian and pagan epics impartially admitted in

this volume, but the representative works of each nation in the epic

field are grouped, according to the languages in which they were

composed.

Many of the ancient epics are so voluminous that even one of them

printed in full would fill twenty-four volumes as large as this. To

give even the barest outline of one or two poems in each language has

therefore required the utmost condensation. So, only the barest

outline figures in these pages, and, although the temptation to quote

many choice passages has been well-nigh irresistible, space has

precluded all save the scantiest quotations.

The main object of this volume consists in outlining clearly and

briefly, for the use of young students or of the busy general reader,

the principal examples of the time-honored stories which have inspired

our greatest poets and supplied endless material to painters,

sculptors, and musicians ever since art began.

THE BOOK OF THE EPIC

GREEK EPICS

The greatest of all the world's epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, are

attributed to Homer, or Melesigenes, who is said to have lived some

time between 1050 and 850 B.C. Ever since the second century before

Christ, however, the question whether Homer is the originator of the

poems, or whether, like the Rhapsodists, he merely recited extant

verses, has been hotly disputed.

The events upon which the Iliad is based took place some time before

1100 B.C., and we are told the poems of Homer were collected and

committed to writing by Pisistratus during the age of Epic Poetry, or

second age of Greek literature, which ends 600 B.C.

It stands to reason that the Iliad must have been inspired by or at

least based upon previous poems, since such perfection is not achieved

at a single bound. Besides, we are aware of the existence of many

shorter Greek epics, which have either been entirely lost or of which

we now possess only fragments.

A number of these ancient epics form what is termed the Trojan Cycle,

because all relate in some way to the War of Troy. Among them is the

Cypria, in eleven books, by Stasimus of Cyprus (or by Arctinus of

Miletus), wherein is related Jupiter's frustrated wooing of Thetis,

her marriage with Peleus, the episode of the golden apple, the

judgment of Paris, the kidnapping of Helen, the mustering of the Greek

forces, and the main events of the first nine years of the Trojan War.

The Iliad (of which a synopsis is given) follows this epic, taking up

the story where the wrath of Achilles is aroused and ending it with

the funeral of Hector.

This, however, does not conclude the story of the Trojan War, which is

resumed in the "Aethiopia," in five books, by Arctinus of Miletus.

After describing the arrival of Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, to

aid the Trojans, the poet relates her death at the hand of Achilles,

who, in his turn, is slain by Apollo and Paris. This epic concludes

with the famous dispute between Ajax and Ulysses for the possession of

Achilles' armor.

The Little Iliad, whose authorship is ascribed to sundry poets,

including Homer, next describes the madness and death of Ajax, the

arrival of Philoctetes with the arrows of Hercules, the death of

Paris, the purloining of the Palladium, the stratagem of the wooden

horse, and the death of Priam.

In the Ilion Persis, or Sack of Troy, by Arctinus, in two books, we

find the Trojans hesitating whether to convey the wooden steed into

their city, and discover the immortal tales of the traitor Sinon and

that of Laocoon. We then behold the taking and sacking of the city,

with the massacre of the men and the carrying off into captivity of

the women.

In the Nostroi, or Homeward Voyage, by Agias of Troezene, the Atridae

differ in opinion; so, while Agamemnon delays his departure to offer

propitiatory sacrifices, Menelaus sets sail for Egypt, where he is

detained. This poem also contains the narrative of Agamemnon's return,

of his assassination, and of the way in which his death was avenged by

his son Orestes.

Next in sequence of events comes the Odyssey of Homer (of which a

complete synopsis follows), and then the Telegonia of Eugammon of

Cyrene, in two books. This describes how, after the burial of the

suitors, Ulysses renews his adventures, and visits Thesprotia, where

he marries and leaves a son. We also have his death, a battle between

two of his sons, and the marriage of Telemachus and Circe, as well as

that of the widowed Penelope to Telegonus, one of Ulysses'

descendants.

Another sequel, or addition to the Odyssey, is found in the

Telemachia, also a Greek poem, as well as in a far more modern work,

the French classic, Télémaque, written by Fénelon for his pupil the

Dauphin, in the age of Louis XIV.

Another great series of Greek poems is the Theban Cycle, which

comprises the Thebais, by some unknown author, wherein is related in

full the story of Oedipus, that of the Seven Kings before Thèbes, and

the doings of the Epigoni.

There exist also cyclic poems in regard to the labors of Heracles,

among others one called Oechalia, which has proved a priceless mine

for poets, dramatists, painters, and sculptors.[1]

In the Alexandra by Lycophron (270 B.C.), and in a similar poem by

Quintus Smyrnaeus, in fourteen books, we find tedious sequels to the

Iliad, wherein Alexander is represented as a descendant of Achilles.

Indeed, the life and death of Alexander the Great are also the source

of innumerable epics, as well as of romances in Greek, Latin, French,

German, and English. The majority of these are based upon the epic of

Callisthenes, 110 A.D., wherein an attempt was made to prove that

Alexander descended directly from the Egyptian god Jupiter Ammon or,

at least, from his priest Nectanebus.

Besides being told in innumerable Greek versions, the tale of Troy has

frequently been repeated in Latin, and it enjoyed immense popularity

all throughout Europe in the Middle Ages. It was, however, most

beloved in France, where Benoit de St. Maur's interminable "Roman de

Troie," as well as his "Roman d'Alexandre," greatly delighted the

lords and ladies of his time.

Besides the works based on the story of Troy or on the adventures of

Alexander, we have in Greek the Theogony of Hesiod in some 1022 lines,

a miniature Greek mythology, giving the story of the origin and the

doings of the Greek gods, as well as the Greek theory in regard to the

creation of the world.

Among later Greek works we must also note the Shield of Heracles and

the Eoiae or Catalogue of the Boetian heroines who gave birth to

demi-gods or heroes.

In 194 B.C. Apollonius Rhodius at Alexandria wrote the Argonautica, in

four books, wherein he relates the adventures of Jason in quest of the

golden fleece. This epic was received so coldly that the poet, in

disgust, withdrew to Rhodes, where, having remodelled his work, he

obtained immense applause.

The principal burlesque epic in Greek, the Bactrachomyomachia, or

Battle of Frogs and Mice, is attributed to Homer, but only some 300

lines of this work remain, showing what it may have been.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A detailed account of Oedipus, Heracles, the Argonauts,

and the "War of Troy" is given in the author's "Myths of Greece and

Rome."]

THE ILIAD

_Introduction._ Jupiter, king of the gods, refrained from an alliance

with Thetis, a sea divinity, because he was told her son would be

greater than his father. To console her, however, he decreed that all

the gods should attend her nuptials with Peleus, King of Thessaly. At

this wedding banquet the Goddess of Discord produced a golden apple,

inscribed "To the fairest," which Juno, Minerva, and Venus claimed.

Because the gods refused to act as umpires in this quarrel, Paris, son

of the King of Troy, was chosen. As an oracle had predicted before his

birth that he would cause the ruin of his city, Paris was abandoned on

a mountain to perish, but was rescued by kindly shepherds.

On hearing Juno offer him worldly power, Minerva boundless wisdom, and

Venus the most beautiful wife in the world, Paris bestowed the prize

of beauty upon Venus. She, therefore, bade him return to Troy, where

his family was ready to welcome him, and sail thence to Greece to

kidnap Helen, daughter of Jupiter and Leda and wife of Menelaus, King

of Sparta. So potent were this lady's charms that her step-father had

made all her suitors swear never to carry her away from her husband,

and to aid in her recovery should she ever be kidnapped.

Shortly after his arrival at Sparta and during a brief absence of

its king, Paris induced Helen to elope with him. On his return the

outraged husband summoned the suitors to redeem their pledge, and

collected a huge force at Aulis, where Agamemnon his brother became

leader of the expedition. Such was the popularity of this war that

even heroes who had taken no oath were anxious to make part of the

punitive expedition, the most famous of these warriors being Achilles,

son of Thetis and Peleus.

After many adventures the Greeks, landing on the shores of Asia, began

besieging the city, from whose ramparts Helen watched her husband and

his allies measure their strength against the Trojans. Such was the

bravery displayed on both sides that the war raged nine years without

any decisive advantage being obtained. At the end of this period,

during a raid, the Greeks secured two female captives, which were

awarded to Agamemnon and to Achilles in recognition of past services.

Although the above events are treated in sundry other Greek poems and

epics,--which no longer exist entire, but form part of a cycle,--"The

Iliad," accredited to Homer, takes up the story at this point, and

relates the wrath of Achilles, together with the happenings of some

fifty days in the ninth year.

_Book I._ After invoking the Muse to aid him sing the wrath of

Achilles, the poet relates how Apollo's priest came in person to the

Greek camp to ransom his captive daughter, only to be treated with

contumely by Agamemnon. In his indignation this priest besought Apollo

to send down a plague to decimate the foe's forces, and the Greeks

soon learned from their oracles that its ravages would not cease until

the maiden was restored to her father.

Nor will the god's awaken'd fury cease,

But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase,

Till the great king, without a ransom paid,

To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.[2]

In a formal council Agamemnon is therefore asked to relinquish his

captive, but violently declares that he will do so only in case he

receives Achilles' slave. This insolent claim so infuriates the young

hero that he is about to draw his sword, when Minerva, unseen by the

rest, bids him hold his hand, and state that should Agamemnon's threat

be carried out he will withdraw from the war.

Although the aged Nestor employs all his honeyed eloquence to soothe

this quarrel, both chiefs angrily withdraw, Agamemnon to send his

captive back to her father, and Achilles to sulk in his tent.

It is while he is thus engaged that Agamemnon's heralds appear and

lead away his captive. Mindful of Minerva's injunctions, Achilles

allows her to depart, but registers a solemn oath that, even were the

Greeks to perish, he will lend them no aid. Then, strolling down to

the shore, he summons his mother from the watery deep, and implores

her to use her influence to avenge his wrongs. Knowing his life will

prove short though glorious, Thetis promises to visit Jupiter on

Olympus in his behalf. There she wins from the Father of the Gods a

promise that the Greeks will suffer defeat as long as her son does not

fight in their ranks,--a promise confirmed by his divine nod. This,

however, arouses the wrath and jealousy of Juno, whom Jupiter is

compelled to chide so severely that peace and harmony are restored in

Olympus only when Vulcan, acting as cup-bearer, rouses the

inextinguishable laughter of the gods by his awkward limp.

_Book II._ That night, while all are sleeping, Zeus sends a deceptive

dream to Agamemnon to suggest the moment has come to attack Troy. At

dawn, therefore, Agamemnon calls an assembly, and the chiefs decide to

test the mettle of the Greeks by ordering a return home, and, in the

midst of these preparations, summoning the men to fight.

These signs of imminent departure incense Juno and Minerva, who, ever

since the golden apple was bestowed upon Venus, are sworn foes of

Paris and Troy. In disguise, therefore, Minerva urges Ulysses,

wiliest of the Greeks, to silence the clown Thersites, and admonish

his companions that if they return home empty-handed they will be

disgraced. Only too pleased, Ulysses reminds his countrymen how, just

before they left home, a serpent crawled from beneath the altar and

devoured eight young sparrows and the mother who tried to defend them,

adding that this was an omen that for nine years they would vainly

besiege Troy but would triumph in the tenth.

His eloquent reminder, reinforced by patriotic speeches from Nestor

and Agamemnon, determines the Greeks to attempt a final attack upon

Troy. So, with the speed and destructive fury of a furious fire, the

Greek army, whose forces and leaders are all named, sweeps on toward

Troy, where Iris has flown to warn the Trojans of their approach.

As on some mountain, through the lofty grove

The crackling flames ascend and blaze above;

The fires expanding, as the winds arise,

Shoot their long beams and kindle half the skies:

So from the polish'd arms and brazen shields

A gleamy splendor flash'd along the fields.

It is in the form of one of Priam's sons that this divinity enters the

palace, where, as soon as Hector hears the news, he musters his

warriors, most conspicuous among whom are his brother Paris, and

Aeneas, son of Venus and Anchises.

_Book III._ Both armies now advance toward each other, the Trojans

uttering shrill cries like migratory cranes, while the Greeks maintain

an impressive silence. When near enough to recognize his wife's

seducer, Menelaus rushes forward to attack Paris, who, terrified,

takes refuge in the ranks of the Trojan host. So cowardly a retreat,

however, causes Hector to express the bitter wish that his brother had

died before bringing disgrace upon Troy. Although conscious of

deserving reproof, Paris, after reminding his brother all men are not

constituted alike, offers to redeem his honor by fighting Menelaus,

provided Helen and her treasures are awarded to the victor. This

proposal proves so welcome, that Hector checks the advance of his men

and proposes this duel to the Greeks, who accept his terms, provided

Priam will swear in person to the treaty.

Meanwhile Iris, in guise of a princess, has entered the Trojan palace

and bidden Helen hasten to the ramparts to see the two armies--instead

of fighting--offering sacrifices as a preliminary to the duel, of

which she is to be the prize. Donning a veil and summoning her

attendants, Helen seeks the place whence Priam and his ancient

counsellors gaze down upon the plain. On beholding her, even these

aged men admit the two nations are excusable for so savagely disputing

her possession, while Priam, with fatherly tact, ascribes the war to

the gods alone.

These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower,

In secret own'd resistless beauty's power:

They cried, "No wonder such celestial charms

For nine long years have set the world in arms;

What winning grace! what majestic mien!

She moves a goddess and she looks a queen!"

Then he invites Helen to sit beside him and name the Greeks he points

out, among whom she recognizes, with bitter shame, her brother-in-law

Agamemnon, Ulysses the wily, and Ajax the bulwark of Greece. Then,

while she is vainly seeking the forms of her twin brothers, messengers

summon Priam down-to the plain to swear to the treaty, a task he has

no sooner performed than he drives back to Troy, leaving Hector and

Ulysses to measure out the duelling ground and to settle by lot which

champion shall strike first.

Fate having favored Paris, he advances in brilliant array, and soon

contrives to shatter Menelaus' sword. Thus deprived of a weapon,

Menelaus boldly grasps his adversary by his plumed helmet and drags

him away, until, seeing her protégé in danger, Venus breaks the

fastenings of his helmet, which alone remains in Menelaus' hands. Then

she spirits Paris back to the Trojan palace, where she leaves him

resting on a couch, and hurries off, in the guise of an old crone, to

twitch Helen's veil, whispering that Paris awaits her at home.

Recognizing the goddess in spite of her disguise, Helen reproaches

her, declaring she has no desire ever to see Paris again, but Venus,

awing Helen into submission, leads her back to the palace. There

Paris, after artfully ascribing Menelaus' triumph to Minerva's aid,

proceeds to woo Helen anew. Meantime Menelaus vainly ranges to and

fro, seeking his foe and hotly accusing the Trojans of screening him,

while Agamemnon clamors for the immediate surrender of Helen, saving

the Greeks have won.

_Book IV._ The gods on Mount Olympus, who have witnessed all, now

taunt each other with abetting the Trojans or Greeks, as the case may

be. After this quarrel has raged some time, Jupiter bids Minerva go

down, and violate the truce; so, in the guise of a warrior, she

prompts a Trojan archer to aim at Menelaus a dart which produces a

nominal wound. This is enough, however, to excite Agamemnon to avenge

the broken treaty. A moment later the Greek phalanx advances, urged on

by Minerva, while the Trojans, equally inspired by Mars, rush to meet

them with similar fury. Streams of blood now flow, the earth trembles

beneath the crash of falling warriors, and the roll of war chariots is

like thunder. Although it seems for a while as if the Greeks are

gaining the advantage, Apollo spurs the Trojans to new efforts by

reminding them that Achilles, their most dreaded foe, is absent.

_Book V._ Seeing the battle well under way, Minerva now drags Mars out

of the fray, suggesting that mortals settle their quarrel unaided.

Countless duels now occur, many lives are lost, and sundry miracles

are performed. Diomedes, for instance, being instantly healed of a

grievous wound by Minerva, plunges back into the fray and fights until

Aeneas bids an archer check his destructive career. But this man is

slain before he can obey, and Aeneas himself would have been killed by

Diomedes had not Venus snatched him away from the battle-field. While

she does this, Diomedes wounds her in the hand, causing her to drop

her son, whom Apollo rescues, while she hastens off to obtain from

Mars the loan of his chariot, wherein to drive back to Olympus. There,

on her mother's breast, Venus sobs out the tale of her fright, and,

when healed, is sarcastically advised to leave fighting to the other

gods and busy herself only with the pleasures of love.

The sire of gods and men superior smiled,

And, calling Venus, thus address'd his child:

"Not these, O daughter, are thy proper cares,

Thee milder arts befit, and softer wars;

Sweet smiles are thine, and kind endearing charms;

To Mars and Pallas leave the deeds of arms."

Having snatched Aeneas out of danger, Apollo conveys him to Pergamus

to be healed, leaving on the battle-field in his stead a phantom to

represent him. Then Apollo challenges Mars to avenge Venus' wound, and

the fray which ensues becomes so bloody that "Homeric battle" has been

ever since the accepted term for fierce fighting. It is because Mars

and Bellona protect Hector that the Trojans now gain some advantage,

seeing which, Juno and Minerva hasten to the rescue of the Greeks.

Arriving on the battle-field, Juno, assuming the form of Stentor

(whose brazen tones have become proverbial), directs the Greek

onslaught. Meanwhile, instigated by Minerva, Diomedes attacks Mars,

who, receiving a wound, emits such a roar of pain that both armies

shudder. Then he too is miraculously conveyed to Olympus, where, after

exhibiting his wound, he denounces Minerva who caused it. But,

although Jupiter sternly rebukes his son, he takes such prompt

measures to relieve his suffering, that Mars is soon seated at the

Olympian board, where before long he is joined by Juno and Minerva.

_Book VI._ Meanwhile the battle rages, and in the midst of broken

chariots, flying steeds, and clouds of dust, we descry Menelaus and

Agamemnon doing wonders and hear Nestor cheering on the Greeks. The

Trojans are about to yield before their onslaught, when a warrior

warns Hector, and the just returned Aeneas, of their dire peril.

After conferring hastily with his friends, Hector returns to Troy to

direct the women to implore Minerva's favor, while Aeneas goes to

support their men. At the Scaean Gate, Hector meets the mothers,

wives, and daughters of the combatants, who, at his suggestion, gladly

prepare costly offerings to be borne to Minerva's temple in solemn

procession.

Then Hector himself rushes to the palace, where, refusing all

refreshment, he goes in quest of Paris, whom he finds in the company

of Helen and her maids, idly polishing his armor. Indignantly Hector

informs his brother the Trojans are perishing without the walls in

defence of the quarrel he kindled, but which he is too cowardly to

uphold! Although admitting he deserves reproaches, Paris declares he

is about to return to the battle-field, for Helen has just rekindled

all his ardor. Seeing Hector does not answer, Helen timidly expresses

her regret at having caused these woes, bitterly wishing fate had

bound her to a man noble enough to feel and resent an insult. With a

curt recommendation to send Paris after him as soon as possible,

Hector hastens off to his own dwelling, for he longs to embrace his

wife and son, perhaps for the last time.

There he finds none but the servants at home, who inform him that his

wife has gone to the watch-tower, whither he now hastens. The meeting

between Hector and Andromache, her tender reproaches at the risks he

runs, and her passionate reminder that since Achilles deprived her of

her kin he is her sole protector, form the most touching passage in

the Iliad. Gently reminding her he must go where honor calls, and

sadly admitting he is haunted by visions of fallen Troy and of her

plight as a captive, Hector adds that to protect her from such a fate

he must fight. But when he holds out his arms to his child, the little

one, terrified by the plumes on his helmet, refuses to come to him

until he lays it aside. Having embraced his infant son, Hector

fervently prays he may grow up to defend the Trojans, ere he hands

him back to Andromache, from whom he also takes tender leave.

Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy

Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.

The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,

Seared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.

With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled

And Hector hasted to relieve his child,

The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,

And placed the beaming helmet on the ground;

Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air,

Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer:

"O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne,

And all ye deathless powers! protect my son!

Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,

To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,

Against his country's foes the war to wage,

And rise the Hector of the future age!

So when triumphant from successful toils

Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,

Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,

And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame:'

While pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy,

His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."

Then, resuming his helmet, Hector drives out of the Scaean Gate and is

joined by his brother Paris, now full of ambition to fight.

_Book VII._ Joyfully the Trojans hail the arrival of both brothers,

before whose fierce onslaught the Greeks soon fall back in their turn.

Meanwhile Minerva and Apollo, siding with opposite forces, decide to

inspire the Trojans to challenge the Greeks to a single fight, and,

after doing this, perch upon a tree, in the guise of vultures, to

watch the result. Calling for a suspension of hostilities, Hector

dares any Greek to fight him, stipulating that the arms of the

vanquished shall be the victor's prize, but that his remains shall

receive honorable burial. Conscious that none of their warriors--save

Achilles--match Hector, the Greeks at first hesitate, but, among the

nine who finally volunteer, Ajax is chosen by lot to be the Greek

champion. Overjoyed at this opportunity to distinguish himself, Ajax

advances with boastful confidence to meet Hector, who, undismayed by

his size and truculent speeches, enters into the fight. The duel is,

however, not fought to a finish, for the heralds interrupt it at

nightfall, pronouncing the champions equal in strength and skill and

postponing its issue until the morrow.

In his elation Ajax offers thanks to Jupiter before attending a

banquet, where Nestor prudently advises his friends to fortify their

camp by erecting earthworks. While the Greeks are feasting, the

Trojans debate whether it would not be wise to apologize for the

broken truce and restore Helen and her treasures to the Greeks. But

this suggestion is so angrily rejected by Paris that Priam suggests

they propose instead an armistice of sufficient length to enable both

parties to bury their dead.

At dawn, therefore, Trojan heralds visit Agamemnon's tent to propose a

truce, and offer any indemnification save Helen's return. But,

although the Greeks consent to an armistice, they feel so confident of

success that they refuse all offers of indemnity. Both parties now

bury their dead, a sight witnessed by the gods, who, gazing down from

Olympus, become aware of the earthen ramparts .erected during the

night to protect the Greek fleet. This sight prompts Neptune to

express jealous fears lest these may eclipse the walls he built around

Troy, but Jupiter pacifies him by assuring him he can easily bury them

beneath the sand as soon as the war is over.

_Book VIII._ At daybreak Jupiter summons the gods, forbidding them to

lend aid to either party, under penalty of perpetual imprisonment in

Tartarus. Having decreed this, Jupiter betakes himself to Mount Ida,

whence he proposes to watch all that is going on. It is there, at

noon, that he takes out his golden balances, and places in opposite

scales the fates of Troy and Greece. A moment later a loud clap of

thunder proclaims the day's advantage will remain with the Trojans,

whose leader, Hector, is protected by Jupiter's thunder-bolts each

time that Diomedes attacks him. This manifestation of divine favor

strikes terror in the hearts of the Greeks, but encourages the

Trojans. They, therefore, hotly pursue the Greeks to their ramparts,

which Hector urges them to scale when the foe seeks refuge behind

them.

Seeing the peril of the Greeks, Juno urges Agamemnon to visit Ulysses'

tent, and there proclaim, in such loud tones that Achilles cannot fail

to overhear him, that their vessels will soon be in flames. Then,

fearing for his companions, Agamemnon prays so fervently for aid that

an eagle flies over the camp and drops a lamb upon the Greek altar.

This omen of good fortune renews the courage of the Greeks, and

stimulates the archer Teucer to cause new havoc in the Trojan ranks

with his unfailing arrows, until Hector hurls a rock, which lays him

low, and rushes into the Greek camp.

Full of anxiety for their protégés, Juno and Minerva forget Jupiter's

injunctions, and are about to hurry off to their rescue, when the king

of the gods bids them stop, assuring them the Greeks will suffer

defeat, until, Patroclus having fallen, Achilles arises to avenge him.

When the setting sun signals the close of the day's fight, although

the Greeks are still in possession of their tents, the Trojans bivouac

in the plain, just outside the trench, to prevent their escape.

_Book IX._ Such anxiety reigns in the Greek camp that Agamemnon holds

a council in his tent. There, almost choked by tears, he declares no

alternative remains save flight, but Diomedes so hotly contradicts him

that the Greeks decide to remain. At Nestor's suggestion, Agamemnon

then tries to atone for his insult to Achilles by gifts and apologies,

instructing the bearers to promise the return of the captive and to

offer an alliance with one of his daughters, if Achilles will only

come to their aid. Wending their way through the moonlit camp, these

emissaries find Achilles idly listening to Patroclus' music. After

delivering the message, Ulysses makes an eloquent appeal in behalf of

his countrymen, but Achilles coldly rejoins the Greeks will have to

defend themselves as he is about to depart. Such is his resentment

that he refuses to forgive Agamemnon, although his aged tutor urges

him to be brave enough to conquer himself. Most reluctantly therefore

Ulysses and Ajax return, and, although sleep hovers over Achilles'

tent, dismay reigns within that of Agamemnon, until Diomedes vows they

will yet prove they do not need Achilles' aid.

_Book X._ Exhausted by the day's efforts, most of the Greeks have

fallen asleep, when Agamemnon, after conversing for a while with

Menelaus, arouses Nestor, Ulysses, and Diomedes to inspect their

posts. It is in the course of these rounds that Nestor suggests one of

their number steal into the Trojan camp to discover their plans. This

suggestion is eagerly seized by Diomedes and Ulysses, who, on their

way to the enemy's camp, encounter Dolon, a Trojan spy, who is coming

to find out what they are planning. Crouching among the corpses,

Diomedes and Ulysses capture this man, from whom they wring all the

information they require, together with exact directions to find the

steeds of Rhesus. To secure this prize, Ulysses and Diomedes steal

into the Trojan camp, where, after slaying a few sleepers, they

capture the steeds and escape in safety, thanks to Minerva's aid. On

seeing his friends emerge from the gloom with so glorious a prize,

Nestor, who has been anxiously watching, expresses great joy, and

invites his companions to refresh themselves after their exertions.

Old Nestor first perceived the approaching sound,

Bespeaking thus the Grecian peers around:

"Methinks the noise of trampling steeds I hear,

Thickening this way, and gathering on my ear;

Perhaps some horses of the Trojan breed

(So may, ye gods! my pious hopes succeed)

The great Tydides and Ulysses bear,

Return'd triumphant with this prize of war."

_Book XI._ At daybreak Jupiter sends Discord to waken the Greeks and,

when they appear in battle array, hurls a thunder-bolt as a signal for

the fight to begin. Stimulated by Hector's ardor, the Trojans now

pounce like ravening wolves upon their foes, but, in spite of their

courage, are driven back almost to the Scean Gate. To encourage

Hector, however, Jupiter warns him, that once Agamemnon is wounded the

tide will turn. Soon after, a javelin strikes Agamemnon, and Hector,

seeing him borne to his tent, urges his men on with new vehemence

until he forces back the Greeks in his turn. In the ensuing medley

both Diomedes and Ulysses are wounded, and Achilles, moodily lounging

on the prow of his ship, sees Nestor bring them into camp. Wishing to

ascertain who has been hurt, he sends Patroclus to find out. Thus this

warrior learns how many of the Greeks are wounded, and is persuaded to

try to induce Achilles to assist their countrymen, or at least to

allow his friend to lead his forces to their rescue.

_Book XII._ Although the Trojans are now fiercely trying to enter the

Greek camp, their efforts are baffled until Hector, dismounting from

his chariot, attacks the mighty wall which the gods are to level as

soon as the war is over. Thanks to his efforts, its gates are battered

in, and the Trojans pour into the Greek camp, where many duels occur,

and where countless warriors are slain on both sides.

_Book XIII._ Having effected an entrance into the camp, the Trojans

rush forward to set fire to the ships, hoping thus to prevent the

escape of their foes. Perceiving the peril of the Greeks, Neptune, in

the guise of a priest, urges them to stand fast.

Then with his sceptre, that the deep controls,

He touched the chiefs and steel'd their manly souls:

Strength, not their own, the touch divine imparts,

Prompts their light limbs, and swells their daring hearts.

Then, as a falcon from the rocky height,

Her quarry seen, impetuous at the sight,

Forth-springing instant, darts herself from high,

Shoots on the wing, and skims along the sky:

Such, and so swift, the power of ocean flew;

The wide horizon shut him from their view.

But the advantage does not remain continuously with the Trojans, for

Hector is soon beaten back, and, seeing his people's peril, again

hotly reviles Paris, whose crime has entailed all this bloodshed.

_Book XIV._ In the midst of the gloom caused by a new irruption of the

Trojans in the Greek camp, Nestor hastens to the spot where the

wounded Agamemnon, Ulysses, and Diomedes are watching the fight. But,

although Agamemnon renews his former suggestion that they depart,

Diomedes and Ulysses, scorning it, prepare to return to the fray, in

spite of their wounds. This renewal of Greek courage pleases Juno,

who, fearing Jupiter will again interfere in behalf of the Trojans,

proceeds by coquettish wiles and with the aid of the God of Sleep to

lull him into a state of forgetfulness. This feat accomplished, Juno

sends Sleep to urge the Greeks to make the most of this respite, and,

thus stimulated, they fight on, until Ajax hurls a rock which lays

Hector low. But, before he and his companions can secure this victim,

Hector is rescued by his men, who speedily convey him to the river,

where plentiful bathing soon restores his senses.

_Book XV._ Thus temporarily deprived of a leader, the Trojans fall

back to the place where they left their chariots. They are just

mounting in confusion, in order to flee, when Jupiter, rousing from

his nap, and realizing how he has been tricked, discharges his wrath

upon Juno's head. Hearing her attribute the blame to Neptune, Jupiter

wrathfully orders his brother back to his realm and despatches Apollo

to cure Hector. Then he reiterates that the Greeks shall be worsted

until Patroclus, wearing Achilles' armor, takes part in the fray. He

adds that, after slaying his son Sarpedon, this hero will succumb

beneath Hector's sword, and that, to avenge Patroclus' death, Achilles

will slay Hector and thus insure the fall of Troy.

Once more the Trojans drive back the Greeks, who would have given up

in despair had not Jupiter encouraged them by a clap of thunder.

Hearing the Trojans again burst into camp, Patroclus rushes out of

Achilles' tent and sees Teucer winging one deadly arrow after another

among the foe. But, in spite of his skill, and although Ajax fights

like a lion at bay, Hector and the Trojans press fiercely forward,

torch in hand, to fire the Greek ships.

_Book XVI._ Appalled by this sight, Patroclus rushes back to Achilles,

and, after vainly urging him to fight, persuades him to lend him his

armor, chariot, and men. But, even while furthering his friend's

departure, Achilles charges him neither to slay Hector nor take Troy,

as he wishes to reserve that double honor for himself. It is just as

the first vessels are enveloped in flames that Patroclus rushes to the

rescue of his countrymen. At the sight of a warrior whom they mistake

for Achilles, and at this influx of fresh troops, the Trojans beat a

retreat, and the Greeks, fired with new courage, pursue them across

the plain and to the very gates of Troy. Such is Patroclus' ardor

that, forgetting Achilles' injunctions, he is about to attack Hector,

when Sarpedon challenges him to a duel. Knowing this fight will prove

fatal to his beloved son, Jupiter causes a bloody dew to fall upon

earth, and despatches Sleep and Death to take charge of his remains,

which they are to convey first to Olympus to receive a fatherly kiss

and then to Lycia for burial. No sooner is Sarpedon slain than a grim

fight ensues over his spoil and remains, but while the Greeks secure

his armor, his corpse is borne away by Apollo, who, after purifying it

from all battle soil, entrusts it to Sleep and Death.

Meantime, renewing his pursuit of the Trojans, Patroclus is about to

scale the walls of Troy, when Apollo reminds him the city is not to

fall a prey either to him or to his friend. Then, in the midst of a

duel in which Patroclus engages with Hector, Apollo snatches the

helmet off the Greek hero's head, leaving him thus exposed to his

foe's deadly blows. The dying Patroclus, therefore, declares that had

not the gods betrayed him he would have triumphed, and predicts that

Achilles will avenge his death. Meantime, pleased with having slain so

redoubtable a foe, Hector makes a dash to secure Achilles' chariot and

horses, but fails because the driver (Automedon) speeds away.

_Book XVII._ On seeing Patroclus fall, Menelaus rushes forward to

defend his remains and rescue Achilles' armor from the foe. Warned of

this move, Hector abandons the vain pursuit of Achilles' chariot, and

returns to claim his spoil. He has barely secured it when Menelaus and

Ajax attack him, and a mad battle takes place over Patroclus' remains,

while Achilles' horses weep for the beloved youth who so often

caressed them.

_Book XVIII._ No sooner is the death of Patroclus known in Achilles'

tent than the female captives wail, while the hero groans so loudly

that Thetis hears him. Rising from the depths of the sea, she hurries

to his side, regretting his brief life should be marred by so much

sorrow. Then, hearing him swear to avenge his friend, she entreats him

to wait until the morrow, so she can procure him armor from Vulcan.

Having obtained this promise, she hastens off to visit the god and

bespeak his aid in behalf of her son.

Meanwhile the Greeks, who are trying to bear away Patroclus' remains,

are so hard pressed by the Trojans that Juno sends word Achilles must

interfere. Hampered by a lack of armor and by the promise to his

mother, the hero ventures only as far as the trench, where, however,

he utters so threatening a war-cry that the Trojans flee, and the

Greeks are thus able to bring Patroclus' body safely into camp, just

as the sun sets and the day's fighting ends.

Having unharnessed their steeds, the Trojans assemble to consider

whether it will not be best to retreat within their walls, for they

know Achilles will appear on the morrow to avenge Patroclus. But

Hector so vehemently insists that they maintain the advantage gained,

that they camp on the plain, where Jupiter predicts his wife's wish

will be granted and her favorite Achilles win great glory. It is in

the course of that night that Thetis visits Vulcan's forge and in the

attitude of a suppliant implores the divine blacksmith to make an

armor for her son. Not only does Vulcan consent, but hurries off to

his anvil, where he and Cyclops labor to such good purpose that a

superb suit of armor is ready by dawn.

_Book XIX._ Aurora has barely risen from the bosom of the sea, when

Thetis enters her son's tent, bearing these wonderful weapons. Finding

him still weeping over his friend's remains, Thetis urges him to rouse

himself and fight. At the sight of the armor she brings, Achilles'

ardor is so kindled that he proclaims he will avenge his friend.

Pleased to think the Greeks will have the help of this champion,

Agamemnon humbly apologizes for the past, proffering gifts and a

feast, which latter Achilles refuses to attend as long as Patroclus is

unavenged. Before entering into battle, however, our hero implores his

divine steeds to do their best, only to be warned by one of them that,

although they will save him to-day, the time is fast coming when he

too will fall victim to the anger of the gods. Undaunted by this

prophecy, Achilles jumps into his chariot and sets out for the fray,

uttering his blood-curdling war-cry.

With unabated rage--"So let it be!

Portents and prodigies are lost on me.

I know my fate: to die, to see no more

My much-loved parents and my native shore--

Enough--when heaven ordains, I sink in night:

Now perish Troy!" He said, and rush'd to fight.

_Book XX._ The gods, assembled on Mount Olympus, are told by Jupiter

that, whereas he intends merely to witness the fight, they may all

take part in it, provided they remember Achilles is to reap the main

honors of the day. Hearing this, the gods dart off to side with Troy

and Greece, as their inclinations prompt, and thus take an active part

in the battle, for which Jupiter gives the signal by launching a

thunder-bolt. Not only do the gods fight against each other on this

day, but use all their efforts to second their favorites in every way.

Before long, however, it becomes so evident they are merely delaying

the inevitable issue, that they agree to withdraw from the field,

leaving mortals to settle the matter themselves.

There are vivid descriptions of sundry encounters, including one

between Achilles and Aeneas, wherein both heroes indulge in boastful

speeches before coming to blows. At one time, when Aeneas is about to

get the worst of it, the gods, knowing he is reserved for greater

things, snatch him from the battle-field and convey him to a place of

safety. Thus miraculously deprived of his antagonist, Achilles resumes

his quest for Hector, who has hitherto been avoiding him, but who,

seeing one of his brothers fall beneath the Greek's blows, meets him

bravely. But, as the moment of Hector's death has not yet come, the

gods separate these two fighters, although their hatred is such that,

whenever they catch a glimpse of each other, they rush forward to

renew the fight.

_Book XXI._ Fleeing before the Greeks, the Trojans reach the Xanthus

River, into which Achilles plunges after them, and where, after

killing hosts of victims, he secures a dozen prisoners to sacrifice on

his friend's tomb. Hearing Achilles refuse mercy to a young Trojan,

and enraged because he has choked his bed with corpses, the River God

suddenly rises to chide him, but Achilles is now in so defiant a mood

that he is ready to fight even the gods themselves. In spite of his

courage he would, however, have been drowned, had not Neptune and

Minerva come to his rescue, fighting the waters with fire, and

assuring him Hector will soon lie lifeless at his feet.

He ceased; wide conflagration blazing round;

The bubbled waters yield a hissing sound.

As when the flames beneath a cauldron rise,

To melt the fat of some rich sacrifice,

Amid the fierce embrace of circling fires

The waters foam, the heavy smoke aspires:

So boils the imprison'd flood, forbid to flow,

And choked with vapors feels his bottom glow.

The course of this day's fighting is anxiously watched by old King

Priam from the top of the Trojan ramparts, and, when he sees

Achilles' forces pursuing his fleeing army across the plain, he orders

the gates opened to admit the fugitives, and quickly closed again so

the foe cannot enter too. To facilitate this move, Apollo assumes the

guise of Hector and decoys Achilles away from the gates until the bulk

of the Trojan army is safe.

_Book XXII._ Meantime the real Hector is stationed beside the gate,

and Achilles, suddenly perceiving he has been pursuing a mere phantom,

darts with a cry of wrath toward his foe. Seeing him coming, Hector's

parents implore him to seek refuge within the walls, but the young man

is too brave to accept such a proposal. Still, when he sees the fire

in Achilles' eyes, he cannot resist an involuntary recoil, and

turning, flees, with Achilles in close pursuit, hurling taunts at him.

These warriors circle the citadel, until the gods, looking on, knowing

they can no longer defer Hector's death, but wishing it to be

glorious, send Apollo down to urge him to fight. In the guise of one

of Hector's brothers, this god offers to aid him, so, thus supported,

Hector turns to meet Achilles, with whom before fighting he tries to

bargain that the victor shall respect the remains of the vanquished.

But Achilles refuses to listen to terms, and in the course of the

ensuing duel is ably seconded by Minerva, while Hector, who depends

upon his supposed brother to supply him with weapons when his fail, is

basely deserted by Apollo.

Seeing him disarmed, Achilles finally deals him a deadly blow, and,

although the dying hero tries to abate his resentment, loudly

proclaims he shall be a prey to vultures and wolves. Hearing this,

Hector curses his conqueror and dies, predicting Achilles shall be

slain by Paris. His victim having breathed his last, Achilles ties him

by the heels to his chariot, and then drives off with Hector's noble

head trailing in the dust!

Meantime Andromache, busy preparing for her husband's return, is so

startled by loud cries that she rushes off to the ramparts to find out

what has occurred. Arriving there just in time to see her husband

dragged away, she faints at the pitiful sight, and, on coming back to

her senses, bewails her sad fate, foresees an unhappy fate for her

infant son, and regrets not being able to bury her beloved husband.

_Book XXIII._ On reaching his tent with his victim, Achilles drags it

around Patroclus' remains, apostrophizing him and assuring him that

twelve Trojans shall be executed on his pyre, while his slayer's body

shall be a prey to the dogs. Then, having cast Hector's corpse on the

refuse heap, Achilles assembles the Greeks in his tent for a funeral

repast, after which they retire, leaving him to mourn. That night he

is visited by Patroclus' spirit, which warns him he will soon have to

die, and bespeaks funeral rites. This vision convinces Achilles that

the human soul does not perish with the body, and impels him to rouse

his companions at dawn to erect a huge pyre on the shore, where

innumerable victims are to be sacrificed to satisfy his friend's

spirit. Then he renews his promise that Hector's body shall be a prey

to the dogs, little suspecting that Venus has mounted guard over it,

so that no harm may befall it.

In describing the building and lighting of the pyre, the poet relates

how the flames were fanned by opposite winds, depicts the sacrifices

offered, the funeral games celebrated, and explains how the ashes were

finally placed in an urn, where those of Achilles were in time to

mingle with those of his friend.

_Book XXIV._ Although most of the Greek warriors are resting after the

strenuous pleasures of the day, Achilles weeps in his tent until

daybreak, when he harnesses his horses to his chariot and again drags

Hector's body around Patroclus' tomb, little suspecting how Venus and

Apollo guard it from all harm. It is only on the twelfth day after

Patroclus' death, that the gods interfere in behalf of the Trojans, by

sending Iris to Priam to guide him to Achilles' tent, where they

assure him his prayers will obtain his son's body. The rainbow goddess

not only serves as guide to the mourning father, but brings him unseen

into Achilles' tent, where, falling at the hero's feet, the aged

Priam sues in such touching terms that the Greek warrior's heart melts

and tears stream down his cheeks. Not only does he grant Priam's

request, but assures him he is far happier than Peleus, since he still

has several sons to cheer him although Hector has been slain.

These words soft pity in the chief inspire,

Touch'd with the dear remembrance of his sire.

Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay)

The old man's cheek he gently turn'd away.

Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe;

And now the mingled tides together flow:

This low on earth, that gently bending o'er;

A father one, and one a son deplore:

But great Achilles different passions rend,

And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend.

The infectious softness through the heroes ran

One universal solemn shower began;

They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.

Still guided by Iris, Priam conveys the body of his son back to Troy,

where his mother, wife, and the other Trojan women utter a touching

lament. Then a funeral pyre is built, and the Iliad of Homer closes

with brave Hector's obsequies.

All Troy then moves to Priam's court again,

A solemn, silent, melancholy train:

Assembled there, from pious toil they rest,

And sadly shared the last sepulchral feast.

Such honors Ilion to her hero paid,

And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: All the quotations from the Iliad are taken from Pope's

translation.]

THE ODYSSEY

_Book I._ Homer's second great epic covers a period of forty-two days.

After the opening invocation he proceeds to relate the adventures of

Ulysses. Nearly ten years have elapsed since the taking of Troy, when

the gods looking down from Olympus behold him--sole survivor of his

troop--stranded on the Island of Calypso. After some mention of the

fate of the other Greeks, Jupiter decrees that Ulysses shall return to

Ithaca, where many suitors are besieging his wife Penelope. In

obedience with this decree, Pallas (Minerva) dons golden

sandals--which permit her to flit with equal ease over land and

sea--and visits Ithaca, where Ulysses' son, Telemachus, mournfully

views the squandering of his father's wealth. Here she is hospitably

received, and, after some conversation, urges Telemachus to visit the

courts of Nestor and Menelaus to inquire of these kings whether his

father is dead.

Telemachus has just promised to carry out this suggestion, when the

suitors' bard begins the recital of the woes which have befallen the

various Greek chiefs on their return from Troy. These sad strains

attract Penelope, who passionately beseeches the bard not to enhance

her sorrows by his songs!

Assuming a tone of authority for the first time, Telemachus bids his

mother retire and pray, then, addressing the suitors, vows that unless

they depart he will call down upon them the vengeance of the gods.

These words are resented by these men, who continue their revelry

until the night, when Telemachus retires, to dream of his projected

journey.

_Book II._ With dawn, Telemachus rises and betakes himself to the

market-place, where in public council he complains of the suitors'

depredations, and announces he is about to depart in quest of his

sire. In reply to his denunciations the suitors accuse Penelope of

deluding them, instancing how she promised to choose a husband as soon

as she had finished weaving a winding sheet for her father-in-law

Laertes. But, instead of completing this task as soon as possible, she

ravelled by night the work done during the day, until the suitors

discovered the trick.

"The work she plied; but, studious of delay,

By night reversed the labors of the day.

While thrice the sun his annual journey made,

The conscious lamp the midnight fraud survey'd;

Unheard, unseen, three years her arts prevail:

The fourth, her maid unfolds the amazing tale.

We saw as unperceived we took our stand,

The backward labors of her faithless hand"[3]

They now suggest that Telemachus send Penelope back to her father,

but the youth indignantly refuses, and the council closes while he

prays for vengeance. That he has not been unheard is proved by the

appearance of two eagles, which peck out the eyes of some of the

spectators. This is interpreted by an old man as an omen of Ulysses'

speedy return, and he admonishes all present to prove faithful, lest

they incur a master's wrath.

The assembly having dispersed, Telemachus hastens down to the shore,

where Minerva visits him in the guise of his tutor Mentor, and

instructs him to arrange for secret departure. Telemachus, therefore,

returns to the palace, where the suitors are preparing a new feast.

Refusing to join their revels, he seeks his old nurse Eurycleia, to

whom he entrusts the provisioning of his vessel, bidding her if

possible conceal his departure from Penelope for twelve days.

Meantime, in the guise of Telemachus, Minerva scours the town to

secure skilful oarsmen, and at sunset has a vessel ready to sail.

Then, returning to the palace, she enchains the senses of the suitors

in such deep slumber that Telemachus effects his, departure unseen,

and embarking with Mentor sets sail, his vessel speeding smoothly over

the waves all night.

_Book III._ At sunrise Telemachus reaches Pylos and finds Nestor and

his friends offering a sacrifice on the shore. Joining the

feasters,--who gather by fifties around tables groaning beneath the

weight of nine oxen apiece,--Telemachus makes known his name and

errand. In return, Nestor mentions the deaths of Patroclus and

Achilles, the taking of Troy, and the Greeks' departure from its

shores. He adds that, the gods having decreed they should not reach

home without sore trials, half the army lingered behind with Agamemnon

to offer propitiatory sacrifices, while the rest sailed on. Among

these were Nestor and Ulysses, but, while the former pressed on and

reached home, the latter, turning back to pacify the gods, was seen no

more! Since his return, Nestor has been saddened by the death of

Agamemnon, slain on his arrival at Mycenae by his faithless wife

Clytemnestra and her lover Aegistheus. His brother, Menelaus, more

fortunate, has recently reached home, having been long delayed in

Egypt by contrary winds.

While Nestor recounts these tales, day declines, so he invites

Telemachus to his palace for the night, promising to send him on the

morrow to Sparta, where he can question Menelaus himself. Although

Mentor urges Telemachus to accept this invitation, he declares he must

return to the ship, and vanishes in the shape of a bird, thus

revealing to all present his divine origin. A sumptuous meal in the

palace ensues, and the guest, after a good night, participates at

break of day in a solemn sacrifice.

_Book IV._ Riding in a chariot skilfully guided by one of Nestor's

sons, Telemachus next speeds on to Sparta, where he finds Menelaus

celebrating the marriages of a daughter and son. On learning that

strangers have arrived, Menelaus orders every attention shown them,

and only after they have been refreshed by food and drink, inquires

their errand. He states that he himself reached home only after

wandering seven years, and adds that he often yearns to know what has

become of Ulysses. At this name Telemachus' tears flow, and Helen, who

has just appeared, is struck by his resemblance to his father. When

Telemachus admits his identity, Menelaus and Helen mingle their tears

with his, for the memory of the past overwhelms them with sorrow. Then

to restore a more cheerful atmosphere, Helen casts "nepenthe" into the

wine, thanks to which beneficent drug all soon forget their woes. She

next relates how Ulysses once entered Troy in the guise of a beggar,

and how she alone recognized him in spite of his disguise. This

reminds Menelaus of the time when Ulysses restrained him and the other

Greeks in the wooden horse, and when Helen marched around it mimicking

the voices of their wives!

Soothed by "nepenthe," all retire to rest, and when morning dawns

Telemachus inquires whether Menelaus knows aught of his father. All

the information Menelaus vouchsafes is that when he surprised

Proteus, counting sea-calves on the island of Pharos, he was told he

would reach home only after making due sacrifices in Egypt to appease

the gods, that his brother had been murdered on arriving at Mycenae,

and that Ulysses--sole survivor of his crew--was detained by Calypso

in an island, whence he had no means of escape. The sea-god had

further promised that Menelaus should never die, stating that, as

husband of Helen and son-in-law of Jupiter, he would enjoy everlasting

bliss in the Elysian Fields. Then, after describing the sacrifices

which insured his return to Sparta, Menelaus invites Telemachus to

tarry with him, although the youth insists he must return home.

Meantime the suitors in Ulysses' palace entertain themselves with

games, in the midst of which they learn that Telemachus has gone.

Realizing that if he were dead Penelope's fortunate suitor would

become possessor of all Ulysses' wealth, they decide to man a vessel

to guard the port and slay Telemachus on his return. This plot is

overheard by a servant, who hastens to report it to Penelope. On

learning her son has ventured out to sea, she wrings her hands, and

reviles the nurse who abetted his departure until this wise woman

advises her rather to pray for her son's safe return! While Penelope

is offering propitiatory sacrifices, the suitors despatch a vessel in

Antinous' charge to lie in wait for the youth. But, during the sleep

which overcomes Penelope after her prayers, she is favored by a

vision, in which her sister assures her Telemachus will soon be

restored to her arms, although she refuses to give her any information

in regard to Ulysses.

_Book V._ Aurora has barely announced the return of day to gods and

men, when Jupiter assembles his council on Mount Olympus. There

Minerva rehearses Ulysses' grievances, demanding that he be at last

allowed to return home and his son saved from the suitors' ambush. In

reply Jupiter sends Mercury to bid Calypso provide her unwilling guest

with the means to leave her shores. Donning his golden sandals, the

messenger-god flits to the Island of Ogygia, enters Calypso's

wonderful cave, and delivers his message. Although reluctant to let

Ulysses depart, Calypso--not daring oppose the will of Jupiter--goes

in quest of her guest. Finding him gazing tearfully in the direction

of home, she promises to supply him with the means to build a raft

which, thanks to the gods, will enable him to reach Ithaca.

After a copious repast and a night's rest, Ulysses fells twenty trees

and constructs a raft, in which, after it has been provisioned by

Calypso, he sets sail. For seventeen days the stars serve as his

guides, and he is nearing the island of Phaeacia, when Neptune becomes

aware that his hated foe is about to escape. One stroke of the

sea-god's mighty trident then stirs up a tempest which dashes the raft

to pieces, and Ulysses is in imminent danger of perishing, when the

sea-nymph Leucothea gives him her life-preserving scarf, bidding him

cast it back into the waves when it has borne him safely to land!

Buoyed up by this scarf, Ulysses finally reaches the shore, where,

after obeying the nymph's injunctions, he buries himself in dead

leaves and sinks into an exhausted sleep.

Close to the cliff with both his hands he clung,

And stuck adherent, and suspended hung;

Till the huge surge roll'd off; then backward sweep

The refluent tides, and plunge him in the deep.

And when the polypus, from forth his cave

Torn with full force, reluctant beats the wave,

His ragged claws are stuck with stones and sands;

So the rough rock had shagg'd Ulysses' hands.

And now had perish'd, whelm'd beneath the main,

The unhappy man; e'en fate had been in vain;

But all-subduing Pallas lent her power,

And prudence saved him in the needful hour.

_Book VI._ While Ulysses is thus sleeping, Minerva, in a dream

admonishes Nausicaa, daughter of the Phaeacian king, to wash her

garments in readiness for her wedding. On awakening, the princess,

after bespeaking a chariot with mules to draw the clothes to the

washing place, departs with her maids for the shore.

The clothes washed and hung out to dry, the princess and her

attendants play ball, until their loud shrieks awaken Ulysses. Veiling

his nakedness behind leafy branches, he timidly approaches the

maidens, and addresses them from afar. Convinced he is, as he

represents, a shipwrecked man in need of aid, the princess provides

him with garments, and directs him to follow her chariot to the

confines of the city. There he is to wait until she has reached home

before presenting himself before her parents, as she does not wish his

presence with her to cause gossip in town.

_Book VII._ Having left Ulysses behind her, Nausicaa returns home,

where her chariot is unloaded; but shortly after she has retired,

Ulysses, guided by Minerva in disguise, enters the town and palace

unseen. It is only when, obeying Nausicaa's instructions, he seeks her

mother's presence and beseeches her aid, that he becomes visible to

all. King and queen gladly promise their protection to the suppliant,

who, while partaking of food, describes himself as a shipwrecked

mariner and asks to be sent home. After he has refreshed himself, the

queen, who has recognized the clothes he wears, learning how he

obtained them, delights in her daughter's charity and prudence. Then

she and her husband promise the wanderer their protection before

retiring to rest.

_Book VIII._ At daybreak the king conducts his guest to the public

square, where Minerva has summoned all the inhabitants. To this

assembly Alcinous makes known that a nameless stranger bespeaks their

aid, and proposes that after a banquet, where blind Demodocus will

entertain them with his songs, they load the suppliant with gifts and

send him home.

The projected festive meal is well under way when the bard begins

singing of a quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, strains which so

vividly recall happier days that Ulysses, drawing his cloak over his

head, gives way to tears. Noting this emotion, Alcinous checks the

bard and proposes games. After displaying their skill in racing,

wrestling, discus-throwing, etc., the contestants mockingly challenge

Ulysses to give an exhibition of his proficiency in games of strength

and skill. Stung by their covert taunts, the stranger casts the discus

far beyond their best mark, and avers that although out of practice he

is not afraid to match them in feats of strength, admitting, however,

that he cannot compete with them in fleetness of foot or in the dance.

His prowess in one line and frank confession of inferiority in another

disarm further criticism, and the young men dance until the bard

begins singing of Vulcan's stratagem to punish a faithless spouse.[4]

All the Phaeacians now present gifts to the stranger, who finds

himself rich indeed, but who assures Nausicaa he will never forget she

was the first to lend him aid. Toward the close of the festivities the

blind bard sings of the wooden horse devised by Ulysses and abandoned

on the shore by the retreating Greeks. Then he describes its

triumphant entry into Troy, where for the first time in ten years all

sleep soundly without dread of a surprise. But, while the too

confident Trojans are thus resting peacefully upon their laurels, the

Greeks, emerging from this wooden horse, open the gates to their

comrades, and the sack of Troy begins! Because the stranger guest

again shows great emotion, Alcinous begs him to relate his adventures

and asks whether he has lost some relative in the war of Troy?

Touch'd at the song, Ulysses straight resign'd

To soft affliction all his manly mind:

Before his eyes the purple vest he drew,

Industrious to conceal the falling dew:

But when the music paused, he ceased to shed

The flowing tear, and raised his drooping head:

And, lifting to the gods a goblet crown'd,

He pour'd a pure libation to the ground.

_Book IX._ Thus invited to speak, Ulysses, after introducing himself

and describing his island home, relates how, the ruin of Troy

completed, he and his men left the Trojan shores. Driven by winds to

Ismarus, they sacked the town, but, instead of sailing off immediately

with their booty as Ulysses urged, tarried there until surprised by

their foes, from whom they were glad to escape with their lives!

Tossed by a tempest for many days, the Greek ships next neared the

land of the Lotus-Eaters, people who feasted upon the buds and

blossoms of a narcotic lotus. Sending three men ashore to reconnoitre,

Ulysses vainly awaited their return; finally, mistrusting what had

happened, he went in quest of them himself, only to find that having

partaken of the lotus they were dead to the calls of home and

ambition. Seizing these men, Ulysses conveyed them bound to his ship,

and, without allowing the rest to land, sailed hastily away from those

pernicious shores.

Before long he came to the land of the Cyclops, and disembarked on a

small neighboring island to renew his stock of food and water. Then,

unwilling to depart without having at least visited the Cyclops, he

took twelve of his bravest men, a skin-bottle full of delicious wine,

and set out to find Polyphemus, chief of the Cyclops. On entering the

huge cave where this giant pursued his avocation of dairyman, Ulysses

and his companions built a fire, around which they sat awaiting their

host's return. Before long a huge one-eyed monster drove in his

flocks, and, after closing the opening of his cave with a rock which

no one else could move, proceeded to milk his ewes and make cheese.

It was only while at supper that he noticed Ulysses and his men, who

humbly approached him as suppliants. After shrewdly questioning them

to ascertain whether they were alone, believing Ulysses' tale that

they were shipwrecked men, he seized and devoured two of them before

he lay down to rest. Although sorely tempted to slay him while he was

thus at their mercy, Ulysses refrained, knowing he and his companions

would never be able to move the rock.

At dawn the giant again milked his flock, and devoured--as a relish

for his breakfast--two more Greeks. Then he easily rolled aside the

rock, which he replaced when he and his flock had gone out for the

day, thus imprisoning Ulysses and his eight surviving men. During

that long day Ulysses sharpened to a point a young pine, and, after

hardening this weapon in the fire, secured by lot the helpers he

needed to execute his plan. That evening Polyphemus, having finished

his chores and cannibal repast, graciously accepted the wine which

Ulysses offered him. Pleased with its taste, he even promised the

giver a reward if he would only state his name. The wily Ulysses

declaring he was called Noman, the giant facetiously promised to eat

him last, before he fell into a drunken sleep. Then Ulysses and his

four men, heating the pointed pine, bored out the eye of Polyphemus,

who howled with pain:

"Sudden I stir the embers, and inspire

With animating breath the seeds of fire;

Each drooping spirit with bold words repair,

And urge my train the dreadful deed to dare.

The stake now glow'd beneath the burning bed

(Green as it was) and sparkled fiery red.

Then forth the vengeful instrument I bring;

With beating hearts my fellows form a ring.

Urged by some present god, they swift let fall

The pointed torment on his visual ball.

Myself above them from a rising ground

Guide the sharp stake, and twirl it round and round.

As when a shipwright stands his workmen o'er,

Who ply the wimble, some huge beam to bore;

Urged on all hands it nimbly spins about,

The grain deep-piercing till it scoops it out;

In his broad eye so whirls the fiery wood;

From the pierced pupil spouts the boiling blood;

Singed are his brows; the scorching lids grow black;

The jelly bubbles, and the fibres crack."

His fellow-Cyclops, awakened by his cries, gathered without his cave,

asking what was the matter. But, hearing him vehemently howl that

Noman was hurting him, they all declared he was evidently being

punished by the gods and left him to his plight!

When morning came, the groaning Cyclops rolled aside the rock,

standing beside it with arms outstretched to catch his prisoners

should they attempt to escape. Seeing this, Ulysses tied his men under

the sheep, and, clinging to the fleece of the biggest ram, had himself

dragged out of the cave. Passing his hand over the backs of the sheep

to make sure the strangers were not riding on them, Polyphemus

recognized by touch his favorite ram, and feelingly ascribed its slow

pace to sympathy with his woes.

The master ram at last approach'd the gate,

Charged with his wool and with Ulysses' fate.

Him, while he pass'd, the monster blind bespoke:

"What makes my ram the lag of all the flock?

First thou wert wont to crop the flowery mead,

First to the field and river's bank to lead,

And first with stately step at evening hour

Thy fleecy fellows usher to their bower.

Now far the last, with pensive pace and slow

Thou movest, as conscious of thy master's woe!

Seest thou these lids that now unfold in vain,

(The deed of Noman and his wicked train?)

Oh! didst thou feel for thy afflicted lord,

And would but fate the power of speech afford;

Soon might'st thou tell me where in secret here

The dastard lurks, all trembling with his fear:

Swung round and round and dash'd from rock to rock,

His batter'd brains should on the pavement smoke.

No ease, no pleasure my sad heart receives,

While such a monster as vile Noman lives."

Once out of the cave, Ulysses cut the bonds of his men, with whose aid

he drove part of Polyphemus' flock on board of his ship, which he had

hidden in a cove. He and his companions were scudding safely past the

headland where blind Polyphemus idly sat, when Ulysses tauntingly

raised his voice to make known his escape and real name. With a cry of

rage, the giant flung huge masses of rock in the direction of his

voice, hotly vowing his father Neptune would yet avenge his wrongs!

_Book X._ After leaving the island of the Cyclops, Ulysses visited

Aeolus, king of the winds, and was hospitably entertained in his cave.

In token of friendship and to enable Ulysses to reach home quickly,

Aeolus bottled up all the contrary winds, letting loose only those

which would speed him on his way. On leaving Aeolus, Ulysses so

carefully guarded the skin bottle containing the adverse gales that

his men fancied it must contain jewels of great price. For nine days

and nights Ulysses guided the rudder, and only when the shores of

Ithaca came in sight closed his eyes in sleep. This moment was

seized by his crew to open the bottle, whence the captive winds

escaped with a roar, stirring up a hurricane which finally drove them

back to Aeolus' isle.

"They said: and (oh cursed fate!) the thongs unbound!

The gushing tempest sweeps the ocean round;

Snatch'd in the whirl, the hurried navy flew,

The ocean widen'd and the shores withdrew.

Roused from my fatal sleep, I long debate

If still to live, or desperate plunge to fate;

Thus doubting, prostrate on the deck I lay,

Till all the coward thoughts of death gave way."

On seeing them return with tattered sails, Aeolus averred they had

incurred the wrath of some god and therefore drove them away from his

realm. Toiling at the oar, they reached, after seven days, the harbor

of the Laestrigonians, cannibal giants, from whose clutches only a few

ships escaped. Sorrowing for their lost friends, the Greeks next

landed in the island of Circe, where Ulysses remained with half his

men by the ships, while the rest set out to renew their supplies. This

party soon discovered the abode of the enchantress Circe, who, aware

of their approach, had prepared a banquet and a magic drug. Enticed by

her sweet voice, all the men save one sat down to her banquet, and ate

so greedily that the enchantress, contemptuously waving her wand over

them, bade them assume the forms of the animals they most resembled! A

moment later a herd of grunting pigs surrounded her, pigs which,

however, retained a distressing consciousness of their former human

estate.

Milk newly press'd, the sacred flour of wheat,

And honey fresh, and Pramnian wines the treat:

But venom'd was the bread, and mix'd the bowl,

With drugs of force to darken all the soul:

Soon in the luscious feast themselves they lost,

And drank oblivion of their native coast.

Instant her circling wand the goddess waves,

To hogs transforms them, and the sty receives.

No more was seen the human form divine;

Head, face, and members, bristle into swine:

Still cursed with sense, their minds remain alone,

And their own voice affrights them when they groan.

This dire transformation was viewed with horror by the man lurking

outside, who fled back to the ships, imploring Ulysses to depart.

Unwilling to desert his men, Ulysses on the contrary set out for

Circe's dwelling, meeting on the way thither Mercury in disguise, who

gave him an herb to annul the effect of Circe's drugs and directed him

how to free his companions.

Following these instructions, Ulysses entered Circe's abode, partook

of the refreshments offered him, and, when she waved her wand over

him, threatened to kill her unless she restored his men to their

wonted forms! The terrified Circe not only complied, but detained

Ulysses and his companions with her a full year. As at the end of that

time the men pleaded to return home, Ulysses told his hostess he must

leave. Then she informed him he must first visit the Cimmerian shore

and consult the shade of the blind seer Tiresias. The prospect of such

a journey greatly alarmed Ulysses, but when Circe had told him just

how to proceed, he bravely set out.

Wafted by favorable winds, Ulysses' ship soon reached the country of

eternal night. On landing there he dug a trench, and slew the black

victims Circe had given him, and with drawn sword awaited the approach

of a host of shades, among whom he recognized a man killed by accident

on Circe's island, who begged for proper funeral rites. By Circe's

order, Ulysses, after allowing the ghost of Tiresias to partake of the

victim's blood, learned from him that, although pursued by Neptune's

vengeance, he and his men would reach home safely, provided they

respected the cattle of the Sun on the island of Trinacria. The seer

added that all who attacked them would perish, and that, even if he

should escape death and return home, he would have to slay his wife's

insolent suitors before he could rest in peace.

After this had been accomplished, Ulysses was to resume his wanderings

until he came to a land where the oar he carried would be mistaken for

a winnowing fan. There he was to offer a propitiatory sacrifice to

Neptune, after which he would live to serene old age and die

peacefully among his own people. His conversation with Tiresias

finished, Ulysses interviewed his mother--of whose demise he had not

been aware--and conversed with the shades of sundry women noted for

having borne sons to gods or to famous heroes.

_Book XI._ This account had been heard with breathless interest by the

Phaeacians, whose king now implored Ulysses to go on. The hero then

described his interview with the ghost of Agamemnon,--slain by his

wife and her paramour on his return from Troy,--who predicted his safe

return home, and begged for tidings of his son Orestes, of whom

Ulysses knew nought. Ulysses next beheld Achilles, who, although ruler

of the dead, bitterly declared he would rather be the meanest laborer

on earth than monarch among shades!

"Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom,

Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom.

Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear

A weight of woes and breathe the vital air,

A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread,

Than reign the sceptered monarch of the dead."

To comfort him, Ulysses described how bravely his son had fought at

the taking of Troy, where he had been one of the men in the wooden

horse. The only shade which refused to approach Ulysses was that of

Ajax, who still resented his having won the armor of Achilles. Besides

these shades, Ulysses beheld the judges of Hades and the famous

culprits of Tartarus. But, terrified by the "innumerable nation of the

dead" crowding around him, he finally fled in haste to his vessel, and

was soon wafted back to Circe's shore.

_Book XII._ There Ulysses buried his dead companion and, after

describing his visit to Hades, begged his hostess' permission to

depart. Circe consented, warning him to beware of the Sirens, of the

threatening rocks, of the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis

on either side of the Messenian Strait, and of the cattle of

Trinacria, giving him minute directions how to escape unharmed from

all these perils.

Morning having come, Ulysses took leave of Circe, and, on nearing the

reef of the Sirens, directed his men to bind him fast to the mast,

paying no heed to his gestures, after he had stopped their ears with

soft wax. In this way he heard, without perishing, the Sirens'

wonderful song, and it was only when it had died away in the distance

and the spell ceased that his men unbound him from the mast.

"Thus the sweet charmers warbled o'er the main;

My soul takes wing to meet the heavenly strain;

I give the sign, and struggle to be free:

Swift row my mates, and shoot along the sea;

New chains they add, and rapid urge the way,

Till, dying off, the distant sounds decay:

Then scudding swiftly from the dangerous ground,

The deafen'd ears unlock'd, the chains unbound."

Not daring describe to his companions the threatened horrors of

Charybdis and Scylla, Ulysses bade his steersman avoid the whirlpool,

and, fully armed, prepared to brave the monster Scylla. But,

notwithstanding his preparations, she snatched from his galley six men

who were seen no more! Although reluctant to land on Trinacria for

fear his sailors would steal the cattle of the Sun, Ulysses was

constrained to do so to allow them to rest. While they were there,

unfavorable winds began to blow, and continued so long that the Greeks

consumed all their provisions, and, in spite of their efforts to

supply their larder by hunting and fishing, began to suffer from

hunger. During one of Ulysses' brief absences the men, breaking their

promises, slew some of the beeves of the Sun, which although slain

moved and lowed as if still alive! Undeterred by such miracles, the

men feasted, but, on embarking six days later, they were overtaken by

a tempest in which all perished save Ulysses. Clinging to the mast of

his wrecked ship, he drifted between Charybdis and Scylla, escaping

from the whirlpool only by clinging to the branches at an overhanging

fig-tree. Then, tossed by the waves for nine days longer, Ulysses was

finally cast on the isle of Ogygia, whence he had come directly to

Phaeacia as already described.

_Book XIII._ Having finished this account of his ten years'

wanderings, Ulysses, after banqueting with Alcinous, was conveyed with

his gifts to the ship which was to take him home. Then, while he slept

in the prow, the skilful Phaeacian rowers entered a sheltered Ithacan

bay, where they set sleeper and gifts ashore and departed without

awaiting thanks. They were about to re-enter their own port when

Neptune, discovering they had taken his enemy home, struck their

vessel with his trident, thus transforming it into the galley-shaped

rock still seen there to-day.

Meantime Ulysses, awakening, hid his treasures away in a cave. Then,

accosted by Minerva in disguise, he gave a fantastic account of

himself, to which she lent an amused ear, before assuring him of her

identity and of his wife's fidelity. She then reported the insolence

of the suitors lying in wait to murder Telemachus at his return, and

suggested that Ulysses, in the guise of an aged beggar, should visit

his faithful swineherd until time to make his presence known.

_Book XIV._ Transformed by Minerva into a sordid mendicant, Ulysses

next visits the swineherd, who sets before him the best he has,

complaining that the greedy suitors deplete his herds. This old

servant is comforted when the beggar assures him his master will soon

return and reports having seen him lately. Ulysses' fictitious account

of himself serves as entertainment until the hour for rest, when the

charitable swineherd covers his guest with his best cloak.

_Book XV._ Meantime Minerva, hastening to Sparta, awakens in the heart

of the sleeping Telemachus a keen desire to return home, warns him of

the suitors' ambush, instructs him how to avoid it, and cautions him

on his return to trust none save the women on whose fidelity he can

depend. At dawn, therefore, Telemachus, after offering a sacrifice

and receiving Menelaus' and Helen's parting gifts, sets out, cheered

by favorable omens. Without pausing to visit Nestor,--whose son is to

convey his thanks,--Telemachus embarks, and, following Minerva's

instructions, lands near the swineherd's hut.

_Book XVI._ The swineherd is preparing breakfast, when Ulysses warns

him a friend is coming, for his dogs fawn upon the stranger and do not

bark. A moment later Telemachus enters the hut, and is warmly welcomed

by his servant, who wishes him to occupy the place of honor at his

table. But Telemachus modestly declines it in favor of the aged

stranger, to whom he promises clothes and protection as soon as he is

master in his own house. Then he bids the swineherd notify his mother

of his safe arrival, directing her to send word to Laertes of his

return. This man has no sooner gone than Minerva restores Ulysses to

more than his wonted vigor and good looks, bidding him make himself

known to his son and concert with him how to dispose of the suitors.

Amazed to see the beggar transformed into an imposing warrior,

Telemachus is overjoyed to learn who he really is. The first

transports of joy over, Ulysses advises his son to return home, lull

the suitors' suspicions by specious words, and, after removing all

weapons from the banquet hall, await the arrival of his father who

will appear in mendicant's guise.

While father and son are thus laying their plans, Telemachus' vessel

reaches port, where the suitors mourn the escape of their victim. They

dare not, however, attack Telemachus openly, for fear of forfeiting

Penelope's regard, and assure her they intend to befriend him.

Meantime, having delivered his message to his mistress, the swineherd

returns to his hut, where he spends the evening with Telemachus and

the beggar, little suspecting the latter is his master.

_Book XVII._ At daybreak Telemachus hastens back to the palace,

whither the swineherd is to guide the stranger later in the day, and

is rapturously embraced by his mother. After a brief interview,

Telemachus sends her back to her apartment to efface the trace of her

tears, adding that he is on his way to the market-place to meet a

travelling companion whom he wishes to entertain. After welcoming this

man with due hospitality, Telemachus gives his mother an account of

his trip. While he is thus occupied, Ulysses is wending his way to the

palace, where he arrives just as the suitors' wonted revels reach

their height. But as he enters the court-yard, his favorite hunting

dog expires for joy on recognizing him.

He knew his lord;--he knew, and strove to meet;

In vain he strove to crawl and kiss his feet;

Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes,

Salute his master and confess his joys.

Soft pity touch'd the mighty master's soul:

Adown his cheek a tear unbidden stole;

Stole unperceived: he turn'd his head, and dried

The drop humane.

Humbly making the rounds of the tables like the beggar he seems,

Ulysses is treated kindly by Telemachus, but grossly insulted by the

suitors, one of whom, Antinous, actually flings a stool at him. Such a

violation of the rights of hospitality causes some commotion in the

palace, and so rouses the indignation of Penelope that she expresses a

wish to converse with the beggar, who may have heard of her absent

spouse.

_Book XVIII._ Meantime Ulysses has also come into conflict with the

town-beggar (Irus), a lusty youth, who challenges him to fight. To his

dismay, Ulysses displays such a set of muscles on laying aside his

robe that the insolent challenger wishes to withdraw. He is, however,

compelled by the suitors to fight, and is thoroughly beaten by

Ulysses, whose strength arouses the suitors' admiration. Then, in

reply to their questions, Ulysses favors them with another of those

tales which do far more honor to his imagination than to his veracity.

Meantime Penelope indulges in a nap, during which Minerva restores all

her youthful charms. Then she descends into the hall, to chide

Telemachus for allowing a stranger to be insulted beneath his father's

roof. She next remarks that she foresees she will soon have to choose

a husband among the suitors present, as it is only too evident Ulysses

is dead, and, under pretext of testing their generosity, induces them

all to bestow upon her gifts, which she thriftily adds to her stores.

Beside themselves with joy at the prospect that their long wooing will

soon be over, the suitors sing and dance, until Telemachus advises

them to return home.

_Book XIX._ The suitors having gone, Ulysses helps Telemachus remove

all the weapons, while the faithful nurse mounts guard over the palace

women. Secretly helped by Minerva, father and son accomplish their

task, and are sitting before the fire when Penelope comes to ask the

beggar to relate when and how he met Ulysses. This time the stranger

gives so accurate a description of Ulysses, that Penelope, wishing to

show him some kindness, summons the old nurse to bathe his feet.

Because she herself dozes while this homely task is being performed,

she is not aware that the old nurse recognizes her master by a scar on

his leg, and is cautioned by him not to make his presence known.

Deep o'er his knee inseam'd, remain'd the scar:

Which noted token of the woodland war

When Euryclea found, the ablution ceased;

Down dropp'd the leg, from her slack hand released:

The mingled fluids from the base redound;

The vase reclining floats the floor around!

Smiles dew'd with tears the pleasing strife express'd

Of grief, and joy, alternate in her breast.

Her fluttering words in melting murmurs died;

At length abrupt--"My son!--my king!" she cried.

Her nap ended, Penelope resumes her conversation with the beggar,

telling him she has been favored by a dream portending the death of

the suitors. Still, she realizes there are two kinds of dreams,--those

that come true issuing from Somnus' palace by the gate of horn, while

deceptive dreams pass through an ivory gate. After providing for the

beggar's comfort, Penelope retires, and as usual spends most of the

night mourning for her absent partner.

_Book XX._ Sleeping beneath the portico on the skins of the animals

slain to feast the horde of suitors, Ulysses sees the maids slip out of

the palace to join the suitors, who have wooed them surreptitiously.

Then he falls asleep and is visited by Minerva, who infuses new

strength and courage in his veins. At dawn Ulysses is awakened by

Telemachus, and soon after the house is once more invaded by the

suitors, who with their own hands slay the animals provided for their

food. Once more they display their malevolence by ill treating the

beggar, and taunt Telemachus, who apparently pays no heed to their

words.

_Book XXI._ Meantime Minerva has prompted Penelope to propose to the

suitors to string Ulysses' bow and shoot an arrow through twelve

rings. Armed with this weapon, and followed by handmaids bearing bow,

string, and arrows, Penelope appears in the banquet-hall, where the

suitors eagerly accept her challenge. But, after Antinous has vainly

striven to bend the bow, the others warily try sundry devices to

ensure its pliancy.

Meantime, noticing that the swineherd and one of his companions--upon

whose fidelity he counts--have left the hall, Ulysses follows them,

makes himself known by means of his scar, and directs them what to do.

Then, returning into the hall, he silently watches the suitors'

efforts to bend the bow, and, when the last has tried and failed,

volunteers to make the attempt, thereby rousing general ridicule. All

gibes are silenced, however, when the beggar not only spans the bow,

but sends his first arrow through the twelve rings. At the same time

the faithful servants secure the doors of the apartment, and

Telemachus, darting to his father's side, announces he is ready to

take part in the fray.

_Book XXII._

Then fierce the hero o'er the threshold strode;

Stript of his rags, he blazed out like a god.

Full in their face the lifted bow he bore,

And quiver'd deaths, a formidable store;

Before his feet the rattling shower he threw,

And thus, terrific, to the suitor-crew:

"One venturous game this hand hath won to-day;

Another, princes! yet remains to play:

Another mark our arrow must attain.

Phoebus, assist! nor be the labor vain."

Swift as the word the parting arrow sings;

And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings.

Wretch that he was, of unprophetic soul!

High in his hands he rear'd the golden bowl:

E'en then to drain it lengthen'd out his breath;

Changed to the deep, the bitter draught of death!

For fate who fear'd amidst a feastful band?

And fate to numbers, by a single hand?

Full through his throat Ulysses' weapon pass'd,

And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last.

Grimly announcing his second arrow will reach a different goal by

Apollo's aid, Ulysses shoots the insolent Antinous through the heart

and then begins to taunt and threaten the other suitors. Gazing wildly

around them for weapons or means of escape, these men discover how

cleverly they have been trapped. One after another now falls beneath

the arrows of Ulysses, who bids his son hasten to the storeroom and

procure arms for them both as there are not arrows enough to dispose

of his foes. Through Telemachus' heedlessness in leaving the doors

open, the suitors contrive to secure weapons too, and the fight in the

hall rages until they all have been slain. Then the doors are thrown

open, and the faithless maids are compelled to remove the corpses and

purify the room, before they are hanged!

_Book XXIII._ The old nurse has meantime had the privilege of

announcing Ulysses' safe return to his faithful retainers, and last of

all to the sleeping Penelope. Unable to credit such tidings,--although

the nurse assures her she has seen his scar,--Penelope imagines the

suitors must have been slain by some god who has come to her rescue.

She decides, therefore, to go down and congratulate her son upon being

rid of those who preyed upon his wealth. Seeing she does not

immediately fall upon his father's neck, Telemachus hotly reproaches

her, but she rejoins she must have some proof of the stranger's

identity and is evidently repelled by his unprepossessing appearance.

Hearing this, Ulysses suggests that all present purify themselves,

don fresh garments, and partake of a feast, enlivened by the songs of

their bard. While he is attended by the old nurse, Minerva sheds upon

him such grace that, when he reappears, looking like a god, he dares

reproach Penelope for not recognizing him. Then, hearing her order

that his bed be removed to the portico, he hotly demands who cut down

the tree which formed one of its posts? Because this fact is known

only to Penelope and to the builder of the bed, she now falls upon

Ulysses' neck, begging his pardon. Their joy at being united is marred

only by Ulysses' determination soon to resume his travels, and pursue

them until Tiresias' prediction has been fulfilled. That night is

spent in mutual confidences in regard to all that has occurred during

their twenty years' separation, and when morning dawns Ulysses and his

son go to visit Laertes.

_Book XXIV._ Mindful of his office as conductor of souls to Hades,

Mercury has meanwhile entered the palace of Ulysses, and, waving his

wand, has summoned the spirits of the suitors, who, uttering plaintive

cries, follow him down to the infernal regions.

Cyllenius now to Pluto's dreary reign

Conveys the dead, a lamentable train!

The golden wand, that causes sleep to fly,

Or in soft slumber seals the wakeful eye,

That drives the ghosts to realms of night or day,

Points out the long uncomfortable way.

Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive vent

Thin hollow screams, along the deep descent.

As in the cavern of some rifty den,

Where flock nocturnal bats and birds obscene,

Cluster'd they hang, till at some sudden shock,

They move, and murmurs run through all the rock:

So cowering fled the sable heaps of ghosts;

And such a scream fill'd all the dismal coasts.

There they overhear Ajax giving Achilles a minute account of his

funeral,--the grandest ever seen,--and when questioned describe

Penelope's stratagem in regard to the Web and to Ulysses' bow.

Meanwhile Ulysses has arrived at his father's farm, where the old man

is busy among his trees. To prepare Laertes for his return, Ulysses

relates one of his fairy tales ere he makes himself known. Like

Penelope, Laertes proves incredulous, until Ulysses points out the

trees given him when a child and exhibits his scar.

Smit with the signs which all his doubts explain,

His heart within him melts; his knees sustain

Their feeble weight no more; his arms alone

Support him, round the loved Ulysses thrown:

He faints, he sinks, with mighty joys oppress'd:

Ulysses clasps him to his eager breast.

To celebrate their reunion, a banquet is held, which permits the

Ithacans to show their joy at their master's return. Meanwhile the

friends of the suitors, having heard of the massacre, determine to

avenge them by slaying father and son. But, aided by Minerva and

Jupiter, these two heroes present so formidable an appearance, that

the attacking party concludes a treaty, which restores peace to Ithaca

and ends the Odyssey.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: The quotations of the Odyssey are taken from Pope's

translation.]

[Footnote 4: See chapter on Venus in the author's "Myths of Greece and

Rome."]

LATIN EPICS

Latin literature took its source in the Greek, to which it owes much

of its poetic beauty, for many of its masterpieces are either

translations or imitations of the best Greek writings. There have

been, for instance, numerous translations of the Iliad and Odyssey,

the first famous one being by the "father of Roman dramatic and epic

poetry," Livius Andronicus, who lived in the third century B.C. He

also attempted to narrate Roman history in the same strain, by

composing an epic of some thirty-five books, which are lost.

Another poet, Naevius, a century later composed the Cyprian Iliad, as

well as a heroic poem on the first Punic war (Bellum Punicum), of

which only fragments have come down to us. Then, in the second century

before our era, Ennius made a patriotic attempt to sing the origin of

Rome in the Annales in eighteen books, of which only parts remain,

while Hostius wrote an epic entitled Istria, which has also perished.

Lucretius' epic "On the Nature of Things" is considered an example of

the astronomical or physical epic.

The Augustan age proved rich in epic poets, such as Publius Terentius

Varro, translator of the Argonautica and author of a poem on Julius

Caesar; Lucius Varius Rufus, whose poems are lost; and, greatest of

all, Virgil, of whose latest and greatest work, the Aeneid, a complete

synopsis follows. Next to this greatest Latin poem ranks Lucan's

Pharsalia, wherein he relates in ten books the rivalry between Caesar

and Pompey, while his contemporary Statius, in his Thebais and

unfinished Achilleis, works over the time-honored cycles of Thèbes and

Troy. During the same period Silius Italicus supplied a lengthy poem

on the second Punic war, and Valerius Flaccus a new translation or

adaptation of the Argonautica.

In the second century of our own era Quintius Curtius composed an epic

on Alexander, and in the third century Juvencus penned the first

Christian epic, using the Life of Christ as his theme. In the fifth

century Claudianus harked back to the old Greek myths of the battle of

the Giants and of the Abduction of Persephone, although by that time

Christianity was well established in Italy. From that epoch Roman

literature practically ceased to exist, for although various attempts

at Latin epics were made by mediaeval poets, none of them proved of

sufficient merit to claim attention here.

THE AENEID

_Book I._ After stating he is about to sing the deeds of the heroic

ancestor of the Romans, Virgil describes how, seven years after

escaping from burning Troy, Aeneas' fleet was overtaken by a terrible

storm off the coast of Africa. This tempest, raised by the turbulent

children of Aeolus at Juno's request, threatened before long to

destroy the Trojan fleet. But, disturbed by the commotion overhead and

by Aeneas' frantic prayers for help, Neptune suddenly arose from the

bottom of the sea, angrily ordered the winds back to their cave, and

summoned sea-nymphs and tritons to the Trojans' aid. Soon, therefore,

seven of the vessels came to anchor in a sheltered bay, where Aeneas

landed with his friend Achates. While reconnoitring, they managed to

kill seven stags with which to satisfy the hunger of the men, whom

Aeneas further cheered by the assurance that they were the destined

ancestors of a mighty people.

Meantime Venus, beholding the plight of her son Aeneas, had hastened

off to Olympus to remind Jupiter of his promise to protect the remnant

of the Trojan race. Bestowing a kiss, the King of the Gods assured her

that after sundry vicissitudes Aeneas would reach Italy, where in due

time his son would found Alba Longa. Jupiter added a brief sketch of

what would befall this hero's race, until, some three hundred years

after his death, one of his descendants, the Vestal Ilia, would bear

twin sons to Mars, god of War. One of these, Romulus, would found

the city of Rome, where the Trojan race would continue its heroic

career and where Caesar would appear to fill the world with his fame.

"From Troy's fair stock shall Caesar rise,

The limits of whose victories

Are ocean, of his fame the skies."[5]

Having thus quieted Venus' apprehensions in regard to her son, Jupiter

directed Mercury to hasten off to Carthage so as to warn Dido she is

to receive hospitably the Trojan guests.

After a sleepless night Aeneas again set out with Achates to explore,

and encountered in the forest his goddess mother in the guise of a

Tyrian huntress. In respectful terms--for he suspected she was some

divinity in disguise--Aeneas begged for information and learned he has

landed in the realm of Dido. Warned in a vision that her brother had

secretly slain her husband and was plotting against her life, this

Tyrian queen had fled from Tyre with friends and wealth, and, on

reaching this part of Africa, had, thanks to the clever device of a

bull's hide, obtained land enough to found the city of Byrsa or

Carthage. In return Aeneas gave the strange huntress his name,

relating how the storm had scattered all his vessels save the seven

anchored close by. To allay his anxiety in regard to his friends,

Venus assured him that twelve swans flying overhead were omens of the

safety of his ships, and it was only when she turned to leave him that

Aeneas recognized his mother, who, notwithstanding his desire to

embrace her, promptly disappeared.

The two Trojans now walked on in the direction she indicated until

dazzled by the beauty of the new city of Carthage, which was rising

rapidly, thanks to the activity of Dido's subjects. In its centre

stood a wonderful temple, whose brazen gates were decorated with

scenes from the War of Troy. Hidden from all eyes by a divine mist,

Aeneas and Achates tearfully gazed upon these reminders of the glories

past and mingled with the throng until Queen Dido appeared.

She was no sooner seated upon her throne than she summoned into her

presence some prisoners just secured, in whom Aeneas recognized with

joy the various captains of his missing ships. Then he overheard them

bewail the storm which robbed them of their leader, and was pleased

because Dido promised them entertainment and ordered a search made for

their chief.

The right moment having come, the cloud enveloping Aeneas and Achates

parted, and Dido thus suddenly became aware of the presence of other

strangers in their midst. Endowed by Venus with special attractions so

as to secure the favor of the Libyan queen, Aeneas stepped gracefully

forward, made himself known, and, after paying due respect to the

queen, joyfully greeted his comrades. Happy to harbor so famous a

warrior, Dido invited Aeneas to a banquet in her palace, an invitation

he gladly accepted, charging Achates to hasten back to the ships to

announce their companions' safety and to summon Iulus or Ascanius to

join his father. To make quite sure Aeneas should captivate Dido's

heart, Venus now substituted Cupid for Iulus, whom she meantime

conveyed to one of her favorite resorts. It was therefore in the guise

of the Trojan prince that Cupid, during the banquet, caressingly

nestled in Dido's arms and stealthily effaced from her heart all

traces of her former husband's face, filling it instead with a

resistless passion for Aeneas, which soon impelled her to invite him

to relate his escape from Troy.

_Book II._ With the eyes of all present upon him, Aeneas related how

the Greeks finally devised a colossal wooden horse, wherein their

bravest chiefs remained concealed while the remainder of their forces

pretended to sail home, although they anchored behind a neighboring

island to await the signal to return and sack Troy. Overjoyed by the

departure of the foe, the Trojans hastened down to the shore, where,

on discovering the huge wooden horse, they joyfully proposed to drag

it into their city as a trophy. In vain their priest, Laocoon,

implored them to desist, hurling his spear at the horse to prove it

was hollow and hence might conceal some foe. This daring and apparent

sacrilege horrified the Trojans, who, having secured a Greek fugitive

in a swamp near by, besought him to disclose what purpose the horse

was to serve. Pretending to have suffered great injustice at the

Greeks' hands, the slave (Sinon) replied that if they removed the

wooden horse into their walls the Trojans would greatly endanger the

safety of their foes, who had left it on the shore to propitiate

Neptune. Enticed by this prospect, the Trojans proved more eager than

ever to drag the horse into their city, even though it necessitated

pulling down part of their walls. Meantime part of the crowd gathered

about Laocoon who was to offer public thanks on the sea-shore, but,

even while he was standing at the altar, attended by his sons, two

huge serpents arose out of the sea and, coiling fiercely around priest

and both acolytes, throttled them in spite of their efforts.

He strains his strength their knots to tear,

While gore and slime his fillets smear,

And to the unregardful skies

Sends up his agonizing cries.

On seeing this, the horror-struck Trojans immediately concluded

Laocoon was being punished for having attacked the wooden horse, which

they joyfully dragged into Troy, although the prophet-princess,

Cassandra, besought them to desist, foretelling all manner of woe.

Night now fell upon the city, where, for the first time in ten years,

all slept peacefully without fear of surprise. At midnight Sinon

released the captive Greeks from the wooden steed, and, joined by

their companions, who had noiselessly returned, they swarmed all over

the undefended city. Aeneas graphically described for Dido's benefit

his peaceful sleep, when the phantom of the slaughtered Hector bade

him arise and flee with his family, because the Greeks had already

taken possession of Troy! At this moment loud clamors awakened him,

confirming what he had just heard in dream. Aeneas immediately rushed

to the palace to defend his king, he and his men stripping the armor

from fallen Greeks to enable them to get there unmolested. Still, they

arrived only in time to see Achilles' son rush into the throne-room

and cruelly murder the aged Priam after killing his youngest son. They

also beheld the shrieking women ruthlessly dragged off into captivity,

Cassandra wildly predicting the woes which would befall the Greek

chiefs on their way home.

Ah see! the Priameian fair,

Cassandra, by her streaming hair

Is dragged from Pallas' shrine,

Her wild eyes raised to Heaven in vain--

Her eyes, alas! for cord and chain

Her tender hands confine.

The fall of aged Priam and the plight of the women reminding Aeneas of

the danger of his own father, wife, and son, he turned to rush home.

On his way thither he met his mother, who for a moment removed the

mortal veil from his eyes, to let him see Neptune, Minerva, and Juno

zealously helping to ruin Troy. Because Venus passionately urged her

son to escape while there was yet time, Aeneas, on reaching home,

besought his father Anchises to depart, but it was only when the old

man saw a bright flame hover over the head of his grandson, Iulus,

that he realized heaven intended to favor his race and consented to

leave. Seeing him too weak to walk, his son bade him hold the

household goods, and carried him off on his back, leading his boy by

the hand and calling to his wife and servants to follow. Thus

burdened, Aeneas reached a ruined fane by the shore, only to discover

his beloved wife was missing. Anxiously retracing his footsteps, he

encountered her shade, which bade him cease seeking for her among the

living and hasten to Hesperia, where a new wife and home awaited him.

"Then, while I dewed with tears my cheek

And strove a thousand things to speak,

She melted into night:

Thrice I essayed her neck to clasp:

Thrice the vain semblance mocked my grasp,

As wind or slumber light."

Thus enlightened in regard to his consort's fate and wishes, Aeneas

hastened back to his waiting companions, and with them prepared to

leave the Trojan shores.

_Book III._ Before long Aeneas' fleet landed on the Thracian coast,

where, while preparing a sacrifice, our hero was horrified to see

blood flow from the trees he cut down. This phenomenon was, however,

explained by an underground voice, relating how a Trojan was robbed

and slain by the inhabitants of this land, and how trees had sprung

from the javelins stuck in his breast.

Unwilling to linger in such a neighborhood, Aeneas sailed to Delos,

where an oracle informed him he would be able to settle only in the

land whence his ancestors had come. Although Anchises interpreted this

to mean they were to go to Crete, the household gods informed Aeneas,

during the journey thither, that Hesperia was their destined goal.

After braving a three-days tempest, Aeneas landed on the island of the

Harpies, horrible monsters who defiled the travellers' food each time

a meal was spread. They not only annoyed Aeneas in this way, but

predicted, when attacked, that he should find a home only when driven

by hunger to eat boards.

"But ere your town with walls ye fence,

Fierce famine, retribution dread

For this your murderous violence,

Shall make you eat your boards for bread."

Sailing off again, the Trojans next reached Epirus, which they found

governed by Helenus, a Trojan, for Achilles' son had already been

slain. Although Hector's widow was now queen of the realm where she

had been brought a captive, she still mourned for her noble husband,

and gladly welcomed the fugitives for his sake. It was during the

parting sacrifice that Helenus predicted that, after long wanderings,

his guests would settle in Italy, in a spot where they would find a

white sow suckling thirty young. He also cautioned Aeneas about the

hidden dangers of Charybdis and Scylla, and bade him visit the Cumaean

Sibyl, so as to induce her, if possible, to lend him her aid.

Restored and refreshed by this brief sojourn among kinsmen, Aeneas and

his followers resumed their journey, steering by the stars and

avoiding all landing in eastern or southern Italy which was settled by

Greeks. After passing Charybdis and Scylla unharmed, and after gazing

in awe at the plume of smoke crowning Mt. Aetna, the Trojans rescued

one of the Greeks who had escaped with Ulysses from the Cyclops' cave

but who had not contrived to sail away.

To rest his weary men, Aeneas finally landed at Drepanum, in Sicily,

where his old father died and was buried with all due pomp. It was

shortly after leaving this place, that Aeneas' fleet had been

overtaken by the terrible tempest which had driven his vessels to

Dido's shore.

So King Aeneas told his tale

While all beside were still,

Rehearsed the fortunes of his sail

And fate's mysterious will:

Then to its close his legend brought

And gladly took the rest he sought.

_Book IV._ While Aeneas rested peacefully, Dido's newborn passion kept

her awake, causing her at dawn to rouse her sister Anna, so as to

impart to her the agitated state of her feelings. Not only did Anna

encourage her sister to marry again, but united with her in a prayer

to which Venus graciously listened, although Juno reminded her that

Trojans and Carthaginians were destined to be foes. Still, as Goddess

of Marriage, Juno finally consented that Aeneas and Dido be brought

together in the course of that day's hunt.

We now have a description of the sunrise, of the preparations for the

chase, of the queen's dazzling appearance, and of the daring

huntsmanship of the false Iulus. But the brilliant hunting expedition

is somewhat marred in the middle of the day by a sudden thunderstorm,

during which Aeneas and Dido accidentally seek refuge in the same

cave, where we are given to understand their union takes place. So

momentous a step, proclaimed by the hundred-mouthed Goddess of Fame,

rouses the ire of the native chiefs, one of whom fervently hopes

Carthage may rue having spared these Trojan refugees. This prayer is

duly registered by Jupiter, who further bids Mercury remind Aeneas his

new realm is to be founded in Italy and not on the African coast!

Thus divinely ordered to leave, Aeneas dares not disobey, but,

dreading Dido's reproaches and tears, he prepares to depart secretly.

His plans are, however, detected by Dido, who vehemently demands, how

he dares forsake her now? By Jupiter's orders, Aeneas remains unmoved

by her reproaches, and sternly reminds her that he always declared he

was bound for Italy. So, leaving Dido to brood over her wrongs, Aeneas

hastens down to the shore to hasten his preparations for departure.

Seeing this, Dido implores her sister to detain her lover, and, as

this proves vain, orders a pyre erected, on which she places all the

objects Aeneas has used.

That night the gods arouse Aeneas from slumber to bid him sail without

taking leave of the Tyrian queen. In obedience to this command, our

hero cuts with his sword the rope which moors his vessel to the

Carthaginian shore, and sails away, closely followed by the rest of

his fleet. From the watch-tower at early dawn, Dido discovers his

vanishing sails, and is so overcome by grief that, after rending "her

golden length of hair" and calling down vengeance upon Aeneas, she

stabs herself and breathes her last in the midst of the burning pyre.

The Carthaginians, little expecting so tragical a denouement, witness

the agony of their beloved queen in speechless horror, while Anna

wails aloud. Gazing down from heaven upon this sad scene, Juno

directs Iris to hasten down and cut off a lock of Dido's hair, for it

is only when this mystic ceremony has been performed that the soul can

leave the body. Iris therefore speedily obeys, saying:

"This lock to Dis I bear away

And free you from your load of clay:"

So shears the lock: the vital heats

Disperse, and breath in air retreats.

_Book V._ Sailing on, Aeneas, already dismayed by the smoke rising

from the Carthaginian shore, is further troubled by rapidly gathering

clouds. His weather-wise pilot, Palinurus, suggests that, since "the

west is darkening into wrath," they run into the Drepanum harbor,

which they enter just one year after Anchises' death. There they show

due respect to the dead by a sacrifice, of which a serpent takes his

tithe, and proceed to celebrate funeral games. We now have a detailed

account of the winning of prizes for the naval, foot, horse and

chariot races, and the boxing and archery matches.

While all the men are thus congenially occupied, the Trojan women,

instigated by Juno in disguise, set fire to the ships, so they need no

longer wander over seas they have learned to loathe. One of the

warriors, seeing the smoke, raises the alarm, and a moment later his

companions dash down to the shore to save their ships. Seeing his

fleet in flames, Aeneas wrings his hands, and prays with such fervor

that a cloudburst drenches his burning vessels. Four, however, are

beyond repair; so Aeneas, seeing he no longer has ship-room for all

his force, allows the Trojans most anxious to rest to settle in

Drepanum, taking with him only those who are willing to share his

fortunes.

Before he leaves, his father's ghost appears to him, bidding him,

before settling in Latium, descend into Hades by way of Lake Avernus,

and visit him in the Elysian Fields to hear what is to befall his

race.

When Aeneas leaves Drepanum on the next day, his mother pleads so

successfully in his behalf that Neptune promises to exact only one

life as toll.

"One life alone shall glut the wave;

One head shall fall the rest to save."

_Book VI._ Steering to Cumae, where the Sibyl dwells, Aeneas seeks her

cave, whose entrance is barred by bronzen gates, on which is

represented the story of Daedalus,--the first bird man,--who, escaping

from the Labyrinth at Crete, gratefully laid his wings on this altar.

We are further informed that the Sibyl generally wrote her oracles on

separate oak leaves, which were set in due order in her cave, but

which the wind, as soon as the doors opened, scattered or jumbled

together, so that most of her predictions proved unintelligible to

those who visited her shrine. After a solemn invocation, Aeneas

besought her not to baffle him by writing on oak leaves, and was

favored by her apparition and the announcement that, after escaping

sundry perils by land and sea and reddening the Tiber with blood, he

would, thanks to Greek aid, triumph over his foes and settle in Latium

with a new bride. Undaunted by the prospect of these trials, Aeneas

besought the Sibyl to guide him down to Hades, to enable him to visit

his father, a journey she flatly refused to undertake, unless he

procured the golden bough which served as a key to that region, and

unless he showed due respect to the corpse of his friend. Although

both conditions sounded mysterious when uttered, Aeneas discovered, on

rejoining his crew, that one of his Trojans had been slain. After

celebrating his funeral, our hero wandered off into a neighboring

forest, where some doves--his mother's birds--guided him to the place

where grew the golden bough he coveted.

Armed with this talisman and escorted by the Sibyl, Aeneas, by way of

Lake Avernus, entered the gloomy cave which formed the entrance to

Hades. Following the flying footsteps of his mystic guide, he there

plunged into the realm of night, soon reaching the precinct of

departed souls, where he saw innumerable shades. Although he

immediately crossed the river in Charon's leaky punt, many spirits

were obliged to wait a hundred years, simply because they could not

pay for their passage. Among these unfortunates Aeneas recognized his

recently drowned pilot, who related how he had come to his death and

by what means he was going to secure funeral honors.

In spite of the three-headed dog and sundry other grewsome sights,

Aeneas and his guide reached the place where Minos holds judgment over

arriving souls, and viewed the region where those who died for love

were herded together. Among these ghosts was Dido, but, although

Aeneas pityingly addressed her, she sullenly refused to answer a word.

Farther on Aeneas came to the place of dead heroes, and there beheld

brave Hector and clever Teucer, together with many other warriors who

took part in the Trojan War.

After allowing him to converse a brief while with these friends, the

Sibyl vouchsafed Aeneas a passing glimpse of Tartarus and of its great

criminals, then she hurried him on to the Elysian Fields, the home of

"the illustrious dead, who fighting for their country bled," to

inquire for Anchises. The visitors were immediately directed to a

quiet valley, where they found the aged Trojan, pleasantly occupied

contemplating the unborn souls destined to pass gradually into the

upper world and animate the bodies of his progeny. On beholding his

son, who, as at Drepanum, vainly tried to embrace him, Anchises

revealed all he had learned in regard to life, death, and immortality,

and gave a synopsis of the history of Rome for the next thousand

years, naming its great worthies, from Romulus, founder of Rome, down

to Augustus, first emperor and ruler of the main part of the world.

This account of the glories and vicissitudes of his race takes

considerable time, and when it is finished the Sibyl guides Aeneas

back to earth by one of the two gates which lead out of this dismal

region. Pleased with having accomplished his errand so successfully

and duly encouraged by all he has learned, Aeneas returns to his fleet

and sets sail for the home he is so anxious to reach.

_Book VII._ We now skirt with Aeneas the west coast of Italy, sail

past Circe's island, and see his ships driven up the winding Tiber by

favorable winds. On his first landing the Muse Erato rehearses for our

benefit the history of the Latins, whose royal race, represented at

present by Latinus, claims to descend from Saturn. Although Latinus

has already betrothed his daughter Lavinia to Turnus, a neighboring

prince, he is favored by an omen at the moment when the Trojans land.

On seeking an interpretation of this sign, he learns he is not to

bestow his daughter upon Turnus, but is to reserve her hand for a

stranger, whose descendants will be powerful indeed.

Meantime the Trojans feast upon meat which is served to each man on a

wheaten cake. Young Iulus, greedily devouring his, exclaims playfully

that he is so hungry he has actually eaten the board on which his meal

was spread! Hearing these significant words, his happy father exclaims

they have reached their destined goal, since the Harpies' terrifying

prophecy has been fulfilled.

"Hail, auspicious land!" he cries,

"So long from Fate my due!

All hail, ye Trojan deities,

To Trojan fortunes true!

At length we rest, no more to roam.

Here is our country, here our home."

Then the Trojans begin to explore, and, discovering Latinus' capital,

send thither an embassy of a hundred men, who are hospitably

entertained. After hearing all they have to say, Latinus assures them

that men of his race once migrated from Asia, and that the gods have

just enjoined upon him to bestow his daughter upon a foreign

bridegroom. When he proposes to unite Lavinia to Aeneas, Juno, unable

to prevent a marriage decreed by Fate, tries to postpone it by

infuriating Amata, mother of the bride, and causing her to flee into

the woods with her daughter.

Not satisfied with one manifestation of power, Juno despatches Discord

to ask Turnus if he will tamely allow his promised bride to be given

to another man? Such a taunt is sufficient to determine hot-headed

Turnus to make war, but, as a pretext is lacking, one of the Furies

prompts Iulus to pursue and wound the pet stag of a young shepherdess

called Sylvia. The distress of this rustic maid so excites her

shepherd brothers that they fall upon the Trojans, who, of course,

defend themselves, and thus the conflict begins. Having successfully

broken the peace, Discord hastens back to Juno, who, seeing Latinus

would fain remain neutral, compels him to take part in the war by

opening with her own hand the gates of the temple of Janus. Here the

poet recites the names of the various heroes about to distinguish

themselves on either side, specially mentioning in the Rutules' force

Mezentius, his son Lausus, and the Volscian maid Camilla, who prefers

the stirring life of a camp to the peaceful avocations of her sex.

_Book VIII._ Because Turnus is reinforced by many allies, Aeneas is

anxious to secure some too, and soon sets out to seek the aid of

Evander, king of Etruria, formerly a Greek. On his way to this realm,

Aeneas perceives on the banks of the Tiber a white sow with thirty

young, which he sacrifices to the gods in gratitude for having pointed

out to him the spot where his future capital will rise. On reaching

the Etruscan's stronghold, Aeneas readily secures the promise of a

large contingent of warriors, who prepare to join him under the

command of Pallas, son of the king. He then assists at a great

Etruscan banquet in honor of one of Hercules' triumphs, and while he

is sleeping there his mother, Venus, induces her blacksmith husband,

Vulcan, to make him a suit of armor.

Dawn having appeared, Evander entertains his guests with tales, while

his son completes his preparations. Aeneas' departure, however, is

hastened by Venus, who warns her son that his camp is in danger when

she delivers to him the armor she has procured. This is adorned by

many scenes in the coming history of Rome, among which special mention

is made of the twins suckled by the traditional wolf, of the

kidnapping of the Sabines, and of the heroic deeds of Cocles, Cloelia,

and Manlius, as well as battles and festivals galore.[6]

_Book IX._ Meantime, obedient to Turnus' orders, the Rutules have

surrounded the Trojan camp and set fire to Aeneas' ships. But, as Fate

has decreed these vessels shall be immortal, they sink beneath the

waves as soon as the flames touch them, only to reappear a moment

later as ocean-nymphs and swim down the Tiber to warn Aeneas of the

danger of his friends. This miracle awes the foe, until Turnus boldly

interprets it in his favor, whereupon the Rutules attack the

foreigners' camp so furiously that the Trojans gladly accept the

proposal made by Nisus and Euryalus to slip out and summon Aeneas to

return.

Stealing out of the Trojan camp by night, these two heroes bravely

thread their way through their sleeping foes, killing sundry famous

warriors as they go, and appropriating choice bits of their spoil.

Leaving death in their wake, the two Trojans pass through the enemy's

ranks and finally enter a forest, where they are pursued by a troop of

the Volscians, who surround and slay Euryalus. But, although Nisus

first manages to escape from their hands, he returns to defend his

comrade and is slain too. The Volscians therefore bear two bloody

heads to the Rutules camp to serve as their war standards on the next

day. It is thus that Euryalus' mother becomes aware of the death of

her son, whom she mourns in touching terms.

"Was it this, ah me,

I followed over land and sea?

O slay me, Rutules! if ye know

A mother's love, on me bestow

The tempest of your spears!

Or thou, great Thunderer, pity take,

And whelm me 'neath the Stygian lake,

Since otherwise I may not break

This life of bitter tears!"

To recount all the deeds of valor performed on this day would require

much space, but, although Mars inspires the party of Aeneas with great

courage, it is evidently on the verge of defeat when Jupiter orders

Turnus to withdraw.

_Book X._ Having convoked his Olympian council, Jupiter forbids the

gods to interfere on either side, and decrees that the present quarrel

shall be settled without divine aid. Hearing this, Venus vehemently

protests that, having promised her son should found a new realm in

Italy, he is bound to protect him, while Juno argues with equal force

that the Trojans should be further punished for kidnapping Helen.

Silencing both goddesses, Jupiter reiterates his orders and dissolves

the assembly.

The scene now changes back to earth, where the Trojans, closely hemmed

in by foes, long for Aeneas' return. He, on his way back, encounters

the sea-nymphs, who explain they were once his ships and bid him

hasten and rescue his son. Thus admonished, Aeneas hurries back, to

take part in a battle where many heroic deeds are performed, and where

Turnus, Mezentius, and Lausus prove bravest on the enemy's side,

although they find their match in Aeneas, Pallas, and Iulus. Among the

brilliant duels fought, mention must be made of one between Pallas and

Turnus, where notwithstanding his courage the Trojan prince succumbs.

After stripping his companion of his armor, Turnus abandons his corpse

to his friends, who mourn to think that he lost his life while helping

them. Vowing to avenge him, Aeneas next attacks his foe with such fury

that it seems as if Turnus' last day has come, but Juno pleads so

eloquently in his behalf, that, although Fate has decreed he shall

perish, she grants him brief respite.

To preserve Turnus from the deadly blows of the real Aeneas, Juno

causes him to pursue a phantom foe on board a ship, whose moorings she

loosens, thus setting him adrift upon the Tiber. Perceiving only then

how he has been tricked, Turnus threatens to slay himself, but is

restrained by Juno, who after awhile allows him to land and return to

the battle. Thus deprived of his principal foe, Aeneas ranges over the

battle-field, where he wounds Mezentius and kills Lausus. Seeing his

beloved son is gone, Mezentius is so anxious to die that he now offers

an unresisting throat to Aeneas, who slays him on the spot.

"One boon (if vanquished foe may crave

The victor's grace) I ask--a grave.

My wrathful subjects round me wait:

Protect me from their savage hate,

And let me in the tomb enjoy

The presence of my slaughtered boy."

_Book XI._ Having made a trophy of the enemies' spoil, Aeneas, even

before proceeding to bury his own comrades, adorns the body of Pallas

and sends it back to Etruria. Then he bargains with Turnus'

ambassadors for a twelve-days truce, during which both parties

celebrate pompous funerals, the finest of all being that of Pallas.

Hoping to check further bloodshed, Latinus now proposes a peace, whose

terms Aeneas is willing to accept, but which Turnus angrily rejects

since they deprive him of his promised bride. The conflict is

therefore resumed, and the next interesting episode refers to Camilla,

the warrior maid, whose father when she was only a babe tied her to

the shaft of his spear and flung her across a torrent he was unable to

stem with her in his arms. Having thus saved her from the enemy's

clutches, this father taught Camilla to fight so bravely, that she

causes dire havoc among the Trojans before she dies, using her last

breath to implore Turnus to hasten to the rescue.

"Go: my last charge to Turnus tell,

To haste with succor, and repel

The Trojans from the town--farewell."

She spoke, and speaking, dropped her rein,

Perforce descending to the plain.

Then by degrees she slips away

From all that heavy load of clay:

Her languid neck, her drowsy head

She droops to earth, of vigor sped:

She lets her martial weapons go:

The indignant soul flies down below.

_Book XII._ Unappeased by Latinus' reiterated assertions that he is

bestowing Lavinia upon a stranger merely to obey the gods, or by the

entreaties in which Amata now joins, Turnus still refuses peace. More

fighting therefore ensues, during which Aeneas is wounded in the

thigh. While his leech is vainly trying to stanch his blood, Venus

drops a magic herb into the water used for bathing his wounds and thus

miraculously cures him. Plunging back into the fray, which becomes so

horrible that Amata brings Lavinia home and commits suicide, Turnus

and Aeneas finally meet in duel, but, although Juno would fain

interfere once more in behalf of her protégé, Jupiter refuses to allow

it. But he grants instead his wife's petition that the Trojan name and

language shall forever be merged into that of the Latin race.

"Let Latium prosper as she will,

Their thrones let Alban monarchs fill;

Let Rome be glorious on the earth,

The centre of Italian worth;

But fallen Troy be fallen still,

The nation and the name."

Toward the end of this momentous encounter, during which both heroes

indulged in sundry boastful speeches, a bird warns Turnus that his end

is near, and his sister Juturna basely deserts him. Driven to bay and

deprived of all other weapons, Turnus finally hurls a rock at Aeneas,

who, dodging this missile, deals him a deadly wound. Turnus now

pitifully begs for mercy, but the sight of Pallas' belt, which his foe

proudly wears, so angers Aeneas that, after wrathfully snatching it

from him, he deals his foe the deadly blow which ends this epic.

"What! in my friend's dear spoils arrayed

To me for mercy sue?

'Tis Pallas, Pallas guides the blade:

From your cursed blood his injured shade

Thus takes atonement due."

Thus as he spoke, his sword he drave

With fierce and fiery blow

Through the broad breast before him spread:

The stalwart limbs grow cold and dead:

One groan the indignant spirit gave,

Then sought the shades below.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: All the quotations in this article are from Virgil's

Aeneid, Conington's translation.]

[Footnote 6: See the author's "Story of the Romans."]

FRENCH EPICS

The national epic in France bears the characteristic name of Chanson

de Geste, or song of deed, because the trouvères in the north and the

troubadours in the south wandered from castle to castle singing the

prowesses of the lords and of their ancestors, whose reputations they

thus made or ruined at will.

In their earliest form these Chansons de Geste were invariably in

verse, but in time the most popular were turned into lengthy prose

romances. Many of the hundred or more Chansons de Geste still

preserved were composed in the northern dialect, or langue d'oil, and,

although similar epics did exist in the langue d'oc, they have the

"great defect of being lost," and only fragments of Flamença, etc.,

now exist.

There are three great groups or cycles of French epics: first the

Cycle of France, dealing specially with Charlemagne,--the champion of

Christianity,--who, representing Christ, is depicted surrounded by

twelve peers instead of twelve disciples. Among these, to carry out

the scriptural analogy, lurks a traitor, Ganelon; so, in the course of

the poems, we are favored with biblical miracles, such as the sun

pausing in its course until pagans can be punished, and angels

appearing to comfort dying knights. The finest sample of this cycle is

without doubt the famous Chanson de Roland, of which a complete

synopsis follows. Other remarkable examples of this cycle are

Aliscans, Raoul de Cambrai, Garin le Lorrain, Guillaume d'Orange, Les

Quatre Fils d'Aymon, Ogier le Danois, etc.

Even the character of the hero varies from age to age, for whereas

Charlemagne in the Chanson de Roland--which dates perhaps as far back

as the tenth century--is a heroic figure, he becomes during later

periods, when vassals rise up against their overlords,--an object of

contempt and ridicule. A marked example of this latter style of

treatment is furnished by Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon.[7]

The second group, or cycle of Brittany, animated by a chivalrous

spirit, and hence termed court epic, finds its greatest exponent in

the poet Chrestien de Troyes, whose hero Arthur, King of Brittany,

gathers twelve knights around his table, one of whom, Mordred, is to

prove traitor. The principal poems of this cycle are Launcelot du Lac,

Ivain le Chevalier au Lion, Erec and Enide, Merlin, Tristan, and

Perceval. These poems all treat of chivalry and love, and introduce

the old pagan passion-breeding philtre, as well as a whole world of

magic and fairies. These epics will be noticed at greater length when

we treat of the English versions of Arthur and the Knights of the

Round Table, because many of the poems have been reworked in modern

English and are hence most popular in that language.

Besides the Chansons de Geste pertaining to various phases of this

theme, the Breton cycle includes many shorter works termed lais, which

also treat of love, and were composed by Marie de France or her

successors. The best known of all these "cante-fables" is the idyllic

Aucassin et Nicolette, of which a full account is embodied in this

volume.

One of the best samples of the domestic epic in this cycle is the

twelfth century Amis and Amiles, in which two knights, born and

baptized on the same day, prove so alike as to become interchangeable.

Still, brought up in separate provinces, Amis and Amiles meet and

become friends only when knighted by Charlemagne, whose graciousness

toward them rouses the jealousy of the felon knight Hardré. When

Charlemagne finally offers his niece to Amiles (who, through modesty,

passes her on to Amis), the felon accuses the former of treacherously

loving the king's daughter Bellicent, and thereupon challenges him to

fight. Conscious of not being a traitor, although guilty of loving the

princess, Amiles dares not accept this challenge, and changes places

with Amis, who personates him in the lists. Because Amis thus commits

perjury to rescue his friend from a dilemma, he is in due time

stricken with leprosy, deserted by his wife, and sorely ill treated by

his vassals. After much suffering, he discovers his sole hope of cure

consists in bathing in the blood of the children which in the

meanwhile have been born to Amiles and to his princess-wife. When the

leper Amis reluctantly reveals this fact to his friend Amiles, the

latter, although broken-hearted, unhesitatingly slays his children.

Amis is immediately cured, and both knights hasten to church together

to return thanks and inform the mother of the death of her little

ones. The princess rushes to their chamber to mourn over their

corpses, only to discover that meantime they have been miraculously

restored to life! This story is very touchingly told in the old

Chanson, which contains many vivid and interesting descriptions of the

manners of the time.

In this cycle are also included Gérard de Roussillon, Hugues Capet,

Macaire (wherein occurs the famous episode of the Dog of Montargis),

and Huon de Bordeaux, which latter supplied Shakespeare, Wieland, and

Weber with some of the dramatis personae of their well-known comedy,

poem, and opera. We must also mention what are often termed the

Crusade epics, of which the stock topics are quarrels, challenges,

fights, banquets, and tournaments, and among which we note les

Enfances de Godefroi, Antioche, and Tudela's Song of the Crusade

against the Albigenses.

The third great cycle is known as Matière de Rome la grand, or as the

antique cycle. It embodies Christianized versions of the doings of the

heroes of the Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Thebais, Alexandreid, etc. In

their prose forms the Roman de Thèbes, Roman de Troie, and Roman

d'Alexandre contain, besides, innumerable mediaeval embellishments,

among others the first mention in French of the quest for the Fountain

of Youth.

Later on in French literature we come across the animal epic, or Roman

du Renard, a style of composition which found its latest and most

finished expression in Germany at the hands of Goethe, and the

allegorical epic, Le Roman de la Rose, wherein abstract ideas were

personified, such as Hope, Slander (Malebouche), Danger, etc.

There are also epic poems based on Le Combat des Trente and on the

doings of Du Guesclin. Ronsard, in his Franciade, claims the Franks as

lineal descendants from Francus, a son of Priam, and thus connects

French history with the war of Troy, just as Wace, in the Norman Roman

de Rou, traces a similar analogy between the Trojan Brutus and

Britain. Later French poets have attempted epics, more or less popular

in their time, among which are Alaric by Scudéri, Clovis by St.

Sorlin, and two poems on La Pucelle, one by Chapelain, and the other

by Voltaire.

Next comes la Henriade, also by Voltaire, a half bombastic, half

satirical account of Henry IV's wars to gain the crown of France. This

poem also contains some very fine and justly famous passages, but is

too long and too artificial, as a whole, to please modern readers.

The most popular of all the French prose epics is, without dispute,

Fénelon's Télémaque, or account of Telemachus' journeys to find some

trace of his long-absent father Ulysses.

Les Martyrs by Chateaubriand, and La Légende des Siècles by Victor

Hugo, complete the tale of important French epics to date.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."]

THE SONG OF ROLAND[8]

_Introduction._ The earliest and greatest of the French epics, or

chansons de geste, is the song of Roland, of which the oldest copy now

extant is preserved in the Bodleian Library and dates back to the

twelfth century. Whether the Turoldus (Théroulde) mentioned at the end

of the poem is poet, copyist, or mere reciter remains a matter of

conjecture.

The poem is evidently based on popular songs which no longer exist. It

consists of 4002 verses, written in langue d'oil, grouped in stanzas

or "laisses" of irregular length, in the heroic pentameter, having the

same assonant rhyme, and each ending with "aoi," a word no one has

succeeded in translating satisfactorily. It was so popular that it was

translated into Latin and German (1173-1177), and our version may be

the very song sung by Taillefer at the battle of Hastings in 1066.

It has inspired many poets, and Roland's death has been sung again by

Goethe, Schiller, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, Berni, Bornier, etc.

History claims that French armies, once in the reign of Dagobert and

once in that of Charlemagne, were attacked and slaughtered in the

Pyrenees, but not by the Saracens. Besides, Charlemagne's secretary,

Eginhart, briefly mentions in his chronicles that in 778, Roland,

prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was slain there.[9] Although the

remainder of the story has no historical basis, the song of Roland is

a poetical asset we would not willingly relinquish.

PART I. A COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE AT SARAGOSSA.--The Song of

Roland opens with the statement that, after spending seven years in

Spain, Charlemagne is master of all save the city of Saragossa.

The king, our Emperor Carlemaine,

Hath been for seven full years in Spain.

From highland to sea hath he won the land;

City was none might his arm withstand;

Keep and castle alike went down--

Save Saragossa the mountain town.[10]

It is in Saragossa that King Marsile, holding an open-air council,

informs his followers he no longer has men to oppose to the French.

When he inquires what he shall do, the wisest of his advisers suggests

that, when might fails, craft can gain the day. Therefore, he moots

sending gifts to Charlemagne, with a promise to follow him to France

to do homage and receive baptism. Even should Charlemagne exact

hostages, this councillor volunteers to give his own son, arguing it

is better a few should fall than Spain be lost forever. This advice is

adopted by Marsile, who then despatches bearers of olive branches and

gifts to Charlemagne.

_Council held by Charlemagne at Cordova._ The Saracen emissaries find

the French emperor seated on a golden throne in an orchard, his peers

around him, watching the martial games of fifty thousand warriors.

After receiving Marsile's message, Charlemagne dismisses the

ambassadors for the night, promising answer on the morrow. When he

bids his courtiers state their opinions, Roland impetuously declares

that, as Marsile has tricked them once, it would not become them to

believe him now. His step-father, Ganelon, thereupon terms him a

hot-headed young fool, and avers he prizes his own glory more than his

fellow-men's lives. The wisest among Charlemagne's advisers, however,

Duke Naimes, argues that the Saracen's offers of submission should be

met half-way, and, as the remainder of the French agree with him,

Charlemagne calls for a messenger to bear his acceptance to Marsile.

Although Roland, Oliver, and Naimes eagerly sue for this honor,

Charlemagne, unwilling to spare his peers, bids them appoint a baron.

When Roland suggests his step-father, Ganelon--who deems the

expedition hazardous--becomes so angry that he reviles his step-son in

the emperor's presence, vowing the youth is maliciously sending him to

his death, and muttering he will have revenge. These violent threats

elicit Roland's laughter, but Charlemagne checks the resulting quarrel

by delivering message and emblems of office to Ganelon. To the dismay

of all present, he, however, drops the glove his master hands him, an

accident viewed as an omen of ill luck. Then, making speedy

preparations and pathetically committing wife and son to the care of

his countrymen, Ganelon starts out, fully expecting never to return.

_The Embassy and the Crime of Ganelon._ On his way to Saragossa,

Ganelon converses with the Saracens, who express surprise that

Charlemagne--whom they deem two hundred years old--should still long

for conquest. In return Ganelon assures them his master will never

cease fighting as long as Roland is one of his peers, for this knight

is determined to conquer the world. The Saracens, noticing his bitter

tone, now propose to rid Ganelon of his step-son, provided he will

arrange that Roland command the rear-guard of the French army. Thus

riding along, they devise the plot whereby this young hero is to be

led into an ambush in the Valley of Roncevaux (Roncesvalles), where,

by slaying him, they will deprive Charlemagne of his main strength.

"For whoso Roland to death shall bring,

From Karl his good right arm will wring,

The marvellous host will melt away,

No more shall he muster a like array."

Arriving in the presence of the Saracen king, Ganelon reports

Charlemagne ready to accept his offers, provided he do homage for one

half of Spain and abandon the other to Roland. Because Ganelon adds

the threat that, should this offer be refused, Charlemagne proposes to

seize Saragossa and bear Marsile a prisoner to Aix, the Saracen king

angrily orders the execution of the insolent messenger. But the

Frenchmen's truculent attitude forbids the guards' approach, and thus

gives the ambassadors a chance to inform Marsile that Ganelon has

promised to help them to outwit Charlemagne by depriving him of his

most efficient general. Hearing this, Marsile's anger is disarmed; and

he not only agrees to their plan to surprise Roland while crossing the

Pyrenees, but sends Ganelon back laden with gifts.

On rejoining his master at the foot of the mountains, Ganelon delivers

the keys of Saragossa, and reports that the caliph has sailed for the

East, with one hundred thousand men, none of whom care to dwell in a

Christian land. Hearing this, Charlemagne, imagining his task

finished, returns thanks to God, and prepares to wend his way back to

France, where he expects Marsile to follow him and do homage for

Spain.

Karl the Great hath wasted Spain,

Her cities sacked, her castles ta'en;

But now "My wars are done," he cried,

"And home to gentle France we ride."

_The Rear-guard and Roland Condemned to Death._ On the eve of his

return to "sweet France," Charlemagne's rest is disturbed by horrible

dreams, in one of which Ganelon breaks his lance, while in the other

wild animals are about to attack him. On awaking from this nightmare,

Charlemagne divides his army so as to thread his way safely through

the narrow passes of the mountains, arranging that a force shall

remain twenty miles in his rear to make sure he shall not be surprised

by the foe. When he inquires to whom this important command shall be

entrusted, Ganelon eagerly suggests that, as Roland is the most

valiant of the peers, the task be allotted to him. Anxious to keep his

nephew by him, Charlemagne resents this suggestion, but, when he

prepares to award the post to some one else, Roland eagerly claims it,

promising France shall lose nothing through him.

"God be my judge," was the count's reply,

"If ever I thus my race belie.

But twenty thousand with me shall rest,

Bravest of all your Franks and best;

The mountain passes in safety tread,

While I breathe in life you have nought to dread."

Because it is patent to all that his step-father proposed his name

through spite, Roland meaningly remarks that he at least will not drop

the insignia of his rank, and in proof thereof proudly clutches the

bow Charlemagne hands him, and boastfully declares twelve peers and

twenty thousand men will prove equal to any emergency.

Fully armed and mounted on his steed (Veillantif), Roland, from an

eminence, watches the vanguard of the French army disappear in the

mountain gorges, calling out to the last men that he and his troop

will follow them soon! This vanguard is led by Charlemagne and

Ganelon, and, as it passes on, the heavy tramp of the mailed steeds

causes the ground to shake, while the clash of the soldiers' arms is

heard for miles around. They have already travelled thirty miles and

are just nearing France, whose sunny fields the soldiers greet with

cries of joy, when Duke Naimes perceives tears flowing down the

emperor's cheeks, and learns that they are caused by apprehension for

Roland.

High were the peaks, and the valleys deep,

The mountains wondrous dark and steep;

Sadly the Franks through the passes wound,

Fully fifteen leagues did their tread resound.

To their own great land they are drawing nigh,

And they look on the fields of Gascony.

They think of their homes and their manors there,

Their gentle spouses and damsels fair.

Is none but for pity the tear lets fall;

But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all.

His sister's son at the gates of Spain

Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain.

The evident anxiety of Charlemagne fills the hearts of all Frenchmen

with nameless fear, and some of them whisper that Ganelon returned

from Saragossa with suspiciously rich gifts. Meantime Roland, who has

merely been waiting for the vanguard to gain some advance, sets out to

cross the mountains too; where, true to his agreement with Ganelon,

Marsile has concealed a force of one hundred thousand men, led by

twelve Saracen generals, who are considered fully equal to the French

peers, and who have vowed to slay Roland in the passes of Roncevaux.