RETURN OF ULYSSES

The romantic poem of the Odyssey is now to engage our attention.

It narrates the wanderings of Ulysses (Odysseus in the Greek

language) in his return from Troy to his own kingdom Ithaca.

From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, city of the

Ciconians, where, in a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses lost

six men from each ship. Sailing thence, they were overtaken by a

storm which drove them for nine days along the sea till they

reached the country of the Lotus-eaters. Here, after watering,

Ulysses sent three of his men to discover who the inhabitants

were. These men on coming among the Lotus-eaters were kindly

entertained by them, and were given some of their own food, the

lotus-plant, to eat. The effect of this food was such that those

who partook of it lost all thoughts of home and wished to remain

in that country. It was by main force that Ulysses dragged these

men away, and he was even obliged to tie them under the benches of

the ships.

[Footnote: Tennyson in the "Lotus-eaters" has charmingly expressed

the dreamy, languid feeling which the lotus food is said to have

produced.

"How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;

To hear each others' whispered speech;

Eating the Lotos, day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,

And tender curving lines of creamy spray:

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;

To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heaped over with a mound of grass,

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass."]

They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopes. The Cyclopes

were giants, who inhabited an island of which they were the only

possessors. The name means "round eye," and these giants were so

called because they had but one eye, and that placed in the middle

of the forehead. They dwelt in caves and fed on the wild

productions of the island and on what their flocks yielded, for

they were shepherds. Ulysses left the main body of his ships at

anchor, and with one vessel went to the Cyclopes' island to

explore for supplies. He landed with his companions, carrying with

them a jar of wine for a present, and coming to a large cave they

entered it, and finding no one within examined its contents. They

found it stored with the richest of the flock, quantities of

cheese, pails and bowls of milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all

in nice order. Presently arrived the master of the cave,

Polyphemus, bearing an immense bundle of firewood, which he threw

down before the cavern's mouth. He then drove into the cave the

sheep and goats to be milked, and, entering, rolled to the cave's

mouth an enormous rock, that twenty oxen could not draw. Next he

sat down and milked his ewes, preparing a part for cheese, and

setting the rest aside for his customary drink. Then, turning

round his great eye, he discerned the strangers, and growled out

to them, demanding who they were, and where from. Ulysses replied

most humbly, stating that they were Greeks, from the great

expedition that had lately won so much glory in the conquest of

Troy; that they were now on their way home, and finished by

imploring his hospitality in the name of the gods. Polyphemus

deigned no answer, but reaching out his hand seized two of the

Greeks, whom he hurled against the side of the cave, and dashed

out their brains. He proceeded to devour them with great relish,

and having made a hearty meal, stretched himself out on the floor

to sleep. Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and plunge

his sword into him as he slept, but recollected that it would only

expose them all to certain destruction, as the rock with which the

giant had closed up the door was far beyond their power to remove,

and they would therefore be in hopeless imprisonment. Next morning

the giant seized two more of the Greeks, and despatched them in

the same manner as their companions, feasting on their flesh till

no fragment was left. He then moved away the rock from the door,

drove out his flocks, and went out, carefully replacing the

barrier after him. When he was gone Ulysses planned how he might

take vengeance for his murdered friends, and effect his escape

with his surviving companions. He made his men prepare a massive

bar of wood cut by the Cyclops for a staff, which they found in

the cave. They sharpened the end of it, and seasoned it in the

fire, and hid it under the straw on the cavern floor. Then four of

the boldest were selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a

fifth. The Cyclops came home at evening, rolled away the stone and

drove in his flock as usual. After milking them and making his

arrangements as before, he seized two more of Ulysses' companions

and dashed their brains out, and made his evening meal upon them

as he had on the others. After he had supped, Ulysses approaching

him handed him a bowl of wine, saying, "Cyclops, this is wine;

taste and drink after thy meal of men's flesh." He took and drank

it, and was hugely delighted with it, and called for more. Ulysses

supplied him once again, which pleased the giant so much that he

promised him as a favor that he should be the last of the party

devoured. He asked his name, to which Ulysses replied, "My name is

Noman."

After his supper the giant lay down to repose, and was soon sound

asleep. Then Ulysses with his four select friends thrust the end

of the stake into the fire till it was all one burning coal, then

poising it exactly above the giant's only eye, they buried it

deeply into the socket, twirling it round as a carpenter does his

auger. The howling monster with his outcry filled the cavern, and

Ulysses with his aids nimbly got out of his way and concealed

themselves in the cave. He, bellowing, called aloud on all the

Cyclopes dwelling in the caves around him, far and near. They on

his cry flocked round the den, and inquired what grievous hurt had

caused him to sound such an alarm and break their slumbers. He

replied, "O friends, I die, and Noman gives the blow." They

answered, "If no man hurts thee it is the stroke of Jove, and thou

must bear it." So saying, they left him groaning.

Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his flock

out to pasture, but planted himself in the door of the cave to

feel of all as they went out, that Ulysses and his men should not

escape with them. But Ulysses had made his men harness the rams of

the flock three abreast, with osiers which they found on the floor

of the cave. To the middle ram of the three one of the Greeks

suspended himself, so protected by the exterior rams on either

side. As they passed, the giant felt of the animals' backs and

sides, but never thought of their bellies; so the men all passed

safe, Ulysses himself being on the last one that passed. When they

had got a few paces from the cavern, Ulysses and his friends

released themselves from their rams, and drove a good part of the

flock down to the shore to their boat. They put them aboard with

all haste, then pushed off from the shore, and when at a safe

distance Ulysses shouted out, "Cyclops, the gods have well

requited thee for thy atrocious deeds. Know it is Ulysses to whom

thou owest thy shameful loss of sight." The Cyclops, hearing this,

seized a rock that projected from the side of the mountain, and

rending it from its bed, he lifted it high in the air, then

exerting all his force, hurled it in the direction of the voice.

Down came the mass, just clearing the vessel's stern. The ocean,

at the plunge of the huge rock, heaved the ship towards the land,

so that it barely escaped being swamped by the waves. When they

had with the utmost difficulty pulled off shore, Ulysses was about

to hail the giant again, but his friends besought him not to do

so. He could not forbear, however, letting the giant know that

they had escaped his missile, but waited till they had reached a

safer distance than before. The giant answered them with curses,

but Ulysses and his friends plied their oars vigorously, and soon

regained their companions.

Ulysses next arrived at the island of Aeolus. To this monarch

Jupiter had intrusted the government of the winds, to send them

forth or retain them at his will. He treated Ulysses hospitably,

and at his departure gave him, tied up in a leathern bag, with a

silver string, such winds as might be hurtful and dangerous,

commanding fair winds to blow the barks towards their country.

Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that time Ulysses had

stood at the helm, without sleep. At last quite exhausted he lay

down to sleep. While he slept, the crew conferred together about

the mysterious bag, and concluded it must contain treasures given

by the hospitable king Aeolus to their commander. Tempted to

secure some portion for themselves, they loosed the string, when

immediately the winds rushed forth. The ships were driven far from

their course, and back again to the island they had just left.

Aeolus was so indignant at their folly that he refused to assist

them further, and they were obliged to labor over their course

once more by means of their oars.

THE LAESTRYGONIANS

Their next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of

Laestrygonians. The vessels all pushed into the harbor, tempted by

the secure appearance of the cove, completely land-locked; only

Ulysses moored his vessel without. As soon as the Laestrygonians

found the ships completely in their power they attacked them,

heaving huge stones which broke and overturned them, and with

their spears despatched the seamen as they struggled in the water.

All the vessels with their crews were destroyed, except Ulysses'

own ship, which had remained outside, and finding no safety but in

flight, he exhorted his men to ply their oars vigorously, and they

escaped.

With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their own

escape, they pursued their way till they arrived at the Aeaean

isle, where Circe dwelt, the daughter of the sun. Landing here,

Ulysses climbed a hill, and gazing round saw no signs of

habitation except in one spot at the centre of the island, where

he perceived a palace embowered with trees. He sent forward one-

half of his crew, under the command of Eurylochus, to see what

prospect of hospitality they might find. As they approached the

palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions, tigers, and

wolves, not fierce, but tamed by Circe's art, for she was a

powerful magician. All these animals had once been men, but had

been changed by Circe's enchantments into the forms of beasts. The

sounds of soft music were heard from within, and a sweet female

voice singing. Eurylochus called aloud and the goddess came forth

and invited them in; they all gladly entered except Eurylochus,

who suspected danger. The goddess conducted her guests to a seat,

and had them served with wine and other delicacies. When they had

feasted heartily, she touched them one by one with her wand, and

they became immediately changed into SWINE, in "head, body, voice,

and bristles," yet with their intellects as before. She shut them

in her sties and supplied them with acorns and such other things

as swine love.

Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale. Ulysses

thereupon determined to go himself, and try if by any means he

might deliver his companions. As he strode onward alone, he met a

youth who addressed him familiarly, appearing to be acquainted

with his adventures. He announced himself as Mercury, and informed

Ulysses of the arts of Circe, and of the danger of approaching

her. As Ulysses was not to be dissuaded from his attempt, Mercury

provided him with a sprig of the plant Moly, of wonderful power to

resist sorceries, and instructed him how to act. Ulysses

proceeded, and reaching the palace was courteously received by

Circe, who entertained him as she had done his companions, and

after he had eaten and drank, touched him with her wand, saying,

"Hence, seek the sty and wallow with thy friends." But he, instead

of obeying, drew his sword and rushed upon her with fury in his

countenance. She fell on her knees and begged for mercy. He

dictated a solemn oath that she would release his companions and

practise no further harm against him or them; and she repeated it,

at the same time promising to dismiss them all in safety after

hospitably entertaining them. She was as good as her word. The men

were restored to their shapes, the rest of the crew summoned from

the shore, and the whole magnificently entertained day after day,

till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land, and to have

reconciled himself to an inglorious life of ease and pleasure.

At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments, and he

received their admonition gratefully. Circe aided their departure,

and instructed them how to pass safely by the coast of the Sirens.

The Sirens were sea-nymphs who had the power of charming by their

song all who heard them, so that the unhappy mariners were

irresistibly impelled to cast themselves into the sea to their

destruction. Circe directed Ulysses to fill the ears of his seamen

with wax, so that they should not hear the strain; and to cause

himself to be bound to the mast, and his people to be strictly

enjoined, whatever he might say or do, by no means to release him

till they should have passed the Sirens' island. Ulysses obeyed

these directions. He filled the ears of his people with wax, and

suffered them to bind him with cords firmly to the mast. As they

approached the Sirens' island, the sea was calm, and over the

waters came the notes of music so ravishing and attractive that

Ulysses struggled to get loose, and by cries and signs to his

people begged to be released; but they, obedient to his previous

orders, sprang forward and bound him still faster. They held on

their course, and the music grew fainter till it ceased to be

heard, when with joy Ulysses gave his companions the signal to

unseal their ears, and they relieved him from his bonds.

The imagination of a modern poet, Keats, has discovered for us the

thoughts that passed through the brains of the victims of Circe,

after their transformation. In his "Endymion" he represents one of

them, a monarch in the guise of an elephant, addressing the

sorceress in human language, thus:

"I sue not for my happy crown again;

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;

I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife;

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys;

I will forget them; I will pass these joys,

Ask nought so heavenward; so too--too high;

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die;

To be delivered from this cumbrous flesh,

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,

And merely given to the cold, bleak air.

Have mercy, goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!"

SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS

Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and

Charybdis. We have already met with Scylla in the story of

Glaucus, and remember that she was once a beautiful maiden and was

changed into a snaky monster by Circe. She dwelt in a cave high up

on the cliff, from whence she was accustomed to thrust forth her

long necks (for she had six heads), and in each of her mouths to

seize one of the crew of every vessel passing within reach. The

other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf, nearly on a level with the

water. Thrice each day the water rushed into a frightful chasm,

and thrice was disgorged. Any vessel coming near the whirlpool

when the tide was rushing in must inevitably be ingulfed; not

Neptune himself could save it.

On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept

strict watch to discover them. The roar of the waters as Charybdis

ingulfed them, gave warning at a distance, but Scylla could

nowhere be discerned. While Ulysses and his men watched with

anxious eyes the dreadful whirlpool, they were not equally on

their guard from the attack of Scylla, and the monster, darting

forth her snaky heads, caught six of his men, and bore them away,

shrieking, to her den. It was the saddest sight Ulysses had yet

seen; to behold his friends thus sacrificed and hear their cries,

unable to afford them any assistance.

Circe had warned him of another danger. After passing Scylla and

Charybdis the next land he would make was Thrinakia, an island

whereon were pastured the cattle of Hyperion, the Sun, tended by

his daughters Lampetia and Phaethusa. These flocks must not be

violated, whatever the wants of the voyagers might be. If this

injunction were transgressed destruction was sure to fall on the

offenders.

Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun without

stopping, but his companions so urgently pleaded for the rest and

refreshment that would be derived from anchoring and passing the

night on shore, that Ulysses yielded. He bound them, however, with

an oath that they would not touch one of the animals of the sacred

flocks and herds, but content themselves with what provision they

yet had left of the supply which Circe had put on board. So long

as this supply lasted the people kept their oath, but contrary

winds detained them at the island for a month, and after consuming

all their stock of provisions, they were forced to rely upon the

birds and fishes they could catch. Famine pressed them, and at

length one day, in the absence of Ulysses, they slew some of the

cattle, vainly attempting to make amends for the deed by offering

from them a portion to the offended powers. Ulysses, on his return

to the shore, was horror-struck at perceiving what they had done,

and the more so on account of the portentous signs which followed.

The skins crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the

spits while roasting.

The wind becoming fair they sailed from the island. They had not

gone far when the weather changed, and a storm of thunder and

lightning ensued. A stroke of lightning shattered their mast,

which in its fall killed the pilot. At last the vessel itself came

to pieces. The keel and mast floating side by side, Ulysses formed

of them a raft, to which he clung, and, the wind changing, the

waves bore him to Calypso's island. All the rest of the crew

perished.

The following allusion to the topics we have just been considering

is from Milton's "Comus," line 252:

"... I have often heard

My mother Circe and the Sirens three,

Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,

Culling their potent herbs and baneful drugs,

Who as they sung would take the prisoned soul

And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept,

And chid her barking waves into attention,

And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause."

Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial, to denote opposite

dangers which beset one's course. See Proverbial Expressions.

CALYPSO

Calypso was a sea-nymph, which name denotes a numerous class of

female divinities of lower rank, yet sharing many of the

attributes of the gods. Calypso received Ulysses hospitably,

entertained him magnificently, became enamoured of him, and wished

to retain him forever, conferring on him immortality. But he

persisted in his resolution to return to his country and his wife

and son. Calypso at last received the command of Jove to dismiss

him. Mercury brought the message to her, and found her in her

grotto, which is thus described by Homer:

"A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides,

Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung

Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph,

Their sinuous course pursuing side by side,

Strayed all around, and everywhere appeared

Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o'er

With violets; it was a scene to fill

A god from heaven with wonder and delight."

Calypso with much reluctance proceeded to obey the commands of

Jupiter. She supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing a

raft, provisioned it well for him, and gave him a favoring gale.

He sped on his course prosperously for many days, till at length,

when in sight of land, a storm arose that broke his mast, and

threatened to rend the raft asunder. In this crisis he was seen by

a compassionate sea-nymph, who in the form of a cormorant alighted

on the raft, and presented him a girdle, directing him to bind it

beneath his breast, and if he should be compelled to trust himself

to the waves, it would buoy him up and enable him by swimming to

reach the land.

Fenelon, in his romance of "Telemachus," has given us the

adventures of the son of Ulysses in search of his father. Among

other places at which he arrived, following on his father's

footsteps, was Calypso's isle, and, as in the former case, the

goddess tried every art to keep him with her, and offered to share

her immortality with him. But Minerva, who in the shape of Mentor

accompanied him and governed all his movements, made him repel her

allurements, and when no other means of escape could be found, the

two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea, and swam to a vessel

which lay becalmed off shore. Byron alludes to this leap of

Telemachus and Mentor in the following stanza:

"But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,

The sister tenants of the middle deep;

There for the weary still a haven smiles,

Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,

And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep

For him who dared prefer a mortal bride.

Here too his boy essayed the dreadful leap,

Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;

While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly sighed."

CHAPTER XXX

THE PHAEACIANS--FATE OF THE SUITORS

THE PHAEACIANS

Ulysses clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept together,

and when it no longer yielded him support, binding the girdle

around him, he swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before him and

sent him a wind that rolled the waves towards the shore. The surf

beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at

length finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he

landed, spent with toil, breathless and speechless and almost

dead. After some time, reviving, he kissed the soil, rejoicing,

yet at a loss what course to take. At a short distance he

perceived a wood, to which he turned his steps. There, finding a

covert sheltered by intermingling branches alike from the sun and

the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a bed, on which

he stretched himself, and heaping the leaves over him, fell

asleep.

The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the

Phaeacians. These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but

being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the isle of

Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous, their king. They were,

the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared

manifestly and feasted among them when they offered sacrifices,

and did not conceal themselves from solitary wayfarers when they

met them. They had abundance of wealth and lived in the enjoyment

of it undisturbed by the alarms of war, for as they dwelt remote

from gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their shores, and

they did not even require to make use of bows and quivers. Their

chief employment was navigation. Their ships, which went with the

velocity of birds, were endued with intelligence; they knew every

port and needed no pilot. Alcinous, the son of Nausithous, was now

their king, a wise and just sovereign, beloved by his people.

Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast

ashore on the Phaeacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his

bed of leaves, Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream

sent by Minerva, reminding her that her wedding-day was not far

distant, and that it would be but a prudent preparation for that

event to have a general washing of the clothes of the family. This

was no slight affair, for the fountains were at some distance, and

the garments must be carried thither. On awaking, the princess

hastened to her parents to tell them what was on her mind; not

alluding to her wedding-day, but finding other reasons equally

good. Her father readily assented and ordered the grooms to

furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The clothes were put

therein, and the queen mother placed in the wagon, likewise, an

abundant supply of food and wine. The princess took her seat and

plied the lash, her attendant virgins following her on foot.

Arrived at the river side, they turned out the mules to graze, and

unlading the carriage, bore the garments down to the water, and

working with cheerfulness and alacrity soon despatched their

labor. Then having spread the garments on the shore to dry, and

having themselves bathed, they sat down to enjoy their meal; after

which they rose and amused themselves with a game of ball, the

princess singing to them while they played. But when they had

refolded the apparel and were about to resume their way to the

town, Minerva caused the ball thrown by the princess to fall into

the water, whereat they all screamed and Ulysses awaked at the

sound.

Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a ship-wrecked mariner,

but a few hours escaped from the waves, and utterly destitute of

clothing, awaking and discovering that only a few bushes were

interposed tween him and a group of young maidens whom, by their

deportment and attire, he discovered to be not mere peasant girls,

but of a higher class. Sadly needing help, how could he yet

venture, naked as he was, to discover himself and make his wants

known? It certainly was a case worthy of the interposition of his

patron goddess Minerva, who never failed him at a crisis. Breaking

off a leafy branch from a tree, he held it before him and stepped

out from the thicket. The virgins at sight of him fled in all

directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for HER Minerva aided and

endowed with courage and discernment. Ulysses, standing

respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and besought the fair

object (whether queen or goddess he professed he knew not) for

food and clothing. The princess replied courteously, promising

present relief and her father's hospitality when he should become

acquainted with the facts. She called back her scattered maidens,

chiding their alarm, and reminding them that the Phaeacians had no

enemies to fear. This man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer,

whom it was a duty to cherish, for the poor and stranger are from

Jove. She bade them bring food and clothing, for some of her

brother's garments were among the contents of the wagon. When this

was done, and Ulysses, retiring to a sheltered place, had washed

his body free from the sea-foam, clothed and refreshed himself

with food, Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace over his

ample chest and manly brows.

The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration, and scrupled

not to say to her damsels that she wished the gods would send her

such a husband. To Ulysses she recommended that he should repair

to the city, following herself and train so far as the way lay

through the fields; but when they should approach the city she

desired that he would no longer be seen in her company, for she

feared the remarks which rude and vulgar people might make on

seeing her return accompanied by such a gallant stranger. To avoid

which she directed him to stop at a grove adjoining the city, in

which were a farm and garden belonging to the king. After allowing

time for the princess and her companions to reach the city, he was

then to pursue his way thither, and would be easily guided by any

he might meet to the royal abode.

Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to the

city, on approaching which he met a young woman bearing a pitcher

forth for water. It was Minerva, who had assumed that form.

Ulysses accosted her and desired to be directed to the palace of

Alcinous the king. The maiden replied respectfully, offering to be

his guide; for the palace, she informed him, stood near her

father's dwelling. Under the guidance of the goddess, and by her

power enveloped in a cloud which shielded him from observation,

Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and with wonder observed

their harbor, their ships, their forum (the resort of heroes), and

their battlements, till they came to the palace, where the

goddess, having first given him some information of the country,

king, and people he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before

entering the courtyard of the palace, stood and surveyed the

scene. Its splendor astonished him. Brazen walls stretched from

the entrance to the interior house, of which the doors were gold,

the doorposts silver, the lintels silver ornamented with gold. On

either side were figures of mastiffs wrought in gold and silver,

standing in rows as if to guard the approach. Along the walls were

seats spread through all their length with mantles of finest

texture, the work of Phaeacian maidens. On these seats the princes

sat and feasted, while golden statues of graceful youths held in

their hands lighted torches which shed radiance over the scene.

Full fifty female menials served in household offices, some

employed to grind the corn, others to wind off the purple wool or

ply the loom. For the Phaeacian women as far exceeded all other

women in household arts as the mariners of that country did the

rest of mankind in the management of ships. Without the court a

spacious garden lay, four acres in extent. In it grew many a lofty

tree, pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive. Neither winter's

cold nor summer's drought arrested their growth, but they

flourished in constant succession, some budding while others were

maturing. The vineyard was equally prolific. In one quarter you

might see the vines, some in blossom, some loaded with ripe

grapes, and in another observe the vintagers treading the wine

press. On the garden's borders flowers of all hues bloomed all the

year round, arranged with neatest art. In the midst two fountains

poured forth their waters, one flowing by artificial channels over

all the garden, the other conducted through the courtyard of the

palace, whence every citizen might draw his supplies.

Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the

cloud which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At

length, having sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with

rapid step into the hall where the chiefs and senators were

assembled, pouring libation to Mercury, whose worship followed the

evening meal. Just then Minerva dissolved the cloud and disclosed

him to the assembled chiefs. Advancing to the place where the

queen sat, he knelt at her feet and implored her favor and

assistance to enable him to return to his native country. Then

withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of suppliants, at the

hearth side.

For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing the

king, said, "It is not fit that a stranger who asks our

hospitality should be kept waiting in suppliant guise, none

welcoming him. Let him therefore be led to a seat among us and

supplied with food and wine." At these words the king rising gave

his hand to Ulysses and led him to a seat, displacing thence his

own son to make room for the stranger. Food and wine were set

before him and he ate and refreshed himself.

The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next

day he would call them to council to consider what had best be

done for the stranger.

When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the

king and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he came,

and (recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which her

maidens and herself had made) from whom he received those

garments. He told them of his residence in Calypso's isle and his

departure thence; of the wreck of his raft, his escape by

swimming, and of the relief afforded by the princess. The parents

heard approvingly, and the king promised to furnish a ship in

which his guest might return to his own land.

The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the

king. A bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and

all betook themselves to the palace, where a bounteous repast was

provided. After the feast the king proposed that the young men

should show their guest their proficiency in manly sports, and all

went forth to the arena for games of running, wrestling, and other

exercises. After all had done their best, Ulysses being challenged

to show what he could do, at first declined, but being taunted by

one of the youths, seized a quoit of weight far heavier than any

of the Phaeacians had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost

throw of theirs. All were astonished, and viewed their guest with

greatly increased respect.

After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in

Demodocus, the blind bard,--

"... Dear to the Muse,

Who yet appointed him both good and ill,

Took from him sight, but gave him strains divine."

He took for his theme the "Wooden Horse," by means of which the

Greeks found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he sang

so feelingly the terrors and the exploits of that eventful time

that all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears. Observing

which, Alcinous, when the song was done, demanded of him why at

the mention of Troy his sorrows awaked. Had he lost there a

father, or brother, or any dear friend? Ulysses replied by

announcing himself by his true name, and at their request,

recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his

departure from Troy. This narrative raised the sympathy and

admiration of the Phaeacians for their guest to the highest pitch.

The king proposed that all the chiefs should present him with a

gift, himself setting the example. They obeyed, and vied with one

another in loading the illustrious stranger with costly gifts.

The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phaeacian vessel, and in a

short time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island. When the vessel

touched the strand he was asleep. The mariners, without waking

him, carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest

containing his presents, and then sailed away.

Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phaeacians in thus

rescuing Ulysses from his hands that on the return of the vessel

to port he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the mouth of

the harbor.

Homer's description of the ships of the Phaeacians has been

thought to look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern

steam navigation. Alcinous says to Ulysses:

"Say from what city, from what regions tossed,

And what inhabitants those regions boast?

So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned,

In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind;

No helm secures their course, no pilot guides;

Like man intelligent they plough the tides,

Conscious of every coast and every bay

That lies beneath the sun's all-seeing ray."

--Odyssey, Book VIII.

Lord Carlisle, in his "Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters,"

thus speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the ancient

Phaeacian island:

"The sites explain the 'Odyssey.' The temple of the sea-god could

not have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the

most elastic turf, on the brow of a crag commanding harbor, and

channel, and ocean. Just at the entrance of the inner harbor there

is a picturesque rock with a small convent perched upon it, which

by one legend is the transformed pinnace of Ulysses.

"Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper

distance from the probable site of the city and palace of the

king, to justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort to her

chariot and to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the

court to wash their garments."

FATE OF THE SUITORS

Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and when

he awoke he did not recognize his native land. Minerva appeared to

him in the form of a young shepherd, informed him where he was,

and told him the state of things at his palace. More than a

hundred nobles of Ithaca and of the neighboring islands had been

for years suing for the hand of Penelope, his wife, imagining him

dead, and lording it over his palace and people, as if they were

owners of both. That he might be able to take vengeance upon them,

it was important that he should not be recognized. Minerva

accordingly metamorphosed him into an unsightly beggar, and as

such he was kindly received by Eumaeus, the swine-herd, a faithful

servant of his house.

Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father. He had

gone to the courts of the other kings, who had returned from the

Trojan expedition. While on the search, he received counsel from

Minerva to return home. He arrived and sought Eumaeus to learn

something of the state of affairs at the palace before presenting

himself among the suitors. Finding a stranger with Eumaeus, he

treated him courteously, though in the garb of a beggar, and

promised him assistance. Eumaeus was sent to the palace to inform

Penelope privately of her son's arrival, for caution was necessary

with regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus had learned, were

plotting to intercept and kill him. When Eumaeus was gone, Minerva

presented herself to Ulysses, and directed him to make himself

known to his son. At the same time she touched him, removed at

once from him the appearance of age and penury, and gave him the

aspect of vigorous manhood that belonged to him. Telemachus viewed

him with astonishment, and at first thought he must be more than

mortal. But Ulysses announced himself as his father, and accounted

for the change of appearance by explaining that it was Minerva's

doing.

"... Then threw Telemachus

His arms around his father's neck and wept.

Desire intense of lamentation seized

On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged

His grief."

The father and son took counsel together how they should get the

better of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It was

arranged that Telemachus should proceed to the palace and mingle

with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should also go as a

beggar, a character which in the rude old times had different

privileges from what we concede to it now. As traveller and

storyteller, the beggar was admitted in the halls of chieftains,

and often treated like a guest; though sometimes, also, no doubt,

with contumely. Ulysses charged his son not to betray, by any

display of unusual interest in him, that he knew him to be other

than he seemed, and even if he saw him insulted, or beaten, not to

interpose otherwise than he might do for any stranger. At the

palace they found the usual scene of feasting and riot going on.

The suitors pretended to receive Telemachus with joy at his

return, though secretly mortified at the failure of their plots to

take his life. The old beggar was permitted to enter, and provided

with a portion from the table. A touching incident occurred as

Ulysses entered the courtyard of the palace. An old dog lay in the

yard almost dead with age, and seeing a stranger enter, raised his

head, with ears erect. It was Argus, Ulysses' own dog, that he had

in other days often led to the chase.

"... Soon as he perceived

Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears

Clapped close, and with his tail glad sign he gave

Of gratulation, impotent to rise,

And to approach his master as of old.

Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear

Unmarked.

... Then his destiny released

Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see

Ulysses in the twentieth year restored."

As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors began

to exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly remonstrated,

one of them, raised a stool and with it gave him a blow.

Telemachus had hard work to restrain his indignation at seeing his

father so treated in his own hall, but remembering his father's

injunctions, said no more than what became him as master of the

house, though young, and protector of his guests.

Penelope had protracted her decision in favor of either of her

suitors so long that there seemed to be no further pretence for

delay. The continued absence of her husband seemed to prove that

his return was no longer to be expected. Meanwhile, her son had

grown up, and was able to manage his own affairs. She therefore

consented to submit the question of her choice to a trial of skill

among the suitors. The test selected was shooting with the bow.

Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he whose arrow was sent

through the whole twelve was to have the queen for his prize. A

bow that one of his brother heroes had given to Ulysses in former

times was brought from the armory, and with its quiver full of

arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had taken care that all

other weapons should be removed, under pretence that in the heat

of competition there was danger, in some rash moment, of putting

them to an improper use.

All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be

done was to bend the bow in order to attach the string. Telemachus

endeavored to do it, but found all his efforts fruitless; and

modestly confessing that he had attempted a task beyond his

strength, he yielded the bow to another. He tried it with no

better success, and, amidst the laughter and jeers of his

companions, gave it up. Another tried it and another; they rubbed

the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not bend.

Then spoke Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be permitted

to try; for, said he, "beggar as I am, I was once a soldier, and

there is still some strength in these old limbs of mine." The

suitors hooted with derision, and commanded to turn him out of the

hall for his insolence. But Telemachus spoke up for him, and,

merely to gratify the old man, bade him try. Ulysses took the bow,

and handled it with the hand of a master. With ease he adjusted

the cord to its notch, then fitting an arrow to the bow he drew

the string and sped the arrow unerring through the rings.

Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said,

"Now for another mark!" and aimed direct at the most insolent one

of the suitors. The arrow pierced through his throat and he fell

dead. Telemachus, Eumaeus, and another faithful follower, well

armed, now sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in

amazement, looked round for arms, but found none, neither was

there any way of escape, for Eumaeus had secured the door. Ulysses

left them not long in uncertainty; he announced himself as the

long-lost chief, whose house they had invaded, whose substance

they had squandered, whose wife and son they had persecuted for

ten long years; and told them he meant to have ample vengeance.

All were slain, and Ulysses was left master of his palace and

possessor of his kingdom and his wife.

Tennyson's poem of "Ulysses" represents the old hero, after his

dangers past and nothing left but to stay at home and be happy,

growing tired of inaction and resolving to set forth again in

quest of new adventures.

"... Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles whom we knew;" etc.

CHAPTER XXXI

ADVENTURES OF AENEAS--THE HARPIES--DIDO--PALINURUS

ADVENTURES OF AENEAS

We have followed one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his

wanderings on his return home from Troy, and now we propose to

share the fortunes of the remnant of the conquered people, under

their chief Aeneas, in their search for a new home, after the ruin

of their native city. On that fatal night when the wooden horse

disgorged its contents of armed men, and the capture and

conflagration of the city were the result, Aeneas made his escape

from the scene of destruction, with his father, and his wife, and

young son. The father, Anchises, was too old to walk with the

speed required, and Aeneas took him upon his shoulders. Thus

burdened, leading his son and followed by his wife, he made the

best of his way out of the burning city; but, in the confusion,

his wife was swept away and lost.

On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives, of

both sexes, were found, who put themselves under the guidance of

Aeneas. Some months were spent in preparation, and at length they

embarked. They first landed on the neighboring shores of Thrace,

and were preparing to build a city, but Aeneas was deterred by a

prodigy. Preparing to offer sacrifice, he tore some twigs from one

of the bushes. To his dismay the wounded part dropped blood. When

he repeated the act a voice from the ground cried out to him,

"Spare me, Aeneas; I am your kinsman, Polydore, here murdered with

many arrows, from which a bush has grown, nourished with my

blood." These words recalled to the recollection of Aeneas that

Polydore was a young prince of Troy, whom his father had sent with

ample treasures to the neighboring land of Thrace, to be there

brought up, at a distance from the horrors of war. The king to

whom he was sent had murdered him and seized his treasures. Aeneas

and his companions, considering the land accursed by the stain of

such a crime, hastened away.

They next landed on the island of Delos, which was once a floating

island, till Jupiter fastened it by adamantine chains to the

bottom of the sea. Apollo and Diana were born there, and the

island was sacred to Apollo. Here Aeneas consulted the oracle of

Apollo, and received an answer, ambiguous as usual,--"Seek your

ancient mother; there the race of Aeneas shall dwell, and reduce

all other nations to their sway." The Trojans heard with joy and

immediately began to ask one another, "Where is the spot intended

by the oracle?" Anchises remembered that there was a tradition

that their forefathers came from Crete and thither they resolved

to steer. They arrived at Crete and began to build their city, but

sickness broke out among them, and the fields that they had

planted failed to yield a crop. In this gloomy aspect of affairs

Aeneas was warned in a dream to leave the country and seek a

western land, called Hesperia, whence Dardanus, the true founder

of the Trojan race, had originally migrated. To Hesperia, now

called Italy, therefore, they directed their future course, and

not till after many adventures and the lapse of time sufficient to

carry a modern navigator several times round the world, did they

arrive there.

Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies. These were

disgusting birds with the heads of maidens, with long claws and

faces pale with hunger. They were sent by the gods to torment a

certain Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his sight, in

punishment of his cruelty; and whenever a meal was placed before

him the Harpies darted down from the air and carried it off. They

were driven away from Phineus by the heroes of the Argonautic

expedition, and took refuge in the island where Aeneas now found

them.

When they entered the port the Trojans saw herds of cattle roaming

over the plain. They slew as many as they wished and prepared for

a feast. But no sooner had they seated themselves at the table

than a horrible clamor was heard in the air, and a flock of these

odious harpies came rushing down upon them, seizing in their

talons the meat from the dishes and flying away with it. Aeneas

and his companions drew their swords and dealt vigorous blows

among the monsters, but to no purpose, for they were so nimble it

was almost impossible to hit them, and their feathers were like

armor impenetrable to steel. One of them, perched on a neighboring

cliff, screamed out, "Is it thus, Trojans, you treat us innocent

birds, first slaughter our cattle and then make war on ourselves?"

She then predicted dire sufferings to them in their future course,

and having vented her wrath flew away. The Trojans made haste to

leave the country, and next found themselves coasting along the

shore of Epirus. Here they landed, and to their astonishment

learned that certain Trojan exiles, who had been carried there as

prisoners, had become rulers of the country. Andromache, the widow

of Hector, became the wife of one of the victorious Grecian

chiefs, to whom she bore a son. Her husband dying, she was left

regent of the country, as guardian of her son, and had married a

fellow-captive, Helenus, of the royal race of Troy. Helenus and

Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost hospitality, and

dismissed them loaded with gifts.

From hence Aeneas coasted along the shore of Sicily and passed the

country of the Cyclopes. Here they were hailed from the shore by a

miserable object, whom by his garments, tattered as they were,

they perceived to be a Greek. He told them he was one of Ulysses's

companions, left behind by that chief in his hurried departure. He

related the story of Ulysses's adventure with Polyphemus, and

besought them to take him off with them as he had no means of

sustaining his existence where he was but wild berries and roots,

and lived in constant fear of the Cyclopes. While he spoke

Polyphemus made his appearance; a terrible monster, shapeless,

vast, whose only eye had been put out. [Footnote: See Proverbial

Expressions.] He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with

a staff, down to the sea-side, to wash his eye-socket in the

waves. When he reached the water, he waded out towards them, and

his immense height enabled him to advance far into the sea, so

that the Trojans, in terror, took to their oars to get out of his

way. Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after them, so that the

shores resounded, and at the noise the other Cyclopes came forth

from their caves and woods and lined the shore, like a row of

lofty pine trees. The Trojans plied their oars and soon left them

out of sight.

Aeneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait guarded

by the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. There Ulysses, the reader

will remember, had lost six of his men, seized by Scylla while the

navigators were wholly intent upon avoiding Charybdis. Aeneas,

following the advice of Helenus, shunned the dangerous pass and

coasted along the island of Sicily.

Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously towards

their destined shore, felt her old grudge against them revive, for

she could not forget the slight that Paris had put upon her, in

awarding the prize of beauty to another. In heavenly minds can

such resentments dwell. [Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.]

Accordingly she hastened to Aeolus, the ruler of the winds,--the

same who supplied Ulysses with favoring gales, giving him the

contrary ones tied up in a bag. Aeolus obeyed the goddess and sent

forth his sons, Boreas, Typhon, and the other winds, to toss the

ocean. A terrible storm ensued and the Trojan ships were driven

out of their course towards the coast of Africa. They were in

imminent danger of being wrecked, and were separated, so that

Aeneas thought that all were lost except his own.

At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and knowing

that he had given no orders for one, raised his head above the

waves, and saw the fleet of Aeneas driving before the gale.

Knowing the hostility of Juno, he was at no loss to account for

it, but his anger was not the less at this interference in his

province. He called the winds and dismissed them with a severe

reprimand. He then soothed the waves, and brushed away the clouds

from before the face of the sun. Some of the ships which had got

on the rocks he pried off with his own trident, while Triton and a

sea-nymph, putting their shoulders under others, set them afloat

again. The Trojans, when the sea became calm, sought the nearest

shore, which was the coast of Carthage, where Aeneas was so happy

as to find that one by one the ships all arrived safe, though

badly shaken.

Waller, in his "Panegyric to the Lord Protector" (Cromwell),

alludes to this stilling of the storm by Neptune:

"Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face,

To chide the winds and save the Trojan race,

So has your Highness, raised above the rest,

Storms of ambition tossing us repressed."

DIDO

Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the

coast of Africa opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian

colony under Dido, their queen, were laying the foundations of a

state destined in later ages to be the rival of Rome itself. Dido

was the daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, and sister of Pygmalion,

who succeeded his father on the throne. Her husband was Sichaeus,

a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion, who coveted his treasures,

caused him to be put to death. Dido, with a numerous body of

friends and followers, both men and women, succeeded in effecting

their escape from Tyre, in several vessels, carrying with them the

treasures of Sichaeus. On arriving at the spot which they selected

as the seat of their future home, they asked of the natives only

so much land as they could enclose with a bull's hide. When this

was readily granted, she caused the hide to be cut into strips,

and with them enclosed a spot on which she built a citadel, and

called it Byrsa (a hide). Around this fort the city of Carthage

rose, and soon became a powerful and flourishing place.

Such was the state of affairs when Aeneas with his Trojans arrived

there. Dido received the illustrious exiles with friendliness and

hospitality. "Not unacquainted with distress," she said, "I have

learned to succor the unfortunate." [Footnote: See Proverbial

Expressions.] The queen's hospitality displayed itself in

festivities at which games of strength and skill were exhibited.

The strangers contended for the palm with her own subjects, on

equal terms, the queen declaring that whether the victor were

"Trojan or Tyrian should make no difference to her." [Footnote 1:

See Proverbial Expressions.] At the feast which followed the

games, Aeneas gave at her request a recital of the closing events

of the Trojan history and his own adventures after the fall of the

city. Dido was charmed with his discourse and filled with

admiration of his exploits. She conceived an ardent passion for

him, and he for his part seemed well content to accept the

fortunate chance which appeared to offer him at once a happy

termination of his wanderings, a home, a kingdom, and a bride.

Months rolled away in the enjoyment of pleasant intercourse, and

it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined to be founded on its

shores were alike forgotten. Seeing which, Jupiter despatched

Mercury with a message to Aeneas recalling him to a sense of his

high destiny, and commanding him to resume his voyage.

Aeneas parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement and

persuasion to detain him. The blow to her affection and her pride

was too much for her to endure, and when she found that he was

gone, she mounted a funeral pile which she had caused to be

erected, and having stabbed herself was consumed with the pile.

The flames rising over the city were seen by the departing

Trojans, and, though the cause was unknown, gave to Aeneas some

intimation of the fatal event.

The following epigram we find in "Elegant Extracts":

FROM THE LATIN

"Unhappy, Dido, was thy fate

In first and second married state!

One husband caused thy flight by dying,

Thy death the other caused by flying"

PALINURUS

After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince of

Trojan lineage, bore sway, who gave them a hospitable reception,

the Trojans re-embarked, and held on their course for Italy. Venus

now interceded with Neptune to allow her son at last to attain the

wished-for goal and find an end of his perils on the deep. Neptune

consented, stipulating only for one life as a ransom for the rest.

The victim was Palinurus, the pilot. As he sat watching the stars,

with his hand on the helm, Somnus sent by Neptune approached in

the guise of Phorbas and said: "Palinurus, the breeze is fair, the

water smooth, and the ship sails steadily on her course. Lie down

awhile and take needful rest. I will stand at the helm in your

place." Palinurus replied, "Tell me not of smooth seas or favoring

winds,--me who have seen so much of their treachery. Shall I

trust Aeneas to the chances of the weather and the winds?" And he

continued to grasp the helm and to keep his eyes fixed on the

stars. But Somnus waved over him a branch moistened with Lethaean

dew, and his eyes closed in spite of all his efforts. Then Somnus

pushed him overboard and he fell; but keeping his hold upon the

helm, it came away with him. Neptune was mindful of his promise

and kept the ship on her track without helm or pilot, till Aeneas

discovered his loss, and, sorrowing deeply for his faithful

steersman, took charge of the ship himself.

There is a beautiful allusion to the story of Palinurus in Scott's

"Marmion," Introduction to Canto I., where the poet, speaking of

the recent death of William Pitt, says:

"O, think how, to his latest day,

When death just hovering claimed his prey,

With Palinure's unaltered mood,

Firm at his dangerous post he stood;

Each call for needful rest repelled,

With dying hand the rudder held,

Till in his fall, with fateful sway,

The steerage of the realm gave way."

The ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully did

the adventurers leap to land. While his people were employed in

making their encampment Aeneas sought the abode of the Sibyl. It

was a cave connected with a temple and grove, sacred to Apollo and

Diana. While Aeneas contemplated the scene, the Sibyl accosted

him. She seemed to know his errand, and under the influence of the

deity of the place, burst forth in a prophetic strain, giving dark

intimations of labors and perils through which he was destined to

make his way to final success. She closed with the encouraging

words which have become proverbial: "Yield not to disasters, but

press onward the more bravely." [Footnote: See Proverbial

Expressions.] Aeneas replied that he had prepared himself for

whatever might await him. He had but one request to make. Having

been directed in a dream to seek the abode of the dead in order to

confer with his father, Anchises, to receive from him a revelation

of his future fortunes and those of his race, he asked her

assistance to enable him to accomplish the task. The Sibyl

replied, "The descent to Avernus is easy: the gate of Pluto stands

open night and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the

upper air, that is the toil, that the difficulty."[Footnote: See

Proverbial Expressions.] She instructed him to seek in the forest

a tree on which grew a golden branch. This branch was to be

plucked off and borne as a gift to Proserpine, and if fate was

propitious it would yield to the hand and quit its parent trunk,

but otherwise no force could rend it away. If torn away, another

would succeed.[Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.]

Aeneas followed the directions of the Sibyl. His mother, Venus,

sent two of her doves to fly before him and show him the way, and

by their assistance he found the tree, plucked the branch, and

hastened back with it to the Sibyl.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE INFERNAL REGIONS--THE SIBYL

THE INFERNAL REGIONS

As at the commencement of our series we have given the pagan

account of the creation of the world, so as we approach its

conclusion we present a view of the regions of the dead, depicted

by one of their most enlightened poets, who drew his doctrines

from their most esteemed philosophers. The region where Virgil

locates the entrance to this abode is perhaps the most strikingly

adapted to excite ideas of the terrific and preternatural of any

on the face of the earth. It is the volcanic region near Vesuvius,

where the whole country is cleft with chasms, from which

sulphurous flames arise, while the ground is shaken with pent-up

vapors, and mysterious sounds issue from the bowels of the earth.

The lake Avernus is supposed to fill the crater of an extinct

volcano. It is circular, half a mile wide, and very deep,

surrounded by high banks, which in Virgil's time were covered with

a gloomy forest. Mephitic vapors rise from its waters, so that no

life is found on its banks, and no birds fly over it. Here,

according to the poet, was the cave which afforded access to the

infernal regions, and here Aeneas offered sacrifices to the

infernal deities, Proserpine, Hecate, and the Furies. Then a

roaring was heard in the earth, the woods on the hill-tops were

shaken, and the howling of dogs announced the approach of the

deities. "Now," said the Sibyl, "summon up your courage, for you

will need it." She descended into the cave, and Aeneas followed.

Before the threshold of hell they passed through a group of beings

who are enumerated as Griefs and avenging Cares, pale Diseases and

melancholy Age, Fear and Hunger that tempt to crime, Toil,

Poverty, and Death,--forms horrible to view. The Furies spread

their couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of vipers tied up

with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters, Briareus, with

his hundred arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimaeras breathing fire.

Aeneas shuddered at the sight, drew his sword and would have

struck, but the Sibyl restrained him. They then came to the black

river Cocytus, where they found the ferryman, Charon, old and

squalid, but strong and vigorous, who was receiving passengers of

all kinds into his boat, magnanimous heroes, boys and unmarried

girls, as numerous as the leaves that fall at autumn, or the

flocks that fly southward at the approach of winter. They stood

pressing for a passage and longing to touch the opposite shore.

But the stern ferryman took in only such as he chose, driving the

rest back. Aeneas, wondering at the sight, asked the Sibyl, "Why

this discrimination?" She answered, "Those who are taken on board

the bark are the souls of those who have received due burial

rites; the host of others who have remained unburied are not

permitted to pass the flood, but wander a hundred years, and flit

to and fro about the shore, till at last they are taken over."

Aeneas grieved at recollecting some of his own companions who had

perished in the storm. At that moment he beheld Palinurus, his

pilot, who fell overboard and was drowned. He addressed him and

asked him the cause of his misfortune. Palinurus replied that the

rudder was carried away, and he, clinging to it, was swept away

with it. He besought Aeneas most urgently to extend to him his

hand and take him in company to the opposite shore. But the Sibyl

rebuked him for the wish thus to transgress the laws of Pluto; but

consoled him by informing him that the people of the shore where

his body had been wafted by the waves should be stirred up by

prodigies to give it due burial, and that the promontory should

bear the name of Cape Palinurus, which it does to this day.

Leaving Palinurus consoled by these words, they approached the

boat. Charon, fixing his eyes sternly upon the advancing warrior,

demanded by what right he, living and armed, approached that

shore. To which the Sibyl replied that they would commit no

violence, that Aeneas's only object was to see his father, and

finally exhibited the golden branch, at sight of which Charon's

wrath relaxed, and he made haste to turn his bark to the shore,

and receive them on board. The boat, adapted only to the light

freight of bodiless spirits, groaned under the weight of the hero.

They were soon conveyed to the opposite shore. There they were

encountered by the three-headed dog, Cerberus, with his necks

bristling with snakes. He barked with all his three throats till

the Sibyl threw him a medicated cake which he eagerly devoured,

and then stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep. Aeneas

and the Sibyl sprang to land. The first sound that struck their

ears was the wailing of young children, who had died on the

threshold of life, and near to these were they who had perished

under false charges. Minos presides over them as judge, and

examines the deeds of each. The next class was of those who had

died by their own hand, hating life and seeking refuge in death. O

how willingly would they now endure poverty, labor, and any other

infliction, if they might but return to life! Next were situated

the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths, leading

through groves of myrtle. Here roamed those who had fallen victims

to unrequited love, not freed from pain even by death itself.

Among these, Aeneas thought he descried the form of Dido, with a

wound still recent. In the dim light he was for a moment

uncertain, but approaching, perceived it was indeed herself. Tears

fell from his eyes, and he addressed her in the accents of love.

"Unhappy Dido! was then the rumor true that you had perished? and

was I, alas! the cause? I call the gods to witness that my

departure from you was reluctant, and in obedience to the commands

of Jove; nor could I believe that my absence would cost you so

dear. Stop, I beseech you, and refuse me not a last farewell." She

stood for a moment with averted countenance, and eyes fixed on the

ground, and then silently passed on, as insensible to his

pleadings as a rock. Aeneas followed for some distance; then, with

a heavy heart, rejoined his companion and resumed his route.

They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have fallen

in battle. Here they saw many shades of Grecian and Trojan

warriors. The Trojans thronged around him, and could not be

satisfied with the sight. They asked the cause of his coming, and

plied him with innumerable questions. But the Greeks, at the sight

of his armor glittering through the murky atmosphere, recognized

the hero, and filled with terror turned their backs and fled, as

they used to do on the plains of Troy.

Aeneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends, but the

Sibyl hurried him away. They next came to a place where the road

divided, the one leading to Elysium, the other to the regions of

the condemned. Aeneas beheld on one side the walls of a mighty

city, around which Phlegethon rolled its fiery waters. Before him

was the gate of adamant that neither gods nor men can break

through. An iron tower stood by the gate, on which Tisiphone, the

avenging Fury, kept guard. From the city were heard groans, and

the sound of the scourge, the creaking of iron, and the clanking

of chains. Aeneas, horror-struck, inquired of his guide what

crimes were those whose punishments produced the sounds he heard?

The Sibyl answered, "Here is the judgment hall of Rhadamanthus,

who brings to light crimes done in life, which the perpetrator

vainly thought impenetrably hid. Tisiphone applies her whip of

scorpions, and delivers the offender over to her sister Furies."

At this moment with horrid clang the brazen gates unfolded, and

Aeneas saw within a Hydra with fifty heads guarding the entrance.

The Sibyl told him that the gulf of Tartarus descended deep, so

that its recesses were as far beneath their feet as heaven was

high above their heads. In the bottom of this pit, the Titan race,

who warred against the gods, lie prostrate; Salmoneus, also, who

presumed to vie with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over

which he drove his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder,

launching flaming brands at his people in imitation of lightning,

till Jupiter struck him with a real thunderbolt, and taught him

the difference between mortal weapons and divine. Here, also, is

Tityus, the giant, whose form is so immense that as he lies he

stretches over nine acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver,

which as fast as it is devoured grows again, so that his

punishment will have no end.

Aeneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties, while

near by stood a Fury who snatched away the viands from their lips

as fast as they prepared to taste them. Others beheld suspended

over their heads huge rocks, threatening to fall, keeping them in

a state of constant alarm. These were they who had hated their

brothers, or struck their parents, or defrauded the friends who

trusted them, or who, having grown rich, kept their money to

themselves, and gave no share to others; the last being the most

numerous class. Here also were those who had violated the marriage

vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed in fidelity to their

employers. Here was one who had sold his country for gold, another

who perverted the laws, making them say one thing to-day and

another to-morrow.

Ixion was there, fastened to the circumference of a wheel

ceaselessly revolving; and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a huge

stone up to a hill-top, but when the steep was well-nigh gained,

the rock, repulsed by some sudden force, rushed again headlong

down to the plain. Again he toiled at it, while the sweat bathed

all his weary limbs, but all to no effect. There was Tantalus, who

stood in a pool, his chin level with the water, yet he was parched

with thirst, and found nothing to assuage it; for when he bowed

his hoary head, eager to quaff, the water fled away, leaving the

ground at his feet all dry. Tall trees laden with fruit stooped

their heads to him, pears, pomegranates, apples, and luscious

figs; but when with a sudden grasp he tried to seize them winds

whirled them high above his reach.

The Sibyl now warned Aeneas that it was time to turn from these

melancholy regions and seek the city of the blessed. They passed

through a middle tract of darkness, and came upon the Elysian

fields, the groves where the happy reside. They breathed a freer

air, and saw all objects clothed in a purple light. The region has

a sun and stars of its own. The inhabitants were enjoying

themselves in various ways, some in sports on the grassy turf, in

games of strength or skill. others dancing or singing. Orpheus

struck the chords of his lyre, and called forth ravishing sounds.

Here Aeneas saw the founders of the Trojan state, magnanimous

heroes who lived in happier times. He gazed with admiration on the

war chariots and glittering arms now reposing in disuse. Spears

stood fixed in the ground, and the horses, unharnessed, roamed

over the plain. The same pride in splendid armor and generous

steeds which the old heroes felt in life, accompanied them here.

He saw another group feasting and listening to the strains of

music. They were in a laurel grove, whence the great river Po has

its origin, and flows out among men. Here dwelt those who fell by

wounds received in their country's cause, holy priests also, and

poets who have uttered thoughts worthy of Apollo, and others who

have contributed to cheer and adorn life by their discoveries in

the useful arts, and have made their memory blessed by rendering

service to mankind. They wore snow-white fillets about their

brows. The Sibyl addressed a group of these, and inquired where

Anchises was to be found. They were directed where to seek him,

and soon found him in a verdant valley, where he was contemplating

the ranks of his posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be

achieved in coming times. When he recognized Aeneas approaching,

he stretched out both hands to him, while tears flowed freely.

"Have you come at last," said he, "long expected, and do I behold

you after such perils past? O my son, how have I trembled for you

as I have watched your career!" To which Aeneas replied, "O

father! your image was always before me to guide and guard me."

Then he endeavored to enfold his father in his embrace, but his

arms enclosed only an unsubstantial image.

Aeneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees gently

waving to the wind, a tranquil landscape, through which the river

Lethe flowed. Along the banks of the stream wandered a countless

multitude, numerous as insects in the summer air. Aeneas, with

surprise, inquired who were these. Anchises answered, "They are

souls to which bodies are to be given in due time. Meanwhile they

dwell on Lethe's bank, and drink oblivion of their former lives."

"O father!" said Aeneas, "is it possible that any can be so in

love with life as to wish to leave these tranquil seats for the

upper world?" Anchises replied by explaining the plan of creation.

The Creator, he told him, originally made the material of which

souls are composed of the four elements, fire, air, earth, and

water, all which when united took the form of the most excellent

part, fire, and became FLAME. This material was scattered like

seed among the heavenly bodies, the sun, moon, and stars. Of this

seed the inferior gods created man and all other animals, mingling

it with various proportions of earth, by which its purity was

alloyed and reduced. Thus, the more earth predominates in the

composition the less pure is the individual; and we see men and

women with their full-grown bodies have not the purity of

childhood. So in proportion to the time which the union of body

and soul has lasted is the impurity contracted by the spiritual

part. This impurity must be purged away after death, which is done

by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or merging them

in water, or burning out their impurities by fire. Some few, of

whom Anchises intimates that he is one, are admitted at once to

Elysium, there to remain. But the rest, after the impurities of

earth are purged away, are sent back to life endowed with new

bodies, having had the remembrance of their former lives

effectually washed away by the waters of Lethe. Some, however,

there still are, so thoroughly corrupted, that they are not fit to

be intrusted with human bodies, and these are made into brute

animals, lions, tigers, cats, dogs, monkeys, etc. This is what the

ancients called Metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls; a

doctrine which is still held by the natives of India, who scruple

to destroy the life even of the most insignificant animal, not

knowing but it may be one of their relations in an altered form.

Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to

Aeneas individuals of his race, who were hereafter to be born, and

to relate to him the exploits they should perform in the world.

After this he reverted to the present, and told his son of the

events that remained to him to be accomplished before the complete

establishment of himself and his followers in Italy. Wars were to

be waged, battles fought, a bride to be won, and in the result a

Trojan state founded, from which should rise the Roman power, to

be in time the sovereign of the world.

Aeneas and the Sibyl then took leave of Anchises, and returned by

some short cut, which the poet does not explain, to the upper

world.

ELYSIUM

Virgil, we have seen, places his Elysium under the earth, and

assigns it for a residence to the spirits of the blessed. But in

Homer Elysium forms no part of the realms of the dead. He places

it on the west of the earth, near Ocean, and describes it as a

happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor rain, and

always fanned by the delightful breezes of Zephyrus. Hither

favored heroes pass without dying and live happy under the rule of

Rhadamanthus. The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is in the Isles of

the Blessed, or Fortunate Islands, in the Western Ocean. From

these sprang the legend of the happy island Atlantis. This

blissful region may have been wholly imaginary, but possibly may

have sprung from the reports of some storm-driven mariners who had

caught a glimpse of the coast of America.

J. R. Lowell, in one of his shorter poems, claims for the present

age some of the privileges of that happy realm. Addressing the

Past, he says:

"Whatever of true life there was in thee,

Leaps in our age's veins.

Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care,

Float the green 'Fortunate Isles,'

Where all thy hero-spirits dwell and share

Our martyrdoms and toils.

The present moves attended

With all of brave and excellent and fair

That made the old time splendid."

Milton also alludes to the same fable in "Paradise Lost," Book

III, 1. 568:

"Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old,

Fortunate fields and groves and flowery vales,

Thrice happy isles."

And in Book II. he characterizes the rivers of Erebus according to

the meaning of their names in the Greek language:

"Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,

Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;

Cocytus named of lamentation loud

Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon

Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.

Far off from these a slow and silent stream,

Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls

Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks

Forthwith his former state and being forgets,

Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain."

THE SIBYL

As Aeneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said

to her, "Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved of the

gods, by me thou shalt always be held in reverence. When I reach

the upper air I will cause a temple to be built to thy honor, and

will myself bring offerings." "I am no goddess," said the Sibyl;

"I have no claim to sacrifice or offering. I am mortal; yet if I

could have accepted the love of Apollo I might have been immortal.

He promised me the fulfilment of my wish, if I would consent to be

his. I took a handful of sand, and holding it forth, said, 'Grant

me to see as many birthdays as there are sand grains in my hand.'

Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring youth. This also he would

have granted, could I have accepted his love, but offended at my

refusal, he allowed me to grow old. My youth and youthful strength

fled long ago. I have lived seven hundred years, and to equal the

number of the sand grains I have still to see three hundred

springs and three hundred harvests. My body shrinks up as years

increase, and in time, I shall be lost to sight, but my voice will

remain, and future ages will respect my sayings."

These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic

power. In her cave she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves

gathered from the trees the names and fates of individuals. The

leaves thus inscribed were arranged in order within the cave, and

might be consulted by her votaries. But if perchance at the

opening of the door the wind rushed in and dispersed the leaves

the Sibyl gave no aid to restoring them again, and the oracle was

irreparably lost.

The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date. In the

reign of one of the Tarquins there appeared before the king a

woman who offered him nine books for sale. The king refused to

purchase them, whereupon the woman went away and burned three of

the books, and returning offered the remaining books for the same

price she had asked for the nine. The king again rejected them;

but when the woman, after burning three books more, returned and

asked for the three remaining the same price which she had before

asked for the nine, his curiosity was excited, and he purchased

the books. They were found to contain the destinies of the Roman

state. They were kept in the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus,

preserved in a stone chest, and allowed to be inspected only by

especial officers appointed for that duty, who, on great

occasions, consulted them and interpreted their oracles to the

people.

There were various Sibyls; but the Cumaean Sibyl, of whom Ovid and

Virgil write, is the most celebrated of them. Ovid's story of her

life protracted to one thousand years may be intended to represent

the various Sibyls as being only reappearances of one and the same

individual.

Young, in the "Night Thoughts," alludes to the Sibyl. Speaking of

Worldly Wisdom, he says:

"If future fate she plans 'tis all in leaves,

Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss;

At the first blast it vanishes in air.

As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves,

The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare,

The price still rising as in number less."

CHAPTER XXXIII

CAMILLA--EVANDER--NISUS AND EURYALUS--MEZENTIUS--TURNUS

Aeneas, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet,

coasted along the shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth of

the Tiber. The poet, having brought his hero to this spot, the

destined termination of his wanderings, invokes his Muse to tell

him the situation of things at that eventful moment. Latinus,

third in descent from Saturn, ruled the country. He was now old

and had no male descendant, but had one charming daughter,

Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many neighboring chiefs,

one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians, was favored by the

wishes of her parents. But Latinus had been warned in a dream by

his father Faunus, that the destined husband of Lavinia should

come from a foreign land. From that union should spring a race

destined to subdue the world.

Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the Harpies

one of those half-human birds had threatened the Trojans with dire

sufferings. In particular she predicted that before their

wanderings ceased they should be pressed by hunger to devour their

tables. This portent now came true; for as they took their scanty

meal, seated on the grass, the men placed their hard biscuit on

their laps, and put thereon whatever their gleanings in the woods

supplied. Having despatched the latter they finished by eating the

crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus said playfully, "See, we are

eating our tables." Aeneas caught the words and accepted the omen.

"All hail, promised land!" he exclaimed, "this is our home, this

our country." He then took measures to find out who were the

present inhabitants of the land, and who their rulers. A hundred

chosen men were sent to the village of Latinus, bearing presents

and a request for friendship and alliance. They went and were

favorably received. Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan

hero was no other than the promised son-in-law announced by the

oracle. He cheerfully granted his alliance and sent back the

messengers mounted on steeds from his stables, and loaded with

gifts and friendly messages.

Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans, felt her

old animosity revive, summoned Alecto from Erebus, and sent her to

stir up discord. The Fury first took possession of the queen,

Amata, and roused her to oppose in every way the new alliance.

Alecto then speeded to the city of Turnus, and assuming the form

of an old priestess, informed him of the arrival of the foreigners

and of the attempts of their prince to rob him of his bride. Next

she turned her attention to the camp of the Trojans. There she saw

the boy Iulus and his companions amusing themselves with hunting.

She sharpened the scent of the dogs, and led them to rouse up from

the thicket a tame stag, the favorite of Silvia, the daughter of

Tyrrheus, the king's herdsman. A javelin from the hand of Iulus

wounded the animal, and he had only strength left to run

homewards, and died at his mistress's feet. Her cries and tears

roused her brothers and the herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever

weapons came to hand, furiously assaulted the hunting party. These

were protected by their friends, and the herdsmen were finally

driven back with the loss of two of their number.

These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the queen,

Turnus, and the peasants all urged the old king to drive the

strangers from the country. He resisted as long as he could, but,

finding his opposition unavailing, finally gave way and retreated

to his retirement.

OPENING THE GATES OF JANUS

It was the custom of the country, when war was to be undertaken,

for the chief magistrate, clad in his robes of office, with solemn

pomp to open the gates of the temple of Janus, which were kept

shut as long as peace endured. His people now urged the old king

to perform that solemn office, but he refused to do so. While they

contested, Juno herself, descending from the skies, smote the

doors with irresistible force, and burst them open. Immediately

the whole country was in a flame. The people rushed from every

side breathing nothing but war.

Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as allies,

chief of whom was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier, but of

detestable cruelty. He had been the chief of one of the

neighboring cities, but his people drove him out. With him was

joined his son Lausus, a generous youth, worthy of a better sire.

CAMILLA

Camilla, the favorite of Diana, a huntress and warrior, after the

fashion of the Amazons, came with her band of mounted followers,

including a select number of her own sex, and ranged herself on

the side of Turnus. This maiden had never accustomed her fingers

to the distaff or the loom, but had learned to endure the toils of

war, and in speed to outstrip the wind. It seemed as if she might

run over the standing corn without crushing it, or over the

surface of the water without dipping her feet. Camilla's history

had been singular from the beginning. Her father, Metabus, driven

from his city by civil discord, carried with him in his flight his

infant daughter. As he fled through the woods, his enemies in hot

pursuit, he reached the bank of the river Amazenus, which, swelled

by rains, seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a moment, then

decided what to do. He tied the infant to his lance with wrappers

of bark, and poising the weapon in his upraised hand thus

addressed Diana: "Goddess of the woods! I consecrate this maid to

you;" then hurled the weapon with its burden to the opposite bank.

The spear flew across the roaring water. His pursuers were already

upon him, but he plunged into the river and swam across, and found

the spear, with the infant safe on the other side. Thenceforth he

lived among the shepherds and brought up his daughter in woodland

arts. While a child she was taught to use the bow and throw the

javelin. With her sling she could bring down the crane or the wild

swan. Her dress was a tiger's skin. Many mothers sought her for a

daughter-in-law, but she continued faithful to Diana and repelled

the thought of marriage.

EVANDER

Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves against

Aeneas. It was night and he lay stretched in sleep on the bank of

the river under the open heavens. The god of the stream, Father

Tiber, seemed to raise his head above the willows and to say, "O

goddess-born, destined possessor of the Latin realms, this is the

promised land, here is to be your home, here shall terminate the

hostility of the heavenly powers, if only you faithfully

persevere. There are friends not far distant. Prepare your boats

and row up my stream; I will lead you to Evander, the Arcadian

chief, he has long been at strife with Turnus and the Rutulians,

and is prepared to become an ally of yours. Rise! offer your vows

to Juno, and deprecate her anger. When you have achieved your

victory then think of me." Aeneas woke and paid immediate

obedience to the friendly vision. He sacrificed to Juno, and

invoked the god of the river and all his tributary fountains to

lend their aid. Then for the first time a vessel filled with armed

warriors floated on the stream of the Tiber. The river smoothed

its waves, and bade its current flow gently, while, impelled by

the vigorous strokes of the rowers, the vessels shot rapidly up

the stream.

About the middle of the day they came in sight of the scattered

buildings of the infant town, where in after times the proud city

of Rome grew, whose glory reached the skies. By chance the old

king, Evander, was that day celebrating annual solemnities in

honor of Hercules and all the gods. Pallas, his son, and all the

chiefs of the little commonwealth stood by. When they saw the tall

ship gliding onward near the wood, they were alarmed at the sight,

and rose from the tables. But Pallas forbade the solemnities to be

interrupted, and seizing a weapon, stepped forward to the river's

bank. He called aloud, demanding who they were, and what their

object. Aeneas, holding forth an olive-branch, replied, "We are

Trojans, friends to you, and enemies to the Rutulians. We seek

Evander, and offer to join our arms with yours." Pallas, in amaze

at the sound of so great a name, invited them to land, and when

Aeneas touched the shore he seized his hand, and held it long in

friendly grasp. Proceeding through the wood, they joined the king

and his party and were most favorably received. Seats were

provided for them at the tables, and the repast proceeded.

INFANT ROME

When the solemnities were ended all moved towards the city. The

king, bending with age, walked between his son and Aeneas, taking

the arm of one or the other of them, and with much variety of

pleasing talk shortening the way. Aeneas with delight looked and

listened, observing all the beauties of the scene, and learning

much of heroes renowned in ancient times. Evander said, "These

extensive groves were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs, and a

rude race of men who sprang from the trees themselves, and had

neither laws nor social culture. They knew not how to yoke the

cattle nor raise a harvest, nor provide from present abundance for

future want; but browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, or fed

voraciously on their hunted prey. Such were they when Saturn,

expelled from Olympus by his sons, came among them and drew

together the fierce savages, formed them into society, and gave

them laws. Such peace and plenty ensued that men ever since have

called his reign the golden age; but by degrees far other times

succeeded, and the thirst of gold and the thirst of blood

prevailed. The land was a prey to successive tyrants, till fortune

and resistless destiny brought me hither, an exile from my native

land, Arcadia."

Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the rude

spot then overgrown with bushes where in after times the Capitol

rose in all its magnificence. He next pointed to some dismantled

walls, and said, "Here stood Janiculum, built by Janus, and there

Saturnia, the town of Saturn." Such discourse brought them to the

cottage of poor Evander, whence they saw the lowing herds roaming

over the plain where now the proud and stately Forum stands. They

entered, and a couch was spread for Aeneas, well stuffed with

leaves, and covered with the skin of a Libyan bear.

Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of birds

beneath the eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose. Clad in a

tunic, and a panther's skin thrown over his shoulders, with

sandals on his feet and his good sword girded to his side, he went

forth to seek his guest. Two mastiffs followed him, his whole

retinue and body guard. He found the hero attended by his faithful

Achates, and, Pallas soon joining them, the old king spoke thus:

"Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a

cause. Our state is feeble, hemmed in on one side by the river, on

the other by the Rutulians. But I propose to ally you with a

people numerous and rich, to whom fate has brought you at the

propitious moment. The Etruscans hold the country beyond the

river. Mezentius was their king, a monster of cruelty, who

invented unheard-of torments to gratify his vengeance. He would

fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face, and

leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace. At

length the people cast him out, him and his house. They burned his

palace and slew his friends. He escaped and took refuge with

Turnus, who protects him with arms. The Etruscans demand that he

shall be given up to deserved punishment, and would ere now have

attempted to enforce their demand; but their priests restrain

them, telling them that it is the will of heaven that no native of

the land shall guide them to victory, and that thsir destined

leader must come from across the sea. They have offered the crown

to me, but I am too old to undertake such great affairs, and my

son is native-born, which precludes him from the choice. You,

equally by birth and time of life, and fame in arms, pointed out

by the gods, have but to appear to be hailed at once as their

leader. With you I will join Pallas, my son, my only hope and

comfort. Under you he shall learn the art of war, and strive to

emulate your great exploits."

Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan

chiefs, and Aeneas, with a chosen band of followers and Pallas

accompanying, mounted and took the way to the Etruscan city,

[Footnote: The poet here inserts a famous line which is thought to

imitate in its sound the galloping of horses. It may be thus

translated--"Then struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground

with a four-footed trampling."--See Proverbial Expressions.]

having sent back the rest of his party in the ships. Aeneas and

his band safely arrived at the Etruscan camp and were received

with open arms by Tarchon and his countrymen.

NISUS AND EURYALUS

In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all

necessary preparations for the war. Juno sent Iris to him with a

message inciting him to take advantage of the absence of Aeneas

and surprise the Trojan camp. Accordingly the attempt was made,

but the Trojans were found on their guard, and having received

strict orders from Aeneas not to fight in his absence, they lay

still in their intrenchments, and resisted all the efforts of the

Rutulians to draw them into the field. Night coming on, the army

of Turnus, in high spirits at their fancied superiority, feasted

and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves on the

field and slept secure.

In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise. There all

was watchfulness and anxiety and impatience for Aeneas's return.

Nisus stood guard at the entrance of the camp, and Euryalus, a

youth distinguished above all in the army for graces of person and

fine qualities, was with him. These two were friends and brothers

in arms. Nisus said to his friend, "Do you perceive what

confidence and carelessness the enemy display? Their lights are

few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed with wine or sleep.

You know how anxiously our chiefs wish to send to Aeneas, and to

get intelligence from him. Now, I am strongly moved to make my way

through the enemy's camp and to go in search of our chief. If I

succeed, the glory of the deed will be reward enough for me, and

if they judge the service deserves anything more, let them pay it

to you."

Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied, "Would

you, then, Nisus, refuse to share your enterprise with me? And

shall I let you go into such danger alone? Not so my brave father

brought me up, nor so have I planned for myself when I joined the

standard of Aeneas, and resolved to hold my life cheap in

comparison with honor." Nisus replied, "I doubt it not, my friend;

but you know the uncertain event of such an undertaking, and

whatever may happen to me, I wish you to be safe. You are younger

than I and have more of life in prospect. Nor can I be the cause

of such grief to your mother, who has chosen to be here in the

camp with you rather than stay and live in peace with the other

matrons in Acestes' city." Euryalus replied, "Say no more. In vain

you seek arguments to dissuade me. I am fixed in the resolution to

go with you. Let us lose no time." They called the guard, and

committing the watch to them, sought the general's tent. They

found the chief officers in consultation, deliberating how they

should send notice to Aeneas of their situation. The offer of the

two friends was gladly accepted, themselves loaded with praises

and promised the most liberal rewards in case of success. Iulus

especially addressed Euryalus, assuring him of his lasting

friendship. Euryalus replied, "I have but one boon to ask. My aged

mother is with me in the camp. For me she left the Trojan soil,

and would not stay behind with the other matrons at the city of

Acestes. I go now without taking leave of her. I could not bear

her tears nor set at nought her entreaties. But do thou, I beseech

you, comfort her in her distress. Promise me that and I shall go

more boldly into whatever dangers may present themselves." Iulus

and the other chiefs were moved to tears, and promised to do all

his request. "Your mother shall be mine," said Iulus, "and all

that I have promised to you shall be made good to her, if you do

not return to receive it."

The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the midst

of the enemy. They found no watch, no sentinels posted, but, all

about, the sleeping soldiers strewn on the grass and among the

wagons. The laws of war at that early day did not forbid a brave

man to slay a sleeping foe, and the two Trojans slew, as they

passed, such of the enemy as they could without exciting alarm. In

one tent Euryalus made prize of a helmet brilliant with gold and

plumes. They had passed through the enemy's ranks without being

discovered, but now suddenly appeared a troop directly in front of

them, which, under Volscens, their leader, were approaching the

camp. The glittering helmet of Euryalus caught their attention,

and Volscens hailed the two, and demanded who and whence they

were. They made no answer, but plunged into the wood. The horsemen

scattered in all directions to intercept their flight. Nisus had

eluded pursuit and was out of danger, but Euryalus being missing

he turned back to seek him. He again entered the wood and soon

came within sound of voices. Looking through the thicket he saw

the whole band surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions. What

should he do? how extricate the youth, or would it be better to

die with him.

Raising his eyes to the moon, which now shone clear, he said,

"Goddess! favor my effort!" and aiming his javelin at one of the

leaders of the troop, struck him in the back and stretched him on

the plain with a death-blow. In the midst of their amazement

another weapon flew and another of the party fell dead. Volscens,

the leader, ignorant whence the darts came, rushed sword in hand

upon Euryalus. "You shall pay the penalty of both," he said, and

would have plunged the sword into his bosom, when Nisus, who from

his concealment saw the peril of his friend, rushed forward

exclaiming, "'Twas I, 'twas I; turn your swords against me,

Rutulians, I did it; he only followed me as a friend." While he

spoke the sword fell, and pierced the comely bosom of Euryalus.

His head fell over on his shoulder, like a flower cut down by the

plough. Nisus rushed upon Volscens and plunged his sword into his

body, and was himself slain on the instant by numberless blows.

MEZENTIUS

Aeneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of action

in time to rescue his beleaguered camp; and now the two armies

being nearly equal in strength, the war began in good earnest. We

cannot find space for all the details, but must simply record the

fate of the principal characters whom we have introduced to our

readers. The tyrant Mezentius, finding himself engaged against his

revolting subjects, raged like a wild beast. He slew all who dared

to withstand him, and put the multitude to flight wherever he

appeared. At last he encountered Aeneas, and the armies stood

still to see the issue. Mezentius threw his spear, which striking

Aeneas's shield glanced off and hit Anthor. He was a Grecian by

birth, who had left Argos, his native city, and followed Evander

into Italy. The poet says of him with simple pathos which has made

the words proverbial, "He fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for

another, looked up at the skies, and dying remembered sweet

Argos." [Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] Aeneas now in turn

hurled his lance. It pierced the shield of Mezentius, and wounded

him in the thigh. Lausus, his son, could not bear the sight, but

rushed forward and interposed himself, while the followers pressed

round Mezentius and bore him away. Aeneas held his sword suspended

over Lausus and delayed to strike, but the furious youth pressed

on and he was compelled to deal the fatal blow. Lausus fell, and

Aeneas bent over him in pity. "Hapless youth," he said, "what can

I do for you worthy of your praise? Keep those arms in which you

glory, and fear not but that your body shall be restored to your

friends, and have due funeral honors." So saying, he called the

timid followers and delivered the body into their hands.

Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the riverside, and washed

his wound. Soon the news reached him of Lausus's death, and rage

and despair supplied the place of strength. He mounted his horse

and dashed into the thickest of the fight, seeking Aeneas. Having

found him, [Footnote: See Proverbial Expressions.] he rode round

him in a circle, throwing one javelin after another, while Aeneas

stood fenced with his shield, turning every way to meet them. At

last, after Mezentius had three times made the circuit, Aeneas

threw his lance directly at the horse's head. It pierced his

temples and he fell, while a shout from both armies rent the

skies. Mezentius asked no mercy, but only that his body might be

spared the insults of his revolted subjects, and be buried in the

same grave with his son. He received the fatal stroke not

unprepared, and poured out his life and his blood together.

PALLAS, CAMILLA, TURNUS

While these things were doing in one part of the field, in another

Turnus encountered the youthful Pallas. The contest between

champions so unequally matched could not be doubtful. Pallas bore

himself bravely, but fell by the lance of Turnus. The victor

almost relented when he saw the brave youth lying dead at his

feet, and spared to use the privilege of a conqueror in despoiling

him of his arms. The belt only, adorned with studs and carvings of

gold, he took and clasped round his own body. The rest he remitted

to the friends of the slain.

After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days to

allow both armies to bury their dead. In this interval Aeneas

challenged Turnus to decide the contest by single combat, but

Turnus evaded the challenge. Another battle ensued, in which

Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly conspicuous. Her deeds of

valor surpassed those of the bravest warriors, and many Trojans

and Etruscans fell pierced with her darts or struck down by her

battle-axe. At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had watched her

long, seeking for some advantage, observed her pursuing a flying

enemy whose splendid armor offered a tempting prize. Intent on the

chase she observed not her danger, and the javelin of Aruns struck

her and inflicted a fatal wound. She fell and breathed her last in

the arms of her attendant maidens. But Diana, who beheld her fate,

suffered not her slaughter to be unavenged. Aruns, as he stole

away, glad, but frightened, was struck by a secret arrow, launched

by one of the nymphs of Diana's train, and died ignobly and

unknown.

At length the final conflict took place between Aeneas and Turnus.

Turnus had avoided the contest as long as he could, but at last,

impelled by the ill success of his arms and by the murmurs of his

followers, he braced himself to the conflict. It could not be

doubtful. On the side of Aeneas were the expressed decree of

destiny, the aid of his goddess-mother at every emergency, and

impenetrable armor fabricated by Vulcan, at her request, for her

son. Turnus, on the other hand, was deserted by his celestial

allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden by Jupiter to assist

him any longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it recoiled harmless

from the shield of Aeneas. The Trojan hero then threw his, which

penetrated the shield of Turnus, and pierced his thigh. Then

Turnus's fortitude forsook him and he begged for mercy; and Aeneas

would have given him his life, but at the instant his eye fell on

the belt of Pallas, which Turnus had taken from the slaughtered

youth. Instantly his rage revived, and exclaiming, "Pallas

immolates thee with this blow," he thrust him through with his

sword.

Here the poem of the "Aeneid" closes, and we are left to infer

that Aeneas, having triumphed over his foes, obtained Lavinia for

his bride. Tradition adds that he founded his city, and called it

after her name, Lavinium. His son Iulus founded Alba Longa, which

was the birthplace of Romulus and Remus and the cradle of Rome

itself.

There is an allusion to Camilla in those well-known lines of Pope,

in which, illustrating the rule that "the sound should be an echo

to the sense," he says:

"When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,

The line too labors and the words move slow.

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,

Flies o'er th' unbending corn or skims along the main."

--Essay on Criticism.

CHAPTER XXXIV

PYTHAGORAS--EGYPTIAN DEITIES--ORACLES

PYTHAGORAS

The teachings of Anchises to Aeneas, respecting the nature of the

human soul, were in conformity with the doctrines of the

Pythagoreans. Pythagoras (born five hundred and forty years B.C.)

was a native of the island of Samos, but passed the chief portion

of his life at Crotona in Italy. He is therefore sometimes called

"the Samian," and sometimes "the philosopher of Crotona." When

young he travelled extensively, and it is said visited Egypt,

where he was instructed by the priests in all their learning, and

afterwards journeyed to the East, and visited the Persian and

Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of India.

At Crotona, where he finally established himself, his

extraordinary qualities collected round him a great number of

disciples. The inhabitants were notorious for luxury and

licentiousness, but the good effects of his influence were soon

visible. Sobriety and temperance succeeded. Six hundred of the

inhabitants became his disciples and enrolled themselves in a

society to aid each other in the pursuit of wisdom, uniting their

property in one common stock for the benefit of the whole. They

were required to practise the greatest purity and simplicity of

manners. The first lesson they learned was SILENCE; for a time

they were required to be only hearers. "He [Pythagoras] said so"

(Ipse dixit), was to be held by them as sufficient, without any

proof. It was only the advanced pupils, after years of patient

submission, who were allowed to ask questions and to state

objections.

Pythagoras considered NUMBERS as the essence and principle of all

things, and attributed to them a real and distinct existence; so

that, in his view, they were the elements out of which the

universe was constructed. How he conceived this process has never

been satisfactorily explained. He traced the various forms and

phenomena of the world to numbers as their basis and essence. The

"Monad" or unit he regarded as the source of all numbers. The

number Two was imperfect, and the cause of increase and division.

Three was called the number of the whole because it had a

beginning, middle, and end. Four, representing the square, is in

the highest degree perfect; and Ten, as it contains the sum of the

four prime numbers, comprehends all musical and arithmetical

proportions, and denotes the system of the world.

As the numbers proceed from the monad, so he regarded the pure and

simple essence of the Deity as the source of all the forms of

nature. Gods, demons, and heroes are emanations of the Supreme,

and there is a fourth emanation, the human soul. This is immortal,

and when freed from the fetters of the body passes to the

habitation of the dead, where it remains till it returns to the

world, to dwell in some other human or animal body, and at last,

when sufficiently purified, it returns to the source from which it

proceeded. This doctrine of the transmigration of souls

(metempsychosis), which was originally Egyptian and connected with

the doctrine of reward and punishment of human actions, was the

chief cause why the Pythagoreans killed no animals. Ovid

represents Pythagoras addressing his disciples in these words:

"Souls never die, but always on quitting one abode pass to

another. I myself can remember that in the time of the Trojan war

I was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and fell by the spear of

Menelaus. Lately being in the temple of Juno, at Argos, I

recognized my shield hung up there among the trophies. All things

change, nothing perishes. The soul passes hither and thither,

occupying now this body, now that, passing from the body of a

beast into that of a man, and thence to a beast's again. As wax is

stamped with certain figures, then melted, then stamped anew with

others, yet is always the same wax, so the soul, being always the

same, yet wears, at different times, different forms. Therefore,

if the love of kindred is not extinct in your bosoms, forbear, I

entreat you, to violate the life of those who may haply be your

own relatives."

Shakspeare, in the "Merchant of Venice," makes Gratiano allude to

the metempsychosis, where he says to Shylock:

"Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,

To hold opinion with Pythagoras,

That souls of animals infuse themselves

Into the trunks of men; thy currish spirit

Governed a wolf; who hanged for human slaughter

Infused his soul in thee; for thy desires

Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous."

The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers, whereby

harmony results from vibrations in equal times, and discord from

the reverse, led Pythagoras to apply the word "harmony" to the

visible creation, meaning by it the just adaptation of parts to

each other. This is the idea which Dryden expresses in the

beginning of his "Song for St. Cecilia's Day":

"From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This everlasting frame began;

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The Diapason closing full in Man."

In the centre of the universe (he taught) there was a central

fire, the principle of life. The central fire was surrounded by

the earth, the moon, the sun, and the five planets. The distances

of the various heavenly bodies from one another were conceived to

correspond to the proportions of the musical scale. The heavenly

bodies, with the gods who inhabited them, were supposed to perform

a choral dance round the central fire, "not without song." It is

this doctrine which Shakspeare alludes to when he makes Lorenzo

teach astronomy to Jessica in this fashion:

"Look, Jessica, see how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!

There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim;

Such harmony is in immortal souls!

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in we cannot hear it."

--Merchant of Venice.

The spheres were conceived to be crystalline or glassy fabrics

arranged over one another like a nest of bowls reversed. In the

substance of each sphere one or more of the heavenly bodies was

supposed to be fixed, so as to move with it. As the spheres are

transparent we look through them and see the heavenly bodies which

they contain and carry round with them. But as these spheres

cannot move on one another without friction, a sound is thereby

produced which is of exquisite harmony, too fine for mortal ears

to recognize. Milton, in his "Hymn on the Nativity," thus alludes

to the music of the spheres:

"Ring out, ye crystal spheres!

Once bless our human ears

(If ye have power to charm our senses so);

And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time,

And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow;

And with your ninefold harmony

Make up full concert with the angelic symphony."

Pythagoras is said to have invented the lyre. Our own poet

Longfellow, in "Verses to a Child," thus relates the story:

"As great Pythagoras of yore,

Standing beside the blacksmith's door,

And hearing the hammers as they smote

The anvils with a different note,

Stole from the varying tones that hung

Vibrant on every iron tongue,

The secret of the sounding wire,

And formed the seven-chorded lyre."

See also the same poet's "Occupation of Orion"--

"The Samian's great Aeolian lyre."

SYBARIS AND CROTONA

Sybaris, a neighboring city to Crotona, was as celebrated for

luxury and effeminacy as Crotona for the reverse. The name has

become proverbial. J. R. Lowell uses it in this sense in his

charming little poem "To the Dandelion":

"Not in mid June the golden cuirassed bee

Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment

In the white lily's breezy tent

(His conquered Sybaris) than I when first

From the dark green thy yellow circles burst."

A war arose between the two cities, and Sybaris was conquered and

destroyed. Milo, the celebrated athlete, led the army of Crotona.

Many stories are told of Milo's vast strength, such as his

carrying a heifer of four years old upon his shoulders and

afterwards eating the whole of it in a single day. The mode of his

death is thus related: As he was passing through a forest he saw

the trunk of a tree which had been partially split open by wood-

cutters, and attempted to rend it further; but the wood closed

upon his hands and held him fast, in which state he was attacked

and devoured by wolves.

Byron, in his "Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte," alludes to the story of

Milo:

"He who of old would rend the oak

Deemed not of the rebound;

Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,

Alone, how looked he round!"

EGYPTIAN DEITIES

The Egyptians acknowledged as the highest deity Amun, afterwards

called Zeus, or Jupiter Ammon. Amun manifested himself in his word

or will, which created Kneph and Athor, of different sexes. From

Kneph and Athor proceeded Osiris and Isis. Osiris was worshipped

as the god of the sun, the source of warmth, life, and

fruitfulness, in addition to which he was also regarded as the god

of the Nile, who annually visited his wife, Isis (the Earth), by

means of an inundation. Serapis or Hermes is sometimes represented

as identical with Osiris, and sometimes as a distinct divinity,

the ruler of Tartarus and god of medicine. Anubis is the guardian

god, represented with a dog's head, emblematic of his character of

fidelity and watchfulness. Horus or Harpocrates was the son of

Osiris. He is represented seated on a Lotus flower, with his

finger on his lips, as the god of Silence.

In one of Moore's "Irish Melodies" is an allusion to Harpocrates:

"Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip;

Like him, the boy, who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,

Sits ever thus,--his only song

To Earth and Heaven, 'Hush all, hush!'"

MYTH OF OSIRIS AND ISIS

Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth

to bestow gifts and blessings on its inhabitants. Isis showed them

first the use of wheat and barley, and Osiris made the instruments

of agriculture and taught men the use of them, as well as how to

harness the ox to the plough. He then gave men laws, the

institution of marriage, a civil organization, and taught them how

to worship the gods. After he had thus made the valley of the Nile

a happy country, he assembled a host with which he went to bestow

his blessings upon the rest of the world. He conquered the nations

everywhere, but not with weapons, only with music and eloquence.

His brother Typhon saw this, and filled with envy and malice

sought during his absence to usurp his throne. But Isis, who held

the reins of government, frustrated his plans. Still more

embittered, he now resolved to kill his brother. This he did in

the following manner: Having organized a conspiracy of seventy-two

members, he went with them to the feast which was celebrated in

honor of the king's return. He then caused a box or chest to be

brought in, which had been made to fit exactly the size of Osiris,

and declared that he wouldd would give that chest of precious wood

to whosoever could get into it. The rest tried in vain, but no

sooner was Osiris in it than Typhon and his companions closed the

lid and flung the chest into the Nile. When Isis heard of the

cruel murder she wept and mourned, and then with her hair shorn,

clothed in black and beating her breast, she sought diligently for

the body of her husband. In this search she was materially

assisted by Anubis, the son of Osiris and Nephthys. They sought in

vain for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves to

the shores of Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that grew

at the edge of the water, the divine power that dwelt in the body

of Osiris imparted such strength to the shrub that it grew into a

mighty tree, enclosing in its trunk the coffin of the god. This

tree with its sacred deposit was shortly after felled, and erected

as a column in the palace of the king of Phoenicia. But at length

by the aid of Anubis and the sacred birds, Isis ascertained these

facts, and then went to the royal city. There she offered herself

at the palace as a servant, and being admitted, threw off her

disguise and appeared as a goddess, surrounded with thunder and

lightning. Striking the column with her wand she caused it to

split open and give up the sacred coffin. This she seized and

returned with it, and concealed it in the depth of a forest, but

Typhon discovered it, and cutting the body into fourteen pieces

scattered them hither and thither. After a tedious search, Isis

found thirteen pieces, the fishes of the Nile having eaten the

other. This she replaced by an imitation of sycamore wood, and

buried the body at Philae, which became ever after the great

burying place of the nation, and the spot to which pilgrimages

were made from all parts of the country. A temple of surpassing

magnificence was also erected there in honor of the god, and at

every place where one of his limbs had been found minor temples

and tombs were built to commemorate the event. Osiris became after

that the tutelar deity of the Egyptians. His soul was supposed

always to inhabit the body of the bull Apis, and at his death to

transfer itself to his successor.

Apis, the Bull of Memphis, was worshipped with the greatest

reverence by the Egyptians. The individual animal who was held to

be Apis was recognized by certain signs. It was requisite that he

should be quite black, have a white square mark on the forehead,

another, in the form of an eagle, on his back, and under his

tongue a lump somewhat in the shape of a scarabaeus or beetle. As

soon as a bull thus marked was found by those sent in search of

him, he was placed in a building facing the east, and was fed with

milk for four months. At the expiration of this term the priests

repaired at new moon, with great pomp, to his habitation and

saluted him Apis. He was placed in a vessel magnificently

decorated and conveyed down the Nile to Memphis, where a temple,

with two chapels and a court for exercise, was assigned to him.

Sacrifices were made to him, and once every year, about the time

when the Nile began to rise, a golden cup was thrown into the

river, and a grand festival was held to celebrate his birthday.

The people believed that during this festival the crocodiles

forgot their natural ferocity and became harmless. There was,

however, one drawback to his happy lot: he was not permitted to

live beyond a certain period, and if, when he had attained the age

of twenty-five years, he still survived, the priests drowned him

in the sacred cistern and then buried him in the temple of

Serapis. On the death of this bull, whether it occurred in the

course of nature or by violence, the whole land was filled with

sorrow and lamentations, which lasted until his successor was

found.

We find the following item in one of the newspapers of the day:

"The Tomb of Apis.--The excavations going on at Memphis bid fair

to make that buried city as interesting as Pompeii. The monster

tomb of Apis is now open, after having lain unknown for

centuries."

Milton, in his "Hymn on the Nativity," alludes to the Egyptian

deities, not as imaginary beings, but as real demons, put to

flight by the coming of Christ.

"The brutish god of Nile as fast,

Isis and Horus and the dog Anubis haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;

Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud.

In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark

The sable-stole sorcerers bear his worshipped ark."

[Footnote: There being no rain in Egypt, the grass is

"unshowered," and the country depend for its fertility upon the

overflowings of the Nile. The ark alluded to in the last line is

shown by pictures still remaining on the walls of the Egyptian

temples to have been borne by the priests in their religious

processions. It probably represented the chest in which Osiris was

placed.]

Isis was represented in statuary with the head veiled, a symbol of

mystery. It is this which Tennyson alludes to in "Maud," IV., 8:

"For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil,"

etc.

ORACLES Oracle was the name used to denote the place where answers

were supposed to be given by any of the divinities to those who

consulted them respecting the future. The word was also used to

signify the response which was given.

The most ancient Grecian oracle was that of Jupiter at Dodona.

According to one account, it was established in the following

manner: Two black doves took their flight from Thebes in Egypt.

One flew to Dodona in Epirus, and alighting in a grove of oaks, it

proclaimed in human language to the inhabitants of the district

that they must establish there an oracle of Jupiter. The other

dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the Libyan Oasis, and

delivered a similar command there. Another account is, that they

were not doves, but priestesses, who were carried off from Thebes

in Egypt by the Phoenicians, and set up oracles at the Oasis and

Dodona. The responses of the oracle were given from the trees, by

the branches rustling in the wind, the sounds being interpreted by

the priests.

But the most celebrated of the Grecian oracles was that of Apollo

at Delphi, a city built on the slopes of Parnassus in Phocis.

It had been observed at a very early period that the goats feeding

on Parnassus were thrown into convulsions when they approached a

certain long deep cleft in the side of the mountain. This was

owing to a peculiar vapor arising out of the cavern, and one of

the goatherds was induced to try its effects upon himself.

Inhaling the intoxicating air, he was affected in the same manner

as the cattle had been, and the inhabitants of the surrounding

country, unable to explain the circumstance, imputed the

convulsive ravings to which he gave utterance while under the

power of the exhalations to a divine inspiration. The fact was

speedily circulated widely, and a temple was erected on the spot.

The prophetic influence was at first variously attributed to the

goddess Earth, to Neptune, Themis, and others, but it was at

length assigned to Apollo, and to him alone. A priestess was

appointed whose office it was to inhale the hallowed air, and who

was named the Pythia. She was prepared for this duty by previous

ablution at the fountain of Castalia, and being crowned with

laurel was seated upon a tripod similarly adorned, which was

placed over the chasm whence the divine afflatus proceeded. Her

inspired words while thus situated were interpreted by the

priests.

ORACLE OF TROPHONIUS

Besides the oracles of Jupiter and Apollo, at Dodona and Delphi,

that of Trophonius in Boeotia was held in high estimation.

Trophonius and Agamedes were brothers. They were distinguished

architects, and built the temple of Apollo at Delphi, and a

treasury for King Hyrieus. In the wall of the treasury they placed

a stone, in such a manner that it could be taken out; and by this

means, from time to time, purloined the treasure. This amazed

Hyrieus, for his locks and seals were untouched, and yet his

wealth continually diminished. At length he set a trap for the

thief and Agamedes was caught. Trophonias, unable to extricate

him, and fearing that when found he would be compelled by torture

to discover his accomplice, cut off his head. Trophonius himself

is said to have been shortly afterwards swallowed up by the earth.

The oracle of Trophonius was at Lebadea in Boeotia. During a great

drought the Boeotians, it is said, were directed by the god at

Delphi to seek aid of Trophonius at Lebadea. They came thither,

but could find no oracle. One of them, however, happening to see a

swarm of bees, followed them to a chasm in the earth, which proved

to be the place sought.

Peculiar ceremonies were to be performed by the person who came to

consult the oracle. After these preliminaries, he descended into

the cave by a narrow passage. This place could be entered only in

the night. The person returned from the cave by the same narrow

passage, but walking backwards. He appeared melancholy and

defected; and hence the proverb which was applied to a person low-

spirited and gloomy, "He has been consulting the oracle of

Trophonius."

ORACLE OF AESCULAPIUS

There were numerous oracles of Aesculapius, but the most

celebrated one was at Epidaurus. Here the sick sought responses

and the recovery of their health by sleeping in the temple. It has

been inferred from the accounts that have come down to us that the

treatment of the sick resembled what is now called Animal

Magnetism or Mesmerism.

Serpents 'were sacred to Aesculapius, probably because of a

superstition that those animals have a faculty of renewing their

youth by a change of skin. The worship of Aesculapius was

introduced into Rome in a time of great sickness, and an embassy

sent to the temple of Epidaurus to entreat the aid of the god.

Aesculapius was propitious, and on the return of the ship

accompanied it in the form of a serpent. Arriving in the river

Tiber, the serpent glided from the vessel and took possession of

an island in the river, and a temple was there erected to his

honor.

ORACLE OF APIS

At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who consulted

him by the manner in which he received or rejected what was

presented to him. If the bull refused food from the hand of the

inquirer it was considered an unfavorable sign, and the contrary

when he received it.

It has been a question whether oracular responses ought to be

ascribed to mere human contrivance or to the agency of evil

spirits. The latter opinion has been most general in past ages. A

third theory has been advanced since the phenomena of Mesmerism

have attracted attention, that something like the mesmeric trance

was induced in the Pythoness, and the faculty of clairvoyance

really called into action.

Another question is as to the time when the Pagan oracles ceased

to give responses. Ancient Christian writers assert that they

became silent at the birth of Christ, and were heard no more after

that date. Milton adopts this view in his "Hymn of the Nativity,"

and in lines of solemn and elevated beauty pictures the

consternation of the heathen idols at the Advent of the Saviour:

"The oracles are dumb;

No voice or hideous hum

Rings through the arched roof in words Deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos heaving.

No nightly trance or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell"

In Cowper's poem of "Yardley Oak" there are some beautiful

mythological allusions. The former of the two following is to the

fable of Castor and Pollux; the latter is more appropriate to our

present subject. Addressing the acorn he says:

"Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod,

Swelling with vegetative force instinct,

Didst burst thine, as theirs the fabled Twins

Now stars; twor lobes protruding, paired exact;

A leaf succeede and another leaf,

And, all the elements thy puny growth

Fostering propitious, thou becam'st a twig.

Who lived when thou wast such? Of couldst thou speak,

As in Dodona once thy kindred trees

Oracular, I would not curious ask

The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth

Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past."

Tennyson, in his "Talking Oak," alludes to the oaks of Dodona in

these lines:

And I will work in prose and rhyme,

And praise thee more in both

Than bard has honored beech or lime,

Or that Thessalian growth

In which the swarthy ring-dove sat

And mystic sentence spoke; etc.

Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi where, speaking of Rousseau,

whose writings he conceives did much to bring on the French

revolution, he says:

"For the, he was inspired, and from him came,

As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,

Those oracles which set the world in flame,

Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more."

CHAPTER XXXV

ORIGIN OF MYTHOLOGY--STATUES OF GODS AND GODDESSES--POETS OF

MYTHOLOGY

ORIGINS OF MYTHOLOGY

Having reached the close of our series of stories of Pagan

mythology, and inquiry suggests itself. "Whence came these

stories? Have they a foundation in truth or are they simply dreams

of the imagination?" Philosophers have suggested various theories

on the subject; and 1. The Scriptural theory; according to which

all mythological legends are derived from the narratives of

Scripture, though the real facts have been disguised and altered.

Thus Deucalion is only another name for Noah, Hercules for Samson,

Arion for Jonah, etc. Sir Walter Raleigh, in his "History of the

World," says, "Jubal, Tubal, and Tubal-Cain were Mercury, Vulcan,

and Apollo, inventors of Pasturage, Smithing, and Music. The

Dragon which kept the golden apples was the serpent that beguiled

Eve. Nimrod's tower was the attempt of the Giants against Heaven."

There are doubtless many curious coincidences like these, but the

theory cannot without extravagance be pushed so far as to account

for any great proportion of the stories.

2. The Historical theory; according to which all the persons

mentioned in mythology were once real human beings, and the

legends and fabulous traditions relating to them are merely the

additions and embellishments of later times. Thus the story of

Aeolus, the king and god of the winds, is supposed to have risen

from the fact that Aeolus was the ruler of some islands in the

Tyrrhenian Sea, where he reigned as a just and pious king, and

taught the natives the use of sails for ships, and how to tell

from the signs of the atmosphere the changes of the weather and

the winds. Cadmus, who, the legend says, sowed the earth with

dragon's teeth, from which sprang a crop of armed men, was in fact

an emigrant from Phoenicia, and brought with him into Greece the

knowledge of the letters of the alphabet, which he taught to the

natives. From these rudiments of learning sprung civilization,

which the poets have always been prone to describe as a

deterioration of man's first estate, the Golden Age of innocence

and simplicity.

3. The Allegorical theory supposes that all the myths of the

ancients were allegorical and symbolical, and contained some

moral, religious, or philosophical truth or historical fact, under

the form of an allegory, but came in process of time to be

understood literally. Thus Saturn, who devours his own children,

is the same power whom the Greeks called Cronos (Time), which may

truly be said to destroy whatever it has brought into existence.

The story of Io is interpreted in a similar manner. Io is the

moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were, keeps sleepless

watch over her. The fabulous wanderings of Io represent the

continual revolutions of the moon, which also suggested to Milton

the same idea.

"To behold the wandering moon

Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led astray

In the heaven's wide, pathless way."

--Il Penseroso.

4. The Physical theory; according to which the elements of air,

fire, and water were originally the objects of religious

adoration, and the principal deities were personifications of the

powers of nature. The transition was easy from a personification

of the elements to the notion of supernatural beings presiding

over and governing the different objects of nature. The Greeks,

whose imagination was lively, peopled all nature with invisible

beings, and supposed that every object, from the sun and sea to

the smallest fountain and rivulet, was under the care of some

particular divinity. Wordsworth, in his "Excursion," has

beautifully developed this view of Grecian mythology:

"In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched

On the soft grass through half a summer's day,

With music lulled his indolent repose;

And, in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear

A distant strain far sweeter than the sounds

Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched

Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun

A beardless youth who touched a golden lute,

And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.

The mighty hunter, lifting up his eyes

Toward the crescent Moon, with grateful heart

Called on the lovely Wanderer who bestowed

That timely light to share his joyous sport;

And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove

(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven

When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked

His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked

The Naiad. Sunbeams upon distant hills

Gliding apace with shadows in their train,

Might with small help from fancy, be transformed

Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings,

Lacked not for love fair objects whom they wooed

With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,

Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,

From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth

In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;

And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns

Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard;

These were the lurking Satyrs, wild brood

Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,

That simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god."

All the theories which have been mentioned are true to a certain

extent. It would therefore be more correct to say that the

mythology of a nation has sprung from all these sources combined

than from any one in particular. We may add also that there are

many myths which have arisen from the desire of man to account for

those natural phenomena which he cannot understand; and not a few

have had their rise from a similar desire of giving a reason for

the names of places and persons.

STATUES OF THE GODS

To adequately represent to the eye the ideas intended to be

conveyed to the mind under the several names of deities was a task

which called into exercise the highest powers of genius and art.

Of the many attempts FOUR have been most celebrated, the first two

known to us only by the descriptions of the ancients, the others

still extant and the acknowledged masterpieces of the sculptor's

art.

THE OLYMPIAN JUPITER

The statue of the Olympian Jupiter by Phidias was considered the

highest achievement of this department of Grecian art. It was of

colossal dimensions, and was what the ancients called

"chryselephantine;" that is, composed of ivory and gold; the parts

representing flesh being of ivory laid on a core of wood or stone,

while the drapery and other ornaments were of gold. The height of

the figure was forty feet, on a pedestal twelve feet high. The god

was represented seated on his throne. His brows were crowned with

a wreath of olive, and he held in his right hand a sceptre, and in

his left a statue of Victory. The throne was of cedar, adorned

with gold and precious stones.

The idea which the artist essayed to embody was that of the

supreme deity of the Hellenic (Grecian) nation, enthroned as a

conqueror, in perfect majesty and repose, and ruling with a nod

the subject world. Phidias avowed that he took his idea from the

representation which Homer gives in the first book of the "Iliad,"

in the passage thus translated by Pope:

"He spoke and awful bends his sable brows,

Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod,

The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.

High heaven with reverence the dread signal took,

And all Olympus to the centre shook."

[Footnote: Cowper's version is less elegant, but truer to the

original:

"He ceased, and under his dark brows the nod

Vouchsafed of confirmation. All around

The sovereign's everlasting head his curls

Ambrosial shook, and the huge mountain reeled."

It may interest our readers to see how this passage appears in

another famous version, that which was issued under the name of

Tickell, contemporaneously with Pope's, and which, being by many

attributed to Addison, led to the quarrel which ensued between

Addison and Pope:

"This said, his kingly brow the sire inclined;

The large black curls fell awful from behind,

Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god;

Olympus trembled at the almighty nod."]

THE MINERVA OF THE PARTHENON

This was also the work of Phidias. It stood in the Parthenon, or

temple of Minerva at Athens. The goddess was represented standing.

In one hand she held a spear, in the other a statue of Victory.

Her helmet, highly decorated, was surmounted by a Sphinx. The

statue was forty feet in height, and, like the Jupiter, composed

of ivory and gold. The eyes were of marble, and probably painted

to represent the iris and pupil. The Parthenon, in which this

statue stood, was also constructed under the direction and

superintendence of Phidias. Its exterior was enriched with

sculptures, many of them from the hand of Phidias. The Elgin

marbles, now in the British Museum, are a part of them.

Both the Jupiter and Minerva of Phidias are lost, but there is

good ground to believe that we have, in several extant statues and

busts, the artist's conceptions of the countenances of both. They

are characterized by grave and dignified beauty, and freedom from

any transient expression, which in the language of art is called

repose.

THE VENUS DE' MEDICI

The Venus of the Medici is so called from its having been in the

possession of the princes of that name in Rome when it first

attracted attention, about two hundred years ago. An inscription

on the base records it to be the work of Cleomenes, an Athenian

sculptor of 200 B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is

doubtful. There is a story that the artist was employed by public

authority to make a statue exhibiting the perfection of female

beauty, and to aid him in his task the most perfect forms the city

could supply were furnished him for models. It is this which

Thomson alludes to in his "Summer":

"So stands the statue that enchants the world;

So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,

The mingled beauties of exulting Greece."

Byron also alludes to this statue. Speaking of the Florence

Museum, he says:

"There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills

The air around with beauty;" etc.

And in the next stanza,

"Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan shepherd's prize."

See this last allusion explained in Chapter XXVII.

THE APOLLO BELVEDERE

The most highly esteemed of all the remains of ancient sculpture

is the statue of Apollo, called the Belvedere, from the name of

the apartment of the Pope's palace at Rome in which it was placed.

The artist is unknown. It is supposed to be a work of Roman art,

of about the first century of our era. It is a standing figure, in

marble, more than seven feet high, naked except for the cloak

which is fastened around the neck and hangs over the extended left

arm. It is supposed to represent the god in the moment when he has

shot the arrow to destroy the monster Python. (See Chapter III.)

The victorious divinity is in the act of stepping forward. The

left arm, which seems to have held the bow, is outstretched, and

the head is turned in the same direction. In attitude and

proportion the graceful majesty of the figure is unsurpassed. The

effect is completed by the countenance, where on the perfection of

youthful godlike beauty there dwells the consciousness of

triumphant power.

THE DIANA A LA BICHE

The Diana of the Hind, in the palace of the Louvre, may be

considered the counterpart to the Apollo Belvedere. The attitude

much resembles that of the Apollo, the sizes correspond and also

the style of execution. It is a work of the highest order, though

by no means equal to the Apollo. The attitude is that of hurried

and eager motion, the face that of a huntress in the excitement of

the chase. The left hand is extended over the forehead of the

Hind, which runs by her side, the right arm reaches backward over

the shoulder to draw an arrow from the quiver.

THE POETS OF MYTHOLOGY

Homer, from whose poems of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" we have taken

the chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of

the Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he

celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a wandering

minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to place singing

his lays to the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the

cottages of peasants, and dependent upon the voluntary offerings

of his hearers for support. Byron calls him "The blind old man of

Scio's rocky isle," and a well-known epigram, alluding to the

uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace, says:

"Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,

Through which the living Homer begged his bread."

These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos,

and Athens.

Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the

work of any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of

believing that poems of such length could have been committed to

writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an

age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or coins,

and when no materials capable of containing such long productions

were yet introduced into use. On the other hand it is asked how

poems of such length could have been handed down from age to age

by means of the memory alone. This is answered by the statement

that there was a professional body of men, called Rhapsodists, who

recited the poems of others, and whose business it was to commit

to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic legends.

The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be

that the framework and much of the structure of the poems belong

to Homer, but that there are numerous interpolations and additions

by other hands.

The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850

B.C.