CHAPTER XIV Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without recollecting.
A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent.
The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."
She did not really like her.
She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.-She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease.
Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant.
Emma thought at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners.
It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it.
The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she very charming?"
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.
"Oh!
yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."
"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."
"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."
"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."
"Oh!
no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and she came in his way."
"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very much attached to him."
"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best.
Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have."
"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever have a better.
Well, I wish them happy with all my heart.
And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again.
He is just as superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing.
No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery.
To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves.
Happy creature!
He called her 'Augusta.'
How delightful!"
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind.
She could then see more and judge better.
From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match.
If not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set.
The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove.
The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built.
Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine.
"Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr.
Elton was appealed to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove."
"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house.
I really could not help exclaiming!
I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove.
I have spent so many happy months there!
(with a little sigh of sentiment).
A charming place, undoubtedly.
Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.
Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind.
I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony."
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
"So extremely like Maple Grove!
And it is not merely the house--the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind!
My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place.
People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style."
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment.
She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield.
Surry is full of beauties."
"Oh!
yes, I am quite aware of that.
It is the garden of England, you know.
Surry is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction.
Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.
"I never heard any county but Surry called so."
Emma was silenced.
"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring.
While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say.
They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of our carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well.
They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year.
Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.
When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring.
We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau.
You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"
"No; not immediately here.
We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure."
"Ah!
there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.
Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am.
I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove.
Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house.
I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.'
Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion.
I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little.
I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great drawback.
Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should.
Let me recommend Bath to you.
I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good."
"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."
"Ah!
that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give.
In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it!
And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed.
And as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them.
The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood.
It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place.
A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with."
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite.
The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an introduction--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father."
And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton.
Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer."
"Oh!
no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea.
A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you.
Consider from how partial a quarter your information came.
I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree.
You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully.
I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into.
I absolutely cannot do without music.
It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice.
I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the world I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of retirement.
Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me.
I could do very well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent.
And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought.
I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description.
Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments.
'But,' said I, 'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a musical society.
I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'"
"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive."
"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head.
I am delighted to find myself in such a circle.
I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together.
I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan?
If we exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies.
Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against them, in general.
They are but too apt to give up music."
"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger, surely?"
"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance, I tremble.
Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the instrument--though she played sweetly.
And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate.
Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright.
I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention.
I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper."
"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a train--" "Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be.
I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you.
And she appears so truly good--there is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly.
She was your governess, I think?"
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.
"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very lady-like!
But she is really quite the gentlewoman."
"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman."
"And who do you think came in while we were there?"
Emma was quite at a loss.
The tone implied some old acquaintance--and how could she possibly guess?
"Knightley!"
continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity.
'My friend Knightley' had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Knightley is quite the gentleman.
I like him very much.
Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man."
Happily, it was now time to be gone.
They were off; and Emma could breathe.
"Insufferable woman!"
was her immediate exclamation.
"Worse than I had supposed.
Absolutely insufferable!
Knightley!--I could not have believed it.
Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman!
A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman!
I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady.
I could not have believed it!
And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club!
One would fancy we were bosom friends!
And Mrs.
Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman!
Worse and worse.
I never met with her equal.
Much beyond my hopes.
Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.
Oh!
what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here?
How angry and how diverted he would be!
Ah!
there I am--thinking of him directly.
Always the first person to be thought of!
How I catch myself out!
Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!"
-All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you.
She speaks a little too quick.
A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear.
But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor.
However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife.
Though I think he had better not have married.
I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I should in the course of the summer.
But I ought to have gone before.
Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss.
Ah!
it shews what a sad invalid I am!
But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."
"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir.
Mr. Elton knows you."
"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible.
It was being very deficient."
"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride?
It ought to be no recommendation to you.
It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them."
"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected.
More is avowedly due to her.
A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may."
"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is.
And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."
"My dear, you do not understand me.
This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry."
Emma had done.
Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand her.
Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.
Jove sends a lying dream to Agamemnon, who thereon calls the chiefs in assembly, and proposes to sound the mind of his army—In the end they march to fight—Catalogue of the Achaean and Trojan forces.
Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans.
In the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it," Lying Dream, go to the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to him word for word as I now bid you.
Tell him to get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy.
There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans."
The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the ships of the Achaeans.
It sought Agamemnon son of Atreus and found him in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber.
It hovered over his head in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured above all his councillors, and said:— "You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his sleep.
Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you.
He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take Troy.
There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at the hands of Jove.
Remember this, and when you wake see that it does not escape you."
The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were, surely not to be accomplished.
He thought that on that same day he was to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind of Jove, who had many another hardfought fight in store alike for Danaans and Trojans.
Then presently he woke, with the divine message still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak.
He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silverstudded sword about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them and the people gathered thereon.
But first he summoned a meeting of the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
"My friends," said he," I have had a dream from heaven in the dead of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor 's.
It hovered over my head and said,' You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his sleep.
Hear me at once, for I am a messenger from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you.
He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take Troy.
There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at the hands of Jove.
Remember this.'
The dream then vanished and I awoke.
Let us now, therefore, arm the sons of the Achaeans.
But it will be well that I should first sound them, and to this end I will tell them to fly with their ships; but do you others go about among the host and prevent their doing so."
He then sat down, and Nestor the prince of Pylos with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:" My friends," said he," princes and councillors of the Argives, if any other man of the Achaeans had told us of this dream we should have declared it false, and would have had nothing to do with it.
But he who has seen it is the foremost man among us; we must therefore set about getting the people under arms."
With this he led the way from the assembly, and the other sceptred kings rose with him in obedience to the word of Agamemnon; but the people pressed forward to hear.
They swarmed like bees that sally from some hollow cave and flit in countless throng among the spring flowers, bunched in knots and clusters; even so did the mighty multitude pour from ships and tents to the assembly, and range themselves upon the widewatered shore, while among them ran Wildfire Rumour, messenger of Jove, urging them ever to the fore.
Thus they gathered in a pellmell of mad confusion, and the earth groaned under the tramp of men as the people sought their places.
Nine heralds went crying about among them to stay their tumult and bid them listen to the kings, till at last they were got into their several places and ceased their clamour.
Then King Agamemnon rose, holding his sceptre.
This was the work of Vulcan, who gave it to Jove the son of Saturn.
Jove gave it to Mercury, slayer of Argus, guide and guardian.
King Mercury gave it to Pelops, the mighty charioteer, and Pelops to Atreus, shepherd of his people.
Atreus, when he died, left it to Thyestes, rich in flocks, and Thyestes in his turn left it to be borne by Agamemnon, that he might be lord of all Argos and of the isles.
Leaning, then, on his sceptre, he addressed the Argives.
"My friends," he said," heroes, servants of Mars, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of Priam before returning, but he has played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people.
Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust, as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all.
It will be a sorry tale hereafter that an Achaean host, at once so great and valiant, battled in vain against men fewer in number than themselves; but as yet the end is not in sight.
Think that the Achaeans and Trojans have sworn to a solemn covenant, and that they have each been numbered— the Trojans by the roll of their householders, and we by companies of ten; think further that each of our companies desired to have a Trojan householder to pour out their wine; we are so greatly more in number that full many a company would have to go without its cupbearer.
But they have in the town allies from other places, and it is these that hinder me from being able to sack the rich city of Ilius.
Nine of Jove 's years are gone; the timbers of our ships have rotted; their tackling is sound no longer.
Our wives and little ones at home look anxiously for our coming, but the work that we came hither to do has not been done.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say: let us sail back to our own land, for we shall not take Troy."
With these words he moved the hearts of the multitude, so many of them as knew not the cunning counsel of Agamemnon.
They surged to and fro like the waves of the Icarian Sea, when the east and south winds break from heaven 's clouds to lash them; or as when the west wind sweeps over a field of corn and the ears bow beneath the blast, even so were they swayed as they flew with loud cries towards the ships, and the dust from under their feet rose heavenward.
They cheered each other on to draw the ships into the sea; they cleared the channels in front of them; they began taking away the stays from underneath them, and the welkin rang with their glad cries, so eager were they to return.
Then surely the Argives would have returned after a fashion that was not fated.
But Juno said to Minerva," Alas, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, unweariable, shall the Argives fly home to their own land over the broad sea, and leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes?
Go about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships into the sea."
Minerva was not slack to do her bidding.
Down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, and in a moment she was at the ships of the Achaeans.
There she found Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel, standing alone.
He had not as yet laid a hand upon his ship, for he was grieved and sorry; so she went close up to him and said," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, are you going to fling yourselves into your ships and be off home to your own land in this way?
Will you leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes?
Go about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships into the sea."
Ulysses knew the voice as that of the goddess: he flung his cloak from him and set off to run.
His servant Eurybates, a man of Ithaca, who waited on him, took charge of the cloak, whereon Ulysses went straight up to Agamemnon and received from him his ancestral, imperishable staff.
With this he went about among the ships of the Achaeans.
Whenever he met a king or chieftain, he stood by him and spoke him fairly. "
Sir," said he," this flight is cowardly and unworthy.
Stand to your post, and bid your people also keep their places.
You do not yet know the full mind of Agamemnon; he was sounding us, and ere long will visit the Achaeans with his displeasure.
We were not all of us at the council to hear what he then said; see to it lest he be angry and do us a mischief; for the pride of kings is great, and the hand of Jove is with them."
But when he came across any common man who was making a noise, he struck him with his staff and rebuked him, saying," Sirrah, hold your peace, and listen to better men than yourself.
You are a coward and no soldier; you are nobody either in fight or council; we can not all be kings; it is not well that there should be many masters; one man must be supreme— one king to whom the son of scheming Saturn has given the sceptre of sovereignty over you all."
Thus masterfully did he go about among the host, and the people hurried back to the council from their tents and ships with a sound as the thunder of surf when it comes crashing down upon the shore, and all the sea is in an uproar.
The rest now took their seats and kept to their own several places, but Thersites still went on wagging his unbridled tongue— a man of many words, and those unseemly; a monger of sedition, a railer against all who were in authority, who cared not what he said, so that he might set the Achaeans in a laugh.
He was the ugliest man of all those that came before Troy— bandylegged, lame of one foot, with his two shoulders rounded and hunched over his chest.
His head ran up to a point, but there was little hair on the top of it.
Achilles and Ulysses hated him worst of all, for it was with them that he was most wo nt to wrangle; now, however, with a shrill squeaky voice he began heaping his abuse on Agamemnon.
The Achaeans were angry and disgusted, yet none the less he kept on brawling and bawling at the son of Atreus.
"Agamemnon," he cried," what ails you now, and what more do you want?
Your tents are filled with bronze and with fair women, for whenever we take a town we give you the pick of them.
Would you have yet more gold, which some Trojan is to give you as a ransom for his son, when I or another Achaean has taken him prisoner?
or is it some young girl to hide and lie with?
It is not well that you, the ruler of the Achaeans, should bring them into such misery.
Weakling cowards, women rather than men, let us sail home, and leave this fellow here at Troy to stew in his own meeds of honour, and discover whether we were of any service to him or no.
Achilles is a much better man than he is, and see how he has treated him— robbing him of his prize and keeping it himself.
Achilles takes it meekly and shows no fight; if he did, son of Atreus, you would never again insult him."
Thus railed Thersites, but Ulysses at once went up to him and rebuked him sternly. "
Check your glib tongue, Thersites," said be," and babble not a word further.
Chide not with princes when you have none to back you.
There is no viler creature come before Troy with the sons of Atreus.
Drop this chatter about kings, and neither revile them nor keep harping about going home.
We do not yet know how things are going to be, nor whether the Achaeans are to return with good success or evil.
How dare you gibe at Agamemnon because the Danaans have awarded him so many prizes?
I tell you, therefore— and it shall surely be— that if I again catch you talking such nonsense, I will either forfeit my own head and be no more called father of Telemachus, or I will take you, strip you stark naked, and whip you out of the assembly till you go blubbering back to the ships."
On this he beat him with his staff about the back and shoulders till he dropped and fell aweeping.
The golden sceptre raised a bloody weal on his back, so he sat down frightened and in pain, looking foolish as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
The people were sorry for him, yet they laughed heartily, and one would turn to his neighbour saying," Ulysses has done many a good thing ere now in fight and council, but he never did the Argives a better turn than when he stopped this fellow 's mouth from prating further.
He will give the kings no more of his insolence."
Thus said the people.
Then Ulysses rose, sceptre in hand, and Minerva in the likeness of a herald bade the people be still, that those who were far off might hear him and consider his council.
He therefore with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:— "King Agamemnon, the Achaeans are for making you a byword among all mankind.
They forget the promise they made you when they set out from Argos, that you should not return till you had sacked the town of Troy, and, like children or widowed women, they murmur and would set off homeward.
True it is that they have had toil enough to be disheartened.
A man chafes at having to stay away from his wife even for a single month, when he is on shipboard, at the mercy of wind and sea, but it is now nine long years that we have been kept here; I can not, therefore, blame the Achaeans if they turn restive; still we shall be shamed if we go home empty after so long a stay— therefore, my friends, be patient yet a little longer that we may learn whether the prophesyings of Calchas were false or true.
"All who have not since perished must remember as though it were yesterday or the day before, how the ships of the Achaeans were detained in Aulis when we were on our way hither to make war on Priam and the Trojans.
We were ranged round about a fountain offering hecatombs to the gods upon their holy altars, and there was a fine planetree from beneath which there welled a stream of pure water.
Then we saw a prodigy; for Jove sent a fearful serpent out of the ground, with bloodred stains upon its back, and it darted from under the altar on to the planetree.
Now there was a brood of young sparrows, quite small, upon the topmost bough, peeping out from under the leaves, eight in all, and their mother that hatched them made nine.
The serpent ate the poor cheeping things, while the old bird flew about lamenting her little ones; but the serpent threw his coils about her and caught her by the wing as she was screaming.
Then, when he had eaten both the sparrow and her young, the god who had sent him made him become a sign; for the son of scheming Saturn turned him into stone, and we stood there wondering at that which had come to pass.
Seeing, then, that such a fearful portent had broken in upon our hecatombs, Calchas forthwith declared to us the oracles of heaven.'
Why, Achaeans,' said he,' are you thus speechless?
Jove has sent us this sign, long in coming, and long ere it be fulfilled, though its fame shall last for ever.
As the serpent ate the eight fledglings and the sparrow that hatched them, which makes nine, so shall we fight nine years at Troy, but in the tenth shall take the town.'
This was what he said, and now it is all coming true.
Stay here, therefore, all of you, till we take the city of Priam."
On this the Argives raised a shout, till the ships rang again with the uproar.
Nestor, knight of Gerene, then addressed them. "
Shame on you," he cried," to stay talking here like children, when you should fight like men.
Where are our covenants now, and where the oaths that we have taken?
Shall our counsels be flung into the fire, with our drinkofferings and the right hands of fellowship wherein we have put our trust?
We waste our time in words, and for all our talking here shall be no further forward.
Stand, therefore, son of Atreus, by your own steadfast purpose; lead the Argives on to battle, and leave this handful of men to rot, who scheme, and scheme in vain, to get back to Argos ere they have learned whether Jove be true or a liar.
For the mighty son of Saturn surely promised that we should succeed, when we Argives set sail to bring death and destruction upon the Trojans.
He showed us favourable signs by flashing his lightning on our right hands; therefore let none make haste to go till he has first lain with the wife of some Trojan, and avenged the toil and sorrow that he has suffered for the sake of Helen.
Nevertheless, if any man is in such haste to be at home again, let him lay his hand to his ship that he may meet his doom in the sight of all.
But, O king, consider and give ear to my counsel, for the word that I say may not be neglected lightly.
Divide your men, Agamemnon, into their several tribes and clans, that clans and tribes may stand by and help one another.
If you do this, and if the Achaeans obey you, you will find out who, both chiefs and peoples, are brave, and who are cowards; for they will vie against the other.
Thus you shall also learn whether it is through the counsel of heaven or the cowardice of man that you shall fail to take the town."
And Agamemnon answered," Nestor, you have again outdone the sons of the Achaeans in counsel.
Would, by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I had among them ten more such councillors, for the city of King Priam would then soon fall beneath our hands, and we should sack it.
But the son of Saturn afflicts me with bootless wranglings and strife.
Achilles and I are quarrelling about this girl, in which matter I was the first to offend; if we can be of one mind again, the Trojans will not stave off destruction for a day.
Now, therefore, get your morning meal, that our hosts join in fight.
Whet well your spears; see well to the ordering of your shields; give good feeds to your horses, and look your chariots carefully over, that we may do battle the livelong day; for we shall have no rest, not for a moment, till night falls to part us.
The bands that bear your shields shall be wet with the sweat upon your shoulders, your hands shall weary upon your spears, your horses shall steam in front of your chariots, and if I see any man shirking the fight, or trying to keep out of it at the ships, there shall be no help for him, but he shall be a prey to dogs and vultures."
Thus he spoke, and the Achaeans roared applause.
As when the waves run high before the blast of the south wind and break on some lofty headland, dashing against it and buffeting it without ceasing, as the storms from every quarter drive them, even so did the Achaeans rise and hurry in all directions to their ships.
There they lighted their fires at their tents and got dinner, offering sacrifice every man to one or other of the gods, and praying each one of them that he might live to come out of the fight.
Agamemnon, king of men, sacrificed a fat fiveyearold bull to the mighty son of Saturn, and invited the princes and elders of his host.
First he asked Nestor and King Idomeneus, then the two Ajaxes and the son of Tydeus, and sixthly Ulysses, peer of gods in counsel; but Menelaus came of his own accord, for he knew how busy his brother then was.
They stood round the bull with the barleymeal in their hands, and Agamemnon prayed, saying," Jove, most glorious, supreme, that dwellest in heaven, and ridest upon the stormcloud, grant that the sun may not go down, nor the night fall, till the palace of Priam is laid low, and its gates are consumed with fire.
Grant that my sword may pierce the shirt of Hector about his heart, and that full many of his comrades may bite the dust as they fall dying round him."
Thus he prayed, but the son of Saturn would not fulfil his prayer.
He accepted the sacrifice, yet none the less increased their toil continually.
When they had done praying and sprinkling the barleymeal upon the victim, they drew back its head, killed it, and then flayed it.
They cut out the thighbones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set pieces of raw meat on the top of them.
These they burned upon the split logs of firewood, but they spitted the inward meats, and held them in the flames to cook.
When the thighbones were burned, and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small, put the pieces upon spits, roasted them till they were done, and drew them off; then, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share, so that all were satisfied.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Nestor, knight of Gerene, began to speak."
King Agamemnon," said he," let us not stay talking here, nor be slack in the work that heaven has put into our hands.
Let the heralds summon the people to gather at their several ships; we will then go about among the host, that we may begin fighting at once."
Thus did he speak, and Agamemnon heeded his words.
He at once sent the criers round to call the people in assembly.
So they called them, and the people gathered thereon.
The chiefs about the son of Atreus chose their men and marshalled them, while Minerva went among them holding her priceless aegis that knows neither age nor death.
From it there waved a hundred tassels of pure gold, all deftly woven, and each one of them worth a hundred oxen.
With this she darted furiously everywhere among the hosts of the Achaeans, urging them forward, and putting courage into the heart of each, so that he might fight and do battle without ceasing.
Thus war became sweeter in their eyes even than returning home in their ships.
As when some great forest fire is raging upon a mountain top and its light is seen afar, even so as they marched the gleam of their armour flashed up into the firmament of heaven.
They were like great flocks of geese, or cranes, or swans on the plain about the waters of Cayster, that wing their way hither and thither, glorying in the pride of flight, and crying as they settle till the fen is alive with their screaming.
Even thus did their tribes pour from ships and tents on to the plain of the Scamander, and the ground rang as brass under the feet of men and horses.
They stood as thick upon the flowerbespangled field as leaves that bloom in summer.
As countless swarms of flies buzz around a herdsman 's homestead in the time of spring when the pails are drenched with milk, even so did the Achaeans swarm on to the plain to charge the Trojans and destroy them.
The chiefs disposed their men this way and that before the fight began, drafting them out as easily as goatherds draft their flocks when they have got mixed while feeding; and among them went King Agamemnon, with a head and face like Jove the lord of thunder, a waist like Mars, and a chest like that of Neptune.
As some great bull that lords it over the herds upon the plain, even so did Jove make the son of Atreus stand peerless among the multitude of heroes.
And now, O Muses, dwellers in the mansions of Olympus, tell me— for you are goddesses and are in all places so that you see all things, while we know nothing but by report— who were the chiefs and princes of the Danaans?
As for the common soldiers, they were so that I could not name every single one of them though I had ten tongues, and though my voice failed not and my heart were of bronze within me, unless you, O Olympian Muses, daughters of aegisbearing Jove, were to recount them to me.
Nevertheless, I will tell the captains of the ships and all the fleet together.
Peneleos, Leitus, Arcesilaus, Prothoenor, and Clonius were captains of the Boeotians.
These were they that dwelt in Hyria and rocky Aulis, and who held Schoenus, Scolus, and the highlands of Eteonus, with Thespeia, Graia, and the fair city of Mycalessus.
They also held Harma, Eilesium, and Erythrae; and they had Eleon, Hyle, and Peteon; Ocalea and the strong fortress of Medeon; Copae, Eutresis, and Thisbe the haunt of doves; Coronea, and the pastures of Haliartus; Plataea and Glisas; the fortress of Thebes the less; holy Onchestus with its famous grove of Neptune; Arne rich in vineyards; Midea, sacred Nisa, and Anthedon upon the sea.
From these there came fifty ships, and in each there were a hundred and twenty young men of the Boeotians.
Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Mars, led the people that dwelt in Aspledon and Orchomenus the realm of Minyas.
Astyoche a noble maiden bore them in the house of Actor son of Azeus; for she had gone with Mars secretly into an upper chamber, and he had lain with her.
With these there came thirty ships.
The Phoceans were led by Schedius and Epistrophus, sons of mighty Iphitus the son of Naubolus.
These were they that held Cyparissus, rocky Pytho, holy Crisa, Daulis, and Panopeus; they also that dwelt in Anemorea and Hyampolis, and about the waters of the river Cephissus, and Lilaea by the springs of the Cephissus; with their chieftains came forty ships, and they marshalled the forces of the Phoceans, which were stationed next to the Boeotians, on their left.
Ajax, the fleet son of Oileus, commanded the Locrians.
He was not so great, nor nearly so great, as Ajax the son of Telamon.
He was a little man, and his breastplate was made of linen, but in use of the spear he excelled all the Hellenes and the Achaeans.
These dwelt in Cynus, Opous, Calliarus, Bessa, Scarphe, fair Augeae, Tarphe, and Thronium about the river Boagrius.
With him there came forty ships of the Locrians who dwell beyond Euboea.
The fierce Abantes held Euboea with its cities, Chalcis, Eretria, Histiaea rich in vines, Cerinthus upon the sea, and the rockperched town of Dium; with them were also the men of Carystus and Styra; Elephenor of the race of Mars was in command of these; he was son of Chalcodon, and chief over all the Abantes.
With him they came, fleet of foot and wearing their hair long behind, brave warriors, who would ever strive to tear open the corslets of their foes with their long ashen spears.
Of these there came fifty ships.
And they that held the strong city of Athens, the people of great Erechtheus, who was born of the soil itself, but Jove 's daughter, Minerva, fostered him, and established him at Athens in her own rich sanctuary.
There, year by year, the Athenian youths worship him with sacrifices of bulls and rams.
These were commanded by Menestheus, son of Peteos.
No man living could equal him in the marshalling of chariots and foot soldiers.
Nestor could alone rival him, for he was older.
With him there came fifty ships.
Ajax brought twelve ships from Salamis, and stationed them alongside those of the Athenians.
The men of Argos, again, and those who held the walls of Tiryns, with Hermione, and Asine upon the gulf; Troezene, Eionae, and the vineyard lands of Epidaurus; the Achaean youths, moreover, who came from Aegina and Mases; these were led by Diomed of the loud battlecry, and Sthenelus son of famed Capaneus.
With them in command was Euryalus, son of king Mecisteus, son of Talaus; but Diomed was chief over them all.
With these there came eighty ships.
Those who held the strong city of Mycenae, rich Corinth and Cleonae; Orneae, Araethyrea, and Licyon, where Adrastus reigned of old; Hyperesia, high Gonoessa, and Pellene; Aegium and all the coastland round about Helice; these sent a hundred ships under the command of King Agamemnon, son of Atreus.
His force was far both finest and most numerous, and in their midst was the king himself, all glorious in his armour of gleaming bronze— foremost among the heroes, for he was the greatest king, and had most men under him.
And those that dwelt in Lacedaemon, lying low among the hills, Pharis, Sparta, with Messe the haunt of doves; Bryseae, Augeae, Amyclae, and Helos upon the sea; Laas, moreover, and Oetylus; these were led by Menelaus of the loud battlecry, brother to Agamemnon, and of them there were sixty ships, drawn up apart from the others.
Among them went Menelaus himself, strong in zeal, urging his men to fight; for he longed to avenge the toil and sorrow that he had suffered for the sake of Helen.
The men of Pylos and Arene, and Thryum where is the ford of the river Alpheus; strong Aipy, Cyparisseis, and Amphigenea; Pteleum, Helos, and Dorium, where the Muses met Thamyris, and stilled his minstrelsy for ever.
He was returning from Oechalia, where Eurytus lived and reigned, and boasted that he would surpass even the Muses, daughters of aegisbearing Jove, if they should sing against him; whereon they were angry, and maimed him.
They robbed him of his divine power of song, and thenceforth he could strike the lyre no more.
These were commanded by Nestor, knight of Gerene, and with him there came ninety ships.
And those that held Arcadia, under the high mountain of Cyllene, near the tomb of Aepytus, where the people fight hand to hand; the men of Pheneus also, and Orchomenus rich in flocks; of Rhipae, Stratie, and bleak Enispe; of Tegea and fair Mantinea; of Stymphelus and Parrhasia; of these King Agapenor son of Ancaeus was commander, and they had sixty ships.
Many Arcadians, good soldiers, came in each one of them, but Agamemnon found them the ships in which to cross the sea, for they were not a people that occupied their business upon the waters.
The men, moreover, of Buprasium and of Elis, so much of it as is enclosed between Hyrmine, Myrsinus upon the seashore, the rock Olene and Alesium.
These had four leaders, and each of them had ten ships, with many Epeans on board.
Their captains were Amphimachus and Thalpius— the one, son of Cteatus, and the other, of Eurytus— both of the race of Actor.
The two others were Diores, son of Amarynces, and Polyxenus, son of King Agasthenes, son of Augeas.
And those of Dulichium with the sacred Echinean islands, who dwelt beyond the sea off Elis; these were led by Meges, peer of Mars, and the son of valiant Phyleus, dear to Jove, who quarrelled with his father, and went to settle in Dulichium.
With him there came forty ships.
Ulysses led the brave Cephallenians, who held Ithaca, Neritum with its forests, Crocylea, rugged Aegilips, Samos and Zacynthus, with the mainland also that was over against the islands.
These were led by Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel, and with him there came twelve ships.
Thoas, son of Andraemon, commanded the Aetolians, who dwelt in Pleuron, Olenus, Pylene, Chalcis by the sea, and rocky Calydon, for the great king Oeneus had now no sons living, and was himself dead, as was also goldenhaired Meleager, who had been set over the Aetolians to be their king.
And with Thoas there came forty ships.
The famous spearsman Idomeneus led the Cretans, who held Cnossus, and the wellwalled city of Gortys; Lyctus also, Miletus and Lycastus that lies upon the chalk; the populous towns of Phaestus and Rhytium, with the other peoples that dwelt in the hundred cities of Crete.
All these were led by Idomeneus, and by Meriones, peer of murderous Mars.
And with these there came eighty ships.
Tlepolemus, son of Hercules, a man both brave and large of stature, brought nine ships of lordly warriors from Rhodes.
These dwelt in Rhodes which is divided among the three cities of Lindus, Ielysus, and Cameirus, that lies upon the chalk.
These were commanded by Tlepolemus, son of Hercules by Astyochea, whom he had carried off from Ephyra, on the river Selleis, after sacking many cities of valiant warriors.
When Tlepolemus grew up, he killed his father 's uncle Licymnius, who had been a famous warrior in his time, but was then grown old.
On this he built himself a fleet, gathered a great following, and fled beyond the sea, for he was menaced by the other sons and grandsons of Hercules.
After a voyage, during which he suffered great hardship, he came to Rhodes, where the people divided into three communities, according to their tribes, and were dearly loved by Jove, the lord of gods and men; wherefore the son of Saturn showered down great riches upon them.
And Nireus brought three ships from Syme— Nireus, who was the handsomest man that came up under Ilius of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus— but he was a man of no substance, and had but a small following.
And those that held Nisyrus, Crapathus, and Casus, with Cos, the city of Eurypylus, and the Calydnian islands, these were commanded by Pheidippus and Antiphus, two sons of King Thessalus the son of Hercules.
And with them there came thirty ships.
Those again who held Pelasgic Argos, Alos, Alope, and Trachis; and those of Phthia and Hellas the land of fair women, who were called Myrmidons, Hellenes, and Achaeans; these had fifty ships, over which Achilles was in command.
But they now took no part in the war, inasmuch as there was no one to marshal them; for Achilles stayed by his ships, furious about the loss of the girl Briseis, whom he had taken from Lyrnessus at his own great peril, when he had sacked Lyrnessus and Thebe, and had overthrown Mynes and Epistrophus, sons of king Evenor, son of Selepus.
For her sake Achilles was still grieving, but ere long he was again to join them.
And those that held Phylace and the flowery meadows of Pyrasus, sanctuary of Ceres; Iton, the mother of sheep; Antrum upon the sea, and Pteleum that lies upon the grass lands.
Of these brave Protesilaus had been captain while he was yet alive, but he was now lying under the earth.
He had left a wife behind him in Phylace to tear her cheeks in sorrow, and his house was only half finished, for he was slain by a Dardanian warrior while leaping foremost of the Achaeans upon the soil of Troy.
Still, though his people mourned their chieftain, they were not without a leader, for Podarces, of the race of Mars, marshalled them; he was son of Iphiclus, rich in sheep, who was the son of Phylacus, and he was own brother to Protesilaus, only younger, Protesilaus being at once the elder and the more valiant.
So the people were not without a leader, though they mourned him whom they had lost.
With him there came forty ships.
And those that held Pherae by the Boebean lake, with Boebe, Glaphyrae, and the populous city of Iolcus, these with their eleven ships were led by Eumelus, son of Admetus, whom Alcestis bore to him, loveliest of the daughters of Pelias.
And those that held Methone and Thaumacia, with Meliboea and rugged Olizon, these were led by the skilful archer Philoctetes, and they had seven ships, each with fifty oarsmen all of them good archers; but Philoctetes was lying in great pain in the Island of Lemnos, where the sons of the Achaeans left him, for he had been bitten by a poisonous water snake.
There he lay sick and sorry, and full soon did the Argives come to miss him.
But his people, though they felt his loss were not leaderless, for Medon, the bastard son of Oileus by Rhene, set them in array.
Those, again, of Tricca and the stony region of Ithome, and they that held Oechalia, the city of Oechalian Eurytus, these were commanded by the two sons of Aesculapius, skilled in the art of healing, Podalirius and Machaon.
And with them there came thirty ships.
The men, moreover, of Ormenius, and by the fountain of Hypereia, with those that held Asterius, and the white crests of Titanus, these were led by Eurypylus, the son of Euaemon, and with them there came forty ships.
Those that held Argissa and Gyrtone, Orthe, Elone, and the white city of Oloosson, of these brave Polypoetes was leader.
He was son of Pirithous, who was son of Jove himself, for Hippodameia bore him to Pirithous on the day when he took his revenge on the shaggy mountain savages and drove them from Mt.
Pelion to the Aithices.
But Polypoetes was not sole in command, for with him was Leonteus, of the race of Mars, who was son of Coronus, the son of Caeneus.
And with these there came forty ships.
Guneus brought two and twenty ships from Cyphus, and he was followed by the Enienes and the valiant Peraebi, who dwelt about wintry Dodona, and held the lands round the lovely river Titaresius, which sends its waters into the Peneus.
They do not mingle with the silver eddies of the Peneus, but flow on the top of them like oil; for the Titaresius is a branch of dread Orcus and of the river Styx.
Of the Magnetes, Prothous son of Tenthredon was commander.
They were they that dwelt about the river Peneus and Mt.
Pelion.
Prothous, fleet of foot, was their leader, and with him there came forty ships.
Such were the chiefs and princes of the Danaans.
Who, then, O Muse, was the foremost, whether man or horse, among those that followed after the sons of Atreus?
Of the horses, those of the son of Pheres were by far the finest.
They were driven by Eumelus, and were as fleet as birds.
They were of the same age and colour, and perfectly matched in height.
Apollo, of the silver bow, had bred them in Perea— both of them mares, and terrible as Mars in battle.
Of the men, Ajax, son of Telamon, was much the foremost so long as Achilles ' anger lasted, for Achilles excelled him greatly and he had also better horses; but Achilles was now holding aloof at his ships by reason of his quarrel with Agamemnon, and his people passed their time upon the sea shore, throwing discs or aiming with spears at a mark, and in archery.
Their horses stood each by his own chariot, champing lotus and wild celery.
The chariots were housed under cover, but their owners, for lack of leadership, wandered hither and thither about the host and went not forth to fight.
Thus marched the host like a consuming fire, and the earth groaned beneath them when the lord of thunder is angry and lashes the land about Typhoeus among the Arimi, where they say Typhoeus lies.
Even so did the earth groan beneath them as they sped over the plain.
And now Iris, fleet as the wind, was sent by Jove to tell the bad news among the Trojans.
They were gathered in assembly, old and young, at Priam 's gates, and Iris came close up to Priam, speaking with the voice of Priam 's son Polites, who, being fleet of foot, was stationed as watchman for the Trojans on the tomb of old Aesyetes, to look out for any sally of the Achaeans.
In his likeness Iris spoke, saying," Old man, you talk idly, as in time of peace, while war is at hand.
I have been in many a battle, but never yet saw such a host as is now advancing.
They are crossing the plain to attack the city as thick as leaves or as the sands of the sea.
Hector, I charge you above all others, do as I say.
There are many allies dispersed about the city of Priam from distant places and speaking divers tongues.
Therefore, let each chief give orders to his own people, setting them severally in array and leading them forth to battle."
Thus she spoke, but Hector knew that it was the goddess, and at once broke up the assembly.
The men flew to arms; all the gates were opened, and the people thronged through them, horse and foot, with the tramp as of a great multitude.
Now there is a high mound before the city, rising by itself upon the plain.
Men call it Batieia, but the gods know that it is the tomb of lithe Myrine.
Here the Trojans and their allies divided their forces.
Priam 's son, great Hector of the gleaming helmet, commanded the Trojans, and with him were arrayed by far the greater number and most valiant of those who were longing for the fray.
The Dardanians were led by brave Aeneas, whom Venus bore to Anchises, when she, goddess though she was, had lain with him upon the mountain slopes of Ida.
He was not alone, for with him were the two sons of Antenor, Archilochus and Acamas, both skilled in all the arts of war.
They that dwelt in Telea under the lowest spurs of Mt.
Ida, men of substance, who drink the limpid waters of the Aesepus, and are of Trojan blood— these were led by Pandarus son of Lycaon, whom Apollo had taught to use the bow.
They that held Adresteia and the land of Apaesus, with Pityeia, and the high mountain of Tereia— these were led by Adrestus and Amphius, whose breastplate was of linen.
These were the sons of Merops of Percote, who excelled in all kinds of divination.
He told them not to take part in the war, but they gave him no heed, for fate lured them to destruction.
They that dwelt about Percote and Practius, with Sestos, Abydos, and Arisbe —these were led by Asius, son of Hyrtacus, a brave commander— Asius, the son of Hyrtacus, whom his powerful dark bay steeds, of the breed that comes from the river Selleis, had brought from Arisbe.
Hippothous led the tribes of Pelasgian spearsmen, who dwelt in fertile Larissa— Hippothous, and Pylaeus of the race of Mars, two sons of the Pelasgian Lethus, son of Teutamus.
Acamas and the warrior Peirous commanded the Thracians and those that came from beyond the mighty stream of the Hellespont.
Euphemus, son of Troezenus, the son of Ceos, was captain of the Ciconian spearsmen.
Pyraechmes led the Paeonian archers from distant Amydon, by the broad waters of the river Axius, the fairest that flow upon the earth.
The Paphlagonians were commanded by stouthearted Pylaemanes from Enetae, where the mules run wild in herds.
These were they that held Cytorus and the country round Sesamus, with the cities by the river Parthenius, Cromna, Aegialus, and lofty Erithini.
Odius and Epistrophus were captains over the Halizoni from distant Alybe, where there are mines of silver.
Chromis, and Ennomus the augur, led the Mysians, but his skill in augury availed not to save him from destruction, for he fell by the hand of the fleet descendant of Aeacus in the river, where he slew others also of the Trojans.
Phorcys, again, and noble Ascanius led the Phrygians from the far country of Ascania, and both were eager for the fray.
Mesthles and Antiphus commanded the Meonians, sons of Talaemenes, born to him of the Gygaean lake.
These led the Meonians, who dwelt under Mt.
Tmolus.
Nastes led the Carians, men of a strange speech.
These held Miletus and the wooded mountain of Phthires, with the water of the river Maeander and the lofty crests of Mt.
Mycale.
These were commanded by Nastes and Amphimachus, the brave sons of Nomion.
He came into the fight with gold about him, like a girl; fool that he was, his gold was of no avail to save him, for he fell in the river by the hand of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, and Achilles bore away his gold.
Sarpedon and Glaucus led the Lycians from their distant land, by the eddying waters of the Xanthus.
CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Her observation had been pretty correct.
Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred.
She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife.
He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud.
He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed."
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first.
Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma's dislike.
Her manners, too--and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet.
They were sneering and negligent.
Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also.
She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first.
Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry on the subject.-"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature.
So mild and ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents.
I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well.
I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point.
Oh!
she is absolutely charming!
You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated to affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her.
We must bring her forward.
Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet, 'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax."
"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer--"and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."
"Oh!
but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at an end!
And I think she feels it.
I am sure she does.
She is very timid and silent.
One can see that she feels the want of encouragement.
I like her the better for it.
I must confess it is a recommendation to me.
I am a great advocate for timidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with it.--But in those who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing.
Oh!
I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I can express."
"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"-"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to act.
You and I need not be afraid.
If we set the example, many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations.
We have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake of it.
I have no idea of that sort of thing.
It is not likely that I should, considering what I have been used to.
My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense.
Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation.
My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us.
I am sure they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."
"Poor Jane Fairfax!"
--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this.
You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.'
Heavens!
Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!"
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss Woodhouse."
The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.
She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth.
She was quite one of her worthies--the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered.
Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do.
She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!
This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.
"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!"
said she.--"To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort!
And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection."
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there.
According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it!
"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion.
"She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself.
There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is not to be with the Dixons.
The decree is issued by somebody.
But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.
"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home.
Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome.
We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to."
"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her.
But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her."
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth.
With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting."
"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her.
Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change."
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of her.
We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted.
We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before.
We feel things differently.
And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to.
Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness."
"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma.
Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."
"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is.
The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other."
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh!
are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand.
Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago."
He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think.
In a moment he went on-"That will never be, however, I can assure you.
Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her."
Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley.
I will say that for you."
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"
"No indeed I have not.
You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you.
What I said just now, meant nothing.
One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning.
Oh!
no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body.
You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married."
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again.
The result of his reverie was, "No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you."
And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect.
She has a fault.
She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife."
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.
"Well," said she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"
"Yes, very soon.
He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more.
Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours."
"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world!
I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what she calls them!
How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity?
She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for Mr. Cole?
And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.
Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me.
I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton.
I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau."
"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--"I do not accuse her of want of feeling.
Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness.
She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be--And I love an open temper.
No--till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head.
I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no thought beyond."
"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what do you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"
"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last.
Do not beat me."
The Trojans and their allies break the wall, led on by Hector.
So the son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypylus within the tent, but the Argives and Trojans still fought desperately, nor were the trench and the high wall above it, to keep the Trojans in check longer.
They had built it to protect their ships, and had dug the trench all round it that it might safeguard both the ships and the rich spoils which they had taken, but they had not offered hecatombs to the gods.
It had been built without the consent of the immortals, and therefore it did not last.
So long as Hector lived and Achilles nursed his anger, and so long as the city of Priam remained untaken, the great wall of the Achaeans stood firm; but when the bravest of the Trojans were no more, and many also of the Argives, though some were yet left alive— when, moreover, the city was sacked in the tenth year, and the Argives had gone back with their ships to their own country— then Neptune and Apollo took counsel to destroy the wall, and they turned on to it the streams of all the rivers from Mount Ida into the sea, Rhesus, Heptaporus, Caresus, Rhodius, Grenicus, Aesopus, and goodly Scamander, with Simois, where many a shield and helm had fallen, and many a hero of the race of demigods had bitten the dust.
Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together and made them flow for nine days against the wall, while Jove rained the whole time that he might wash it sooner into the sea.
Neptune himself, trident in hand, surveyed the work and threw into the sea all the foundations of beams and stones which the Achaeans had laid with so much toil; he made all level by the mighty stream of the Hellespont, and then when he had swept the wall away he spread a great beach of sand over the place where it had been.
This done he turned the rivers back into their old courses.
This was what Neptune and Apollo were to do in after time; but as yet battle and turmoil were still raging round the wall till its timbers rang under the blows that rained upon them.
The Argives, cowed by the scourge of Jove, were hemmed in at their ships in fear of Hector the mighty minister of Rout, who as heretofore fought with the force and fury of a whirlwind.
As a lion or wild boar turns fiercely on the dogs and men that attack him, while these form a solid wall and shower their javelins as they face him— his courage is all undaunted, but his high spirit will be the death of him; many a time does he charge at his pursuers to scatter them, and they fall back as often as he does so— even so did Hector go about among the host exhorting his men, and cheering them on to cross the trench.
But the horses dared not do so, and stood neighing upon its brink, for the width frightened them.
They could neither jump it nor cross it, for it had overhanging banks all round upon either side, above which there were the sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had planted so close and strong as a defence against all who would assail it; a horse, therefore, could not get into it and draw his chariot after him, but those who were on foot kept trying their very utmost.
Then Polydamas went up to Hector and said," Hector, and you other captains of the Trojans and allies, it is madness for us to try and drive our horses across the trench; it will be very hard to cross, for it is full of sharp stakes, and beyond these there is the wall.
Our horses therefore can not get down into it, and would be of no use if they did; moreover it is a narrow place and we should come to harm.
If, indeed, great Jove is minded to help the Trojans, and in his anger will utterly destroy the Achaeans, I would myself gladly see them perish now and here far from Argos; but if they should rally and we are driven back from the ships pellmell into the trench there will be not so much as a man get back to the city to tell the tale.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let our squires hold our horses by the trench, but let us follow Hector in a body on foot, clad in full armour, and if the day of their doom is at hand the Achaeans will not be able to withstand us."
Thus spoke Polydamas and his saying pleased Hector, who sprang in full armour to the ground, and all the other Trojans, when they saw him do so, also left their chariots.
Each man then gave his horses over to his charioteer in charge to hold them ready for him at the trench.
Then they formed themselves into companies, made themselves ready, and in five bodies followed their leaders.
Those that went with Hector and Polydamas were the bravest and most in number, and the most determined to break through the wall and fight at the ships.
Cebriones was also joined with them as third in command, for Hector had left his chariot in charge of a less valiant soldier.
The next company was led by Paris, Alcathous, and Agenor; the third by Helenus and Deiphobus, two sons of Priam, and with them was the hero Asius— Asius, the son of Hyrtacus, whose great black horses of the breed that comes from the river Selleis had brought him from Arisbe.
Aeneas, the valiant son of Anchises, led the fourth; he and the two sons of Antenor, Archelochus and Acamas, men well versed in all the arts of war.
Sarpedon was captain over the allies, and took with him Glaucus and Asteropaeus whom he deemed most valiant after himself— for he was far the best man of them all.
These helped to array one another in their oxhide shields, and then charged straight at the Danaans, for they felt sure that they would not hold out longer and that they should themselves now fall upon the ships.
The rest of the Trojans and their allies now followed the counsel of Polydamas but Asius, son of Hyrtacus, would not leave his horses and his esquire behind him; in his foolhardiness he took them on with him towards the ships, nor did he fail to come by his end in consequence.
Nevermore was he to return to windbeaten Ilius, exulting in his chariot and his horses; ere he could do so, death of illomened name had overshadowed him and he had fallen by the spear of Idomeneus the noble son of Deucalion.
He had driven towards the left wing of the ships, by which way the Achaeans used to return with their chariots and horses from the plain.
Hither he drove and found the gates with their doors opened wide, and the great bar down— for the gatemen kept them open so as to let those of their comrades enter who might be flying towards the ships.
Hither of set purpose did he direct his horses, and his men followed him with a loud cry, for they felt sure that the Achaeans would not hold out longer, and that they should now fall upon the ships.
Little did they know that at the gates they should find two of the bravest chieftains, proud sons of the fighting Lapithae— the one, Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, and the other Leonteus, peer of murderous Mars.
These stood before the gates like two high oak trees upon the mountains, that tower from their widespreading roots, and year after year battle with wind and rain— even so did these two men await the onset of great Asius confidently and without flinching.
The Trojans led by him and by Iamenus, Orestes, Adamas the son of Asius, Thoon and Oenomaus, raised a loud cry of battle and made straight for the wall, holding their shields of dry oxhide above their heads; for a while the two defenders remained inside and cheered the Achaeans on to stand firm in the defence of their ships; when, however, they saw that the Trojans were attacking the wall, while the Danaans were crying out for help and being routed, they rushed outside and fought in front of the gates like two wild boars upon the mountains that abide the attack of men and dogs, and charging on either side break down the wood all round them tearing it up by the roots, and one can hear the clattering of their tusks, till some one hits them and makes an end of them— even so did the gleaming bronze rattle about their breasts, as the weapons fell upon them; for they fought with great fury, trusting to their own prowess and to those who were on the wall above them.
These threw great stones at their assailants in defence of themselves their tents and their ships.
The stones fell thick as the flakes of snow which some fierce blast drives from the dark clouds and showers down in sheets upon the earth— even so fell the weapons from the hands alike of Trojans and Achaeans.
Helmet and shield rang out as the great stones rained upon them, and Asius, the son of Hyrtacus, in his dismay cried aloud and smote his two thighs. "
Father Jove," he cried," of a truth you too are altogether given to lying.
I made sure the Argive heroes could not withstand us, whereas like slimwaisted wasps, or bees that have their nests in the rocks by the wayside— they leave not the holes wherein they have built undefended, but fight for their little ones against all who would take them— even so these men, though they be but two, will not be driven from the gates, but stand firm either to slay or be slain."
He spoke, but moved not the mind of Jove, whose counsel it then was to give glory to Hector.
Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans were fighting about the other gates; I, however, am no god to be able to tell about all these things, for the battle raged everywhere about the stone wall as it were a fiery furnace.
The Argives, discomfited though they were, were forced to defend their ships, and all the gods who were defending the Achaeans were vexed in spirit; but the Lapithae kept on fighting with might and main.
Thereon Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, hit Damasus with a spear upon his cheekpierced helmet.
The helmet did not protect him, for the point of the spear went through it, and broke the bone, so that the brain inside was scattered about, and he died fighting.
He then slew Pylon and Ormenus.
Leonteus, of the race of Mars, killed Hippomachus the son of Antimachus by striking him with his spear upon the girdle.
He then drew his sword and sprang first upon Antiphates whom he killed in combat, and who fell face upwards on the earth.
After him he killed Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, and laid them low one after the other.
While they were busy stripping the armour from these heroes, the youths who were led on by Polydamas and Hector( and these were the greater part and the most valiant of those that were trying to break through the wall and fire the ships) were still standing by the trench, uncertain what they should do; for they had seen a sign from heaven when they had essayed to cross it— a soaring eagle that flew skirting the left wing of their host, with a monstrous bloodred snake in its talons still alive and struggling to escape.
The snake was still bent on revenge, wriggling and twisting itself backwards till it struck the bird that held it, on the neck and breast; whereon the bird being in pain, let it fall, dropping it into the middle of the host, and then flew down the wind with a sharp cry.
The Trojans were struck with terror when they saw the snake, portent of aegisbearing Jove, writhing in the midst of them, and Polydamas went up to Hector and said," Hector, at our councils of war you are ever given to rebuke me, even when I speak wisely, as though it were not well, forsooth, that one of the people should cross your will either in the field or at the council board; you would have them support you always: nevertheless I will say what I think will be best; let us not now go on to fight the Danaans at their ships, for I know what will happen if this soaring eagle which skirted the left wing of our host with a monstrous bloodred snake in its talons( the snake being still alive) was really sent as an omen to the Trojans on their essaying to cross the trench.
The eagle let go her hold; she did not succeed in taking it home to her little ones, and so will it be— with ourselves; even though by a mighty effort we break through the gates and wall of the Achaeans, and they give way before us ,still we shall not return in good order by the way we came, but shall leave many a man behind us whom the Achaeans will do to death in defence of their ships.
Thus would any seer who was expert in these matters, and was trusted by the people, read the portent."
Hector looked fiercely at him and said," Polydamas, I like not of your reading.
You can find a better saying than this if you will.
If, however, you have spoken in good earnest, then indeed has heaven robbed you of your reason.
You would have me pay no heed to the counsels of Jove, nor to the promises he made me— and he bowed his head in confirmation; you bid me be ruled rather by the flight of wildfowl.
What care I whether they fly towards dawn or dark, and whether they be on my right hand or on my left?
Let us put our trust rather in the counsel of great Jove, king of mortals and immortals.
There is one omen, and one only— that a man should fight for his country.
Why are you so fearful?
Though we be all of us slain at the ships of the Argives you are not likely to be killed yourself, for you are not steadfast nor courageous.
If you will not fight, or would talk others over from doing so, you shall fall forthwith before my spear."
With these words he led the way, and the others followed after with a cry that rent the air.
Then Jove the lord of thunder sent the blast of a mighty wind from the mountains of Ida, that bore the dust down towards the ships; he thus lulled the Achaeans into security, and gave victory to Hector and to the Trojans, who, trusting to their own might and to the signs he had shown them, essayed to break through the great wall of the Achaeans.
They tore down the breastworks from the walls, and overthrew the battlements; they upheaved the buttresses, which the Achaeans had set in front of the wall in order to support it; when they had pulled these down they made sure of breaking through the wall, but the Danaans still showed no sign of giving ground; they still fenced the battlements with their shields of oxhide, and hurled their missiles down upon the foe as soon as any came below the wall.
The two Ajaxes went about everywhere on the walls cheering on the Achaeans, giving fair words to some while they spoke sharply to any one whom they saw to be remiss. "
My friends," they cried," Argives one and all— good bad and indifferent, for there was never fight yet, in which all were of equal prowess— there is now work enough, as you very well know, for all of you.
See that you none of you turn in flight towards the ships, daunted by the shouting of the foe, but press forward and keep one another in heart, if it may so be that Olympian Jove the lord of lightning will vouchsafe us to repel our foes, and drive them back towards the city."
Thus did the two go about shouting and cheering the Achaeans on.
As the flakes that fall thick upon a winter 's day, when Jove is minded to snow and to display these his arrows to mankind— he lulls the wind to rest, and snows hour after hour till he has buried the tops of the high mountains, the headlands that jut into the sea, the grassy plains, and the tilled fields of men; the snow lies deep upon the forelands, and havens of the grey sea, but the waves as they come rolling in stay it that it can come no further, though all else is wrapped as with a mantle, so heavy are the heavens with snow— even thus thickly did the stones fall on one side and on the other, some thrown at the Trojans, and some by the Trojans at the Achaeans; and the whole wall was in an uproar.
Still the Trojans and brave Hector would not yet have broken down the gates and the great bar, had not Jove turned his son Sarpedon against the Argives as a lion against a herd of horned cattle.
Before him he held his shield of hammered bronze, that the smith had beaten so fair and round, and had lined with ox hides which he had made fast with rivets of gold all round the shield; this he held in front of him, and brandishing his two spears came on like some lion of the wilderness, who has been long famished for want of meat and will dare break even into a wellfenced homestead to try and get at the sheep.
He may find the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks with dogs and spears, but he is in no mind to be driven from the fold till he has had a try for it; he will either spring on a sheep and carry it off, or be hit by a spear from some strong hand— even so was Sarpedon fain to attack the wall and break down its battlements.
Then he said to Glaucus son of Hippolochus," Glaucus, why in Lycia do we receive especial honour as regards our place at table?
Why are the choicest portions served us and our cups kept brimming, and why do men look up to us as though we were gods?
Moreover we hold a large estate by the banks of the river Xanthus, fair with orchard lawns and wheatgrowing land; it becomes us, therefore, to take our stand at the head of all the Lycians and bear the brunt of the fight, that one may say to another,' Our princes in Lycia eat the fat of the land and drink best of wine, but they are fine fellows; they fight well and are ever at the front in battle.'
My good friend, if, when we were once out of this fight, we could escape old age and death thenceforward and forever, I should neither press forward myself nor bid you do so, but death in ten thousand shapes hangs ever over our heads, and no man can elude him; therefore let us go forward and either win glory for ourselves, or yield it to another."
Glaucus heeded his saying, and the pair forthwith led on the host of Lycians.
Menestheus son of Peteos was dismayed when he saw them, for it was against his part of the wall that they came— bringing destruction with them; he looked along the wall for some chieftain to support his comrades and saw the two Ajaxes, men ever eager for the fray, and Teucer, who had just come from his tent, standing near them; but he could not make his voice heard by shouting to them, so great an uproar was there from crashing shields and helmets and the battering of gates with a din which reached the skies.
For all the gates had been closed, and the Trojans were hammering at them to try and break their way through them.
Menestheus, therefore, sent Thootes with a message to Ajax. "
Run, good Thootes," he said," and call Ajax, or better still bid both come, for it will be all over with us here directly; the leaders of the Lycians are upon us, men who have ever fought desperately heretofore.
But if they have too much on their hands to let them come, at any rate let Ajax son of Telamon do so, and let Teucer, the famous bowman, come with him."
The messenger did as he was told, and set off running along the wall of the Achaeans.
When he reached the Ajaxes he said to them," Sirs, princes of the Argives, the son of noble Peteos bids you come to him for a while and help him.
You had better both come if you can, or it will be all over with him directly; the leaders of the Lycians are upon him, men who have ever fought desperately heretofore; if you have too much on your hands to let both come, at any rate let Ajax, son of Telamon, do so, and let Teucer, the famous bowman, come with him."
Great Ajax son of Telamon heeded the message, and at once spoke to the son of Oileus. "
Ajax," said he," do you two, yourself and brave Lycomedes, stay here and keep the Danaans in heart to fight their hardest.
I will go over yonder, and bear my part in the fray, but I will come back here at once as soon as I have given them the help they need."
With this, Ajax son of Telamon set off, and Teucer, his brother by the same father, went also, with Pandion to carry Teucer 's bow.
They went along inside the wall, and when they came to the tower where Menestheus was( and hard pressed indeed did they find him) the brave captains and leaders of the Lycians were storming the battlements as it were a thick dark cloud, fighting in close quarters, and raising the battlecry aloud.
First, Ajax son of Telamon killed brave Epicles, a comrade of Sarpedon, hitting him with a jagged stone that lay by the battlements at the very top of the wall.
As men now are, even one who is in the bloom of youth could hardly lift it with his two hands, but Ajax raised it high aloft and flung it down, smashing Epicles ' fourcrested helmet so that the bones of his head were crushed to pieces, and he fell from the high wall as though he were diving, with no more life left in him.
Then Teucer wounded Glaucus the brave son of Hippolochus as he was coming on to attack the wall.
He saw his shoulder bare and aimed an arrow at it, which made Glaucus leave off fighting.
Thereon he sprang covertly down for fear some of the Achaeans might see that he was wounded and taunt him.
Sarpedon was stung with grief when he saw Glaucus leave him, still he did not leave off fighting, but aimed his spear at Alcmaon the son of Thestor and hit him.
He drew his spear back again and Alcmaon came down headlong after it with his bronzed armour rattling round him.
Then Sarpedon seized the battlement in his strong hands, and tugged at it till it all gave way together, and a breach was made through which many might pass.
Ajax and Teucer then both of them attacked him.
Teucer hit him with an arrow on the band that bore the shield which covered his body, but Jove saved his son from destruction that he might not fall by the ships ' sterns.
Meanwhile Ajax sprang on him and pierced his shield, but the spear did not go clean through, though it hustled him back that he could come on no further.
He therefore retired a little space from the battlement, yet without losing all his ground, for he still thought to cover himself with glory.
Then he turned round and shouted to the brave Lycians saying," Lycians, why do you thus fail me?
For all my prowess I can not break through the wall and open a way to the ships singlehanded.
Come close on behind me, for the more there are of us the better."
The Lycians, shamed by his rebuke, pressed closer round him who was their counsellor and their king.
The Argives on their part got their men in fighting order within the wall, and there was a deadly struggle between them.
The Lycians could not break through the wall and force their way to the ships, nor could the Danaans drive the Lycians from the wall now that they had once reached it.
As two men, measuringrods in hand, quarrel about their boundaries in a field that they own in common, and stickle for their rights though they be but in a mere strip, even so did the battlements now serve as a bone of contention, and they beat one another 's round shields for their possession.
Many a man 's body was wounded with the pitiless bronze, as he turned round and bared his back to the foe, and many were struck clean through their shields; the wall and battlements were everywhere deluged with the blood alike of Trojans and of Achaeans.
But even so the Trojans could not rout the Achaeans, who still held on; and as some honest hardworking woman weighs wool in her balance and sees that the scales be true, for she would gain some pitiful earnings for her little ones, even so was the fight balanced evenly between them till the time came when Jove gave the greater glory to Hector son of Priam, who was first to spring towards the wall of the Achaeans.
When he had done so, he cried aloud to the Trojans," Up, Trojans, break the wall of the Argives, and fling fire upon their ships."
Thus did he hound them on, and in one body they rushed straight at the wall as he had bidden them, and scaled the battlements with sharp spears in their hands.
Hector laid hold of a stone that lay just outside the gates and was thick at one end but pointed at the other; two of the best men in a town, as men now are, could hardly raise it from the ground and put it on to a waggon, but Hector lifted it quite easily by himself, for the son of scheming Saturn made it light for him.
As a shepherd picks up a ram 's fleece with one hand and finds it no burden, so easily did Hector lift the great stone and drive it right at the doors that closed the gates so strong and so firmly set.
These doors were double and high, and were kept closed by two cross bars to which there was but one key.
When he had got close up to them, Hector strode towards them that his blow might gain in force and struck them in the middle, leaning his whole weight against them.
He broke both hinges, and the stone fell inside by reason of its great weight.
The portals re echoed with the sound, the bars held no longer, and the doors flew open, one one way, and the other the other, through the force of the blow.
Then brave Hector leaped inside with a face as dark as that of flying night.
The gleaming bronze flashed fiercely about his body and he had two spears in his hand.
None but a god could have withstood him as he flung himself into the gateway, and his eyes glared like fire.
Then he turned round towards the Trojans and called on them to scale the wall, and they did as he bade them— some of them at once climbing over the wall, while others passed through the gates.
The Danaans then fled panicstricken towards their ships, and all was uproar and confusion.
CHAPTER SPRING.
THE OPENING of large tracts by the ice-cutters commonly causes a pond to break up earlier; for the water, agitated by the wind, even in cold weather, wears away the surrounding ice.
But such was not the effect on Walden that year, for she had soon got a thick new garment to take the place of the old.
This pond never breaks up so soon as the others in this neighborhood, on account both of its greater depth and its having no stream passing through it to melt or wear away the ice.
I never knew it to open in the course of a winter, not excepting that Of '52-3, which gave the ponds so severe a trial.
It commonly opens about the first of April, a week or ten days later than Flint's Pond and Fair Haven, beginning to melt on the north side and in the shallower parts where it began to freeze.
It indicates better than any water hereabouts the absolute progress of the season, being least affected by transient changes of temperature.
A severe cold of it few days duration in March may very much retard the opening of the former ponds, while the temperature of Walden increases almost uninterruptedly.
A thermometer thrust into the middle of Walden on the 6th of March, 1847, stood at 32', or freezing point; near the shore at 33'; in the middle of Flint's Pond, the same day, at 32 1/2'; at a dozen rods from the shore, in shallow water, under ice a foot thick, at 36'.
This difference of three and it half degrees between the temperature of the deep water and the shallow in the latter pond, and the fact that a great proportion of it is comparatively shallow, show why it should break up so much sooner than Walden.
The ice in the shallowest part was at this time several inches thinner than in the middle.
In midwinter the middle had been the warmest and the ice thinnest there.
So, also, every one who has waded about the shores of the pond in summer must have perceived how much warmer the water is close to the shore, where only three or four inches deep, than a little distance out, and on the surface where it is deep, than near the bottom.
In spring the sun not only exerts an influence through the increased temperature of the air and earth, but its heat passes through ice a foot or more thick, and is reflected from the bottom in shallow water, and so also warms the water and melts the under side of the ice, at the same time that it is melting it more directly above, making it uneven, and causing the air bubbles which it contains to extend themselves upward and downward until it is completely honeycombed, and at last disappears suddenly in a single spring rain.
Ice has its grain as well as wood, and when a cake begins to rot or "comb," that is, assume the appearance of honeycomb, whatever may be its position, the air cells are at right angles with what was the water surface.
Where there is a rock or a log rising near to the surface the ice over it is much thinner, and is frequently quite dissolved by this reflected heat; and I have been told that in the experiment at Cambridge to freeze water in a shallow wooden pond, though the cold air circulated underneath, and so had access to both sides, the reflection of the sun from the bottom more than counterbalanced this advantage.
When a warm rain in the middle of the winter melts off the snow ice from Walden, and leaves a hard dark or transparent ice on the middle, there will be a strip of rotten though thicker white ice, a rod or more wide, about the shores, created by this reflected heat.
Also, as I have said, the bubbles themselves within the ice operate as burning-glasses to melt the ice beneath.
The phenomena of the year take place every day in a pond on a small scale.
Every morning, generally speaking, the shallow water is being warmed more rapidly than the deep, though it may not be made so warm after all, and every evening it is being cooled more rapidly until the morning, The day is an epitome of the year.
The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer.
The cracking and booming of the ice indicate a change of temperature.
One pleasant morning after a cold night, February 24th, 1850, having gone to Flint's Pond to spend the day, I noticed with surprise, that when I struck the ice with the head of my axe, it resounded like a gong for many rods around, or as if I had struck on a tight drum-head.
The pond began to boom about an hour after sunrise, when it felt the influence of the sun's rays slanted upon it from over the hills; it stretched itself and yawned like a waking man with a gradually increasing tumult, which was kept up three or four hours.
It took a short siesta at noon, and boomed once more toward night, as the sun was withdrawing his influence.
In the right stage of the weather a pond fires its evening gun with great regularity.
But in the middle of the day, being full of cracks, and the air also being less elastic, it had completely lost its resonance, and probably fishes and muskrats could not then have been stunned by a blow on it.
The fishermen say that the "thundering of the pond" scares the fishes and prevents their biting.
The pond does not thunder every evening, and I cannot tell surely when to expect its thundering; but though I may perceive no difference in the weather, it does.
Who would have suspected so large and cold and thick-skinned a thing to be so sensitive?
Yet it has its law to which it thunders obedience when it should as surely as the buds expand in the spring.
The earth is all alive and covered with papillae.
The largest pond is as sensitive to atmospheric changes as the globule of mercury in its tube.
One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the Spring come in.
The ice in the pond at length begins to be honeycombed, and I can set my heel in it as I walk.
Fogs and rains and warmer suns are gradually melting the snow; the days have grown sensibly longer; and I see how I shall get through the winter without adding to my woodpile, for large fires are no longer necessary.
I am on the alert for the first signs of spring, to hear the chance note of some arriving bird, or the striped squirrel's chirp, for his stores must be now nearly exhausted, or see the woodchuck venture out of his winter quarters.
On the 13th of March, after I had heard the bluebird, song sparrow, and red-wing, the ice was still nearly a foot thick.
As the weather grew warmer it was not sensibly worn away by the water, nor broken up and floated off as in rivers, but, though it was completely melted for half a rod in width about the shore, the middle was merely honeycombed and saturated with water, so that you could put your foot through it when six inches thick; but by the next day evening, perhaps, after a warm rain followed by fog, it would have wholly disappeared, all gone off with the fog, spirited away.
One year I went across the middle only five days before it disappeared entirely.
In 1845 Walden was first completely open on the 1st of April; in '46, the 25th of March; in '47, the 8th of April; in '51, the 28th of March; in '52, the 18th of April; in '53, the 23d of March; in '54, about the 7th of April.
Every incident connected with the breaking up of the rivers and ponds and the settling of the weather is particularly interesting to us who live in a climate of so great extremes.
When the warmer days come, they who dwell near the river hear the ice crack at night with a startling whoop as loud as artillery, as if its icy fetters were rent from end to end, and within a few days see it rapidly going out.
So the alligator comes out of the mud with quakings of the earth.
One old man, who has been a close observer of Nature, and seems as thoroughly wise in regard to all her operations as if she had been put upon the stocks when he was a boy, and he had helped to lay her keelwho has come to his growth, and can hardly acquire more of natural lore if he should live to the age of Methuselahtold meand I was surprised to hear him express wonder at any of Nature's operations, for I thought that there were no secrets between themthat one spring day he took his gun and boat, and thought that he would have a little sport with the ducks.
There was ice still on the meadows, but it was all gone out of the river, and he dropped down without obstruction from Sudbury, where he lived, to Fair Haven Pond, which he found, unexpectedly, covered for the most part with a firm field of ice.
It was a warm day, and he was surprised to see so great a body of ice remaining.
Not seeing any ducks, he hid his boat on the north or back side of an island in the pond, and then concealed himself in the bushes on the south side, to await them.
The ice was melted for three or four rods from the shore, and there was a smooth and warm sheet of water, with a muddy bottom, such as the ducks love, within, and he thought it likely that some would be along pretty soon.
After he had lain still there about an hour he heard a low and seemingly very distant sound, but singularly grand and impressive, unlike anything he had ever heard, gradually swelling and increasing as if it would have a universal and memorable ending, a sullen rush and roar, which seemed to him all at once like the sound of a vast body of fowl coming in to settle there, and, seizing his gun, he started up in haste and excited; but he found, to his surprise, that the whole body of the ice had started while he lay there, and drifted in to the shore, and the sound he had heard was made by its edge grating on the shoreat first gently nibbled and crumbled off, but at length heaving up and scattering its wrecks along the island to a considerable height before it came to a standstill.
At length the sun's rays have attained the right angle, and warm winds blow up mist and rain and melt the snowbanks, and the sun, dispersing the mist, smiles on a checkered landscape of russet and white smoking with incense, through which the traveller picks his way from islet to islet, cheered by the music of a thousand tinkling rills and rivulets whose veins are filled with the blood of winter which they are bearing off.
Few phenomena gave me more delight than to observe the forms which thawing sand and clay assume in flowing down the sides of a deep cut on the railroad through which I passed on my way to the village, a phenomenon not very common on so large a scale, though the number of freshly exposed banks of the right material must have been greatly multiplied since railroads were invented.
The material was sand of every degree of fineness and of various rich colors, commonly mixed with a little clay.
When the frost comes out in the spring, and even in a thawing day in the winter, the sand begins to flow down the slopes like lava, sometimes bursting out through the snow and overflowing it where no sand was to be seen before.
Innumerable little streams overlap and interlace one with another, exhibiting a sort of hybrid product, which obeys half way the law of currents, and half way that of vegetation.
As it flows it takes the forms of sappy leaves or vines, making heaps of pulpy sprays a foot or more in depth, and resembling, as you look down on them, the laciniated, lobed, and imbricated thalluses of some lichens; or you are reminded of coral, of leopard's paws or birds' feet, of brains or lungs or bowels, and excrements of all kinds.
It is a truly grotesque vegetation, whose forms and color we see imitated in bronze, a sort of architectural foliage more ancient and typical than acanthus, chiccory, ivy, vine, or any vegetable leaves; destined perhaps, under some circumstances, to become a puzzle to future geologists.
The whole cut impressed me as if it were a cave with its stalactites laid open to the light.
The various shades of the sand are singularly rich and agreeable, embracing the different iron colors, brown, gray, yellowish, and reddish.
When the flowing mass reaches the drain at the foot of the bank it spreads out flatter into strands, the separate streams losing their semicylindrical form and gradually becoming more flat and broad, running together as they are more moist, till they form an almost flat sand, still variously and beautifully shaded, but in which you call trace the original forms of vegetation; till at length, in the water itself, they are converted into banks, like those formed off the mouths of rivers, and the forms of vegetation are lost in the ripplemarks on the bottom.
The whole bank, which is from twenty to forty feet high, is sometimes overlaid with a mass of this kind of foliage, or sandy rupture, for a quarter of a mile on one or both sides, the produce of one spring day.
What makes this sand foliage remarkable is its springing into existence thus suddenly.
When I see on the one side the inert bankfor the sun acts on one side firstand on the other this luxuriant foliage, the creation of an hour, I am affected as if in a peculiar sense I stood in the laboratory of the Artist who made the world and mehad come to where he was still at work, sporting on this bank, and with excess of energy strewing his fresh designs about.
I feel as if I were nearer to the vitals of the globe, for this sandy overflow is something such a foliaceous mass as the vitals of the animal body.
You find thus in the very sands an anticipation of the vegetable leaf.
No wonder that the earth expresses itself outwardly in leaves, it so labors with the idea inwardly.
The atoms have already learned this law, and are pregnant by it.
The overhanging leaf sees here its prototype.
Internally, whether in the globe or animal body, it is a moist thick lobe, a word especially applicable to the liver and lungs and the leaves of fat (leibo, labor, lapsus, to flow or slip downward, a lapsing; lobos, globus, lobe, globe; also lap, flap, and many other words); externally a dry thin leaf, even as the f and v are a pressed and dried b.
The radicals of lobe are lb, the soft mass of the b (single-lobed, or B, double-lobed), with the liquid l behind it pressing it forward.
In globe, glb, the guttural g adds to the meaning the capacity of the throat.
The feathers and wings of birds are still drier and thinner leaves.
Thus, also, you pass from the lumpish grub in the earth to the airy and fluttering butterfly.
The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit.
Even ice begins with delicate crystal leaves, as if it had flowed into moulds which the fronds of waterplants have impressed on the watery mirror.
The whole tree itself is but one leaf, and rivers are still vaster leaves whose pulp is intervening earth, and towns and cities are the ova of insects in their axils.
When the sun withdraws the sand ceases to flow, but in the morning the streams will start once more and branch and branch again into a myriad of others.
You here see perchance how blood-vessels are formed.
If you look closely you observe that first there pushes forward from the thawing mass a stream of softened sand with a drop-like point, like the ball of the finger, feeling its way slowly and blindly downward, until at last with more heat and moisture, as the sun gets higher, the most fluid portion, in its effort to obey the law to which the most inert also yields, separates from the latter and forms for itself a meandering channel or artery within that, in which is seen a little silvery stream glancing like lightning from one stage of pulpy leaves or branches to another, and ever and anon swallowed up in the sand.
It is wonderful how rapidly yet perfectly the sand organizes itself as it flows, using the best material its mass affords to form the sharp edges of its channel.
Such are the sources of rivers.
In the silicious matter which the water deposits is perhaps the bony system, and in the still finer soil and organic matter the fleshy fibre or cellular tissue.
What is man but a mass of thawing clay?
The ball of the human finger is but a drop congealed.
The fingers and toes flow to their extent from the thawing mass of the body.
Who knows what the human body would expand and flow out to under a more genial heaven?
Is not the hand a spreading palm leaf with its lobes and veins?
The ear may be regarded, fancifully, as a lichen, Umbilicaria, on the side of the head, with its lobe or drop.
The lip-labium, from labor (?
)laps or lapses from the sides of the cavernous mouth.
The nose is a manifest congealed drop or stalactite.
The chin is a still larger drop, the confluent dripping of the face.
The cheeks are a slide from the brows into the valley of the face, opposed and diffused by the cheek bones.
Each rounded lobe of the vegetable leaf, too, is a thick and now loitering drop, larger or smaller; the lobes are the fingers of the leaf; and as many lobes as it has, in so many directions it tends to flow, and more heat or other genial influences would have caused it to flow yet farther.
Thus it seemed that this one hillside illustrated the principle of all the operations of Nature.
The Maker of this earth but patented a leaf.
What Champollion will decipher this hieroglyphic for us, that we may turn over a new leaf at last?
This phenomenon is more exhilarating to me than the luxuriance and fertility of vineyards.
True, it is somewhat excrementitious in its character, and there is no end to the heaps of liver, lights, and bowels, as if the globe were turned wrong side outward; but this suggests at least that Nature has some bowels, and there again is mother of humanity.
This is the frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring.
It precedes the green and flowery spring, as mythology precedes regular poetry.
I know of nothing more purgative of winter fumes and indigestions.
It convinces me that Earth is still in her swaddling-clothes, and stretches forth baby fingers on every side.
Fresh curls spring from the baldest brow.
There is nothing inorganic.
These foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace, showing that Nature is "in full blast" within.
The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruitnot a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic.
Its throes will heave our exuviae from their graves.
You may melt your metals and cast them into the most beautiful moulds you can; they will never excite me like the forms which this molten earth flows out into.
And not only it, but the institutions upon it are plastic like clay in the hands of the potter.
Ere long, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in every hollow, the frost comes out of the ground like a dormant quadruped from its burrow, and seeks the sea with music, or migrates to other climes in clouds.
Thaw with his gentle persuasion is more powerful than Thor with his hammer.
The one melts, the other but breaks in pieces.
When the ground was partially bare of snow, and a few warm days had dried its surface somewhat, it was pleasant to compare the first tender signs of the infant year just peeping forth with the stately beauty of the withered vegetation which had withstood the winter-lifeeverlasting, goldenrods, pinweeds, and graceful wild grasses, more obvious and interesting frequently than in summer even, as if their beauty was not ripe till then; even cotton-grass, cat-tails, mulleins, johnswort, hardhack, meadowsweet, and other strong-stemmed plants, those unexhausted granaries which entertain the earliest birdsdecent weeds, at least, which widowed Nature wears.
I am particularly attracted by the arching and sheaflike top of the wool-grass; it brings back the summer to our winter memories, and is among the forms which art loves to copy, and which, in the vegetable kingdom, have the same relation to types already in the mind of man that astronomy has.
It is an antique style, older than Greek or Egyptian.
Many of the phenomena of Winter are suggestive of an inexpressible tenderness and fragile delicacy.
We are accustomed to hear this king described as a rude and boisterous tyrant; but with the gentleness of a lover he adorns the tresses of Summer.
At the approach of spring the red squirrels got under my house, two at a time, directly under my feet as I sat reading or writing, and kept up the queerest chuckling and chirruping and vocal pirouetting and gurgling sounds that ever were heard; and when I stamped they only chirruped the louder, as if past all fear and respect in their mad pranks, defying humanity to stop them.
No, you don'tchickareechickaree.
They were wholly deaf to my arguments, or failed to perceive their force, and fell into a strain of invective that was irresistible.
The first sparrow of spring!
The year beginning with younger hope than ever!
The faint silvery warblings heard over the partially bare and moist fields from the bluebird, the song sparrow, and the red-wing, as if the last flakes of winter tinkled as they fell!
What at such a time are histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations?
The brooks sing carols and glees to the spring.
The marsh hawk, sailing low over the meadow, is already seeking the first slimy life that awakes.
The sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and the ice dissolves apace in the ponds.
The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire"et primitus oritur herba imbribus primoribus evocata"as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame;the symbol of perpetual youth, the grass-blade, like a long green ribbon, streams from the sod into the summer, checked indeed by the frost, but anon pushing on again, lifting its spear of last year's hay with the fresh life below.
It grows as steadily as the rill oozes out of the ground.
It is almost identical with that, for in the growing days of June, when the rills are dry, the grass-blades are their channels, and from year to year the herds drink at this perennial green stream, and the mower draws from it betimes their winter supply.
So our human life but dies down to its root, and still puts forth its green blade to eternity.
Walden is melting apace.
There is a canal two rods wide along the northerly and westerly sides, and wider still at the east end.
A great field of ice has cracked off from the main body.
I hear a song sparrow singing from the bushes on the shoreolit, olit, olitchip, chip, chip, che charche wiss, wiss, wiss.
He too is helping to crack it.
How handsome the great sweeping curves in the edge of the ice, answering somewhat to those of the shore, but more regular!
It is unusually hard, owing to the recent severe but transient cold, and all watered or waved like a palace floor.
But the wind slides eastward over its opaque surface in vain, till it reaches the living surface beyond.
It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling in the sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it spoke the joy of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shorea silvery sheen as from the scales of a leuciscus, as it were all one active fish.
Such is the contrast between winter and spring.
Walden was dead and is alive again.
But this spring it broke up more steadily, as I have said.
The change from storm and winter to serene and mild weather, from dark and sluggish hours to bright and elastic ones, is a memorable crisis which all things proclaim.
It is seemingly instantaneous at last.
Suddenly an influx of light filled my house, though the evening was at hand, and the clouds of winter still overhung it, and the eaves were dripping with sleety rain.
I looked out the window, and lo!
where yesterday was cold gray ice there lay the transparent pond already calm and full of hope as in a summer evening, reflecting a summer evening sky in its bosom, though none was visible overhead, as if it had intelligence with some remote horizon.
I heard a robin in the distance, the first I had heard for many a thousand years, methought, whose note I shall not forget for many a thousand morethe same sweet and powerful song as of yore.
O the evening robin, at the end of a New England summer day!
If I could ever find the twig he sits upon!
I mean he; I mean the twig.
This at least is not the Turdus migratorius.
The pitch pines and shrub oaks about my house, which had so long drooped, suddenly resumed their several characters, looked brighter, greener, and more erect and alive, as if effectually cleansed and restored by the rain.
I knew that it would not rain any more.
You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not.
As it grew darker, I was startled by the honking of geese flying low over the woods, like weary travellers getting in late from Southern lakes, and indulging at last in unrestrained complaint and mutual consolation.
Standing at my door, I could bear the rush of their wings; when, driving toward my house, they suddenly spied my light, and with hushed clamor wheeled and settled in the pond.
So I came in, and shut the door, and passed my first spring night in the woods.
In the morning I watched the geese from the door through the mist, sailing in the middle of the pond, fifty rods off, so large and tumultuous that Walden appeared like an artificial pond for their amusement.
But when I stood on the shore they at once rose up with a great flapping of wings at the signal of their commander, and when they had got into rank circled about over my head, twenty-nine of them, and then steered straight to Canada, with a regular honk from the leader at intervals, trusting to break their fast in muddier pools.
A "plump" of ducks rose at the same time and took the route to the north in the wake of their noisier cousins.
For a week I heard the circling, groping clangor of some solitary goose in the foggy mornings, seeking its companion, and still peopling the woods with the sound of a larger life than they could sustain.
In April the pigeons were seen again flying express in small flocks, and in due time I heard the martins twittering over my clearing, though it had not seemed that the township contained so many that it could afford me any, and I fancied that they were peculiarly of the ancient race that dwelt in hollow trees ere white men came.
In almost all climes the tortoise and the frog are among the precursors and heralds of this season, and birds fly with song and glancing plumage, and plants spring and bloom, and winds blow, to correct this slight oscillation of the poles and preserve the equilibrium of nature.
As every season seems best to us in its turn, so the coming in of spring is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos and the realization of the Golden Age.
"Eurus ad Auroram Nabathaeaque regna recessit, Persidaque, et radiis juga subdita matutinis."
"The East-Wind withdrew to Aurora and the Nabathean kingdom, And the Persian, and the ridges placed under the morning rays.
Man was born.
Whether that Artificer of things, The origin of a better world, made him from the divine seed; Or the earth, being recent and lately sundered from the high Ether, retained some seeds of cognate heaven."
A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener.
So our prospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts.
We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty.
We loiter in winter while it is already spring.
In a pleasant spring morning all men's sins are forgiven.
Such a day is a truce to vice.
While such a sun holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return.
Through our own recovered innocence we discern the innocence of our neighbors.
You may have known your neighbor yesterday for a thief, a drunkard, or a sensualist, and merely pitied or despised him, and despaired of the world; but the sun shines bright and warm this first spring morning, re-creating the world, and you meet him at some serene work, and see how it is exhausted and debauched veins expand with still joy and bless the new day, feel the spring influence with the innocence of infancy, and all his faults are forgotten.
There is not only an atmosphere of good will about him, but even a savor of holiness groping for expression, blindly and ineffectually perhaps, like a new-born instinct, and for a short hour the south hillside echoes to no vulgar jest.
You see some innocent fair shoots preparing to burst from his gnarled rind and try another year's life, tender and fresh as the youngest plant.
Even he has entered into the joy of his Lord.
Why the jailer does not leave open his prison doorswhy the judge does not dismis his casewhy the preacher does not dismiss his congregation!
It is because they do not obey the hint which God gives them, nor accept the pardon which he freely offers to all.
"A return to goodness produced each day in the tranquil and beneficent breath of the morning, causes that in respect to the love of virtue and the hatred of vice, one approaches a little the primitive nature of man, as the sprouts of the forest which has been felled.
In like manner the evil which one does in the interval of a day prevents the germs of virtues which began to spring up again from developing themselves and destroys them.
"After the germs of virtue have thus been prevented many times from developing themselves, then the beneficent breath of evening does not suffice to preserve them.
As soon as the breath of evening does not suffice longer to preserve them, then the nature of man does not differ much from that of the brute.
Men seeing the nature of this man like that of the brute, think that he has never possessed the innate faculty of reason.
Are those the true and natural sentiments of man?"
"The Golden Age was first created, which without any avenger Spontaneously without law cherished fidelity and rectitude.
Punishment and fear were not; nor were threatening words read On suspended brass; nor did the suppliant crowd fear The words of their judge; but were safe without an avenger.
Not yet the pine felled on its mountains had descended To the liquid waves that it might see a foreign world, And mortals knew no shores but their own.
There was eternal spring, and placid zephyrs with warm Blasts soothed the flowers born without seed."
On the 29th of April, as I was fishing from the bank of the river near the Nine-Acre-Corner bridge, standing on the quaking grass and willow roots, where the muskrats lurk, I heard a singular rattling sound, somewhat like that of the sticks which boys play with their fingers, when, looking up, I observed a very slight and graceful hawk, like a nighthawk, alternately soaring like a ripple and tumbling a rod or two over and over, showing the under side of its wings, which gleamed like a satin ribbon in the sun, or like the pearly inside of a shell.
This sight reminded me of falconry and what nobleness and poetry are associated with that sport.
The merlin it seemed to me it might be called: but I care not for its name.
It was the most ethereal flight I had ever witnessed.
It did not simply flutter like a butterfly, nor soar like the larger hawks, but it sported with proud reliance in the fields of air; mounting again and again with its strange chuckle, it repeated its free and beautiful fall, turning over and over like a kite, and then recovering from its lofty tumbling, as if it had never set its foot on terra firma.
It appeared to have no companion in the universe-sporting there aloneand to need none but the morning and the ether with which it played.
It was not lonely, but made all the earth lonely beneath it.
Where was the parent which hatched it, its kindred, and its father in the heavens?
The tenant of the air, it seemed related to the earth but by an egg hatched some time in the crevice of a crag;or was its native nest made in the angle of a cloud, woven of the rainbow's trimmings and the sunset sky, and lined with some soft midsummer haze caught up from earth?
Its eyry now some cliffy cloud.
Beside this I got a rare mess of golden and silver and bright cupreous fishes, which looked like a string of jewels.
Ah!
I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many a first spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves, as some suppose.
There needs no stronger proof of immortality.
All things must live in such a light.
O Death, where was thy sting?
O Grave, where was thy victory, then?
Our village life would stagnate if it were not for the unexplored forests and meadows which surround it.
We need the tonic of wildnessto wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.
At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.
We can never have enough of nature.
We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and titanic features, the sea-coast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder-cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets.
We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.
We are cheered when we observe the vulture feeding on the carrion which disgusts and disheartens us, and deriving health and strength from the repast.
There was a dead horse in the hollow by the path to my house, which compelled me sometimes to go out of my way, especially in the night when the air was heavy, but the assurance it gave me of the strong appetite and inviolable health of Nature was my compensation for this.
I love to see that Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be sacrificed and suffered to prey on one another; that tender organizations can be so serenely squashed out of existence like pulp-tadpoles which herons gobble up, and tortoises and toads run over in the road; and that sometimes it has rained flesh and blood!
With the liability to accident, we must see how little account is to be made of it.
The impression made on a wise man is that of universal innocence.
Poison is not poisonous after all, nor are any wounds fatal.
Compassion is a very untenable ground.
It must be expeditious.
Its pleadings will not bear to be stereotyped.
Early in May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and other trees, just putting out amidst the pine woods around the pond, imparted a brightness like sunshine to the landscape, especially in cloudy days, as if the sun were breaking through mists and shining faintly on the hillsides here and there.
On the third or fourth of May I saw a loon in the pond, and during the first week of the month I heard the whip-poor-will, the brown thrasher, the veery, the wood pewee, the chewink, and other birds.
I had heard the wood thrush long before.
The phoebe had already come once more and looked in at my door and window, to see if my house was cavern-like enough for her, sustaining herself on humming winds with clinched talons, as if she held by the air, while she surveyed the premises.
The sulphur-like pollen of the pitch pine soon covered the pond and the stones and rotten wood along the shore, so that you could have collected a barrelful.
This is the "sulphur showers" we bear of.
Even in Calidas' drama of Sacontala, we read of "rills dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus."
And so the seasons went rolling on into summer, as one rambles into higher and higher grass.
Thus was my first year's life in the woods completed; and the second year was similar to it.
I finally left Walden September 6th, 1847.
CONCLUSION
CHAPTER CONCLUSION.
TO THE sick the doctors wisely recommend a change of air and scenery.
Thank Heaven, here is not all the world.
The buckeye does not grow in New England, and the mockingbird is rarely heard here.
The wild goose is more of a cosmopolite than we; he breaks his fast in Canada, takes a luncheon in the Ohio, and plumes himself for the night in a southern bayou.
Even the bison, to some extent, keeps pace with the seasons cropping the pastures of the Colorado only till a greener and sweeter grass awaits him by the Yellowstone.
Yet we think that if rail fences are pulled down, and stone walls piled up on our farms, bounds are henceforth set to our lives and our fates decided.
If you are chosen town clerk, forsooth, you cannot go to Tierra del Fuego this summer: but you may go to the land of infernal fire nevertheless.
The universe is wider than our views of it.
Yet we should oftener look over the tafferel of our craft, like curious passengers, and not make the voyage like stupid sailors picking oakum.
The other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent.
Our voyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for diseases of the skin merely.
One hastens to southern Africa to chase the giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after.
How long, pray, would a man hunt giraffes if he could?
Snipes and woodcocks also may afford rare sport; but I trust it would be nobler game to shoot one's self.
"Direct your eye right inward, and you'll find A thousand regions in your mind Yet undiscovered.
Travel them, and be Expert in home-cosmography."
What does Africawhat does the West stand for?
Is not our own interior white on the chart?
black though it may prove, like the coast, when discovered.
Is it the source of the Nile, or the Niger, or the Mississippi, or a Northwest Passage around this continent, that we would find?
Are these the problems which most concern mankind?
Is Franklin the only man who is lost, that his wife should be so earnest to find him?
Does Mr. Grinnell know where he himself is?
Be rather the Mungo Park, the Lewis and Clark and Frobisher, of your own streams and oceans; explore your own higher latitudeswith shiploads of preserved meats to support you, if they be necessary; and pile the empty cans sky-high for a sign.
Were preserved meats invented to preserve meat merely?
Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought.
Every man is the lord of a realm beside which the earthly empire of the Czar is but a petty state, a hummock left by the ice.
Yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less.
They love the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the spirit which may still animate their clay.
Patriotism is a maggot in their heads.
What was the meaning of that South-Sea Exploring Expedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect recognition of the fact that there are continents and seas in the moral world to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet unexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private seal the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one's being alone.
"Erret, et extremos alter scrutetur Iberos.
Plus habet hic vitae, plus habet ille viae."
Let them wander and scrutinize the outlandish Australians.
I have more of God, they more of the road.
It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.
Yet do this even till you can do better, and you may perhaps find some "Symmes' Hole" by which to get at the inside at last.
England and France, Spain and Portugal, Gold Coast and Slave Coast, all front on this private sea; but no bark from them has ventured out of sight of land, though it is without doubt the direct way to India.
If you would learn to speak all tongues and conform to the customs of all nations, if you would travel farther than all travellers, be naturalized in all climes, and cause the Sphinx to dash her bead against a stone, even obey the precept of the old philosopher, and Explore thyself.
Herein are demanded the eye and the nerve.
Only the defeated and deserters go to the wars, cowards that run away and enlist.
Start now on that farthest western way, which does not pause at the Mississippi or the Pacific, nor conduct toward a wornout China or Japan, but leads on direct, a tangent to this sphere, summer and winter, day and night, sun down, moon down, and at last earth down too.
It is said that Mirabeau took to highway robbery "to ascertain what degree of resolution was necessary in order to place one's self in formal opposition to the most sacred laws of society."
He declared that "a soldier who fights in the ranks does not require half so much courage as a foot-pad""that honor and religion have never stood in the way of a well-considered and a firm resolve."
This was manly, as the world goes; and yet it was idle, if not desperate.
A saner man would have found himself often enough "in formal opposition" to what are deemed "the most sacred laws of society," through obedience to yet more sacred laws, and so have tested his resolution without going out of his way.
It is not for a man to put himself in such an attitude to society, but to maintain himself in whatever attitude he find himself through obedience to the laws of his being, which will never be one of opposition to a just government, if he should chance to meet with such.
I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there.
Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one.
It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.
I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is Eve or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct.
It is true, I fear, that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open.
The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels.
How worn and dusty, then, must be the Highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity!
I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains.
I do not wish to go below now.
I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings.
In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness.
If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be.
Now put the foundations under them.
It is a ridiculous demand which England and America make, that you shall speak so that they can understand you.
Neither men nor toadstools grow so.
As if that were important, and there were not enough to understand you without them.
As if Nature could support but one order of understandings, could not sustain birds as well as quadrupeds, flying as well as creeping things, and hush and whoa, which Bright can understand, were the best English.
As if there were safety in stupidity alone.
I fear chiefly lest my expression may not be extra-vagant enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow limits of my daily experience, so as to be adequate to the truth of which I have been convinced.
Extra vagance!
it depends on how you are yarded.
The migrating buffalo, which seeks new pastures in another latitude, is not extravagant like the cow which kicks over the pail, leaps the cowyard fence, and runs after her calf, in milking time.
I desire to speak somewhere without bounds; like a man in a waking moment, to men in their waking moments; for I am convinced that I cannot exaggerate enough even to lay the foundation of a true expression.
Who that has heard a strain of music feared then lest he should speak extravagantly any more forever?
In view of the future or possible, we should live quite laxly and undefined in front our outlines dim and misty on that side; as our shadows reveal an insensible perspiration toward the sun.
The volatile truth of our words should continually betray the inadequacy of the residual statement.
Their truth is instantly translated; its literal monument alone remains.
The words which express our faith and piety are not definite; yet they are significant and fragrant like frankincense to superior natures.
Why level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as common sense?
The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring.
Sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half-witted with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their wit.
Some would find fault with the morning red, if they ever got up early enough.
"They pretend," as I hear, "that the verses of Kabir have four different senses; illusion, spirit, intellect, and the exoteric doctrine of the Vedas"; but in this part of the world it is considered a ground for complaint if a man's writings admit of more than one interpretation.
While England endeavors to cure the potato-rot, will not any endeavor to cure the brain-rot, which prevails so much more widely and fatally?
I do not suppose that I have attained to obscurity, but I should be proud if no more fatal fault were found with my pages on this score than was found with the Walden ice.
Southern customers objected to its blue color, which is the evidence of its purity, as if it were muddy, and preferred the Cambridge ice, which is white, but tastes of weeds.
The purity men love is like the mists which envelop the earth, and not like the azure ether beyond.
Some are dinning in our ears that we Americans, and moderns generally, are intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients, or even the Elizabethan men.
But what is that to the purpose?
A living dog is better than a dead lion.
Shall a man go and hang himself because he belongs to the race of pygmies, and not be the biggest pygmy that he can?
Let every one mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made.
Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises?
If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
It is not important that he should mature as soon as an apple tree or an oak.
Shall he turn his spring into summer?
If the condition of things which we were made for is not yet, what were any reality which we can substitute?
We will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality.
Shall we with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over ourselves, though when it is done we shall be sure to gaze still at the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not?
There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection.
One day it came into his mind to make a staff.
Having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, It shall be perfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life.
He proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a moment.
His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth.
As he made no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him.
Before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick.
Before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work.
By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma had awoke and slumbered many times.
But why do I stay to mention these things?
When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of Brahma.
He had made a new system in making a staff, a world with fun and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places.
And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain.
The material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?
No face which we can give to a matter will stead us so well at last as the truth.
This alone wears well.
For the most part, we are not where we are, but in a false position.
Through an infinity of our natures, we suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two cases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out.
In sane moments we regard only the facts, the case that is.
Say what you have to say, not what you ought.
Any truth is better than make-believe.
Tom Hyde, the tinker, standing on the gallows, was asked if he had anything to say.
"Tell the tailors," said he, "to remember to make a knot in their thread before they take the first stitch."
His companion's prayer is forgotten.
However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.
It is not so bad as you are.
It looks poorest when you are richest.
The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise.
Love your life, poor as it is.
You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house.
The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring.
I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.
The town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any.
Maybe they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving.
Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it oftener happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable.
Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage.
Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends.
Turn the old; return to them.
Things do not change; we change.
Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.
God will see that you do not want society.
If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my thoughts about me.
The philosopher said: "From an army of three divisions one can take away its general, and put it in disorder; from the man the most abject and vulgar one cannot take away his thought."
Do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many influences to be played on; it is all dissipation.
Humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights.
The shadows of poverty and meanness gather around us, "and lo!
creation widens to our view."
We are often reminded that if there were bestowed on us the wealth of Croesus, our aims must still be the same, and our means essentially the same.
Moreover, if you are restricted in your range by poverty, if you cannot buy books and newspapers, for instance, you are but confined to the most significant and vital experiences; you are compelled to deal with the material which yields the most sugar and the most starch.
It is life near the bone where it is sweetest.
You are defended from being a trifler.
No man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a higher.
Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only.
Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.
I live in the angle of a leaden wall, into whose composition was poured a little alloy of bell-metal.
Often, in the repose of my mid-day, there reaches my ears a confused tintinnabulum from without.
It is the noise of my contemporaries.
My neighbors tell me of their adventures with famous gentlemen and ladies, what notabilities they met at the dinner-table; but I am no more interested in such things than in the contents of the Daily Times.
The interest and the conversation are about costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose still, dress it as you will.
They tell me of California and Texas, of England and the Indies, of the Hon.
Mr.-of Georgia or of Massachusetts, all transient and fleeting phenomena, till I am ready to leap from their court-yard like the Mameluke bey.
I delight to come to my bearingsnot walk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to walk even with the Builder of the universe, if I maynot to live in this restless, nervous, bustling, trivial Nineteenth Century, but stand or sit thoughtfully while it goes by.
What are men celebrating?
They are all on a committee of arrangements, and hourly expect a speech from somebody.
God is only the president of the day, and Webster is his orator.
I love to weigh, to settle, to gravitate toward that which most strongly and rightfully attracts me;not hang by the beam of the scale and try to weigh lessnot suppose a case, but take the case that is; to travel the only path I can, and that on which no power can resist me.
It affords me no satisfaction to commerce to spring an arch before I have got a solid foundation.
Let us not play at kittly-benders.
There is a solid bottom everywhere.
We read that the traveller asked the boy if the swamp before him had a hard bottom.
The boy replied that it had.
But presently the traveller's horse sank in up to the girths, and he observed to the boy, "I thought you said that this bog had a hard bottom."
"So it has," answered the latter, "but you have not got half way to it yet."
So it is with the bogs and quicksands of society; but he is an old boy that knows it.
Only what is thought, said, or done at a certain rare coincidence is good.
I would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me awake nights.
Give me a hammer, and let me feel for the furring.
Do not depend on the putty.
Drive a nail home and clinch it so faithfully that you can wake up in the night and think of your work with satisfactiona work at which you would not be ashamed to invoke the Muse.
So will help you God, and so only.
Every nail driven should be as another rivet in the machine of the universe, you carrying on the work.
Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.
I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.
The hospitality was as cold as the ices.
I thought that there was no need of ice to freeze them.
They talked to me of the age of the wine and the fame of the vintage; but I thought of an older, a newer, and purer wine, of a more glorious vintage, which they had not got, and could not buy.
The style, the house and grounds and "entertainment" pass for nothing with me.
I called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality.
There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree.
His manners were truly regal.
I should have done better had I called on him.
How long shall we sit in our porticoes practising idle and musty virtues, which any work would make impertinent?
As if one were to begin the day with long-suffering, and hire a man to hoe his potatoes; and in the afternoon go forth to practise Christian meekness and charity with goodness aforethought!
Consider the China pride and stagnant self-complacency of mankind.
This generation inclines a little to congratulate itself on being the last of an illustrious line; and in Boston and London and Paris and Rome, thinking of its long descent, it speaks of its progress in art and science and literature with satisfaction.
There are the Records of the Philosophical Societies, and the public Eulogies of Great Men!
It is the good Adam contemplating his own virtue.
"Yes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs, which shall never die"that is, as long as we can remember them.
The learned societies and great men of Assyriawhere are they?
What youthful philosophers and experimentalists we are!
There is not one of my readers who has yet lived a whole human life.
These may be but the spring months in the life of the race.
If we have had the seven-years' itch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in Concord.
We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live.
Most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it.
We know not where we are.
Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time.
Yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order on the surface.
Truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits!
As I stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest floor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself why it will cherish those humble thoughts, and bide its head from me who might, perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some cheering information, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and Intelligence that stands over me the human insect.
There is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dulness.
I need only suggest what kind of sermons are still listened to in the most enlightened countries.
There are such words as joy and sorrow, but they are only the burden of a psalm, sung with a nasal twang, while we believe in the ordinary and mean.
We think that we can change our clothes only.
It is said that the British Empire is very large and respectable, and that the United States are a first-rate power.
We do not believe that a tide rises and falls behind every man which can float the British Empire like a chip, if he should ever harbor it in his mind.
Who knows what sort of seventeen-year locust will next come out of the ground?
The government of the world I live in was not framed, like that of Britain, in after-dinner conversations over the wine.
The life in us is like the water in the river.
It may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplands; even this may be the eventful year, which will drown out all our muskrats.
It was not always dry land where we dwell.
I see far inland the banks which the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its freshets.
Every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of New England, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry leaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer's kitchen for sixty years, first in Connecticut, and afterward in Massachusettsfrom an egg deposited in the living tree many years earlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it; which was heard gnawing out for several weeks, hatched perchance by the heat of an urn.
Who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and immortality strengthened by hearing of this?
Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of woodenness in the dead dry life of society, deposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which has been gradually converted into the semblance of its well-seasoned tombheard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished family of man, as they sat round the festive boardmay unexpectedly come forth from amidst society's most trivial and handselled furniture, to enjoy its perfect summer life at last!
I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this; but such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn.
The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.
Only that day dawns to which we are awake.
There is more day to dawn.
The sun is but a morning star.
ULYSSES DECLARES HIMSELF AND BEGINS HIS STORY—-THE CICONS, LOTOPHAGI, AND CYCLOPES.
And Ulysses answered," King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a bard with such a divine voice as this man has.
There is nothing better or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together, with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded with bread and meats, and the cupbearer draws wine and fills his cup for every man.
This is indeed as fair a sight as a man can see.
Now, however, since you are inclined to ask the story of my sorrows, and rekindle my own sad memories in respect of them, I do not know how to begin, nor yet how to continue and conclude my tale, for the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
"Firstly, then, I will tell you my name that you too may know it, and one day, if I outlive this time of sorrow, may become my guests though I live so far away from all of you.
I am Ulysses son of Laertes, renowned among mankind for all manner of subtlety, so that my fame ascends to heaven.
I live in Ithaca, where there is a high mountain called Neritum, covered with forests; and not far from it there is a group of islands very near to one another— Dulichium, Same, and the wooded island of Zacynthus.
It lies squat on the horizon, all highest up in the sea towards the sunset, while the others lie away from it towards dawn.
It is a rugged island, but it breeds brave men, and my eyes know none that they better love to look upon.
The goddess Calypso kept me with her in her cave, and wanted me to marry her, as did also the cunning Aeaean goddess Circe; but they could neither of them persuade me, for there is nothing dearer to a man than his own country and his parents, and however splendid a home he may have in a foreign country, if it be far from father or mother, he does not care about it.
Now, however, I will tell you of the many hazardous adventures which by Jove 's will I met with on my return from Troy.
"When I had set sail thence the wind took me first to Ismarus, which is the city of the Cicons.
There I sacked the town and put the people to the sword.
We took their wives and also much booty, which we divided equitably amongst us, so that none might have reason to complain.
I then said that we had better make off at once, but my men very foolishly would not obey me, so they staid there drinking much wine and killing great numbers of sheep and oxen on the sea shore.
Meanwhile the Cicons cried out for help to other Cicons who lived inland.
These were more in number, and stronger, and they were more skilled in the art of war, for they could fight, either from chariots or on foot as the occasion served; in the morning, therefore, they came as thick as leaves and bloom in summer, and the hand of heaven was against us, so that we were hard pressed.
They set the battle in array near the ships, and the hosts aimed their bronzeshod spears at one another.
So long as the day waxed and it was still morning, we held our own against them, though they were more in number than we; but as the sun went down, towards the time when men loose their oxen, the Cicons got the better of us, and we lost half a dozen men from every ship we had; so we got away with those that were left.
"Thence we sailed onward with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades, nor did we leave till we had thrice invoked each one of the poor fellows who had perished by the hands of the Cicons.
Then Jove raised the North wind against us till it blew a hurricane, so that land and sky were hidden in thick clouds, and night sprang forth out of the heavens.
We let the ships run before the gale, but the force of the wind tore our sails to tatters, so we took them down for fear of shipwreck, and rowed our hardest towards the land.
There we lay two days and two nights suffering much alike from toil and distress of mind, but on the morning of the third day we again raised our masts, set sail, and took our places, letting the wind and steersmen direct our ship.
I should have got home at that time unharmed had not the North wind and the currents been against me as I was doubling Cape Malea, and set me off my course hard by the island of Cythera.
"I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotuseaters, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower.
Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid day meal on the shore near the ships.
When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them.
They started at once, and went about among the Lotuseaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotuseaters without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches.
Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars.
"We sailed hence, always in much distress, till we came to the land of the lawless and inhuman Cyclopes.
Now the Cyclopes neither plant nor plough, but trust in providence, and live on such wheat, barley, and grapes as grow wild without any kind of tillage, and their wild grapes yield them wine as the sun and the rain may grow them.
They have no laws nor assemblies of the people, but live in caves on the tops of high mountains; each is lord and master in his family, and they take no account of their neighbours.
"Now off their harbour there lies a wooded and fertile island not quite close to the land of the Cyclopes, but still not far.
It is overrun with wild goats, that breed there in great numbers and are never disturbed by foot of man; for sportsmen— who as a rule will suffer so much hardship in forest or among mountain precipices— do not go there, nor yet again is it ever ploughed or fed down, but it lies a wilderness untilled and unsown from year to year, and has no living thing upon it but only goats.
For the Cyclopes have no ships, nor yet shipwrights who could make ships for them; they can not therefore go from city to city, or sail over the sea to one another 's country as people who have ships can do; if they had had these they would have colonised the island for it is a very good one, and would yield everything in due season.
There are meadows that in some places come right down to the sea shore, well watered and full of luscious grass; grapes would do there excellently; there is level land for ploughing, and it would always yield heavily at harvest time, for the soil is deep.
There is a good harbour where no cables are wanted, nor yet anchors, nor need a ship be moored, but all one has to do is to beach one 's vessel and stay there till the wind becomes fair for putting out to sea again.
At the head of the harbour there is a spring of clear water coming out of a cave, and there are poplars growing all round it.
"Here we entered, but so dark was the night that some god must have brought us in, for there was nothing whatever to be seen.
A thick mist hung all round our ships; the moon was hidden behind a mass of clouds so that no one could have seen the island if he had looked for it, nor were there any breakers to tell us we were close in shore before we found ourselves upon the land itself; when, however, we had beached the ships, we took down the sails, went ashore and camped upon the beach till daybreak.
"When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn appeared, we admired the island and wandered all over it, while the nymphs Jove 's daughters roused the wild goats that we might get some meat for our dinner.
On this we fetched our spears and bows and arrows from the ships, and dividing ourselves into three bands began to shoot the goats.
Heaven sent us excellent sport; I had twelve ships with me, and each ship got nine goats, while my own ship had ten; thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we ate and drank our fill, and we had plenty of wine left, for each one of us had taken many jars full when we sacked the city of the Cicons, and this had not yet run out.
While we were feasting we kept turning our eyes towards the land of the Cyclopes, which was hard by, and saw the smoke of their stubble fires.
We could almost fancy we heard their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped down upon the beach, and next morning I called a council.
"'Stay here, my brave fellows,' said I,' all the rest of you, while I go with my ship and exploit these people myself: I want to see if they are uncivilised savages, or a hospitable and humane race.'
"I went on board, bidding my men to do so also and loose the hawsers; so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars.
When we got to the land, which was not far, there, on the face of a cliff near the sea, we saw a great cave overhung with laurels.
It was a station for a great many sheep and goats, and outside there was a large yard, with a high wall round it made of stones built into the ground and of trees both pine and oak.
This was the abode of a huge monster who was then away from home shepherding his flocks.
He would have nothing to do with other people, but led the life of an outlaw.
He was a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling rather some crag that stands out boldly against the sky on the top of a high mountain.
"I told my men to draw the ship ashore, and stay where they were, all but the twelve best among them, who were to go along with myself.
I also took a goatskin of sweet black wine which had been given me by Maron, son of Euanthes, who was priest of Apollo the patron god of Ismarus, and lived within the wooded precincts of the temple.
When we were sacking the city we respected him, and spared his life, as also his wife and child; so he made me some presents of great value— seven talents of fine gold, and a bowl of silver, with twelve jars of sweet wine, unblended, and of the most exquisite flavour.
Not a man nor maid in the house knew about it, but only himself, his wife, and one housekeeper: when he drank it he mixed twenty parts of water to one of wine, and yet the fragrance from the mixingbowl was so exquisite that it was impossible to refrain from drinking.
I filled a large skin with this wine, and took a wallet full of provisions with me, for my mind misgave me that I might have to deal with some savage who would be of great strength, and would respect neither right nor law.
"We soon reached his cave, but he was out shepherding, so we went inside and took stock of all that we could see.
His cheeseracks were loaded with cheeses, and he had more lambs and kids than his pens could hold.
They were kept in separate flocks; first there were the hoggets, then the oldest of the younger lambs and lastly the very young ones all kept apart from one another; as for his dairy, all the vessels, bowls, and milk pails into which he milked, were swimming with whey.
When they saw all this, my men begged me to let them first steal some cheeses, and make off with them to the ship; they would then return, drive down the lambs and kids, put them on board and sail away with them.
It would have been indeed better if we had done so but I would not listen to them, for I wanted to see the owner himself, in the hope that he might give me a present.
When, however, we saw him my poor men found him ill to deal with.
"We lit a fire, offered some of the cheeses in sacrifice, ate others of them, and then sat waiting till the Cyclops should come in with his sheep.
When he came, he brought in with him a huge load of dry firewood to light the fire for his supper, and this he flung with such a noise on to the floor of his cave that we hid ourselves for fear at the far end of the cavern.
Meanwhile he drove all the ewes inside, as well as the shegoats that he was going to milk, leaving the males, both rams and hegoats, outside in the yards.
Then he rolled a huge stone to the mouth of the cave— so huge that two and twenty strong fourwheeled waggons would not be enough to draw it from its place against the doorway.
When he had so done he sat down and milked his ewes and goats, all in due course, and then let each of them have her own young.
He curdled half the milk and set it aside in wicker strainers, but the other half he poured into bowls that he might drink it for his supper.
When he had got through with all his work, he lit the fire, and then caught sight of us, whereon he said: "'Strangers, who are you?
Where do sail from?
Are you traders, or do you sail the sea as rovers, with your hands against every man, and every man 's hand against you?'
"We were frightened out of our senses by his loud voice and monstrous form, but I managed to say,' We are Achaeans on our way home from Troy, but by the will of Jove, and stress of weather, we have been driven far out of our course.
We are the people of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, who has won infinite renown throughout the whole world, by sacking so great a city and killing so many people.
We therefore humbly pray you to show us some hospitality, and otherwise make us such presents as visitors may reasonably expect.
May your excellency fear the wrath of heaven, for we are your suppliants, and Jove takes all respectable travellers under his protection, for he is the avenger of all suppliants and foreigners in distress.'
"To this he gave me but a pitiless answer,' Stranger,' said he,' you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country.
Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger?
We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they.
I shall not spare either yourself or your companions out of any regard for Jove, unless I am in the humour for doing so.
And now tell me where you made your ship fast when you came on shore.
Was it round the point, or is she lying straight off the land?'
"He said this to draw me out, but I was too cunning to be caught in that way, so I answered with a lie;' Neptune,' said I,' sent my ship on to the rocks at the far end of your country, and wrecked it.
We were driven on to them from the open sea, but I and those who are with me escaped the jaws of death.'
"The cruel wretch vouchsafed me not one word of answer, but with a sudden clutch he gripped up two of my men at once and dashed them down upon the ground as though they had been puppies.
Their brains were shed upon the ground, and the earth was wet with their blood.
Then he tore them limb from limb and supped upon them.
He gobbled them up like a lion in the wilderness, flesh, bones, marrow, and entrails, without leaving anything uneaten.
As for us, we wept and lifted up our hands to heaven on seeing such a horrid sight, for we did not know what else to do; but when the Cyclops had filled his huge paunch, and had washed down his meal of human flesh with a drink of neat milk, he stretched himself full length upon the ground among his sheep, and went to sleep.
I was at first inclined to seize my sword, draw it, and drive it into his vitals, but I reflected that if I did we should all certainly be lost, for we should never be able to shift the stone which the monster had put in front of the door.
So we stayed sobbing and sighing where we were till morning came.
"When the child of morning, rosyfingered dawn, appeared, he again lit his fire, milked his goats and ewes, all quite rightly, and then let each have her own young one; as soon as he had got through with all his work, he clutched up two more of my men, and began eating them for his morning 's meal.
Presently, with the utmost ease, he rolled the stone away from the door and drove out his sheep, but he at once put it back again— as easily as though he were merely clapping the lid on to a quiver full of arrows.
As soon as he had done so he shouted, and cried' Shoo, shoo,' after his sheep to drive them on to the mountain; so I was left to scheme some way of taking my revenge and covering myself with glory.
"In the end I deemed it would be the best plan to do as follows: The Cyclops had a great club which was lying near one of the sheep pens; it was of green olive wood, and he had cut it intending to use it for a staff as soon as it should be dry.
It was so huge that we could only compare it to the mast of a twentyoared merchant vessel of large burden, and able to venture out into open sea.
I went up to this club and cut off about six feet of it; I then gave this piece to the men and told them to fine it evenly off at one end, which they proceeded to do, and lastly I brought it to a point myself, charring the end in the fire to make it harder.
When I had done this I hid it under dung, which was lying about all over the cave, and told the men to cast lots which of them should venture along with myself to lift it and bore it into the monster 's eye while he was asleep.
The lot fell upon the very four whom I should have chosen, and I myself made five.
In the evening the wretch came back from shepherding, and drove his flocks into the cave— this time driving them all inside, and not leaving any in the yards; I suppose some fancy must have taken him, or a god must have prompted him to do so.
As soon as he had put the stone back to its place against the door, he sat down, milked his ewes and his goats all quite rightly, and then let each have her own young one; when he had got through with all this work, he gripped up two more of my men, and made his supper off them.
So I went up to him with an ivywood bowl of black wine in my hands: "'Look here, Cyclops,' said I, you have been eating a great deal of man 's flesh, so take this and drink some wine, that you may see what kind of liquor we had on board my ship.
I was bringing it to you as a drinkoffering, in the hope that you would take compassion upon me and further me on my way home, whereas all you do is to go on ramping and raving most intolerably.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself; how can you expect people to come see you any more if you treat them in this way?'
"He then took the cup and drank.
He was so delighted with the taste of the wine that he begged me for another bowl full.'
Be so kind,' he said,' as to give me some more, and tell me your name at once.
I want to make you a present that you will be glad to have.
We have wine even in this country, for our soil grows grapes and the sun ripens them, but this drinks like Nectar and Ambrosia all in one.'
"I then gave him some more; three times did I fill the bowl for him, and three times did he drain it without thought or heed; then, when I saw that the wine had got into his head, I said to him as plausibly as I could:' Cyclops, you ask my name and I will tell it you; give me, therefore, the present you promised me; my name is Noman; this is what my father and mother and my friends have always called me.'
"But the cruel wretch said,' Then I will eat all Noman 's comrades before Noman himself, and will keep Noman for the last.
This is the present that I will make him.'
"As he spoke he reeled, and fell sprawling face upwards on the ground.
His great neck hung heavily backwards and a deep sleep took hold upon him.
Presently he turned sick, and threw up both wine and the gobbets of human flesh on which he had been gorging, for he was very drunk.
Then I thrust the beam of wood far into the embers to heat it, and encouraged my men lest any of them should turn fainthearted.
When the wood, green though it was, was about to blaze, I drew it out of the fire glowing with heat, and my men gathered round me, for heaven had filled their hearts with courage.
We drove the sharp end of the beam into the monster 's eye, and bearing upon it with all my weight I kept turning it round and round as though I were boring a hole in a ship 's plank with an auger, which two men with a wheel and strap can keep on turning as long as they choose.
Even thus did we bore the red hot beam into his eye, till the boiling blood bubbled all over it as we worked it round and round, so that the steam from the burning eyeball scalded his eyelids and eyebrows, and the roots of the eye sputtered in the fire.
As a blacksmith plunges an axe or hatchet into cold water to temper it— for it is this that gives strength to the iron— and it makes a great hiss as he does so, even thus did the Cyclops ' eye hiss round the beam of olive wood, and his hideous yells made the cave ring again.
We ran away in a fright, but he plucked the beam all besmirched with gore from his eye, and hurled it from him in a frenzy of rage and pain, shouting as he did so to the other Cyclopes who lived on the bleak headlands near him; so they gathered from all quarters round his cave when they heard him crying, and asked what was the matter with him.
"'What ails you, Polyphemus,' said they,' that you make such a noise, breaking the stillness of the night, and preventing us from being able to sleep?
Surely no man is carrying off your sheep?
Surely no man is trying to kill you either by fraud or by force?'
"But Polyphemus shouted to them from inside the cave,' Noman is killing me by fraud; no man is killing me by force.'
"'Then,' said they,' if no man is attacking you, you must be ill; when Jove makes people ill, there is no help for it, and you had better pray to your father Neptune.'
"Then they went away, and I laughed inwardly at the success of my clever stratagem, but the Cyclops, groaning and in an agony of pain, felt about with his hands till he found the stone and took it from the door; then he sat in the doorway and stretched his hands in front of it to catch anyone going out with the sheep, for he thought I might be foolish enough to attempt this.
"As for myself I kept on puzzling to think how I could best save my own life and those of my companions; I schemed and schemed, as one who knows that his life depends upon it, for the danger was very great.
In the end I deemed that this plan would be the best; the male sheep were well grown, and carried a heavy black fleece, so I bound them noiselessly in threes together, with some of the withies on which the wicked monster used to sleep.
There was to be a man under the middle sheep, and the two on either side were to cover him, so that there were three sheep to each man.
As for myself there was a ram finer than any of the others, so I caught hold of him by the back, esconced myself in the thick wool under his belly, and hung on patiently to his fleece, face upwards, keeping a firm hold on it all the time.
"Thus, then, did we wait in great fear of mind till morning came, but when the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, the male sheep hurried out to feed, while the ewes remained bleating about the pens waiting to be milked, for their udders were full to bursting; but their master in spite of all his pain felt the backs of all the sheep as they stood upright, without being sharp enough to find out that the men were underneath their bellies.
As the ram was going out, last of all, heavy with its fleece and with the weight of my crafty self, Polyphemus laid hold of it and said: "'My good ram, what is it that makes you the last to leave my cave this morning?
You are not wo nt to let the ewes go before you, but lead the mob with a run whether to flowery mead or bubbling fountain, and are the first to come home again at night; but now you lag last of all.
Is it because you know your master has lost his eye, and are sorry because that wicked Noman and his horrid crew has got him down in his drink and blinded him?
But I will have his life yet.
If you could understand and talk, you would tell me where the wretch is hiding, and I would dash his brains upon the ground till they flew all over the cave.
I should thus have some satisfaction for the harm this nogood Noman has done me.'
"As he spoke he drove the ram outside, but when we were a little way out from the cave and yards, I first got from under the ram 's belly, and then freed my comrades; as for the sheep, which were very fat, by constantly heading them in the right direction we managed to drive them down to the ship.
The crew rejoiced greatly at seeing those of us who had escaped death, but wept for the others whom the Cyclops had killed.
However, I made signs to them by nodding and frowning that they were to hush their crying, and told them to get all the sheep on board at once and put out to sea; so they went aboard, took their places, and smote the grey sea with their oars.
Then, when I had got as far out as my voice would reach, I began to jeer at the Cyclops.
"'Cyclops,' said I,' you should have taken better measure of your man before eating up his comrades in your cave.
You wretch, eat up your visitors in your own house?
You might have known that your sin would find you out, and now Jove and the other gods have punished you.'
"He got more and more furious as he heard me, so he tore the top from off a high mountain, and flung it just in front of my ship so that it was within a little of hitting the end of the rudder.
The sea quaked as the rock fell into it, and the wash of the wave it raised carried us back towards the mainland, and forced us towards the shore.
But I snatched up a long pole and kept the ship off, making signs to my men by nodding my head, that they must row for their lives, whereon they laid out with a will.
When we had got twice as far as we were before, I was for jeering at the Cyclops again, but the men begged and prayed of me to hold my tongue.
"'Do not,' they exclaimed,' be mad enough to provoke this savage creature further; he has thrown one rock at us already which drove us back again to the mainland, and we made sure it had been the death of us; if he had then heard any further sound of voices he would have pounded our heads and our ship 's timbers into a jelly with the rugged rocks he would have heaved at us, for he can throw them a long way.'
"But I would not listen to them, and shouted out to him in my rage,' Cyclops, if any one asks you who it was that put your eye out and spoiled your beauty, say it was the valiant warrior Ulysses, son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca.'
"On this he groaned, and cried out,' Alas, alas, then the old prophecy about me is coming true.
There was a prophet here, at one time, a man both brave and of great stature, Telemus son of Eurymus, who was an excellent seer, and did all the prophesying for the Cyclopes till he grew old; he told me that all this would happen to me some day, and said I should lose my sight by the hand of Ulysses.
I have been all along expecting some one of imposing presence and superhuman strength, whereas he turns out to be a little insignificant weakling, who has managed to blind my eye by taking advantage of me in my drink; come here, then, Ulysses, that I may make you presents to show my hospitality, and urge Neptune to help you forward on your journey— for Neptune and I are father and son.
He, if he so will, shall heal me, which no one else neither god nor man can do.'
"Then I said,' I wish I could be as sure of killing you outright and sending you down to the house of Hades, as I am that it will take more than Neptune to cure that eye of yours.'
"On this he lifted up his hands to the firmament of heaven and prayed, saying,' Hear me, great Neptune; if I am indeed your own true begotten son, grant that Ulysses may never reach his home alive; or if he must get back to his friends at last, let him do so late and in sore plight after losing all his men[ let him reach his home in another man 's ship and find trouble in his house.'
"Thus did he pray, and Neptune heard his prayer.
Then he picked up a rock much larger than the first, swung it aloft and hurled it with prodigious force.
It fell just short of the ship, but was within a little of hitting the end of the rudder.
The sea quaked as the rock fell into it, and the wash of the wave it raised drove us onwards on our way towards the shore of the island.
"When at last we got to the island where we had left the rest of our ships, we found our comrades lamenting us, and anxiously awaiting our return.
We ran our vessel upon the sands and got out of her on to the sea shore; we also landed the Cyclops ' sheep, and divided them equitably amongst us so that none might have reason to complain.
As for the ram, my companions agreed that I should have it as an extra share; so I sacrificed it on the sea shore, and burned its thigh bones to Jove, who is the lord of all.
But he heeded not my sacrifice, and only thought how he might destroy both my ships and my comrades.
"Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped upon the beach.
When the child of morning rosyfingered Dawn appeared, I bade my men on board and loose the hawsers.
Then they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades.
TELEMACHUS AND ULYSSES REMOVE THE ARMOUR—ULYSSES INTERVIEWS PENELOPE—EURYCLEA WASHES HIS FEET AND RECOGNISES THE SCAR ON HIS LEG—PENELOPE TELLS HER DREAM TO ULYSSES.
Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby with Minerva 's help he might be able to kill the suitors.
Presently he said to Telemachus," Telemachus, we must get the armour together and take it down inside.
Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you have removed it.
Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot.
Add to this more particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes tempts people to use them."
Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called nurse Euryclea and said," Nurse, shut the women up in their room, while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the store room.
No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood.
I want to take it down where the smoke can not reach it."
"I wish, child," answered Euryclea," that you would take the management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after all the property yourself.
But who is to go with you and light you to the storeroom?
The maids would have done so, but you would not let them."
"The stranger," said Telemachus," shall show me a light; when people eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from."
Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their room.
Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets, shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon Telemachus said," Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls, with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest are all aglow as with a flaming fire.
Surely there is some god here who has come down from heaven."
"Hush," answered Ulysses," hold your peace and ask no questions, for this is the manner of the gods.
Get you to your bed, and leave me here to talk with your mother and the maids.
Your mother in her grief will ask me all sorts of questions."
On this Telemachus went by torchlight to the other side of the inner court, to the room in which he always slept.
There he lay in his bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering on the means whereby with Minerva 's help he might be able to kill the suitors.
Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana, and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near the fire in her accustomed place.
It had been made by Icmalius and had a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came from the women 's room to join her.
They set about removing the tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk.
They emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them to give both light and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a second time and said," Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging about the house all night and spying upon the women?
Be off, you wretch, outside, and eat your supper there, or you shall be driven out with a firebrand."
Ulysses scowled at her and answered," My good woman, why should you be so angry with me?
Is it because I am not clean, and my clothes are all in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging about after the manner of tramps and beggars generally?
I too was a rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to many a tramp such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he wanted.
I had any number of servants, and all the other things which people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased Jove to take all away from me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too come to lose that pride and place in which you now wanton above your fellows; have a care lest you get out of favour with your mistress, and lest Ulysses should come home, for there is still a chance that he may do so.
Moreover, though he be dead as you think he is, yet by Apollo 's will he has left a son behind him, Telemachus, who will note anything done amiss by the maids in the house, for he is now no longer in his boyhood."
Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid," Impudent baggage," said she," I see how abominably you are behaving, and you shall smart for it.
You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself, that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for whose sake I am in such continual sorrow."
Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome," Bring a seat with a fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his story, and listens to what I have to say.
I wish to ask him some questions."
Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as soon as Ulysses had sat down Penelope began by saying," Stranger, I shall first ask you who and whence are you?
Tell me of your town and parents."
"Madam," answered Ulysses," who on the face of the whole earth can dare to chide with you?
Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness, as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues, and his people do good deeds under him.
Nevertheless, as I sit here in your house, ask me some other question and do not seek to know my race and family, or you will recall memories that will yet more increase my sorrow.
I am full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and wailing in another person 's house, nor is it well to be thus grieving continually.
I shall have one of the servants or even yourself complaining of me, and saying that my eyes swim with tears because I am heavy with wine."
Then Penelope answered," Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty, whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my dear husband with them.
If he were to return and look after my affairs I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to the world.
As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me.
The chiefs from all our islands— Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca itself, are wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate.
I can therefore show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to people who say that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time brokenhearted about Ulysses.
They want me to marry again at once, and I have to invent stratagems in order to deceive them.
In the first place heaven put it in my mind to set up a great tambourframe in my room, and to begin working upon an enormous piece of fine needlework.
Then I said to them,' Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead, still, do not press me to marry again immediately ;wait— for I would not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded— till I have finished making a pall for the hero Laertes, to be ready against the time when death shall take him.
He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.'
This was what I said, and they assented; whereon I used to keep working at my great web all day long, but at night I would unpick the stitches again by torch light.
I fooled them in this way for three years without their finding it out, but as time wore on and I was now in my fourth year, in the waning of moons, and many days had been accomplished, those good for nothing hussies my maids betrayed me to the suitors, who broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry with me, so I was forced to finish my work whether I would or no.
And now I do not see how I can find any further shift for getting out of this marriage.
My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my son chafes at the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for he is now old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able to look after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an excellent disposition.
Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you are and where you come from— for you must have had father and mother of some sort; you can not be the son of an oak or of a rock."
Then Ulysses answered," Madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in asking me about my family, I will answer, no matter what it costs me: people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long as I have, and suffered as much among as many peoples.
Nevertheless, as regards your question I will tell you all you ask.
There is a fair and fruitful island in mid ocean called Crete; it is thickly peopled and there are ninety cities in it: the people speak many different languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans, brave Eteocretans, Dorians of threefold race, and noble Pelasgi.
There is a great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every nine years had a conference with Jove himself.
Minos was father to Deucalion, whose son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and myself.
Idomeneus sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am called Aethon; my brother, however, was at once the older and the more valiant of the two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and showed him hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on his way to Troy, carrying him out of his course from cape Malea and leaving him in Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours are difficult to enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds that were then raging.
As soon as he got there he went into the town and asked for Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but Idomeneus had already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days earlier, so I took him to my own house and showed him every kind of hospitality, for I had abundance of everything.
Moreover, I fed the men who were with him with barley meal from the public store, and got subscriptions of wine and oxen for them to sacrifice to their heart 's content.
They stayed with me twelve days, for there was a gale blowing from the North so strong that one could hardly keep one 's feet on land.
I suppose some unfriendly god had raised it for them, but on the thirteenth day the wind dropped, and they got away."
Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope wept as she listened, for her heart was melted.
As the snow wastes upon the mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have breathed upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with water, even so did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband who was all the time sitting by her side.
Ulysses felt for her and was sorry for her, but he kept his eyes as hard as horn or iron without letting them so much as quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears.
Then, when she had relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him again and said:" Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test and see whether or no you really did entertain my husband and his men, as you say you did.
Tell me, then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man he was to look at, and so also with his companions."
"Madam," answered Ulysses," it is such a long time ago that I can hardly say.
Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home, and went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can recollect.
Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and it was fastened by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin.
On the face of this there was a device that shewed a dog holding a spotted fawn between his fore paws, and watching it as it lay panting upon the ground.
Every one marvelled at the way in which these things had been done in gold, the dog looking at the fawn, and strangling it, while the fawn was struggling convulsively to escape.
As for the shirt that he wore next his skin, it was so soft that it fitted him like the skin of an onion, and glistened in the sunlight to the admiration of all the women who beheld it.
Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, that I do not know whether Ulysses wore these clothes when he left home, or whether one of his companions had given them to him while he was on his voyage; or possibly some one at whose house he was staying made him a present of them, for he was a man of many friends and had few equals among the Achaeans.
I myself gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful purple mantle, double lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet, and I sent him on board his ship with every mark of honour.
He had a servant with him, a little older than himself, and I can tell you what he was like; his shoulders were hunched he was dark, and he had thick curly hair.
His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with greater familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most likeminded with himself."
Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found relief in tears she said to him," Stranger, I was already disposed to pity you, but henceforth you shall be honoured and made welcome in my house.
It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of.
I took them out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I gave him also the gold brooch to wear as an ornament.
Alas!
I shall never welcome him home again.
It was by an ill fate that he ever set out for that detested city whose very name I can not bring myself even to mention."
Then Ulysses answered," Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can hardly blame you for doing so.
A woman who has loved her husband and borne him children, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a god.
Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell you.
I will hide nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he has begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew were lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the sungod were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the sungod 's cattle, and they were all drowned to a man.
But Ulysses stuck to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the Phaeacians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing to escort him home safe and sound.
In fact Ulysses would have been here long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land gathering wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he is; there is no one can compare with him.
Pheidon king of the Thesprotians told me all this, and he swore to me— making drinkofferings in his house as he did so— that the ship was by the water side and the crew found who would take Ulysses to his own country.
He sent me off first, for there happened to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheatgrowing island of Dulichium, but he showed me all the treasure Ulysses had got together, and he had enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep his family for ten generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he might learn Jove 's mind from the high oak tree, and know whether after so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret.
So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is close at hand and can not remain away from home much longer; nevertheless I will confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is the first and mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of Ulysses to which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely come to pass.
Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here."
"May it be even so," answered Penelope;" if your words come true you shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who see you shall congratulate you; but I know very well how it will be.
Ulysses will not return, neither will you get your escort hence, for so surely as that Ulysses ever was ,there are now no longer any such masters in the house as he was, to receive honourable strangers or to further them on their way home.
And now, you maids, wash his feet for him, and make him a bed on a couch with rugs and blankets, that he may be warm and quiet till morning.
Then, at day break wash him and anoint him again, that he may sit in the cloister and take his meals with Telemachus.
It shall be the worse for any one of these hateful people who is uncivil to him; like it or not, he shall have no more to do in this house.
For how, sir, shall you be able to learn whether or no I am superior to others of my sex both in goodness of heart and understanding, if I let you dine in my cloisters squalid and ill clad?
Men live but for a little season; if they are hard, and deal hardly, people wish them ill so long as they are alive, and speak contemptuously of them when they are dead, but he that is righteous and deals righteously, the people tell of his praise among all lands, and many shall call him blessed."
Ulysses answered," Madam, I have foresworn rugs and blankets from the day that I left the snowy ranges of Crete to go on shipboard.
I will lie as I have lain on many a sleepless night hitherto.
Night after night have I passed in any rough sleeping place, and waited for morning.
Nor, again, do I like having my feet washed; I shall not let any of the young hussies about your house touch my feet; but, if you have any old and respectable woman who has gone through as much trouble as I have, I will allow her to wash them."
To this Penelope said," My dear sir, of all the guests who ever yet came to my house there never was one who spoke in all things with such admirable propriety as you do.
There happens to be in the house a most respectable old woman— the same who received my poor dear husband in her arms the night he was born, and nursed him in infancy.
She is very feeble now, but she shall wash your feet."
"Come here," said she," Euryclea, and wash your master 's agemate; I suppose Ulysses ' hands and feet are very much the same now as his are, for trouble ages all of us dreadfully fast."
On these words the old woman covered her face with her hands; she began to weep and made lamentation saying," My dear child, I can not think whatever I am to do with you.
I am certain no one was ever more godfearing than yourself, and yet Jove hates you.
No one in the whole world ever burned him more thigh bones, nor gave him finer hecatombs when you prayed you might come to a green old age yourself and see your son grow up to take after you: yet see how he has prevented you alone from ever getting back to your own home.
I have no doubt the women in some foreign palace which Ulysses has got to are gibing at him as all these sluts here have been gibing at you.
I do not wonder at your not choosing to let them wash you after the manner in which they have insulted you; I will wash your feet myself gladly enough, as Penelope has said that I am to do so; I will wash them both for Penelope 's sake and for your own, for you have raised the most lively feelings of compassion in my mind; and let me say this moreover, which pray attend to; we have had all kinds of strangers in distress come here before now, but I make bold to say that no one ever yet came who was so like Ulysses in figure, voice, and feet as you are."
"Those who have seen us both," answered Ulysses," have always said we were wonderfully like each other, and now you have noticed it too."
Then the old woman took the cauldron in which she was going to wash his feet, and poured plenty of cold water into it, adding hot till the bath was warm enough.
Ulysses sat by the fire, but ere long he turned away from the light, for it occurred to him that when the old woman had hold of his leg she would recognise a certain scar which it bore, whereon the whole truth would come out.
And indeed as soon as she began washing her master, she at once knew the scar as one that had been given him by a wild boar when he was hunting on Mt.
Parnassus with his excellent grandfather Autolycus— who was the most accomplished thief and perjurer in the whole world— and with the sons of Autolycus.
Mercury himself had endowed him with this gift, for he used to burn the thigh bones of goats and kids to him, so he took pleasure in his companionship.
It happened once that Autolycus had gone to Ithaca and had found the child of his daughter just born.
As soon as he had done supper Euryclea set the infant upon his knees and said," Autolycus, you must find a name for your grandson; you greatly wished that you might have one."
"Soninlaw and daughter," replied Autolycus," call the child thus: I am highly displeased with a large number of people in one place and another, both men and women; so name the child' Ulysses,' or the child of anger.
When he grows up and comes to visit his mother 's family on Mt.
Parnassus, where my possessions lie, I will make him a present and will send him on his way rejoicing."
Ulysses, therefore, went to Parnassus to get the presents from Autolycus, who with his sons shook hands with him and gave him welcome.
His grandmother Amphithea threw her arms about him, and kissed his head, and both his beautiful eyes, while Autolycus desired his sons to get dinner ready, and they did as he told them.
They brought in a five year old bull, flayed it, made it ready and divided it into joints; these they then cut carefully up into smaller pieces and spitted them; they roasted them sufficiently and served the portions round.
Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and every man had his full share so that all were satisfied; but when the sun set and it came on dark, they went to bed and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, the sons of Autolycus went out with their hounds hunting, and Ulysses went too.
They climbed the wooded slopes of Parnassus and soon reached its breezy upland valleys; but as the sun was beginning to beat upon the fields, freshrisen from the slow still currents of Oceanus, they came to a mountain dell.
The dogs were in front searching for the tracks of the beast they were chasing, and after them came the sons of Autolycus, among whom was Ulysses, close behind the dogs, and he had a long spear in his hand.
Here was the lair of a huge boar among some thick brushwood, so dense that the wind and rain could not get through it, nor could the sun 's rays pierce it, and the ground underneath lay thick with fallen leaves.
The boar heard the noise of the men 's feet, and the hounds baying on every side as the huntsmen came up to him, so he rushed from his lair, raised the bristles on his neck, and stood at bay with fire flashing from his eyes.
Ulysses was the first to raise his spear and try to drive it into the brute, but the boar was too quick for him, and charged him sideways, ripping him above the knee with a gash that tore deep though it did not reach the bone.
As for the boar, Ulysses hit him on the right shoulder, and the point of the spear went right through him, so that he fell groaning in the dust until the life went out of him.
The sons of Autolycus busied themselves with the carcass of the boar, and bound Ulysses ' wound; then, after saying a spell to stop the bleeding, they went home as fast as they could.
But when Autolycus and his sons had thoroughly healed Ulysses, they made him some splendid presents, and sent him back to Ithaca with much mutual good will.
When he got back, his father and mother were rejoiced to see him, and asked him all about it, and how he had hurt himself to get the scar; so he told them how the boar had ripped him when he was out hunting with Autolycus and his sons on Mt.
Parnassus.
As soon as Euryclea had got the scarred limb in her hands and had well hold of it, she recognised it and dropped the foot at once.
The leg fell into the bath, which rang out and was overturned, so that all the water was spilt on the ground; Euryclea 's eyes between her joy and her grief filled with tears, and she could not speak, but she caught Ulysses by the beard and said," My dear child, I am sure you must be Ulysses himself, only I did not know you till I had actually touched and handled you."
As she spoke she looked towards Penelope, as though wanting to tell her that her dear husband was in the house, but Penelope was unable to look in that direction and observe what was going on, for Minerva had diverted her attention; so Ulysses caught Euryclea by the throat with his right hand and with his left drew her close to him, and said," Nurse, do you wish to be the ruin of me, you who nursed me at your own breast, now that after twenty years of wandering I am at last come to my own home again?
Since it has been borne in upon you by heaven to recognise me, hold your tongue, and do not say a word about it to any one else in the house, for if you do I tell you— and it shall surely be— that if heaven grants me to take the lives of these suitors, I will not spare you, though you are my own nurse, when I am killing the other women."
"My child," answered Euryclea," what are you talking about?
You know very well that nothing can either bend or break me.
I will hold my tongue like a stone or a piece of iron; furthermore let me say, and lay my saying to your heart, when heaven has delivered the suitors into your hand, I will give you a list of the women in the house who have been illbehaved, and of those who are guiltless."
And Ulysses answered," Nurse, you ought not to speak in that way; I am well able to form my own opinion about one and all of them; hold your tongue and leave everything to heaven."
As he said this Euryclea left the cloister to fetch some more water, for the first had been all spilt; and when she had washed him and anointed him with oil, Ulysses drew his seat nearer to the fire to warm himself, and hid the scar under his rags.
Then Penelope began talking to him and said: "Stranger, I should like to speak with you briefly about another matter.
It is indeed nearly bed time— for those, at least, who can sleep in spite of sorrow.
As for myself, heaven has given me a life of such unmeasurable woe, that even by day when I am attending to my duties and looking after the servants, I am still weeping and lamenting during the whole time; then, when night comes, and we all of us go to bed, I lie awake thinking, and my heart becomes a prey to the most incessant and cruel tortures.
As the dun nightingale, daughter of Pandareus, sings in the early spring from her seat in shadiest covert hid, and with many a plaintive trill pours out the tale how by mishap she killed her own child Itylus, son of king Zethus, even so does my mind toss and turn in its uncertainty whether I ought to stay with my son here, and safeguard my substance, my bondsmen, and the greatness of my house, out of regard to public opinion and the memory of my late husband, or whether it is not now time for me to go with the best of these suitors who are wooing me and making me such magnificent presents.
As long as my son was still young, and unable to understand, he would not hear of my leaving my husband 's house, but now that he is full grown he begs and prays me to do so, being incensed at the way in which the suitors are eating up his property.
Listen, then, to a dream that I have had and interpret it for me if you can.
I have twenty geese about the house that eat mash out of a trough and of which I am exceedingly fond.
I dreamed that a great eagle came swooping down from a mountain, and dug his curved beak into the neck of each of them till he had killed them all.
Presently he soared off into the sky, and left them lying dead about the yard; whereon I wept in my dream till all my maids gathered round me, so piteously was I grieving because the eagle had killed my geese.
Then he came back again, and perching on a projecting rafter spoke to me with human voice, and told me to leave off crying.'
Be of good courage,' he said,' daughter of Icarius; this is no dream, but a vision of good omen that shall surely come to pass.
The geese are the suitors, and I am no longer an eagle, but your own husband, who am come back to you, and who will bring these suitors to a disgraceful end.'
On this I woke, and when I looked out I saw my geese at the trough eating their mash as usual."
"This dream, Madam," replied Ulysses," can admit but of one interpretation, for had not Ulysses himself told you how it shall be fulfilled?
The death of the suitors is portended, and not one single one of them will escape."
And Penelope answered," Stranger, dreams are very curious and unaccountable things, and they do not by any means invariably come true.
There are two gates through which these unsubstantial fancies proceed; the one is of horn, and the other ivory.
Those that come through the gate of ivory are fatuous, but those from the gate of horn mean something to those that see them.
I do not think, however, that my own dream came through the gate of horn, though I and my son should be most thankful if it proves to have done so.
Furthermore I say— and lay my saying to your heart— the coming dawn will usher in the illomened day that is to sever me from the house of Ulysses, for I am about to hold a tournament of axes.
My husband used to set up twelve axes in the court, one in front of the other, like the stays upon which a ship is built; he would then go back from them and shoot an arrow through the whole twelve.
I shall make the suitors try to do the same thing, and whichever of them can string the bow most easily, and send his arrow through all the twelve axes, him will I follow, and quit this house of my lawful husband, so goodly and so abounding in wealth.
But even so, I doubt not that I shall remember it in my dreams."
Then Ulysses answered," Madam, wife of Ulysses, you need not defer your tournament, for Ulysses will return ere ever they can string the bow, handle it how they will, and send their arrows through the iron."
To this Penelope said," As long, sir, as you will sit here and talk to me, I can have no desire to go to bed.
Still, people can not do permanently without sleep, and heaven has appointed us dwellers on earth a time for all things.
I will therefore go upstairs and recline upon that couch which I have never ceased to flood with my tears from the day Ulysses set out for the city with a hateful name."
She then went upstairs to her own room, not alone, but attended by her maidens, and when there, she lamented her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyelids.
CHAPTER IX Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr.
Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, "I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly.
I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella.
Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?"
"Nothing at all.
But is not this a sudden scheme?"
"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time."
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself.
Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again.
While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father began his inquiries.
"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming.
Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.
She is always so attentive to them!"
Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.
Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-He looked at her with a glow of regard.
She was warmly gratified--and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction.
It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment.
He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr.
Knightley.--Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found.
It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him.
He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow.
"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled.
Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be.
I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of.
It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.
You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us.
And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long."
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background.
An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill!
Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return.
A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.
The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt.
Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried.
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances.
In one point she was fully justified.
She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill.
The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
"Poor Mrs. Churchill!
no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the temper.
It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her?
Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed.
Mr. Churchill would never get over it."
--Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah!
poor woman, who would have thought it!"
and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.
How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both.
It was also a very early speculation with Emma.
The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed.
She saw in a moment all the possible good.
Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter.
Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew.
All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.
What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing.
Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans.
Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years.
At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.
She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy.
She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration.
She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield.
A note was written to urge it.
The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message.
"Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed.
Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her.
He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.
Her spirits seemed overcome.
Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description.
Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great.
He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them.
Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful.
To take her--be it only an hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.
The answer was only in this short note: "Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise."
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted.
In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in vain.
Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody."
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist.
On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note.
In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing."
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her.
She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.
CHAPTER VIII The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the evening.
How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell.
They, in their different homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed.
A whole evening of back-gammon with her father, was felicity to it.
There, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe reproach.
As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.
She hoped no one could have said to her, "How could you be so unfeeling to your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can."
Miss Bates should never again--no, never!
If attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven.
She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious.
But it should be so no more.
In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing might prevent her.
It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her visit.
She had no objection.
She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
"The ladies were all at home."
She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon.
The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room.
Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on.
"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they tell me she is well.
I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse.
I hope you find a chair.
I wish Hetty had not gone.
I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am?
Do you sit where you like?
I am sure she will be here presently."
Emma seriously hoped she would.
She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her.
But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner.
A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings.
The touch seemed immediate.
"Ah!
Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and are come to give us joy.
This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon.
'My dear,' said I, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder.
It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again dispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul!
if you were to see what a headache she has.
When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve.
She is as low as possible.
To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation.
You will excuse her not coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the bed.
'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room.
But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well.
She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her.
You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming.
'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon it.
Nobody else would come so early.'
'Well,' said she, 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.'
But then Patty came in, and said it was you.
'Oh!'
said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'
--'I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were.
'If you must go, my dear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'"
Emma was most sincerely interested.
Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself.
She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible.
"It must be a severe trial to them all.
She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return."
"So very kind!"
replied Miss Bates.
"But you are always kind."
There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of-"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?"
"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge of her three little girls--delightful children.
Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove.
Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove."
"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--" "Yes, our good Mrs. Elton.
The most indefatigable, true friend.
She would not take a denial.
She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did.
It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would not write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go.
Quite a surprize to me!
I had not the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it till it was all settled."
"You spent the evening with Mrs.
Elton?"
"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come.
It was settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley.
'You must all spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must have you all come.'"
"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"
"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had.
Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning's party.
Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it.
However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."
"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day?"
"I dare say she had."
"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."
"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse.
Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it.
Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance.
Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere.
Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!--It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.--And her salary!--I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse.
Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane."
"Ah!
madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned."
"You are so noble in your ideas!"
"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?"
"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it.
Within a fortnight.
Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry.
My poor mother does not know how to bear it.
So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."
"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return?"
"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining.
I was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it!
It was before tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking--Oh!
no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not that.
Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him.
Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints--I must go and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all.
And poor John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond.
That was what happened before tea.
It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs.
Elton."
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind.
The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the other nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates's saying, "Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte.
What is to become of that?--Very true.
Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--'You must go,' said she.
'You and I must part.
You will have no business here.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes back.
I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'
--And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's."
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.
CHAPTER HIGHER LAWS.
AS I CAME home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented.
Once or twice, however, while I lived at the pond, I found myself ranging the woods, like a half-starved hound, with a strange abandonment, seeking some kind of venison which I might devour, and no morsel could have been too savage for me.
The wildest scenes had become unaccountably familiar.
I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or, as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both.
I love the wild not less than the good.
The wildness and adventure that are in fishing still recommended it to me.
I like sometimes to take rank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do.
Perhaps I have owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my closest acquaintance with Nature.
They early introduce us to and detain us in scenery with which otherwise, at that age, we should have little acquaintance.
Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and others, spending their lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar sense a part of Nature themselves, are often in a more favorable mood for observing her, in the intervals of their pursuits, than philosophers or poets even, who approach her with expectation.
She is not afraid to exhibit herself to them.
The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman.
He who is only a traveller learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority.
We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.
They mistake who assert that the Yankee has few amusements, because he has not so many public holidays, and men and boys do not play so many games as they do in England, for here the more primitive but solitary amusements of hunting, fishing, and the like have not yet given place to the former.
Almost every New England boy among my contemporaries shouldered a fowling-piece between the ages of ten and fourteen; and his hunting and fishing grounds were not limited, like the preserves of an English nobleman, but were more boundless even than those of a savage.
No wonder, then, that he did not oftener stay to play on the common.
But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend of the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society.
Moreover, when at the pond, I wished sometimes to add fish to my fare for variety.
I have actually fished from the same kind of necessity that the first fishers did.
Whatever humanity I might conjure up against it was all factitious, and concerned my philosophy more than my feelings.
I speak of fishing only now, for I had long felt differently about fowling, and sold my gun before I went to the woods.
Not that I am less humane than others, but I did not perceive that my feelings were much affected.
I did not pity the fishes nor the worms.
This was habit.
As for fowling, during the last years that I carried a gun my excuse was that I was studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare birds.
But I confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a finer way of studying ornithology than this.
It requires so much closer attention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only, I have been willing to omit the gun.
Yet notwithstanding the objection on the score of humanity, I am compelled to doubt if equally valuable sports are ever substituted for these; and when some of my friends have asked me anxiously about their boys, whether they should let them hunt, I have answered, yesremembering that it was one of the best parts of my educationmake them hunters, though sportsmen only at first, if possible, mighty hunters at last, so that they shall not find game large enough for them in this or any vegetable wildernesshunters as well as fishers of men.
Thus far I am of the opinion of Chaucer's nun, who "yave not of the text a pulled hen That saith that hunters ben not holy men."
There is a period in the history of the individual, as of the race, when the hunters are the "best men,as the Algonquins called them.
We cannot but pity the boy who has never fired a gun; he is no more humane, while his education has been sadly neglected.
This was my answer with respect to those youths who were bent on this pursuit, trusting that they would soon outgrow it.
No humane being, past the thoughtless age of boyhood, will wantonly murder any creature which holds its life by the same tenure that he does.
The hare in its extremity cries like a child.
I warn you, mothers, that my sympathies do not always make the usual philanthropic distinctions.
Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself.
He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.
The mass of men are still and always young in this respect.
In some countries a hunting parson is no uncommon sight.
Such a one might make a good shepherd's dog, but is far from being the Good Shepherd.
I have been surprised to consider that the only obvious employment, except wood-chopping, ice-cutting, or the like business, which ever to my knowledge detained at Walden Pond for a whole half-day any of my fellow-citizens, whether fathers or children of the town, with just one exception, was fishing.
Commonly they did not think that they were lucky, or well paid for their time, unless they got a long string of fish, though they had the opportunity of seeing the pond all the while.
They might go there a thousand times before the sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their purpose pure; but no doubt such a clarifying process would be going on all the while.
The Governor and his Council faintly remember the pond, for they went a-fishing there when they were boys; but now they are too old and dignified to go a-fishing, and so they know it no more forever.
Yet even they expect to go to heaven at last.
If the legislature regards it, it is chiefly to regulate the number of books to be used there; but they know nothing about the book of hooks with which to angle for the pond itself, impaling the legislature for a bait.
Thus, even in civilized communities, the embryo man passes through the hunter stage of development.
I have found repeatedly, of late years, that I cannot fish without falling a little in self-respect.
I have tried it again and again.
I have skill at it, and, like many of my fellows, a certain instinct for it, which revives from time to time, but always when I have done I feel that it would have been better if I had not fished.
I think that I do not mistake.
It is a faint intimation, yet so are the first streaks of morning.
There is unquestionably this instinct in me which belongs to the lower orders of creation; yet with every year I am less a fisherman, though without more humanity or even wisdom; at present I am no fisherman at all.
But I see that if I were to live in a wilderness I should again be tempted to become a fisher and hunter in earnest.
Beside, there is something essentially unclean about this diet and all flesh, and I began to see where housework commences, and whence the endeavor, which costs so much, to wear a tidy and respectable appearance each day, to keep the house sweet and free from all ill odors and sights.
Having been my own butcher and scullion and cook, as well as the gentleman for whom the dishes were served up, I can speak from an unusually complete experience.
The practical objection to animal food in my case was its uncleanness; and besides, when I had caught and cleaned and cooked and eaten my fish, they seemed not to have fed me essentially.
It was insignificant and unnecessary, and cost more than it came to.
A little bread or a few potatoes would have done as well, with less trouble and filth.
Like many of my contemporaries, I had rarely for many years used animal food, or tea, or coffee, etc.
; not so much because of any ill effects which I had traced to them, as because they were not agreeable to my imagination.
The repugnance to animal food is not the effect of experience, but is an instinct.
It appeared more beautiful to live low and fare hard in many respects; and though I never did so, I went far enough to please my imagination.
I believe that every man who has ever been earnest to preserve his higher or poetic faculties in the best condition has been particularly inclined to abstain from animal food, and from much food of any kind.
It is a significant fact, stated by entomologistsI find it in Kirby and Spencethat "some insects in their perfect state, though furnished with organs of feeding, make no use of them"; and they lay it down as "a general rule, that almost all insects in this state eat much less than in that of larvae.
The voracious caterpillar when transformed into a butterfly... and the gluttonous maggot when become a fly" content themselves with a drop or two of honey or some other sweet liquid.
The abdomen under the wings of the butterfly stir represents the larva.
This is the tidbit which tempts his insectivorous fate.
The gross feeder is a man in the larva state; and there are whole nations in that condition, nations without fancy or imagination, whose vast abdomens betray them.
It is hard to provide and cook so simple and clean a diet as will not offend the imagination; but this, I think, is to be fed when we feed the body; they should both sit down at the same table.
Yet perhaps this may be done.
The fruits eaten temperately need not make us ashamed of our appetites, nor interrupt the worthiest pursuits.
But put an extra condiment into your dish, and it will poison you.
It is not worth the while to live by rich cookery.
Most men would feel shame if caught preparing with their own hands precisely such a dinner, whether of animal or vegetable food, as is every day prepared for them by others.
Yet till this is otherwise we are not civilized, and, if gentlemen and ladies, are not true men and women.
This certainly suggests what change is to be made.
It may be vain to ask why the imagination will not be reconciled to flesh and fat.
I am satisfied that it is not.
Is it not a reproach that man is a carnivorous animal?
True, he can and does live, in a great measure, by preying on other animals; but this is a miserable wayas any one who will go to snaring rabbits, or slaughtering lambs, may learnand he will be regarded as a benefactor of his race who shall teach man to confine himself to a more innocent and wholesome diet.
Whatever my own practice may be, I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race, in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals, as surely as the savage tribes have left off eating each other when they came in contact with the more civilized.
If one listens to the faintest but constant suggestions of his genius, which are certainly true, he sees not to what extremes, or even insanity, it may lead him; and yet that way, as he grows more resolute and faithful, his road lies.
The faintest assured objection which one healthy man feels will at length prevail over the arguments and customs of mankind.
No man ever followed his genius till it misled him.
Though the result were bodily weakness, yet perhaps no one can say that the consequences were to be regretted, for these were a life in conformity to higher principles.
If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortalthat is your success.
All nature is your congratulation, and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself.
The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated.
We easily come to doubt if they exist.
We soon forget them.
They are the highest reality.
Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man.
The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening.
It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
Yet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could sometimes eat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary.
I am glad to have drunk water so long, for the same reason that I prefer the natural sky to an opium-eater's heaven.
I would fain keep sober always; and there are infinite degrees of drunkenness.
I believe that water is the only drink for a wise man; wine is not so noble a liquor; and think of dashing the hopes of a morning with a cup of warm coffee, or of an evening with a dish of tea!
Ah, how low I fall when I am tempted by them!
Even music may be intoxicating.
Such apparently slight causes destroyed Greece and Rome, and will destroy England and America.
Of all ebriosity, who does not prefer to be intoxicated by the air he breathes?
I have found it to be the most serious objection to coarse labors long continued, that they compelled me to eat and drink coarsely also.
But to tell the truth, I find myself at present somewhat less particular in these respects.
I carry less religion to the table, ask no blessing; not because I am wiser than I was, but, I am obliged to confess, because, however much it is to be regretted, with years I have grown more coarse and indifferent.
Perhaps these questions are entertained only in youth, as most believe of poetry.
My practice is "nowhere," my opinion is here.
Nevertheless I am far from regarding myself as one of those privileged ones to whom the Ved refers when it says, that "he who has true faith in the Omnipresent Supreme Being may eat all that exists," that is, is not bound to inquire what is his food, or who prepares it; and even in their case it is to be observed, as a Hindoo commentator has remarked, that the Vedant limits this privilege to "the time of distress."
Who has not sometimes derived an inexpressible satisfaction from his food in which appetite had no share?
I have been thrilled to think that I owed a mental perception to the commonly gross sense of taste, that I have been inspired through the palate, that some berries which I had eaten on a hillside had fed my genius.
"The soul not being mistress of herself," says Thseng-tseu, "one looks, and one does not see; one listens, and one does not hear; one eats, and one does not know the savor of food."
He who distinguishes the true savor of his food can never be a glutton; he who does not cannot be otherwise.
A puritan may go to his brown-bread crust with as gross an appetite as ever an alderman to his turtle.
Not that food which entereth into the mouth defileth a man, but the appetite with which it is eaten.
It is neither the quality nor the quantity, but the devotion to sensual savors; when that which is eaten is not a viand to sustain our animal, or inspire our spiritual life, but food for the worms that possess us.
If the hunter has a taste for mud-turtles, muskrats, and other such savage tidbits, the fine lady indulges a taste for jelly made of a calf's foot, or for sardines from over the sea, and they are even.
He goes to the mill-pond, she to her preserve-pot.
The wonder is how they, how you and I, can live this slimy, beastly life, eating and drinking.
Our whole life is startlingly moral.
There is never an instant's truce between virtue and vice.
Goodness is the only investment that never fails.
In the music of the harp which trembles round the world it is the insisting on this which thrills us.
The harp is the travelling patterer for the Universe's Insurance Company, recommending its laws, and our little goodness is all the assessment that we pay.
Though the youth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the universe are not indifferent, but are forever on the side of the most sensitive.
Listen to every zephyr for some reproof, for it is surely there, and he is unfortunate who does not hear it.
We cannot touch a string or move a stop but the charming moral transfixes us.
Many an irksome noise, go a long way off, is heard as music, a proud, sweet satire on the meanness of our lives.
We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our higher nature slumbers.
It is reptile and sensual, and perhaps cannot be wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in life and health, occupy our bodies.
Possibly we may withdraw from it, but never change its nature.
I fear that it may enjoy a certain health of its own; that we may be well, yet not pure.
The other day I picked up the lower jaw of a hog, with white and sound teeth and tusks, which suggested that there was an animal health and vigor distinct from the spiritual.
This creature succeeded by other means than temperance and purity.
"That in which men differ from brute beasts," says Mencius, "is a thing very inconsiderable; the common herd lose it very soon; superior men preserve it carefully."
Who knows what sort of life would result if we had attained to purity?
If I knew so wise a man as could teach me purity I would go to seek him forthwith.
"A command over our passions, and over the external senses of the body, and good acts, are declared by the Ved to be indispensable in the mind's approximation to God."
Yet the spirit can for the time pervade and control every member and function of the body, and transmute what ill form is the grossest sensuality into purity and devotion.
The generative energy, which, when we are loose, dissipates and makes us unclean, when we are continent invigorates and inspires us.
Chastity is the flowering of man; and what are called Genius, Heroism, Holiness, and the like, are but various fruits which succeed it.
Man flows at once to God when the channel of purity is open.
By turns our purity inspires and our impurity casts us down.
He is blessed who is assured that the animal is dying out in him day by day, and the divine being established.
Perhaps there is none but has cause for shame on account of the inferior and brutish nature to which he is allied.
I fear that we are such gods or demigods only as fauns and satyrs, the divine allied to beasts, the creatures of appetite, and that, to some extent, our very life is our disgrace.
"How happy's he who hath due place assigned To his beasts and disafforested his mind!
Can use this horse, goat, wolf, and ev'ry beast, And is not ass himself to all the rest!
Else man not only is the herd of swine, But he's those devils too which did incline Them to a headlong rage, and made them worse."
All sensuality is one, though it takes many forms; all purity is one.
It is the same whether a man eat, or drink, or cohabit, or sleep sensually.
They are but one appetite, and we only need to see a person do any one of these things to know how great a sensualist he is.
The impure can neither stand nor sit with purity.
When the reptile is attacked at one mouth of his burrow, he shows himself at another.
If you would be chaste, you must be temperate.
What is chastity?
How shall a man know if he is chaste?
He shall not know it.
We have heard of this virtue, but we know not what it is.
We speak conformably to the rumor which we have heard.
From exertion come wisdom and purity; from sloth ignorance and sensuality.
In the student sensuality is a sluggish habit of mind.
An unclean person is universally a slothful one, one who sits by a stove, whom the sun shines on prostrate, who reposes without being fatigued.
If you would avoid uncleanness, and all the sins, work earnestly, though it be at cleaning a stable.
Nature is hard to be overcome, but she must be overcome.
What avails it that you are Christian, if you are not purer than the heathen, if you deny yourself no more, if you are not more religious?
I know of many systems of religion esteemed heathenish whose precepts fill the reader with shame, and provoke him to new endeavors, though it be to the performance of rites merely.
I hesitate to say these things, but it is not because of the subjectI care not how obscene my words arebut because I cannot speak of them without betraying my impurity.
We discourse freely without shame of one form of sensuality, and are silent about another.
We are so degraded that we cannot speak simply of the necessary functions of human nature.
In earlier ages, in some countries, every function was reverently spoken of and regulated by law.
Nothing was too trivial for the Hindoo lawgiver, however offensive it may be to modern taste.
He teaches how to eat, drink, cohabit, void excrement and urine, and the like, elevating what is mean, and does not falsely excuse himself by calling these things trifles.
Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead.
We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones.
Any nobleness begins at once to refine a man's features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.
John Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard day's work, his mind still running on his labor more or less.
Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man.
It was a rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were apprehending a frost.
He had not attended to the train of his thoughts long when he heard some one playing on a flute, and that sound harmonized with his mood.
Still he thought of his work; but the burden of his thought was, that though this kept running in his head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his will, yet it concerned him very little.
It was no more than the scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled off.
But the notes of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere from that he worked in, and suggested work for certain faculties which slumbered in him.
They gently did away with the street, and the village, and the state in which he lived.
A voice said to himWhy do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a glorious existence is possible for you?
Those same stars twinkle over other fields than these.But how to come out of this condition and actually migrate thither?
All that he could think of was to practise some new austerity, to let his mind descend into his body and redeem it, and treat himself with ever increasing respect.
CHAPTER BRUTE NEIGHBORS.
SOMETIMES I had a companion in my fishing, who came through the village to my house from the other side of the town, and the catching of the dinner was as much a social exercise as the eating of it.
Hermit.
I wonder what the world is doing now.
I have not heard so much as a locust over the sweet-fern these three hours.
The pigeons are all asleep upon their roostsno flutter from them.
Was that a farmer's noon horn which sounded from beyond the woods just now?
The hands are coming in to boiled salt beef and cider and Indian bread.
Why will men worry themselves so?
He that does not eat need not work.
I wonder how much they have reaped.
Who would live there where a body can never think for the barking of Bose?
And oh, the housekeeping!
to keep bright the devil's door-knobs, and scour his tubs this bright day!
Better not keep a house.
Say, some hollow tree; and then for morning calls and dinner-parties!
Only a woodpecker tapping.
Oh, they swarm; the sun is too warm there; they are born too far into life for me.
I have water from the spring, and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf.Hark!
I hear a rustling of the leaves.
Is it some ill-fed village bound yielding to the instinct of the chase?
or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain?
It comes on apace; my sumachs and sweetbriers tremble.Eh, Mr.
Poet, is it you?
How do you like the world today?
Poet.
See those clouds; how they hang!
That's the greatest thing I have seen today.
There's nothing like it in old paintings, nothing like it in foreign landsunless when we were off the coast of Spain.
That's a true Mediterranean sky.
I thought, as I have my living to get, and have not eaten today, that I might go a-fishing.
That's the true industry for poets.
It is the only trade I have learned.
Come, let's along.
Hermit.
I cannot resist.
My brown bread will soon be gone.
I will go with you gladly soon, but I am just concluding a serious meditation.
I think that I am near the end of it.
Leave me alone, then, for a while.
But that we may not be delayed, you shall be digging the bait meanwhile.
Angleworms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where the soil was never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct.
The sport of digging the bait is nearly equal to that of catching the fish, when one's appetite is not too keen; and this you may have all to yourself today.
I would advise you to set in the spade down yonder among the groundnuts, where you see the johnswort waving.
I think that I may warrant you one worm to every three sods you turn up, if you look well in among the roots of the grass, as if you were weeding.
Or, if you choose to go farther, it will not be unwise, for I have found the increase of fair bait to be very nearly as the squares of the distances.
Hermit alone.
Let me see; where was I?
Methinks I was nearly in this frame of mind; the world lay about at this angle.
Shall I go to heaven or a-fishing?
If I should soon bring this meditation to an end, would another so sweet occasion be likely to offer?
I was as near being resolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my life.
I fear my thoughts will not come back to me.
If it would do any good, I would whistle for them.
When they make us an offer, is it wise to say, We will think of it?
My thoughts have left no track, and I cannot find the path again.
What was it that I was thinking of?
It was a very hazy day.
I will just try these three sentences of Confutsee; they may fetch that state about again.
I know not whether it was the dumps or a budding ecstasy.
Mem.
There never is but one opportunity of a kind.
Poet.
How now, Hermit, is it too soon?
I have got just thirteen whole ones, beside several which are imperfect or undersized; but they will do for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so much.
Those village worms are quite too large; a shiner may make a meal off one without finding the skewer.
Hermit.
Well, then, let's be off.
Shall we to the Concord?
There's good sport there if the water be not too high.
Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world?
Why has man just these species of animals for his neighbors; as if nothing but a mouse could have filled this crevice?
I suspect that Pilpay & Co. have put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts of burden, in a sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts.
The mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, which are said to have been introduced into the country, but a wild native kind not found in the village.
I sent one to a distinguished naturalist, and it interested him much.
When I was building, one of these had its nest underneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor, and swept out the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up the crumbs at my feet.
It probably had never seen a man before; and it soon became quite familiar, and would run over my shoes and up my clothes.
It could readily ascend the sides of the room by short impulses, like a squirrel, which it resembled in its motions.
At length, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my clothes, and along my sleeve, and round and round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept the latter close, and dodged and played at bopeep with it; and when at last I held still a piece of cheese between my thumb and finger, it came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterward cleaned its face and paws, like a fly, and walked away.
A phoebe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine which grew against the house.
In June the partridge (Tetrao umbellus), which is so shy a bird, led her brood past my windows, from the woods in the rear to the front of my house, clucking and calling to them like a hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the hen of the woods.
The young suddenly disperse on your approach, at a signal from the mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away, and they so exactly resemble the dried leaves and twigs that many a traveler has placed his foot in the midst of a brood, and heard the whir of the old bird as she flew off, and her anxious calls and mewing, or seen her trail her mings to attract his attention, without suspecting their neighborhood.
The parent will sometimes roll and spin round before you in such a dishabille, that you cannot, for a few moments, detect what kind of creature it is.
The young squat still and flat, often running their heads under a leaf, and mind only their mother's directions given from a distance, nor will your approach make them run again and betray themselves.
You may even tread on them, or have your eyes on them for a minute, without discovering them.
I have held them in my open hand at such a time, and still their only care, obedient to their mother and their instinct, was to squat there without fear or trembling.
So perfect is this instinct, that once, when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell on its side, it was found with the rest in exactly the same position ten minutes afterward.
They are not callow like the young of most birds, but more perfectly developed and precocious even than chickens.
The remarkably adult yet innocent expression of their open and serene eyes is very memorable.
All intelligence seems reflected in them.
They suggest not merely the purity of infancy, but a wisdom clarified by experience.
Such an eye was not born when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects.
The woods do not yield another such a gem.
The traveller does not often look into such a limpid well.
The ignorant or reckless sportsman often shoots the parent at such a time, and leaves these innocents to fall a prey to some prowling beast or bird, or gradually mingle with the decaying leaves which they so much resemble.
It is said that when hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so are lost, for they never hear the mother's call which gathers them again.
These were my hens and chickens.
It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though secret in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns, suspected by hunters only.
How retired the otter manages to live here!
He grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without any human being getting a glimpse of him.
I formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night.
Commonly I rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting, and ate my lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the source of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from under Brister's Hill, half a mile from my field.
The approach to this was through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch pines, into a larger wood about the swamp.
There, in a very secluded and shaded spot, under a spreading white pine, there was yet a clean, firm sward to sit on.
I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went for this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was warmest.
Thither, too, the woodcock led her brood, to probe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while they ran in a troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till within four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up their march, with faint, wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as she directed.
Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not see the parent bird.
There too the turtle doves sat over the spring, or fluttered from bough to bough of the soft white pines over my head; or the red squirrel, coursing down the nearest bough, was particularly familiar and inquisitive.
You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns.
I was witness to events of a less peaceful character.
One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another.
Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly.
Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black.
The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my woodyard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black.
It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other.
On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely.
I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noonday prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out.
The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members.
They fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs.
Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat.
It was evident that their battle-cry was "Conquer or die."
In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hillside of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it.
Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus.
He saw this unequal combat from afarfor the blacks were nearly twice the size of the redhe drew near with rapid pace till be stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame.
I should not have wondered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants.
I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men.
The more you think of it, the less the difference.
And certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed.
For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden.
Concord Fight!
Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther Blanchard wounded!
Why here every ant was a Buttrick"Fire!
for God's sake fire!
"and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer.
There was not one hireling there.
I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.
I took up the chip oil which the three I have particularly described were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue.
Holding a microscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing at the near fore leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate was apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could excite.
They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he accomplished.
I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state.
Whether he finally survived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter.
I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door.
Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them.
"Aeneas Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk of a pear tree," adds that "'this action was fought in the pontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the whole, history of the battle with the greatest fidelity.'
A similar engagement between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a prey to the birds.
This event happened previous to the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden."
The battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill.
Many a village Bose, fit only to course a mud-turtle in a victualling cellar, sported his heavy quarters in the woods, without the knowledge of his master, and ineffectually smelled at old fox burrows and woodchucks' holes; led perchance by some slight cur which nimbly threaded the wood, and might still inspire a natural terror in its denizens;now far behind his guide, barking like a canine bull toward some small squirrel which had treed itself for scrutiny, then, cantering off, bending the bushes with his weight, imagining that he is on the track of some stray member of the jerbilla family.
Once I was surprised to see a cat walking along the stony shore of the pond, for they rarely wander so far from home.
The surprise was mutual.
Nevertheless the most domestic cat, which has lain on a rug all her days, appears quite at home in the woods, and, by her sly and stealthy behavior, proves herself more native there than the regular inhabitants.
Once, when berrying, I met with a cat with young kittens in the woods, quite wild, and they all, like their mother, had their backs up and were fiercely spitting at me.
A few years before I lived in the woods there was what was called a "winged cat" in one of the farm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. Gilian Baker's.
When I called to see her in June, 1842, she was gone a-hunting in the woods, as was her wont (I am not sure whether it was a male or female, and so use the more common pronoun), but her mistress told me that she came into the neighborhood a little more than a year before, in April, and was finally taken into their house; that she was of a dark brownish-gray color, with a white spot on her throat, and white feet, and had a large bushy tail like a fox; that in the winter the fur grew thick and flatted out along her sides, forming stripes ten or twelve inches long by two and a half wide, and under her chin like a muff, the upper side loose, the under matted like felt, and in the spring these appendages dropped off.
They gave me a pair of her "wings," which I keep still.
There is no appearance of a membrane about them.
Some thought it was part flying squirrel or some other wild animal, which is not impossible, for, according to naturalists, prolific hybrids have been produced by the union of the marten and domestic cat.
This would have been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if I had kept any; for why should not a poet's cat be winged as well as his horse?
In the fall the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to moult and bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with his wild laughter before I had risen.
At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sportsmen are on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by three, with patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses.
They come rustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one loon.
Some station themselves on this side of the pond, some on that, for the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive here he must come up there.
But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and rippling the surface of the water, so that no loon can be heard or seen, though his foes sweep the pond with spy-glasses, and make the woods resound with their discharges.
The waves generously rise and dash angrily, taking sides with all water-fowl, and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and shop and unfinished jobs.
But they were too often successful.
When I went to get a pail of water early in the morning I frequently saw this stately bird sailing out of my cove within a few rods.
If I endeavored to overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he would manoeuvre, he would dive and be completely lost, so that I did not discover him again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day.
But I was more than a match for him on the surface.
He commonly went off in a rain.
As I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October afternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like the milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon, suddenly one, sailing out from the shore toward the middle a few rods in front of me, set up his mild laugh and betrayed himself.
I pursued with a paddle and he dived, but when he came up I was nearer than before.
He dived again, but I miscalculated the direction he would take, and we were fifty rods apart when he came to the surface this time, for I had helped to widen the interval; and again he laughed long and loud, and with more reason than before.
He manoeuvred so cunningly that I could not get within half a dozen rods of him.
Each time, when he came to the surface, turning his head this way and that, he cooly surveyed the water and the land, and apparently chose his course so that he might come up where there was the widest expanse of water and at the greatest distance from the boat.
It was surprising how quickly he made up his mind and put his resolve into execution.
He led me at once to the widest part of the pond, and could not be driven from it.
While he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine.
It was a pretty game, played on the smooth surface of the pond, a man against a loon.
Suddenly your adversary's checker disappears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where his will appear again.
Sometimes he would come up unexpectedly on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed directly under the boat.
So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that when he had swum farthest he would immediately plunge again, nevertheless; and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond, beneath the smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish, for he had time and ability to visit the bottom of the pond in its deepest part.
It is said that loons have been caught in the New York lakes eighty feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for troutthough Walden is deeper than that.
How surprised must the fishes be to see this ungainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid their schools!
Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water as on the surface, and swam much faster there.
Once or twice I saw a ripple where he approached the surface, just put his head out to reconnoitre, and instantly dived again.
I found that it was as well for me to rest on my oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to calculate where he would rise; for again and again, when I was straining my eyes over the surface one way, I would suddenly be startled by his unearthly laugh behind me.
But why, after displaying so much cunning, did he invariably betray himself the moment he came up by that loud laugh?
Did not his white breast enough betray him?
He was indeed a silly loon, I thought.
I could commonly hear the splash of the water when he came up, and so also detected him.
But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever, dived as willingly, and swam yet farther than at first.
It was surprising to see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when he came to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet beneath.
His usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like that of a water-fowl; but occasionally, when he had balked me most successfully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn unearthly howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as when a beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls.
This was his looningperhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, making the woods ring far and wide.
I concluded that he laughed in derision of my efforts, confident of his own resources.
Though the sky was by this time overcast, the pond was so smooth that I could see where he broke the surface when I did not hear him.
His white breast, the stillness of the air, and the smoothness of the water were all against him.
At length having come up fifty rods off, he uttered one of those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid him, and immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled the surface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was impressed as if it were the prayer of the loon answered, and his god was angry with me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the tumultuous surface.
For hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and veer and hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks which they will have less need to practise in Louisiana bayous.
When compelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and over the pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily see to other ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, when I thought they had gone off thither long since, they would settle down by a slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part which was left free; but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason that I do.
CHAPTER II No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball.
The day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma.
The room at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a common meeting in a crowd.
Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company.
She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize.
"So unreasonably early!"
she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity.
She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man.
The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though May, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger.
They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease.
He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of.
"I think she must be here soon," said he.
"I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes."
A carriage was heard.
He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her.
I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton.
I have no business to put myself forward."
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.
"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!"
said Mr. Weston, looking about.
"We thought you were to bring them."
The mistake had been slight.
The carriage was sent for them now.
Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness.
He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--"I will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father: "Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went.
Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston.
You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me.
I never compliment.
I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove.
Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things!
Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better."
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston.
"I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane.
Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of them."
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them.
Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire.
As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all.
Nothing to signify.
I do not care for myself.
Quite thick shoes.
And Jane declares--Well!--(as soon as she was within the door) Well!
This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word.
Nothing wanting.
Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing?
Oh!
Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp.
Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again.
I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance.
'Oh!
Mrs. Stokes,' said I--but I had not time for more."
She was now met by Mrs.
Weston.--"Very well, I thank you, ma'am.
I hope you are quite well.
Very happy to hear it.
So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed.
Ah!
dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time.
Jane and I quite ready.
Did not keep the horses a moment.
Most comfortable carriage.--Oh!
and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score.
Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours.
I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.'
Thank you, my mother is remarkably well.
Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's.
I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice.
There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time.
Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive.
My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh!
Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again.
My mother often talks of your good-nature.
Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah!
here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well.
This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself.
Quite wonderful how she does her hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah!
Dr. Hughes I declare--and Mrs. Hughes.
Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.--How do you do?
How do you do?--Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr.
Richard?--Oh!
there he is.
Don't disturb him.
Much better employed talking to the young ladies.
How do you do, Mr.
Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr.
Arthur!--How do you do?
How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you.
Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends!
And such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted.
No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh!
here it comes.
Every thing so good!"
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.--He was thoughtful.
Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine.
After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my hair?"
--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness.
Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish to be inferior to others.
And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
I like him very well."
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly forward.--Mr.
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming, "Oh!
you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us."
"Jane!"
--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.--"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose."
"How do you like Mrs.
Elton?"
said Emma in a whisper.
"Not at all."
"You are ungrateful."
"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?"
Then changing from a frown to a smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?"
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour.
He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston.
He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma.
It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.
"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?"
said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--Mr.
Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed.
Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her.
It was almost enough to make her think of marrying.
Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change.
Mr. Weston might be his son's superior.--In spite of this little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.--She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were made up,--so young as he looked!--He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself.
His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the trouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave.
She wished he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.--He seemed often observing her.
She must not flatter herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid.
There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.
They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.
That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly.
The anxious cares, the incessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away.
Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this.
Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually are.
There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.--The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;--the only young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the wonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about.
He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan.
He came to the part of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it.
He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.--Emma saw it.
She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all.
When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, "Do not you dance, Mr.
Elton?"
to which his prompt reply was, "Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."
"Me!--oh!
no--I would get you a better partner than myself.
I am no dancer."
"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great pleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
Gilbert."
"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith."
"Miss Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--and if I were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.
You will excuse me.
Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your command--but my dancing days are over."
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat.
This was Mr. Elton!
the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr.
Elton.--She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.
She would not look again.
Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant.
She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features announced.
It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very foolish.
She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her;--she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her partner, "Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very good-natured, I declare."
Supper was announced.
The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet.
Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet.
She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.
Mr. Churchill, oh!
you are too obliging!
How well you put it on!--so gratified!
Excellent dancing indeed!--Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were your partners.
'Oh!'
said I, 'I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.'
My dear sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am not helpless.
Sir, you are most kind.
Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we are at the passage.
Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps.
Oh!
no, there is but one.
Well, I was persuaded there were two.
How very odd!
I was convinced there were two, and there is but one.
I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling you of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again.
Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!--Well, this is brilliant!
I am all amazement!
could not have supposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing like it since--Well, where shall we sit?
where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught.
Where I sit is of no consequence.
Oh!
do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--only it seems too good--but just as you please.
What you direct in this house cannot be wrong.
Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama?
Soup too!
Bless me!
I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning."
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked.
He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.
"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he.
"Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?"
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added, "She ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet."
"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said, "I shall not scold you.
I leave you to your own reflections."
"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it."
"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton.
There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet.
It was through a series of strange blunders!"
"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without.
An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton.
I found Harriet more conversable than I expected."
Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing?--Come Emma, set your companions the example.
Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!"
"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted."
"Whom are you going to dance with?"
asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask me."
"Will you?"
said he, offering his hand.
"Indeed I will.
You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."
"Brother and sister!
no, indeed."
CHAPTER III This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure.
It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying.
The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes.
It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him.
The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy.
She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning.
He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day.
She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained.
Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long.
A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies.
A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.
But poor Harriet could not follow.
She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent.
By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment.
The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them.
The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion.
He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.
It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain.
So Emma thought, at least.
Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing!
Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more.
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences.
It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other.
In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms.
Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint.
No, she had had enough of interference.
There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.
It was no more than a wish.
Beyond it she would on no account proceed.
Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible.
Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury.
It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news.
The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again.
It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with.
She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry.
The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.
AEOLUS, THE LAESTRYGONES, CIRCE.
"Thence we went on to the Aeolian island where lives Aeolus son of Hippotas, dear to the immortal gods.
It is an island that floats( as it were) upon the sea iron bound with a wall that girds it.
Now, Aeolus has six daughters and six lusty sons, so he made the sons marry the daughters, and they all live with their dear father and mother, feasting and enjoying every conceivable kind of luxury.
All day long the atmosphere of the house is loaded with the savour of roasting meats till it groans again, yard and all; but by night they sleep on their well made bedsteads, each with his own wife between the blankets.
These were the people among whom we had now come.
"Aeolus entertained me for a whole month asking me questions all the time about Troy, the Argive fleet, and the return of the Achaeans.
I told him exactly how everything had happened, and when I said I must go, and asked him to further me on my way, he made no sort of difficulty, but set about doing so at once.
Moreover, he flayed me a prime oxhide to hold the ways of the roaring winds, which he shut up in the hide as in a sack— for Jove had made him captain over the winds, and he could stir or still each one of them according to his own pleasure.
He put the sack in the ship and bound the mouth so tightly with a silver thread that not even a breath of a sidewind could blow from any quarter.
The West wind which was fair for us did he alone let blow as it chose; but it all came to nothing, for we were lost through our own folly.
"Nine days and nine nights did we sail, and on the tenth day our native land showed on the horizon.
We got so close in that we could see the stubble fires burning, and I, being then dead beat, fell into a light sleep, for I had never let the rudder out of my own hands, that we might get home the faster.
On this the men fell to talking among themselves, and said I was bringing back gold and silver in the sack that Aeolus had given me.'
Bless my heart,' would one turn to his neighbour, saying,' how this man gets honoured and makes friends to whatever city or country he may go.
See what fine prizes he is taking home from Troy, while we, who have travelled just as far as he has, come back with hands as empty as we set out with— and now Aeolus has given him ever so much more.
Quick— let us see what it all is, and how much gold and silver there is in the sack he gave him.'
"Thus they talked and evil counsels prevailed.
They loosed the sack, whereupon the wind flew howling forth and raised a storm that carried us weeping out to sea and away from our own country.
Then I awoke, and knew not whether to throw myself into the sea or to live on and make the best of it; but I bore it, covered myself up, and lay down in the ship, while the men lamented bitterly as the fierce winds bore our fleet back to the Aeolian island.
"When we reached it we went ashore to take in water, and dined hard by the ships.
Immediately after dinner I took a herald and one of my men and went straight to the house of Aeolus, where I found him feasting with his wife and family; so we sat down as suppliants on the threshold.
They were astounded when they saw us and said,' Ulysses, what brings you here?
What god has been illtreating you?
We took great pains to further you on your way home to Ithaca, or wherever it was that you wanted to go to.'
"Thus did they speak, but I answered sorrowfully,' My men have undone me; they, and cruel sleep, have ruined me.
My friends, mend me this mischief, for you can if you will.'
"I spoke as movingly as I could, but they said nothing, till their father answered,' Vilest of mankind, get you gone at once out of the island; him whom heaven hates will I in no wise help.
Be off, for you come here as one abhorred of heaven.'
And with these words he sent me sorrowing from his door.
"Thence we sailed sadly on till the men were worn out with long and fruitless rowing, for there was no longer any wind to help them.
Six days, night and day did we toil, and on the seventh day we reached the rocky stronghold of Lamus— Telepylus, the city of the Laestrygonians, where the shepherd who is driving in his sheep and goats[ to be milked] salutes him who is driving out his flock[ to feed] and this last answers the salute.
In that country a man who could do without sleep might earn double wages, one as a herdsman of cattle, and another as a shepherd, for they work much the same by night as they do by day.
"When we reached the harbour we found it landlocked under steep cliffs, with a narrow entrance between two headlands.
My captains took all their ships inside, and made them fast close to one another, for there was never so much as a breath of wind inside, but it was always dead calm.
I kept my own ship outside, and moored it to a rock at the very end of the point; then I climbed a high rock to reconnoitre, but could see no sign neither of man nor cattle, only some smoke rising from the ground.
So I sent two of my company with an attendant to find out what sort of people the inhabitants were.
"The men when they got on shore followed a level road by which the people draw their firewood from the mountains into the town, till presently they met a young woman who had come outside to fetch water, and who was daughter to a Laestrygonian named Antiphates.
She was going to the fountain Artacia from which the people bring in their water, and when my men had come close up to her, they asked her who the king of that country might be, and over what kind of people he ruled; so she directed them to her father 's house, but when they got there they found his wife to be a giantess as huge as a mountain, and they were horrified at the sight of her.
"She at once called her husband Antiphates from the place of assembly, and forthwith he set about killing my men.
He snatched up one of them, and began to make his dinner off him then and there, whereon the other two ran back to the ships as fast as ever they could.
But Antiphates raised a hueandcry after them, and thousands of sturdy Laestrygonians sprang up from every quarter— ogres, not men.
They threw vast rocks at us from the cliffs as though they had been mere stones, and I heard the horrid sound of the ships crunching up against one another, and the death cries of my men, as the Laestrygonians speared them like fishes and took them home to eat them.
While they were thus killing my men within the harbour I drew my sword, cut the cable of my own ship, and told my men to row with all their might if they too would not fare like the rest; so they laid out for their lives, and we were thankful enough when we got into open water out of reach of the rocks they hurled at us.
As for the others there was not one of them left.
"Thence we sailed sadly on, glad to have escaped death, though we had lost our comrades, and came to the Aeaean island, where Circe lives— a great and cunning goddess who is own sister to the magician Aeetes— for they are both children of the sun by Perse, who is daughter to Oceanus.
We brought our ship into a safe harbour without a word, for some god guided us thither, and having landed we lay there for two days and two nights, worn out in body and mind.
When the morning of the third day came I took my spear and my sword, and went away from the ship to reconnoitre, and see if I could discover signs of human handiwork, or hear the sound of voices.
Climbing to the top of a high lookout I espied the smoke of Circe 's house rising upwards amid a dense forest of trees, and when I saw this I doubted whether, having seen the smoke, I would not go on at once and find out more, but in the end I deemed it best to go back to the ship, give the men their dinners, and send some of them instead of going myself.
"When I had nearly got back to the ship some god took pity upon my solitude, and sent a fine antlered stag right into the middle of my path.
He was coming down his pasture in the forest to drink of the river, for the heat of the sun drove him, and as he passed I struck him in the middle of the back; the bronze point of the spear went clean through him, and he lay groaning in the dust until the life went out of him.
Then I set my foot upon him, drew my spear from the wound, and laid it down; I also gathered rough grass and rushes and twisted them into a fathom or so of good stout rope, with which I bound the four feet of the noble creature together; having so done I hung him round my neck and walked back to the ship leaning upon my spear, for the stag was much too big for me to be able to carry him on my shoulder, steadying him with one hand.
As I threw him down in front of the ship, I called the men and spoke cheeringly man by man to each of them.'
Look here my friends,' said I,' we are not going to die so much before our time after all, and at any rate we will not starve so long as we have got something to eat and drink on board.'
On this they uncovered their heads upon the sea shore and admired the stag, for he was indeed a splendid fellow.
Then, when they had feasted their eyes upon him sufficiently, they washed their hands and began to cook him for dinner.
"Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we stayed there eating and drinking our fill, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped upon the sea shore.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, I called a council and said,' My friends, we are in very great difficulties; listen therefore to me.
We have no idea where the sun either sets or rises so that we do not even know East from West.
I see no way out of it; nevertheless, we must try and find one.
We are certainly on an island, for I went as high as I could this morning, and saw the sea reaching all round it to the horizon; it lies low, but towards the middle I saw smoke rising from out of a thick forest of trees.'
"Their hearts sank as they heard me, for they remembered how they had been treated by the Laestrygonian Antiphates, and by the savage ogre Polyphemus.
They wept bitterly in their dismay, but there was nothing to be got by crying, so I divided them into two companies and set a captain over each; I gave one company to Eurylochus, while I took command of the other myself.
Then we cast lots in a helmet, and the lot fell upon Eurylochus; so he set out with his twentytwo men, and they wept, as also did we who were left behind.
"When they reached Circe 's house they found it built of cut stones, on a site that could be seen from far, in the middle of the forest.
There were wild mountain wolves and lions prowling all round it— poor bewitched creatures whom she had tamed by her enchantments and drugged into subjection.
They did not attack my men, but wagged their great tails, fawned upon them, and rubbed their noses lovingly against them.
As hounds crowd round their master when they see him coming from dinner— for they know he will bring them something— even so did these wolves and lions with their great claws fawn upon my men, but the men were terribly frightened at seeing such strange creatures.
Presently they reached the gates of the goddess 's house, and as they stood there they could hear Circe within, singing most beautifully as she worked at her loom, making a web so fine, so soft, and of such dazzling colours as no one but a goddess could weave.
On this Polites, whom I valued and trusted more than any other of my men, said,' There is some one inside working at a loom and singing most beautifully; the whole place resounds with it, let us call her and see whether she is woman or goddess.'
"They called her and she came down, unfastened the door, and bade them enter.
They, thinking no evil, followed her, all except Eurylochus, who suspected mischief and staid outside.
When she had got them into her house, she set them upon benches and seats and mixed them a mess with cheese, honey, meal, and Pramnian wine, but she drugged it with wicked poisons to make them forget their homes, and when they had drunk she turned them into pigs by a stroke of her wand, and shut them up in her pigstyes.
They were like pigs— head, hair, and all, and they grunted just as pigs do; but their senses were the same as before, and they remembered everything.
"Thus then were they shut up squealing, and Circe threw them some acorns and beech masts such as pigs eat, but Eurylochus hurried back to tell me about the sad fate of our comrades.
He was so overcome with dismay that though he tried to speak he could find no words to do so; his eyes filled with tears and he could only sob and sigh, till at last we forced his story out of him, and he told us what had happened to the others.
"'We went,' said he,' as you told us, through the forest, and in the middle of it there was a fine house built with cut stones in a place that could be seen from far.
There we found a woman, or else she was a goddess, working at her loom and singing sweetly; so the men shouted to her and called her, whereon she at once came down, opened the door, and invited us in.
The others did not suspect any mischief so they followed her into the house, but I staid where I was, for I thought there might be some treachery.
From that moment I saw them no more, for not one of them ever came out, though I sat a long time watching for them.'
"Then I took my sword of bronze and slung it over my shoulders; I also took my bow, and told Eurylochus to come back with me and shew me the way.
But he laid hold of me with both his hands and spoke piteously, saying,' Sir, do not force me to go with you, but let me stay here, for I know you will not bring one of them back with you, nor even return alive yourself; let us rather see if we can not escape at any rate with the few that are left us, for we may still save our lives.'
"'Stay where you are, then,' answered I,' eating and drinking at the ship, but I must go, for I am most urgently bound to do so.'
"With this I left the ship and went up inland.
When I got through the charmed grove, and was near the great house of the enchantress Circe, I met Mercury with his golden wand, disguised as a young man in the heyday of his youth and beauty with the down just coming upon his face.
He came up to me and took my hand within his own, saying,' My poor unhappy man, whither are you going over this mountain top, alone and without knowing the way?
Your men are shut up in Circe 's pigstyes, like so many wild boars in their lairs.
You surely do not fancy that you can set them free?
I can tell you that you will never get back and will have to stay there with the rest of them.
But never mind, I will protect you and get you out of your difficulty.
Take this herb, which is one of great virtue, and keep it about you when you go to Circe 's house, it will be a talisman to you against every kind of mischief.
"'And I will tell you of all the wicked witchcraft that Circe will try to practice upon you.
She will mix a mess for you to drink, and she will drug the meal with which she makes it, but she will not be able to charm you, for the virtue of the herb that I shall give you will prevent her spells from working.
I will tell you all about it.
When Circe strikes you with her wand, draw your sword and spring upon her as though you were going to kill her.
She will then be frightened, and will desire you to go to bed with her; on this you must not point blank refuse her, for you want her to set your companions free, and to take good care also of yourself, but you must make her swear solemnly by all the blessed gods that she will plot no further mischief against you, or else when she has got you naked she will unman you and make you fit for nothing.'
"As he spoke he pulled the herb out of the ground and shewed me what it was like.
The root was black, while the flower was as white as milk; the gods call it Moly, and mortal men can not uproot it, but the gods can do whatever they like.
"Then Mercury went back to high Olympus passing over the wooded island; but I fared onward to the house of Circe, and my heart was clouded with care as I walked along.
When I got to the gates I stood there and called the goddess, and as soon as she heard me she came down, opened the door, and asked me to come in; so I followed her— much troubled in my mind.
She set me on a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver, there was a footstool also under my feet, and she mixed a mess in a golden goblet for me to drink; but she drugged it, for she meant me mischief.
When she had given it me, and I had drunk it without its charming me, she struck me with her wand.'
There now,' she cried,' be off to the pigstye, and make your lair with the rest of them.'
"But I rushed at her with my sword drawn as though I would kill her, whereon she fell with a loud scream, clasped my knees, and spoke piteously, saying,' Who and whence are you?
from what place and people have you come?
How can it be that my drugs have no power to charm you?
Never yet was any man able to stand so much as a taste of the herb I gave you; you must be spellproof; surely you can be none other than the bold hero Ulysses, who Mercury always said would come here some day with his ship while on his way home from Troy; so be it then; sheathe your sword and let us go to bed, that we may make friends and learn to trust each other.'
"And I answered,' Circe, how can you expect me to be friendly with you when you have just been turning all my men into pigs?
And now that you have got me here myself ,you mean me mischief when you ask me to go to bed with you, and will unman me and make me fit for nothing.
I shall certainly not consent to go to bed with you unless you will first take your solemn oath to plot no further harm against me.'
"So she swore at once as I had told her, and when she had completed her oath then I went to bed with her.
"Meanwhile her four servants, who are her housemaids, set about their work.
They are the children of the groves and fountains, and of the holy waters that run down into the sea.
One of them spread a fair purple cloth over a seat, and laid a carpet underneath it.
Another brought tables of silver up to the seats, and set them with baskets of gold.
A third mixed some sweet wine with water in a silver bowl and put golden cups upon the tables, while the fourth brought in water and set it to boil in a large cauldron over a good fire which she had lighted.
When the water in the cauldron was boiling she poured cold into it till it was just as I liked it, and then she set me in a bath and began washing me from the cauldron about the head and shoulders, to take the tire and stiffness out of my limbs.
As soon as she had done washing me and anointing me with oil, she arrayed me in a good cloak and shirt and led me to a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver; there was a footstool also under my feet.
A maid servant then brought me water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for me to wash my hands, and she drew a clean table beside me; an upper servant brought me bread and offered me many things of what there was in the house, and then Circe bade me eat, but I would not, and sat without heeding what was before me, still moody and suspicious.
"When Circe saw me sitting there without eating, and in great grief, she came to me and said,' Ulysses, why do you sit like that as though you were dumb, gnawing at your own heart, and refusing both meat and drink?
Is it that you are still suspicious?
You ought not to be, for I have already sworn solemnly that I will not hurt you.'
"And I said,' Circe, no man with any sense of what is right can think of either eating or drinking in your house until you have set his friends free and let him see them.
If you want me to eat and drink, you must free my men and bring them to me that I may see them with my own eyes.'
"When I had said this she went straight through the court with her wand in her hand and opened the pigstye doors.
My men came out like so many prime hogs and stood looking at her, but she went about among them and anointed each with a second drug, whereon the bristles that the bad drug had given them fell off, and they became men again, younger than they were before, and much taller and better looking.
They knew me at once, seized me each of them by the hand, and wept for joy till the whole house was filled with the sound of their halloaballooing, and Circe herself was so sorry for them that she came up to me and said,' Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, go back at once to the sea where you have left your ship, and first draw it on to the land.
Then, hide all your ship 's gear and property in some cave, and come back here with your men.'
"I agreed to this, so I went back to the sea shore, and found the men at the ship weeping and wailing most piteously.
When they saw me the silly blubbering fellows began frisking round me as calves break out and gambol round their mothers, when they see them coming home to be milked after they have been feeding all day, and the homestead resounds with their lowing.
They seemed as glad to see me as though they had got back to their own rugged Ithaca, where they had been born and bred.'
Sir,' said the affectionate creatures,' we are as glad to see you back as though we had got safe home to Ithaca; but tell us all about the fate of our comrades.'
"I spoke comfortingly to them and said,' We must draw our ship on to the land, and hide the ship 's gear with all our property in some cave; then come with me all of you as fast as you can to Circe 's house, where you will find your comrades eating and drinking in the midst of great abundance.'
"On this the men would have come with me at once, but Eurylochus tried to hold them back and said,' Alas, poor wretches that we are, what will become of us?
Rush not on your ruin by going to the house of Circe, who will turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions, and we shall have to keep guard over her house.
Remember how the Cyclops treated us when our comrades went inside his cave, and Ulysses with them.
It was all through his sheer folly that those men lost their lives.'
"When I heard him I was in two minds whether or no to draw the keen blade that hung by my sturdy thigh and cut his head off in spite of his being a near relation of my own; but the men interceded for him and said,' Sir, if it may so be, let this fellow stay here and mind the ship, but take the rest of us with you to Circe 's house.'
"On this we all went inland, and Eurylochus was not left behind after all, but came on too, for he was frightened by the severe reprimand that I had given him.
"Meanwhile Circe had been seeing that the men who had been left behind were washed and anointed with olive oil; she had also given them woollen cloaks and shirts, and when we came we found them all comfortably at dinner in her house.
As soon as the men saw each other face to face and knew one another, they wept for joy and cried aloud till the whole palace rang again.
Thereon Circe came up to me and said,' Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, tell your men to leave off crying; I know how much you have all of you suffered at sea, and how ill you have fared among cruel savages on the mainland, but that is over now, so stay here, and eat and drink till you are once more as strong and hearty as you were when you left Ithaca; for at present you are weakened both in body and mind; you keep all the time thinking of the hardships you have suffered during your travels, so that you have no more cheerfulness left in you.'
"Thus did she speak and we assented.
We stayed with Circe for a whole twelvemonth feasting upon an untold quantity both of meat and wine.
But when the year had passed in the waning of moons and the long days had come round, my men called me apart and said,' Sir, it is time you began to think about going home, if so be you are to be spared to see your house and native country at all.'
"Thus did they speak and I assented.
Thereon through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we feasted our fill on meat and wine, but when the sun went down and it came on dark the men laid themselves down to sleep in the covered cloisters.
I, however, after I had got into bed with Circe, besought her by her knees, and the goddess listened to what I had got to say.'
Circe,' said I,' please to keep the promise you made me about furthering me on my homeward voyage.
I want to get back and so do my men, they are always pestering me with their complaints as soon as ever your back is turned.'
"And the goddess answered,' Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, you shall none of you stay here any longer if you do not want to, but there is another journey which you have got to take before you can sail homewards.
You must go to the house of Hades and of dread Proserpine to consult the ghost of the blind Theban prophet Teiresias, whose reason is still unshaken.
To him alone has Proserpine left his understanding even in death, but the other ghosts flit about aimlessly.'
"I was dismayed when I heard this.
I sat up in bed and wept, and would gladly have lived no longer to see the light of the sun, but presently when I was tired of weeping and tossing myself about, I said,' And who shall guide me upon this voyage— for the house of Hades is a port that no ship can reach.'
"'You will want no guide,' she answered;' raise your mast, set your white sails, sit quite still, and the North Wind will blow you there of itself.
When your ship has traversed the waters of Oceanus, you will reach the fertile shore of Proserpine 's country with its groves of tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit untimely; here beach your ship upon the shore of Oceanus, and go straight on to the dark abode of Hades.
You will find it near the place where the rivers Pyriphlegethon and Cocytus( which is a branch of the river Styx) flow into Acheron, and you will see a rock near it, just where the two roaring rivers run into one another.
"'When you have reached this spot, as I now tell you, dig a trench a cubit or so in length, breadth, and depth, and pour into it as a drinkoffering to all the dead, first, honey mixed with milk, then wine, and in the third place water— sprinkling white barley meal over the whole.
Moreover you must offer many prayers to the poor feeble ghosts, and promise them that when you get back to Ithaca you will sacrifice a barren heifer to them, the best you have, and will load the pyre with good things.
More particularly you must promise that Teiresias shall have a black sheep all to himself, the finest in all your flocks.
"'When you shall have thus besought the ghosts with your prayers, offer them a ram and a black ewe, bending their heads towards Erebus; but yourself turn away from them as though you would make towards the river.
On this, many dead men 's ghosts will come to you, and you must tell your men to skin the two sheep that you have just killed, and offer them as a burnt sacrifice with prayers to Hades and to Proserpine.
Then draw your sword and sit there, so as to prevent any other poor ghost from coming near the spilt blood before Teiresias shall have answered your questions.
The seer will presently come to you, and will tell you about your voyage— what stages you are to make, and how you are to sail the sea so as to reach your home.'
"It was daybreak by the time she had done speaking, so she dressed me in my shirt and cloak.
As for herself she threw a beautiful light gossamer fabric over her shoulders, fastening it with a golden girdle round her waist, and she covered her head with a mantle.
Then I went about among the men everywhere all over the house, and spoke kindly to each of them man by man:' You must not lie sleeping here any longer,' said I to them,' we must be going, for Circe has told me all about it.'
And on this they did as I bade them.
"Even so, however, I did not get them away without misadventure.
We had with us a certain youth named Elpenor, not very remarkable for sense or courage, who had got drunk and was lying on the housetop away from the rest of the men, to sleep off his liquor in the cool.
When he heard the noise of the men bustling about, he jumped up on a sudden and forgot all about coming down by the main staircase, so he tumbled right off the roof and broke his neck, and his soul went down to the house of Hades.
"When I had got the men together I said to them,' You think you are about to start home again, but Circe has explained to me that instead of this, we have got to go to the house of Hades and Proserpine to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias.'
"The men were brokenhearted as they heard me, and threw themselves on the ground groaning and tearing their hair, but they did not mend matters by crying.
When we reached the sea shore, weeping and lamenting our fate, Circe brought the ram and the ewe, and we made them fast hard by the ship.
She passed through the midst of us without our knowing it, for who can see the comings and goings of a god, if the god does not wish to be seen?
Priam ransoms the body of Hector—Hector's funeral.
The assembly now broke up and the people went their ways each to his own ship.
There they made ready their supper, and then bethought them of the blessed boon of sleep; but Achilles still wept for thinking of his dear comrade, and sleep, before whom all things bow, could take no hold upon him.
This way and that did he turn as he yearned after the might and manfulness of Patroclus; he thought of all they had done together, and all they had gone through both on the field of battle and on the waves of the weary sea.
As he dwelt on these things he wept bitterly and lay now on his side, now on his back, and now face downwards, till at last he rose and went out as one distraught to wander upon the seashore.
Then, when he saw dawn breaking over beach and sea, he yoked his horses to his chariot, and bound the body of Hector behind it that he might drag it about.
Thrice did he drag it round the tomb of the son of Menoetius, and then went back into his tent, leaving the body on the ground full length and with its face downwards.
But Apollo would not suffer it to be disfigured, for he pitied the man, dead though he now was; therefore he shielded him with his golden aegis continually, that he might take no hurt while Achilles was dragging him.
Thus shamefully did Achilles in his fury dishonour Hector; but the blessed gods looked down in pity from heaven, and urged Mercury, slayer of Argus, to steal the body.
All were of this mind save only Juno, Neptune, and Jove 's greyeyed daughter, who persisted in the hate which they had ever borne towards Ilius with Priam and his people; for they forgave not the wrong done them by Alexandrus in disdaining the goddesses who came to him when he was in his sheepyards, and preferring her who had offered him a wanton to his ruin.
When, therefore, the morning of the twelfth day had now come, Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals saying," You gods ought to be ashamed of yourselves; you are cruel and hardhearted.
Did not Hector burn you thighbones of heifers and of unblemished goats?
And now dare you not rescue even his dead body, for his wife to look upon, with his mother and child, his father Priam, and his people, who would forthwith commit him to the flames, and give him his due funeral rites?
So, then, you would all be on the side of mad Achilles, who knows neither right nor ruth?
He is like some savage lion that in the pride of his great strength and daring springs upon men 's flocks and gorges on them.
Even so has Achilles flung aside all pity, and all that conscience which at once so greatly banes yet greatly boons him that will heed it.
A man may lose one far dearer than Achilles has lost— a son, it may be, or a brother born from his own mother 's womb; yet when he has mourned him and wept over him he will let him bide, for it takes much sorrow to kill a man; whereas Achilles, now that he has slain noble Hector, drags him behind his chariot round the tomb of his comrade.
It were better of him, and for him, that he should not do so, for brave though he be we gods may take it ill that he should vent his fury upon dead clay."
Juno spoke up in a rage. "
This were well," she cried," O lord of the silver bow, if you would give like honour to Hector and to Achilles; but Hector was mortal and suckled at a woman 's breast, whereas Achilles is the offspring of a goddess whom I myself reared and brought up.
I married her to Peleus, who is above measure dear to the immortals; you gods came all of you to her wedding; you feasted along with them yourself and brought your lyre— false, and fond of low company, that you have ever been."
Then said Jove," Juno, be not so bitter.
Their honour shall not be equal, but of all that dwell in Ilius, Hector was dearest to the gods, as also to myself, for his offerings never failed me.
Never was my altar stinted of its dues, nor of the drinkofferings and savour of sacrifice which we claim of right.
I shall therefore permit the body of mighty Hector to be stolen; and yet this may hardly be without Achilles coming to know it, for his mother keeps night and day beside him.
Let some one of you, therefore, send Thetis to me, and I will impart my counsel to her, namely that Achilles is to accept a ransom from Priam, and give up the body."
On this Iris fleet as the wind went forth to carry his message.
Down she plunged into the dark sea midway between Samos and rocky Imbrus; the waters hissed as they closed over her, and she sank into the bottom as the lead at the end of an oxhorn, that is sped to carry death to fishes.
She found Thetis sitting in a great cave with the other seagoddesses gathered round her; there she sat in the midst of them weeping for her noble son who was to fall far from his own land, on the rich plains of Troy.
Iris went up to her and said," Rise Thetis; Jove, whose counsels fail not, bids you come to him."
And Thetis answered," Why does the mighty god so bid me?
I am in great grief, and shrink from going in and out among the immortals.
Still, I will go, and the word that he may speak shall not be spoken in vain."
The goddess took her dark veil, than which there can be no robe more sombre, and went forth with fleet Iris leading the way before her.
The waves of the sea opened them a path, and when they reached the shore they flew up into the heavens, where they found the allseeing son of Saturn with the blessed gods that live for ever assembled near him.
Minerva gave up her seat to her, and she sat down by the side of father Jove.
Juno then placed a fair golden cup in her hand, and spoke to her in words of comfort, whereon Thetis drank and gave her back the cup; and the sire of gods and men was the first to speak.
"So, goddess," said he," for all your sorrow, and the grief that I well know reigns ever in your heart, you have come hither to Olympus, and I will tell you why I have sent for you.
This nine days past the immortals have been quarrelling about Achilles waster of cities and the body of Hector.
The gods would have Mercury slayer of Argus steal the body, but in furtherance of our peace and amity henceforward, I will concede such honour to your son as I will now tell you.
Go, then, to the host and lay these commands upon him; say that the gods are angry with him, and that I am myself more angry than them all, in that he keeps Hector at the ships and will not give him up.
He may thus fear me and let the body go.
At the same time I will send Iris to great Priam to bid him go to the ships of the Achaeans, and ransom his son, taking with him such gifts for Achilles as may give him satisfaction."
Silverfooted Thetis did as the god had told her, and forthwith down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus.
She went to her son 's tents where she found him grieving bitterly, while his trusty comrades round him were busy preparing their morning meal, for which they had killed a great woolly sheep.
His mother sat down beside him and caressed him with her hand saying," My son, how long will you keep on thus grieving and making moan?
You are gnawing at your own heart, and think neither of food nor of woman 's embraces; and yet these too were well, for you have no long time to live, and death with the strong hand of fate are already close beside you.
Now, therefore, heed what I say, for I come as a messenger from Jove; he says that the gods are angry with you, and himself more angry than them all, in that you keep Hector at the ships and will not give him up.
Therefore let him go, and accept a ransom for his body."
And Achilles answered," So be it.
If Olympian Jove of his own motion thus commands me, let him that brings the ransom bear the body away."
Thus did mother and son talk together at the ships in long discourse with one another.
Meanwhile the son of Saturn sent Iris to the strong city of Ilius.
"Go," said he," fleet Iris, from the mansions of Olympus, and tell King Priam in Ilius, that he is to go to the ships of the Achaeans and free the body of his dear son.
He is to take such gifts with him as shall give satisfaction to Achilles, and he is to go alone, with no other Trojan, save only some honoured servant who may drive his mules and waggon, and bring back the body of him whom noble Achilles has slain.
Let him have no thought nor fear of death in his heart, for we will send the slayer of Argus to escort him, and bring him within the tent of Achilles.
Achilles will not kill him nor let another do so, for he will take heed to his ways and sin not, and he will entreat a suppliant with all honourable courtesy."
On this Iris, fleet as the wind, sped forth to deliver her message.
She went to Priam 's house, and found weeping and lamentation therein.
His sons were seated round their father in the outer courtyard, and their raiment was wet with tears: the old man sat in the midst of them with his mantle wrapped close about his body, and his head and neck all covered with the filth which he had clutched as he lay grovelling in the mire.
His daughters and his sons ' wives went wailing about the house, as they thought of the many and brave men who lay dead, slain by the Argives.
The messenger of Jove stood by Priam and spoke softly to him, but fear fell upon him as she did so. "
Take heart," she said," Priam offspring of Dardanus, take heart and fear not.
I bring no evil tidings, but am minded well towards you.
I come as a messenger from Jove, who though he be not near, takes thought for you and pities you.
The lord of Olympus bids you go and ransom noble Hector, and take with you such gifts as shall give satisfaction to Achilles.
You are to go alone, with no Trojan, save only some honoured servant who may drive your mules and waggon, and bring back to the city the body of him whom noble Achilles has slain.
You are to have no thought, nor fear of death, for Jove will send the slayer of Argus to escort you.
When he has brought you within Achilles ' tent, Achilles will not kill you nor let another do so, for he will take heed to his ways and sin not, and he will entreat a suppliant with all honourable courtesy."
Iris went her way when she had thus spoken, and Priam told his sons to get a mulewaggon ready, and to make the body of the waggon fast upon the top of its bed.
Then he went down into his fragrant storeroom, highvaulted, and made of cedarwood, where his many treasures were kept, and he called Hecuba his wife. "
Wife," said he," a messenger has come to me from Olympus, and has told me to go to the ships of the Achaeans to ransom my dear son, taking with me such gifts as shall give satisfaction to Achilles.
What think you of this matter?
for my own part I am greatly moved to pass through the camps of the Achaeans and go to their ships."
His wife cried aloud as she heard him, and said," Alas, what has become of that judgement for which you have been ever famous both among strangers and your own people?
How can you venture alone to the ships of the Achaeans, and look into the face of him who has slain so many of your brave sons?
You must have iron courage, for if the cruel savage sees you and lays hold on you, he will know neither respect nor pity.
Let us then weep Hector from afar here in our own house, for when I gave him birth the threads of overruling fate were spun for him that dogs should eat his flesh far from his parents, in the house of that terrible man on whose liver I would fain fasten and devour it.
Thus would I avenge my son, who showed no cowardice when Achilles slew him, and thought neither of flight nor of avoiding battle as he stood in defence of Trojan men and Trojan women."
Then Priam said," I would go, do not therefore stay me nor be as a bird of ill omen in my house, for you will not move me.
Had it been some mortal man who had sent me some prophet or priest who divines from sacrifice —I should have deemed him false and have given him no heed; but now I have heard the goddess and seen her face to face, therefore I will go and her saying shall not be in vain.
If it be my fate to die at the ships of the Achaeans even so would I have it; let Achilles slay me, if I may but first have taken my son in my arms and mourned him to my heart 's comforting."
So saying he lifted the lids of his chests, and took out twelve goodly vestments.
He took also twelve cloaks of single fold, twelve rugs, twelve fair mantles, and an equal number of shirts.
He weighed out ten talents of gold, and brought moreover two burnished tripods, four cauldrons, and a very beautiful cup which the Thracians had given him when he had gone to them on an embassy; it was very precious, but he grudged not even this, so eager was he to ransom the body of his son.
Then he chased all the Trojans from the court and rebuked them with words of anger.
"Out," he cried," shame and disgrace to me that you are.
Have you no grief in your own homes that you are come to plague me here?
Is it a small thing, think you, that the son of Saturn has sent this sorrow upon me, to lose the bravest of my sons?
Nay, you shall prove it in person, for now he is gone the Achaeans will have easier work in killing you.
As for me, let me go down within the house of Hades, ere mine eyes behold the sacking and wasting of the city."
He drove the men away with his staff, and they went forth as the old man sped them.
Then he called to his sons, upbraiding Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon, Pammon, Antiphonus, Polites of the loud battlecry, Deiphobus, Hippothous, and Dius.
These nine did the old man call near him."
Come to me at once," he cried," worthless sons who do me shame; would that you had all been killed at the ships rather than Hector.
Miserable man that I am, I have had the bravest sons in all Troy— noble Nestor, Troilus the dauntless charioteer, and Hector who was a god among men, so that one would have thought he was son to an immortal— yet there is not one of them left.
Mars has slain them and those of whom I am ashamed are alone left me.
Liars, and light of foot, heroes of the dance, robbers of lambs and kids from your own people, why do you not get a waggon ready for me at once, and put all these things upon it that I may set out on my way?"
Thus did he speak, and they feared the rebuke of their father.
They brought out a strong mulewaggon, newly made, and set the body of the waggon fast on its bed.
They took the muleyoke from the peg on which it hung, a yoke of boxwood with a knob on the top of it and rings for the reins to go through.
Then they brought a yokeband eleven cubits long, to bind the yoke to the pole; they bound it on at the far end of the pole, and put the ring over the upright pin making it fast with three turns of the band on either side the knob, and bending the thong of the yoke beneath it.
This done, they brought from the storechamber the rich ransom that was to purchase the body of Hector, and they set it all orderly on the waggon; then they yoked the strong harnessmules which the Mysians had on a time given as a goodly present to Priam; but for Priam himself they yoked horses which the old king had bred, and kept for his own use.
Thus heedfully did Priam and his servant see to the yolking of their cars at the palace.
Then Hecuba came to them all sorrowful, with a golden goblet of wine in her right hand, that they might make a drinkoffering before they set out.
She stood in front of the horses and said," Take this, make a drinkoffering to father Jove, and since you are minded to go to the ships in spite of me, pray that you may come safely back from the hands of your enemies.
Pray to the son of Saturn lord of the whirlwind, who sits on Ida and looks down over all Troy, pray him to send his swift messenger on your right hand, the bird of omen which is strongest and most dear to him of all birds, that you may see it with your own eyes and trust it as you go forth to the ships of the Danaans.
If allseeing Jove will not send you this messenger, however set upon it you may be ,I would not have you go to the ships of the Argives."
And Priam answered," Wife, I will do as you desire me; it is well to lift hands in prayer to Jove, if so be he may have mercy upon me."
With this the old man bade the servingwoman pour pure water over his hands, and the woman came, bearing the water in a bowl.
He washed his hands and took the cup from his wife; then he made the drinkoffering and prayed, standing in the middle of the courtyard and turning his eyes to heaven."
Father Jove," he said," that rulest from Ida, most glorious and most great, grant that I may be received kindly and compassionately in the tents of Achilles; and send your swift messenger upon my right hand, the bird of omen which is strongest and most dear to you of all birds, that I may see it with my own eyes and trust it as I go forth to the ships of the Danaans."
So did he pray, and Jove the lord of counsel heard his prayer.
Forthwith he sent an eagle, the most unerring portent of all birds that fly, the dusky hunter that men also call the Black Eagle.
His wings were spread abroad on either side as wide as the wellmade and wellbolted door of a rich man 's chamber.
He came to them flying over the city upon their right hands, and when they saw him they were glad and their hearts took comfort within them.
The old man made haste to mount his chariot, and drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court.
Before him went the mules drawing the fourwheeled waggon, and driven by wise Idaeus; behind these were the horses, which the old man lashed with his whip and drove swiftly through the city, while his friends followed after, wailing and lamenting for him as though he were on his road to death.
As soon as they had come down from the city and had reached the plain, his sons and sonsinlaw who had followed him went back to Ilius.
But Priam and Idaeus as they showed out upon the plain did not escape the ken of allseeing Jove, who looked down upon the old man and pitied him; then he spoke to his son Mercury and said," Mercury, for it is you who are the most disposed to escort men on their way, and to hear those whom you will hear, go, and so conduct Priam to the ships of the Achaeans that no other of the Danaans shall see him nor take note of him until he reach the son of Peleus."
Thus he spoke and Mercury, guide and guardian, slayer of Argus, did as he was told.
Forthwith he bound on his glittering golden sandals with which he could fly like the wind over land and sea; he took the wand with which he seals men 's eyes in sleep, or wakes them just as he pleases, and flew holding it in his hand till he came to Troy and to the Hellespont.
To look at, he was like a young man of noble birth in the heyday of his youth and beauty with the down just coming upon his face.
Now when Priam and Idaeus had driven past the great tomb of Ilius, they stayed their mules and horses that they might drink in the river, for the shades of night were falling, when, therefore, Idaeus saw Mercury standing near them he said to Priam," Take heed, descendant of Dardanus; here is matter which demands consideration.
I see a man who I think will presently fall upon us; let us fly with our horses, or at least embrace his knees and implore him to take compassion upon us?"
When he heard this the old man 's heart failed him, and he was in great fear; he stayed where he was as one dazed, and the hair stood on end over his whole body; but the bringer of good luck came up to him and took him by the hand, saying," Whither, father, are you thus driving your mules and horses in the dead of night when other men are asleep?
Are you not afraid of the fierce Achaeans who are hard by you, so cruel and relentless?
Should some one of them see you bearing so much treasure through the darkness of the flying night, what would not your state then be?
You are no longer young, and he who is with you is too old to protect you from those who would attack you.
For myself, I will do you no harm, and I will defend you from any one else, for you remind me of my own father."
And Priam answered," It is indeed as you say, my dear son; nevertheless some god has held his hand over me, in that he has sent such a wayfarer as yourself to meet me so opportunely; you are so comely in mien and figure, and your judgement is so excellent that you must come of blessed parents."
Then said the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian," Sir, all that you have said is right; but tell me and tell me true, are you taking this rich treasure to send it to a foreign people where it may be safe, or are you all leaving strong Ilius in dismay now that your son has fallen who was the bravest man among you and was never lacking in battle with the Achaeans?"
And Priam said," Who are you, my friend, and who are your parents, that you speak so truly about the fate of my unhappy son?"
The slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, answered him," Sir, you would prove me, that you question me about noble Hector.
Many a time have I set eyes upon him in battle when he was driving the Argives to their ships and putting them to the sword.
We stood still and marvelled, for Achilles in his anger with the son of Atreus suffered us not to fight.
I am his squire, and came with him in the same ship.
I am a Myrmidon, and my father 's name is Polyctor: he is a rich man and about as old as you are; he has six sons besides myself, and I am the seventh.
We cast lots, and it fell upon me to sail hither with Achilles.
I am now come from the ships on to the plain, for with daybreak the Achaeans will set battle in array about the city.
They chafe at doing nothing, and are so eager that their princes can not hold them back."
Then answered Priam," If you are indeed the squire of Achilles son of Peleus, tell me now the whole truth.
Is my son still at the ships, or has Achilles hewn him limb from limb, and given him to his hounds?"
"Sir," replied the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian," neither hounds nor vultures have yet devoured him; he is still just lying at the tents by the ship of Achilles, and though it is now twelve days that he has lain there, his flesh is not wasted nor have the worms eaten him although they feed on warriors.
At daybreak Achilles drags him cruelly round the sepulchre of his dear comrade, but it does him no hurt.
You should come yourself and see how he lies fresh as dew, with the blood all washed away, and his wounds every one of them closed though many pierced him with their spears.
Such care have the blessed gods taken of your brave son, for he was dear to them beyond all measure."
The old man was comforted as he heard him and said," My son, see what a good thing it is to have made due offerings to the immortals; for as sure as that he was born my son never forgot the gods that hold Olympus, and now they requite it to him even in death.
Accept therefore at my hands this goodly chalice; guard me and with heaven 's help guide me till I come to the tent of the son of Peleus."
Then answered the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian," Sir, you are tempting me and playing upon my youth, but you shall not move me, for you are offering me presents without the knowledge of Achilles whom I fear and hold it great guilt to defraud, lest some evil presently befall me; but as your guide I would go with you even to Argos itself, and would guard you so carefully whether by sea or land, that no one should attack you through making light of him who was with you."
The bringer of good luck then sprang on to the chariot, and seizing the whip and reins he breathed fresh spirit into the mules and horses.
When they reached the trench and the wall that was before the ships, those who were on guard had just been getting their suppers, and the slayer of Argus threw them all into a deep sleep.
Then he drew back the bolts to open the gates, and took Priam inside with the treasure he had upon his waggon.
Ere long they came to the lofty dwelling of the son of Peleus for which the Myrmidons had cut pine and which they had built for their king; when they had built it they thatched it with coarse tussockgrass which they had mown out on the plain, and all round it they made a large courtyard, which was fenced with stakes set close together.
The gate was barred with a single bolt of pine which it took three men to force into its place, and three to draw back so as to open the gate, but Achilles could draw it by himself.
Mercury opened the gate for the old man, and brought in the treasure that he was taking with him for the son of Peleus.
Then he sprang from the chariot on to the ground and said," Sir, it is I, immortal Mercury, that am come with you, for my father sent me to escort you.
I will now leave you, and will not enter into the presence of Achilles, for it might anger him that a god should befriend mortal men thus openly.
Go you within, and embrace the knees of the son of Peleus: beseech him by his father, his lovely mother, and his son; thus you may move him."
With these words Mercury went back to high Olympus.
Priam sprang from his chariot to the ground, leaving Idaeus where he was, in charge of the mules and horses.
The old man went straight into the house where Achilles, loved of the gods, was sitting.
There he found him with his men seated at a distance from him: only two, the hero Automedon, and Alcimus of the race of Mars, were busy in attendance about his person, for he had but just done eating and drinking, and the table was still there.
King Priam entered without their seeing him, and going right up to Achilles he clasped his knees and kissed the dread murderous hands that had slain so many of his sons.
As when some cruel spite has befallen a man that he should have killed some one in his own country, and must fly to a great man 's protection in a land of strangers, and all marvel who see him, even so did Achilles marvel as he beheld Priam.
The others looked one to another and marvelled also, but Priam besought Achilles saying," Think of your father, O Achilles like unto the gods, who is such even as I am, on the sad threshold of old age.
It may be that those who dwell near him harass him, and there is none to keep war and ruin from him.
Yet when he hears of you being still alive, he is glad, and his days are full of hope that he shall see his dear son come home to him from Troy; but I, wretched man that I am, had the bravest in all Troy for my sons, and there is not one of them left.
I had fifty sons when the Achaeans came here; nineteen of them were from a single womb, and the others were borne to me by the women of my household.
The greater part of them has fierce Mars laid low, and Hector, him who was alone left, him who was the guardian of the city and ourselves, him have you lately slain; therefore I am now come to the ships of the Achaeans to ransom his body from you with a great ransom.
Fear, O Achilles, the wrath of heaven; think on your own father and have compassion upon me, who am the more pitiable, for I have steeled myself as no man yet has ever steeled himself before me, and have raised to my lips the hand of him who slew my son."
Thus spoke Priam, and the heart of Achilles yearned as he bethought him of his father.
He took the old man 's hand and moved him gently away.
The two wept bitterly— Priam, as he lay at Achilles ' feet, weeping for Hector, and Achilles now for his father and now for Patroclus, till the house was filled with their lamentation.
But when Achilles was now sated with grief and had unburthened the bitterness of his sorrow, he left his seat and raised the old man by the hand, in pity for his white hair and beard; then he said," Unhappy man, you have indeed been greatly daring; how could you venture to come alone to the ships of the Achaeans, and enter the presence of him who has slain so many of your brave sons?
You must have iron courage: sit now upon this seat, and for all our grief we will hide our sorrows in our hearts, for weeping will not avail us.
The immortals know no care, yet the lot they spin for man is full of sorrow; on the floor of Jove 's palace there stand two urns, the one filled with evil gifts, and the other with good ones.
He for whom Jove the lord of thunder mixes the gifts he sends, will meet now with good and now with evil fortune; but he to whom Jove sends none but evil gifts will be pointed at by the finger of scorn, the hand of famine will pursue him to the ends of the world, and he will go up and down the face of the earth, respected neither by gods nor men.
Even so did it befall Peleus; the gods endowed him with all good things from his birth upwards, for he reigned over the Myrmidons excelling all men in prosperity and wealth, and mortal though he was they gave him a goddess for his bride.
But even on him too did heaven send misfortune, for there is no race of royal children born to him in his house, save one son who is doomed to die all untimely; nor may I take care of him now that he is growing old, for I must stay here at Troy to be the bane of you and your children.
And you too, O Priam, I have heard that you were aforetime happy.
They say that in wealth and plenitude of offspring you surpassed all that is in Lesbos, the realm of Makar to the northward, Phrygia that is more inland, and those that dwell upon the great Hellespont; but from the day when the dwellers in heaven sent this evil upon you, war and slaughter have been about your city continually.
Bear up against it, and let there be some intervals in your sorrow.
Mourn as you may for your brave son, you will take nothing by it.
You can not raise him from the dead, ere you do so yet another sorrow shall befall you."
And Priam answered," O king, bid me not be seated, while Hector is still lying uncared for in your tents, but accept the great ransom which I have brought you, and give him to me at once that I may look upon him.
May you prosper with the ransom and reach your own land in safety, seeing that you have suffered me to live and to look upon the light of the sun."
Achilles looked at him sternly and said," Vex me, sir, no longer; I am of myself minded to give up the body of Hector.
My mother, daughter of the old man of the sea, came to me from Jove to bid me deliver it to you.
Moreover I know well, O Priam, and you can not hide it, that some god has brought you to the ships of the Achaeans, for else, no man however strong and in his prime would dare to come to our host; he could neither pass our guard unseen, nor draw the bolt of my gates thus easily; therefore, provoke me no further, lest I sin against the word of Jove, and suffer you not, suppliant though you are, within my tents."
The old man feared him and obeyed.
Then the son of Peleus sprang like a lion through the door of his house, not alone, but with him went his two squires Automedon and Alcimus who were closer to him than any others of his comrades now that Patroclus was no more.
These unyoked the horses and mules, and bade Priam 's herald and attendant be seated within the house.
They lifted the ransom for Hector 's body from the waggon, but they left two mantles and a goodly shirt, that Achilles might wrap the body in them when he gave it to be taken home.
Then he called to his servants and ordered them to wash the body and anoint it, but he first took it to a place where Priam should not see it, lest if he did so, he should break out in the bitterness of his grief, and enrage Achilles, who might then kill him and sin against the word of Jove.
When the servants had washed the body and anointed it, and had wrapped it in a fair shirt and mantle, Achilles himself lifted it on to a bier, and he and his men then laid it on the waggon.
He cried aloud as he did so and called on the name of his dear comrade," Be not angry with me, Patroclus," he said," if you hear even in the house of Hades that I have given Hector to his father for a ransom.
It has been no unworthy one, and I will share it equitably with you."
Achilles then went back into the tent and took his place on the richly inlaid seat from which he had risen, by the wall that was at right angles to the one against which Priam was sitting. "
Sir," he said," your son is now laid upon his bier and is ransomed according to desire; you shall look upon him when you take him away at daybreak; for the present let us prepare our supper.
Even lovely Niobe had to think about eating, though her twelve children— six daughters and six lusty sons— had been all slain in her house.
Apollo killed the sons with arrows from his silver bow, to punish Niobe, and Diana slew the daughters, because Niobe had vaunted herself against Leto; she said Leto had borne two children only, whereas she had herself borne many— whereon the two killed the many.
Nine days did they lie weltering, and there was none to bury them, for the son of Saturn turned the people into stone; but on the tenth day the gods in heaven themselves buried them, and Niobe then took food, being worn out with weeping.
They say that somewhere among the rocks on the mountain pastures of Sipylus, where the nymphs live that haunt the river Achelous, there, they say, she lives in stone and still nurses the sorrows sent upon her by the hand of heaven.
Therefore, noble sir, let us two now take food; you can weep for your dear son hereafter as you are bearing him back to Ilius— and many a tear will he cost you."
With this Achilles sprang from his seat and killed a sheep of silvery whiteness, which his followers skinned and made ready all in due order.
They cut the meat carefully up into smaller pieces, spitted them, and drew them off again when they were well roasted.
Automedon brought bread in fair baskets and served it round the table, while Achilles dealt out the meat, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Priam, descendant of Dardanus, marvelled at the strength and beauty of Achilles for he was as a god to see, and Achilles marvelled at Priam as he listened to him and looked upon his noble presence.
When they had gazed their fill Priam spoke first."
And now, O king," he said," take me to my couch that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep.
Never once have my eyes been closed from the day your hands took the life of my son; I have grovelled without ceasing in the mire of my stableyard, making moan and brooding over my countless sorrows.
Now, moreover, I have eaten bread and drunk wine; hitherto I have tasted nothing."
As he spoke Achilles told his men and the womenservants to set beds in the room that was in the gatehouse, and make them with good red rugs, and spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for Priam and Idaeus to wear.
So the maids went out carrying a torch and got the two beds ready in all haste.
Then Achilles said laughingly to Priam," Dear sir, you shall lie outside, lest some counsellor of those who in due course keep coming to advise with me should see you here in the darkness of the flying night, and tell it to Agamemnon.
This might cause delay in the delivery of the body.
And now tell me and tell me true, for how many days would you celebrate the funeral rites of noble Hector?
Tell me, that I may hold aloof from war and restrain the host."
And Priam answered," Since, then, you suffer me to bury my noble son with all due rites, do thus, Achilles, and I shall be grateful.
You know how we are pent up within our city; it is far for us to fetch wood from the mountain, and the people live in fear.
Nine days, therefore, will we mourn Hector in my house; on the tenth day we will bury him and there shall be a public feast in his honour; on the eleventh we will build a mound over his ashes, and on the twelfth, if there be need, we will fight."
And Achilles answered," All, King Priam, shall be as you have said.
I will stay our fighting for as long a time as you have named."
As he spoke he laid his hand on the old man 's right wrist, in token that he should have no fear; thus then did Priam and his attendant sleep there in the forecourt, full of thought, while Achilles lay in an inner room of the house, with fair Briseis by his side.
And now both gods and mortals were fast asleep through the livelong night, but upon Mercury alone, the bringer of good luck, sleep could take no hold for he was thinking all the time how to get King Priam away from the ships without his being seen by the strong force of sentinels.
He hovered therefore over Priam 's head and said," Sir, now that Achilles has spared your life, you seem to have no fear about sleeping in the thick of your foes.
You have paid a great ransom, and have received the body of your son; were you still alive and a prisoner the sons whom you have left at home would have to give three times as much to free you; and so it would be if Agamemnon and the other Achaeans were to know of your being here."
When he heard this the old man was afraid and roused his servant.
Mercury then yoked their horses and mules, and drove them quickly through the host so that no man perceived them.
When they came to the ford of eddying Xanthus, begotten of immortal Jove, Mercury went back to high Olympus, and dawn in robe of saffron began to break over all the land.
Priam and Idaeus then drove on toward the city lamenting and making moan, and the mules drew the body of Hector.
No one neither man nor woman saw them, till Cassandra, fair as golden Venus standing on Pergamus, caught sight of her dear father in his chariot, and his servant that was the city 's herald with him.
Then she saw him that was lying upon the bier, drawn by the mules, and with a loud cry she went about the city saying," Come hither Trojans, men and women, and look on Hector; if ever you rejoiced to see him coming from battle when he was alive, look now on him that was the glory of our city and all our people."
At this there was not man nor woman left in the city, so great a sorrow had possessed them.
Hard by the gates they met Priam as he was bringing in the body.
Hector 's wife and his mother were the first to mourn him: they flew towards the waggon and laid their hands upon his head, while the crowd stood weeping round them.
They would have stayed before the gates, weeping and lamenting the livelong day to the going down of the sun, had not Priam spoken to them from the chariot and said," Make way for the mules to pass you.
Afterwards when I have taken the body home you shall have your fill of weeping."
On this the people stood asunder, and made a way for the waggon.
When they had borne the body within the house they laid it upon a bed and seated minstrels round it to lead the dirge, whereon the women joined in the sad music of their lament.
Foremost among them all Andromache led their wailing as she clasped the head of mighty Hector in her embrace. "
Husband," she cried," you have died young, and leave me in your house a widow; he of whom we are the illstarred parents is still a mere child, and I fear he may not reach manhood.
Ere he can do so our city will be razed and overthrown, for you who watched over it are no more— you who were its saviour, the guardian of our wives and children.
Our women will be carried away captives to the ships, and I among them; while you, my child, who will be with me will be put to some unseemly tasks, working for a cruel master.
Or, may be, some Achaean will hurl you( O miserable death) from our walls, to avenge some brother, son, or father whom Hector slew; many of them have indeed bitten the dust at his hands, for your father 's hand in battle was no light one.
Therefore do the people mourn him.
You have left, O Hector, sorrow unutterable to your parents, and my own grief is greatest of all, for you did not stretch forth your arms and embrace me as you lay dying, nor say to me any words that might have lived with me in my tears night and day for evermore."
Bitterly did she weep the while, and the women joined in her lament.
Hecuba in her turn took up the strains of woe. "
Hector," she cried," dearest to me of all my children.
So long as you were alive the gods loved you well, and even in death they have not been utterly unmindful of you; for when Achilles took any other of my sons, he would sell him beyond the seas, to Samos Imbrus or rugged Lemnos; and when he had slain you too with his sword, many a time did he drag you round the sepulchre of his comrade— though this could not give him life— yet here you lie all fresh as dew, and comely as one whom Apollo has slain with his painless shafts."
Thus did she too speak through her tears with bitter moan, and then Helen for a third time took up the strain of lamentation. "
Hector," said she," dearest of all my brothersinlaw— for I am wife to Alexandrus who brought me hither to Troy— would that I had died ere he did so —twenty years are come and gone since I left my home and came from over the sea, but I have never heard one word of insult or unkindness from you.
When another would chide with me, as it might be one of your brothers or sisters or of your brothers ' wives, or my motherinlaw— for Priam was as kind to me as though he were my own father— you would rebuke and check them with words of gentleness and goodwill.
Therefore my tears flow both for you and for my unhappy self, for there is no one else in Troy who is kind to me, but all shrink and shudder as they go by me."
She wept as she spoke and the vast crowd that was gathered round her joined in her lament.
Then King Priam spoke to them saying," Bring wood, O Trojans, to the city, and fear no cunning ambush of the Argives, for Achilles when he dismissed me from the ships gave me his word that they should not attack us until the morning of the twelfth day."
Forthwith they yoked their oxen and mules and gathered together before the city.
Nine days long did they bring in great heaps of wood, and on the morning of the tenth day with many tears they took brave Hector forth, laid his dead body upon the summit of the pile, and set the fire thereto.
Then when the child of morning, rosyfingered dawn, appeared on the eleventh day, the people again assembled, round the pyre of mighty Hector.
When they were got together, they first quenched the fire with wine wherever it was burning, and then his brothers and comrades with many a bitter tear gathered his white bones, wrapped them in soft robes of purple, and laid them in a golden urn, which they placed in a grave and covered over with large stones set close together.
Then they built a barrow hurriedly over it keeping guard on every side lest the Achaeans should attack them before they had finished.
When they had heaped up the barrow they went back again into the city, and being well assembled they held high feast in the house of Priam their king.
Thus, then, did they celebrate the funeral of Hector tamer of horses.
CHAPTER VI Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners; and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for.
She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already.
She had no scruple with regard to him.
He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add.
His perception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.
"You have given Miss Smith all that she required," said he; "you have made her graceful and easy.
She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature."
"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints.
She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself.
I have done very little."
"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr. Elton-"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before."
"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me.
So much superadded decision of character!
Skilful has been the hand!"
"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure.
I never met with a disposition more truly amiable."
"I have no doubt of it."
And it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover.
She was not less pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet's picture.
"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?"
said she: "did you ever sit for your picture?"
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say, with a very interesting naivete, "Oh!
dear, no, never."
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed, "What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be!
I would give any money for it.
I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general.
But from one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust.
But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me.
It would be such a delight to have her picture!"
"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight!
Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend.
I know what your drawings are.
How could you suppose me ignorant?
Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?"
Yes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking likenesses?
You know nothing of drawing.
Don't pretend to be in raptures about mine.
Keep your raptures for Harriet's face.
"Well, if you give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do.
Harriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch."
"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have not a doubt of your success.
Pray, pray attempt it.
As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession."
"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit.
She thinks so little of her own beauty.
Did not you observe her manner of answering me?
How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh!
yes, I observed it, I assure you.
It was not lost on me.
But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others.
Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet.
Her many beginnings were displayed.
Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn.
She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.
She played and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of.
She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same.
They were both in ecstasies.
A likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.
"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma.
"I had only my own family to study from.
There is my father--another of my father--but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore.
Mrs. Weston again, and again, and again, you see.
Dear Mrs. Weston!
always my kindest friend on every occasion.
She would sit whenever I asked her.
There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!--and the face not unlike.
I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.
Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest.
She was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were.
Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby.
I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see.
He had nestled down his head most conveniently.
That's very like.
I am rather proud of little George.
The corner of the sofa is very good.
Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length--"my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John Knightley.--This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness.
I could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but that was a fault on the right side"--after all this, came poor dear Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it was a little like--but to be sure it did not do him justice.
We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all.
It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again.
But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my resolution now."
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe.
Exactly so.
No husbands and wives," with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once.
But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait.
It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist.
But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch.
She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere.
It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness indeed!
It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith's."
Mr. Elton was only too happy.
Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.
She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible.
She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on.
There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
"By all means.
We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party."
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy.
Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes.
It is the fault of her face that she has them not."
"Do you think so?"
replied he.
"I cannot agree with you.
It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature.
I never saw such a likeness in my life.
We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."
"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added, "Oh no!
certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall.
Consider, she is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short gives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no!
it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's.
Exactly so indeed!"
"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse.
"So prettily done!
Just as your drawings always are, my dear.
I do not know any body who draws so well as you do.
The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold."
"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
Look at the tree."
"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."
"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit!
Any other situation would have been much less in character.
The naivete of Miss Smith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable!
I cannot keep my eyes from it.
I never saw such a likeness."
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few difficulties.
It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December.
But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed.
His gallantry was always on the alert.
"Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it!
he could ride to London at any time.
It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."
"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not give him such a troublesome office for the world,"--brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough.
"What a precious deposit!"
said he with a tender sigh, as he received it.
"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma.
"I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love.
He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal.
I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet's account."
CHAPTER VII The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend.
Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell.
Half a minute brought it all out.
She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage.
"Who could have thought it?
She was so surprized she did not know what to do.
Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so.
And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.
"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any thing for want of asking.
He will connect himself well if he can."
"Will you read the letter?"
cried Harriet.
"Pray do.
I'd rather you would."
Emma was not sorry to be pressed.
She read, and was surprized.
The style of the letter was much above her expectation.
There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer.
It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.
She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter?
or is it too short?"
"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him.
I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman.
No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words.
It is so with some men.
Yes, I understand the sort of mind.
Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse.
A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected."
"Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I do?"
"What shall you do!
In what respect?
Do you mean with regard to this letter?"
"Yes."
"But what are you in doubt of?
You must answer it of course--and speedily."
"Yes.
But what shall I say?
Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me."
"Oh no, no!
the letter had much better be all your own.
You will express yourself very properly, I am sure.
There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing.
Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded.
You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment."
"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.
"Ought to refuse him!
My dear Harriet, what do you mean?
Are you in any doubt as to that?
I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake.
I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the purport of your answer.
I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it."
Harriet was silent.
With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued: "You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect."
"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do?
What would you advise me to do?
Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do."
"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet.
I will have nothing to do with it.
This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."
"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the letter.
For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say, "I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him.
If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly.
It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart.
I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you.
But do not imagine that I want to influence you."
"Oh!
no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'"
"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you either way.
You must be the best judge of your own happiness.
If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate?
You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition?
Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.
At this moment whom are you thinking of?"
The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard.
Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes.
At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said-"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin.
Do you think I am right?"
"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought.
While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving.
Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this.
It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin.
While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me.
I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm.
Now I am secure of you for ever."
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly.
"You could not have visited me!"
she cried, looking aghast.
"No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before.
That would have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world."
"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been.
You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.
I must have given you up."
"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it!
It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!"
"Dear affectionate creature!--You banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--You confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life!
I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it.
He must have a pretty good opinion of himself."
"I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, one is so very handsome and agreeable.
However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration."
"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend.
We will not be parted.
A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter."
"Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too."
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter."
"Oh!
yes, very.
Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions.
I am quite determined to refuse him.
But how shall I do?
What shall I say?"
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence.
The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent.
The business was finished, and Harriet safe.
She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a sorrowful tone.
"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet.
You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill."
"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield."
Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened.
I am sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper."
"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet.
I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married.
Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes.
As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark.
The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet.
Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves."
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much.
The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.
"Now he has got my letter," said she softly.
"I wonder what they are all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too.
I hope he will not mind it so very much."
"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma.
"At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name."
"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street."
"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton.
No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow.
It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight.
It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession.
How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!"
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
CHAPTER VII Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut.
A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut.
There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve.
It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday.
Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges.
His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young people would have their little whims."
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him.
Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether.
He appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect.
This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight.
He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly.
As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their little whims."
There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed.
In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley.
The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum!
just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for."
She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune.
Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave.
This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel.
On their first coming into the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them.
With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company.
They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.
Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place.
The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls.
Nothing should tempt her to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish.
The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them.
This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected.
Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient.
She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept.
Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses.
They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance?
had been a question of his.
The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party.
The Coles expressed themselves so properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much consideration for her father.
"They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company."
Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him.
As for his going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous.
He was soon pretty well resigned.
"I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was.
No more is Emma.
Late hours do not agree with us.
I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it.
I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening.
The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to.
However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy."
Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah!
Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me."
"Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it."
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation.
The ladies knew better how to allay it.
Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual.
"He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard.
He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note.
But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs.
Cole."
"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible.
You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my compliments, of course.
But you will do every thing right.
I need not tell you what is to be done.
We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday.
I shall have no fears for you with him.
We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely.
And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour.
You will not like staying late.
You will get very tired when tea is over."
"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?"
"Oh!
no, my love; but you will soon be tired.
There will be a great many people talking at once.
You will not like the noise."
"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will be breaking up the party."
"And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse.
"The sooner every party breaks up, the better."
"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles.
Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence.
They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room.
You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these ten years."
"No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you for reminding me.
I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain.
I know what worthy people they are.
Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor.
You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious.
No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain.
My dear Emma, we must consider this.
I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish.
You will not regard being tired.
You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends."
"Oh yes, papa.
I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account.
I am only afraid of your sitting up for me.
I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard.
She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort.
You must promise me not to sit up."
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.
CHAPTER VI The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again.
He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially.
He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.--"He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse the same.
Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction."
--Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him.
They walked thither directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm.
She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend.
If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it.
But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied.
It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection.
And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning.
They were all three walking about together for an hour or two--first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury.
He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings.
He begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place.
He was immediately interested.
Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased.
He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested.
No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough.
It would hold the very number for comfort.
They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter.
Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in Highbury!
The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied.
He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their proper place the next morning.
He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.
He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe.
Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind.
He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.
It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
"Yes, oh!
yes"--he replied; "I was just going to mention it.
A very successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint.
If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me.
As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit.
Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour.
The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before."
"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?"
"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill.
But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?
Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most deplorable want of complexion."
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.
"It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face."
He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.
Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
"Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you admire her except her complexion."
He shook his head and laughed.--"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion."
"Did you see her often at Weymouth?
Were you often in the same society?"
At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha!
this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me.
He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.
If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury.
I must buy something at Ford's.
It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say they sell gloves."
"Oh!
yes, gloves and every thing.
I do admire your patriotism.
You will be adored in Highbury.
You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues."
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said--"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my amor patriae.
Do not let me lose it.
I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life."
"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth."
"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one.
It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance.
Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow."
"Upon my word!
you answer as discreetly as she could do herself.
But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her."
"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well.
I met her frequently at Weymouth.
I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman.
I like them all."
"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is destined to be?"
"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do."
"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling; "remember that I am here.--Mr.
Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life.
I will move a little farther off."
"I certainly do forget to think of her," said Emma, "as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?"
said Frank Churchill.
"Ever hear her!"
repeated Emma.
"You forget how much she belongs to Highbury.
I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.
She plays charmingly."
"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who could really judge.
She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.
That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof."
"Proof indeed!"
said Emma, highly amused.--"Mr.
Dixon is very musical, is he?
We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year."
"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a very strong proof."
"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me.
I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.
How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?"
"It was her very particular friend, you know."
"Poor comfort!"
said Emma, laughing.
"One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor Mrs. Dixon!
Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."
"You are right.
It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it."
"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which.
But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself.
She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction."
"As to that--I do not--" "Oh!
do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else.
They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself.
But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses."
"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--" he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might all be behind the scenes.
I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly.
But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be."
"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends.
But we never did.
I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set.
And then, her reserve--I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved."
"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he.
"Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing.
There is safety in reserve, but no attraction.
One cannot love a reserved person."
"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may be the greater.
But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one.
Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question.
I have no reason to think ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal."
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting.
He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected.
His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings warmer.
She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with.
No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having.
If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house.
There must be ample room in it for every real comfort.
The man must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.
Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.
But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives.
He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.
CHAPTER XVI It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting.
Their intercourse was painful enough by letter.
How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.--It might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to invention.--There was a tooth amiss.
Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist.
Mrs. John Knightley was delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her--and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.--When it was thus settled on her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.--Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's carriage.--It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied.
There was a communication before her, one which she only could be competent to make--the confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.
No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she loved--and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.--A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.--She ought to go--and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.
It would be a secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.--The fear of being still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.--She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, "Beg her to walk up;"--and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.--Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging.
There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.-She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone, "This is most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express--I hope you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely without words."
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together.
Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity.
Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people.
Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods, "We can finish this some other time, you know.
You and I shall not want opportunities.
And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.
I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended.
You see how delightfully she writes.
Oh!
she is a sweet creature!
You would have doated on her, had you gone.--But not a word more.
Let us be discreet--quite on our good behaviour.--Hush!--You remember those lines--I forget the poem at this moment: "For when a lady's in the case, "You know all other things give place."
Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read----mum!
a word to the wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I?
But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--My representation, you see, has quite appeased her."
And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's knitting, she added, in a half whisper, "I mentioned no names, you will observe.--Oh!
no; cautious as a minister of state.
I managed it extremely well."
Emma could not doubt.
It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion.
When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with, "Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest credit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.)
Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!--Oh!
if you had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!"
--And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, "We do not say a word of any assistance that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor.--Oh!
no; Perry shall have all the credit."
"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she shortly afterwards began, "since the party to Box Hill.
Very pleasant party.
But yet I think there was something wanting.
Things did not seem--that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.--So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken.
However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again.
What say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?--It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not one exception."
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.--It is impossible to say--Yes, indeed, I quite understand--dearest Jane's prospects--that is, I do not mean.--But she is charmingly recovered.--How is Mr.
Woodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my power.--Such a happy little circle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.--Charming young man!--that is--so very friendly; I mean good Mr.
Perry!--such attention to Jane!"
--And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.--After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said, "Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and master.
He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you."
"What!
are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr.
Elton?--That will be a favour indeed!
for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged."
"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to night.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or other.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion.
They seem not able to do any thing without him.--'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I.--I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many applicants.'
--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all."
And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma--"A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh!
yes, quite indispensable."
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily--!
"He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep consultation.--Mr.
E. is Knightley's right hand."
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk."
"Oh!
no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting.
Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way."
"Have not you mistaken the day?"
said Emma.
"I am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr.
Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday."
"Oh!
no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--"I do believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was.
We never heard of such things at Maple Grove."
"Your parish there was small," said Jane.
"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of."
"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children."
"Ah!
you clever creature, that's very true.
What a thinking brain you have!
I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together.
My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that some people may not think you perfection already.--But hush!--not a word, if you please."
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.
The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance.
His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity.
"Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with.
You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?"
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing.
"When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found.
Very odd!
very unaccountable!
after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one."
"Donwell!"
cried his wife.--"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."
"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went over the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse.
And then not to find him at home!
I assure you I am not at all pleased.
And no apology left, no message for me.
The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone.
Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?"
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world!
The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his servants forgot it.
Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.
And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it."
"I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour.
He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him.
I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that I should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose."
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly.
In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say, "It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility.
Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent."
"Oh!"
cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure--"there would have been no danger.
The danger would have been of my wearying you.
You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest--.
Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could wish to say.
I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself.
I feel it so very due.
But, unfortunately--in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend--" "Oh!
you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand.
"You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even--" "You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.--So cold and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of deceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you."
"Pray say no more.
I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once.
We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there.
I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?"
"Very."
"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just as I begin to know you."
"Oh!
as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet.
I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell."
"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps," replied Emma, smiling--"but, excuse me, it must be thought of."
The smile was returned as Jane answered, "You are very right; it has been thought of.
And I will own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled.
There must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait for."
"Thank you, thank you.--This is just what I wanted to be assured of.--Oh!
if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and open!--Good-bye, good-bye."
CHAPTER XVII Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl.
She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston.
She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best.
It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston--no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she continued--"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."
"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge her even more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all.
It will be the only difference."
"Poor child!"
cried Emma; "at that rate, what will become of her?"
"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands.
She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older.
I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma.
I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?"
Emma laughed, and replied: "But I had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people.
I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it."
"Do you?--I have no doubt.
Nature gave you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles.
You must have done well.
My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good.
It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner.
I do not believe I did you any good.
The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me.
I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least."
"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma.
"I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time.
I am very sure you did me good.
And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen."
"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr.
Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve.
In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one."
"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance."
"'Mr.
Knightley.'
--You always called me, 'Mr.
Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal.
I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what."
"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago.
I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again."
"And cannot you call me 'George' now?"
"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr.
Knightley.'
I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse."
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them.
This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining.
She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters.
He might observe that it was so.
The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her.
Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley.
"Here is his answer, if you like to see it."
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage.
Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.
"John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise.
But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes."
"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter.
"I honour his sincerity.
It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already.
Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him."
"My Emma, he means no such thing.
He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject."
"Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!"
she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion.
Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you justice.
He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine.
I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther."
"Ah!"
he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together.
I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind."
"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying.
He had no idea of me.
He seems perfectly unprepared for that."
"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings.
What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose.
I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day.
I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual.
I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'"
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried.
As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too.
She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.
She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it.
She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do.
Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes.
That was all very true.
Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield!
And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma.
How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way."
But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future.
It was all right, all open, all equal.
No sacrifice on any side worth the name.
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world.
If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.
"It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he.
"These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them.
Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion."
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point.
He told her the news.
Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards.
It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match.
Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck.
One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction.
Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"
--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley!
poor fellow!--sad business for him."
--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him!
But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for her.
Oh!
no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable!
But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together.
It would never do.
She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter.
THE GODS IN COUNCIL— MINERVA 'S VISIT TO ITHACA— THE CHALLENGE FROM TELEMACHUS TO THE SUITORS.
Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.
Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sungod Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home.
Tell me, too, about all these things, oh daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.
So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to his wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got him into a large cave and wanted to marry him.
But as years went by, there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to pity him except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing and would not let him get home.
Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world 's end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East.
He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house of Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first.
At that moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon 's son Orestes; so he said to the other gods: "See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to Agamemnon 's wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home.
Mercury told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for everything in full."
Then Minerva said," Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely seagirt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends.
It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder.
This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys.
You, sir, take no heed of this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy did he not propitiate you with many a burnt sacrifice?
Why then should you keep on being so angry with him?"
And Jove said," My child, what are you talking about?
How can I forget Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven?
Bear in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with Ulysses for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes.
Polyphemus is son to Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter to the seaking Phorcys; therefore though he will not kill Ulysses outright, he torments him by preventing him from getting home.
Still, let us lay our heads together and see how we can help him to return; Neptune will then be pacified, for if we are all of a mind he can hardly stand out against us."
And Minerva said," Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then, the gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our minds and that he is to return.
In the meantime I will go to Ithaca, to put heart into Ulysses ' son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call the Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear anything about the return of his dear father— for this will make people speak well of him."
So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals, imperishable, with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea; she grasped the redoubtable bronzeshod spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, wherewith she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, whereon forthwith she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses ' house, disguised as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held a bronze spear in her hand.
There she found the lordly suitors seated on hides of the oxen which they had killed and eaten, and playing draughts in front of the house.
Menservants and pages were bustling about to wait upon them, some mixing wine with water in the mixingbowls, some cleaning down the tables with wet sponges and laying them out again, and some cutting up great quantities of meat.
Telemachus saw her long before any one else did.
He was sitting moodily among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how he would send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to his own again and be honoured as in days gone by.
Thus brooding as he sat among them, he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the gate, for he was vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for admittance.
He took her right hand in his own, and bade her give him her spear. "
Welcome," said he," to our house, and when you have partaken of food you shall tell us what you have come for."
He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him.
When they were within he took her spear and set it in the spearstand against a strong bearingpost along with the many other spears of his unhappy father, and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he threw a cloth of damask.
There was a footstool also for her feet and he set another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors, that she might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and insolence, and that he might ask her more freely about his father.
A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them.
An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side, and a manservant brought them wine and poured it out for them.
Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and seats.
Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids went round with the breadbaskets, pages filled the mixingbowls with wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink they wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments of a banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they compelled perforce to sing to them.
As soon as he touched his lyre and began to sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close to hers that no man might hear.
"I hope, sir," said he," that you will not be offended with what I am going to say.
Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it, and all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in some wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf.
If these men were to see my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs rather than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he, alas, has fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say that he is coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him again.
And now, sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where you come from.
Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation they declared themselves to be— for you can not have come by land.
Tell me also truly, for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house, or have you been here in my father 's time?
In the old days we had many visitors for my father went about much himself."
And Minerva answered," I will tell you truly and particularly all about it.
I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the Taphians.
I have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men of a foreign tongue being bound for Temesa with a cargo of iron, and I shall bring back copper.
As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the open country away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron under the wooded mountain Neritum.
Our fathers were friends before us, as old Laertes will tell you, if you will go and ask him.
They say, however, that he never comes to town now, and lives by himself in the country, faring hardly, with an old woman to look after him and get his dinner for him, when he comes in tired from pottering about his vineyard.
They told me your father was at home again, and that was why I came, but it seems the gods are still keeping him back, for he is not dead yet not on the mainland.
It is more likely he is on some seagirt island in mid ocean, or a prisoner among savages who are detaining him against his will.
I am no prophet, and know very little about omens, but I speak as it is borne in upon me from heaven, and assure you that he will not be away much longer; for he is a man of such resource that even though he were in chains of iron he would find some means of getting home again.
But tell me, and tell me true, can Ulysses really have such a fine looking fellow for a son?
You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes, for we were close friends before he set sail for Troy where the flower of all the Argives went also.
Since that time we have never either of us seen the other."
"My mother," answered Telemachus," tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it is a wise child that knows his own father.
Would that I were son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is no more illstarred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my father."
And Minerva said," There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while Penelope has such a fine son as you are.
But tell me, and tell me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people?
What is it all about?
Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in the family— for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his own?
And the guests— how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person who comes near them."
"Sir," said Telemachus," as regards your question, so long as my father was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods in their displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him away more closely than mortal man was ever yet hidden.
I could have borne it better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his men before Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his renown; but now the stormwinds have spirited him away we know not whither; he is gone without leaving so much as a trace behind him, and I inherit nothing but dismay.
Nor does the matter end simply with grief for the loss of my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon me of yet another kind; for the chiefs from all our islands, Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island of Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying their court to my mother, who will neither point blank say that she will not marry nor yet bring matters to an end ;so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so also with myself."
"Is that so?"
exclaimed Minerva," then you do indeed want Ulysses home again.
Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple of lances, and if he is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking and making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally suitors, were he to stand once more upon his own threshold.
He was then coming from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his arrows from Ilus, son of Mermerus.
Ilus feared the everliving gods and would not give him any, but my father let him have some, for he was very fond of him.
If Ulysses is the man he then was these suitors will have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
"But there!
It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to return, and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however, urge you to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once.
Take my advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly tomorrow morning— lay your case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness.
Bid the suitors take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother 's mind is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so dear a daughter may expect.
As for yourself, let me prevail upon you to take the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go in quest of your father who has so long been missing.
Some one may tell you something, or( and people often hear things in this way) some heavensent message may direct you.
First go to Pylos and ask Nestor; thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home last of all the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on his way home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make for yet another twelve months.
If on the other hand you hear of his death, come home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry again.
Then, having done all this, think it well over in your mind how, by fair means or foul, you may kill these suitors in your own house.
You are too old to plead infancy any longer; have you not heard how people are singing Orestes ' praises for having killed his father 's murderer Aegisthus?
You are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your mettle, then, and make yourself a name in story.
Now, however, I must go back to my ship and to my crew, who will be impatient if I keep them waiting longer; think the matter over for yourself, and remember what I have said to you."
"Sir," answered Telemachus," it has been very kind of you to talk to me in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you tell me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself.
I will then give you a present, and you shall go on your way rejoicing; I will give you one of great beauty and value— a keepsake such as only dear friends give to one another."
Minerva answered," Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way at once.
As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it till I come again, and I will take it home with me.
You shall give me a very good one, and I will give you one of no less value in return."
With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about his father.
He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors were sitting.
Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had laid upon the Achaeans.
Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his song from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids.
When she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supported the roof of the cloisters with a staid maiden on either side of her.
She held a veil, moreover, before her face, and was weeping bitterly.
"Phemius," she cried," you know many another feat of gods and heroes, such as poets love to celebrate.
Sing the suitors some one of these, and let them drink their wine in silence, but cease this sad tale, for it breaks my sorrowful heart, and reminds me of my lost husband whom I mourn ever without ceasing, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos."
"Mother," answered Telemachus," let the bard sing what he has a mind to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own good pleasure.
This fellow means no harm by singing the illfated return of the Danaans, for people always applaud the latest songs most warmly.
Make up your mind to it and bear it; Ulysses is not the only man who never came back from Troy, but many another went down as well as he.
Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for speech is man 's matter, and mine above all others— for it is I who am master here."
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son 's saying in her heart.
Then, going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyes.
But the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloisters, and prayed each one that he might be her bed fellow.
Then Telemachus spoke," Shameless," he cried," and insolent suitors, let us feast at our pleasure now, and let there be no brawling, for it is a rare thing to hear a man with such a divine voice as Phemius has; but in the morning meet me in full assembly that I may give you formal notice to depart, and feast at one another 's houses, turn and turn about, at your own cost.
If on the other hand you choose to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father 's house there shall be no man to avenge you."
The suitors bit their lips as they heard him, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech.
Then, Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said," The gods seem to have given you lessons in bluster and tall talking; may Jove never grant you to be chief in Ithaca as your father was before you."
Telemachus answered," Antinous, do not chide with me, but, god willing, I will be chief too if I can.
Is this the worst fate you can think of for me?
It is no bad thing to be a chief, for it brings both riches and honour.
Still, now that Ulysses is dead there are many great men in Ithaca both old and young, and some other may take the lead among them; nevertheless I will be chief in my own house, and will rule those whom Ulysses has won for me."
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered," It rests with heaven to decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own house and over your own possessions; no one while there is a man in Ithaca shall do you violence nor rob you.
And now, my good fellow, I want to know about this stranger.
What country does he come from?
Of what family is he, and where is his estate?
Has he brought you news about the return of your father, or was he on business of his own?
He seemed a well to do man, but he hurried off so suddenly that he was gone in a moment before we could get to know him."
"My father is dead and gone," answered Telemachus," and even if some rumour reaches me I put no more faith in it now.
My mother does indeed sometimes send for a soothsayer and question him, but I give his prophecyings no heed.
As for the stranger, he was Mentes, son of Anchialus, chief of the Taphians, an old friend of my father 's.
"But in his heart he knew that it had been the goddess.
The suitors then returned to their singing and dancing until the evening; but when night fell upon their pleasuring they went home to bed each in his own abode.
Telemachus 's room was high up in a tower that looked on to the outer court; hither, then, he hied, brooding and full of thought.
A good old woman, Euryclea, daughter of Ops, the son of Pisenor, went before him with a couple of blazing torches.
Laertes had bought her with his own money when she was quite young; he gave the worth of twenty oxen for her, and shewed as much respect to her in his household as he did to his own wedded wife, but he did not take her to his bed for he feared his wife 's resentment.
She it was who now lighted Telemachus to his room, and she loved him better than any of the other women in the house did, for she had nursed him when he was a baby.
He opened the door of his bed room and sat down upon the bed; as he took off his shirt he gave it to the good old woman, who folded it tidily up, and hung it for him over a peg by his bed side, after which she went out, pulled the door to by a silver catch, and drew the bolt home by means of the strap.
But Telemachus as he lay covered with a woollen fleece kept thinking all night through of his intended voyage and of the counsel that Minerva had given him.
THE VISIT TO THE DEAD.
"Then, when we had got down to the sea shore we drew our ship into the water and got her mast and sails into her; we also put the sheep on board and took our places, weeping and in great distress of mind.
Circe, that great and cunning goddess, sent us a fair wind that blew dead aft and staid steadily with us keeping our sails all the time well filled; so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship 's gear and let her go as the wind and helmsman headed her.
All day long her sails were full as she held her course over the sea, but when the sun went down and darkness was over all the earth, we got into the deep waters of the river Oceanus, where lie the land and city of the Cimmerians who live enshrouded in mist and darkness which the rays of the sun never pierce neither at his rising nor as he goes down again out of the heavens, but the poor wretches live in one long melancholy night.
When we got there we beached the ship, took the sheep out of her, and went along by the waters of Oceanus till we came to the place of which Circe had told us.
"Here Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims, while I drew my sword and dug the trench a cubit each way.
I made a drinkoffering to all the dead, first with honey and milk, then with wine, and thirdly with water, and I sprinkled white barley meal over the whole, praying earnestly to the poor feckless ghosts, and promising them that when I got back to Ithaca I would sacrifice a barren heifer for them, the best I had, and would load the pyre with good things.
I also particularly promised that Teiresias should have a black sheep to himself, the best in all my flocks.
When I had prayed sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up from Erebus— brides young bachelors, old men worn out with toil, maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been killed in battle, with their armour still smirched with blood; they came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear.
When I saw them coming I told the men to be quick and flay the carcasses of the two dead sheep and make burnt offerings of them, and at the same time to repeat prayers to Hades and to Proserpine; but I sat where I was with my sword drawn and would not let the poor feckless ghosts come near the blood till Teiresias should have answered my questions.
"The first ghost that came was that of my comrade Elpenor, for he had not yet been laid beneath the earth.
We had left his body unwaked and unburied in Circe 's house, for we had had too much else to do.
I was very sorry for him, and cried when I saw him:' Elpenor,' said I,' how did you come down here into this gloom and darkness?
You have got here on foot quicker than I have with my ship.'
"'Sir,' he answered with a groan,' it was all bad luck, and my own unspeakable drunkenness.
I was lying asleep on the top of Circe 's house, and never thought of coming down again by the great staircase but fell right off the roof and broke my neck, so my soul came down to the house of Hades.
And now I beseech you by all those whom you have left behind you, though they are not here, by your wife, by the father who brought you up when you were a child, and by Telemachus who is the one hope of your house, do what I shall now ask you.
I know that when you leave this limbo you will again hold your ship for the Aeaean island.
Do not go thence leaving me unwaked and unburied behind you, or I may bring heaven 's anger upon you; but burn me with whatever armour I have, build a barrow for me on the sea shore, that may tell people in days to come what a poor unlucky fellow I was, and plant over my grave the oar I used to row with when I was yet alive and with my messmates.'
And I said,' My poor fellow, I will do all that you have asked of me.'
"Thus, then, did we sit and hold sad talk with one another, I on the one side of the trench with my sword held over the blood, and the ghost of my comrade saying all this to me from the other side.
Then came the ghost of my dead mother Anticlea, daughter to Autolycus.
I had left her alive when I set out for Troy and was moved to tears when I saw her, but even so, for all my sorrow I would not let her come near the blood till I had asked my questions of Teiresias.
"Then came also the ghost of Theban Teiresias, with his golden sceptre in his hand.
He knew me and said,' Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, why, poor man, have you left the light of day and come down to visit the dead in this sad place?
Stand back from the trench and withdraw your sword that I may drink of the blood and answer your questions truly.'
"So I drew back, and sheathed my sword, whereon when he had drank of the blood he began with his prophecy.
"'You want to know,' said he,' about your return home, but heaven will make this hard for you.
I do not think that you will escape the eye of Neptune, who still nurses his bitter grudge against you for having blinded his son.
Still, after much suffering you may get home if you can restrain yourself and your companions when your ship reaches the Thrinacian island, where you will find the sheep and cattle belonging to the sun, who sees and gives ear to everything.
If you leave these flocks unharmed and think of nothing but of getting home, you may yet after much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm them, then I forewarn you of the destruction both of your ship and of your men.
Even though you may yourself escape, you will return in bad plight after losing all your men,[ in another man 's ship, and you will find trouble in your house, which will be overrun by highhanded people, who are devouring your substance under the pretext of paying court and making presents to your wife.
"'When you get home you will take your revenge on these suitors; and after you have killed them by force or fraud in your own house, you must take a well made oar and carry it on and on, till you come to a country where the people have never heard of the sea and do not even mix salt with their food, nor do they know anything about ships, and oars that are as the wings of a ship.
I will give you this certain token which can not escape your notice.
A wayfarer will meet you and will say it must be a winnowing shovel that you have got upon your shoulder; on this you must fix the oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune.
Then go home and offer hecatombs to all the gods in heaven one after the other.
As for yourself, death shall come to you from the sea, and your life shall ebb away very gently when you are full of years and peace of mind, and your people shall bless you.
All that I have said will come true].'
"'This,' I answered,' must be as it may please heaven, but tell me and tell me and tell me true, I see my poor mother 's ghost close by us; she is sitting by the blood without saying a word, and though I am her own son she does not remember me and speak to me; tell me, Sir, how I can make her know me.'
"'That,' said he,' I can soon do.
Any ghost that you let taste of the blood will talk with you like a reasonable being, but if you do not let them have any blood they will go away again.'
"On this the ghost of Teiresias went back to the house of Hades, for his prophecyings had now been spoken, but I sat still where I was until my mother came up and tasted the blood.
Then she knew me at once and spoke fondly to me, saying,' My son, how did you come down to this abode of darkness while you are still alive?
It is a hard thing for the living to see these places, for between us and them there are great and terrible waters, and there is Oceanus, which no man can cross on foot, but he must have a good ship to take him.
Are you all this time trying to find your way home from Troy, and have you never yet got back to Ithaca nor seen your wife in your own house?'
"'Mother,' said I,' I was forced to come here to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias.
I have never yet been near the Achaean land nor set foot on my native country, and I have had nothing but one long series of misfortunes from the very first day that I set out with Agamemnon for Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight the Trojans.
But tell me, and tell me true, in what way did you die?
Did you have a long illness, or did heaven vouchsafe you a gentle easy passage to eternity?
Tell me also about my father, and the son whom I left behind me, is my property still in their hands, or has some one else got hold of it, who thinks that I shall not return to claim it?
Tell me again what my wife intends doing, and in what mind she is; does she live with my son and guard my estate securely, or has she made the best match she could and married again?'
"My mother answered,' Your wife still remains in your house, but she is in great distress of mind and spends her whole time in tears both night and day.
No one as yet has got possession of your fine property, and Telemachus still holds your lands undisturbed.
He has to entertain largely, as of course he must, considering his position as a magistrate and how every one invites him; your father remains at his old place in the country and never goes near the town.
He has no comfortable bed nor bedding; in the winter he sleeps on the floor in front of the fire with the men and goes about all in rags, but in summer, when the warm weather comes on again, he lies out in the vineyard on a bed of vine leaves thrown any how upon the ground.
He grieves continually about your never having come home, and suffers more and more as he grows older.
As for my own end it was in this wise: heaven did not take me swiftly and painlessly in my own house, nor was I attacked by any illness such as those that generally wear people out and kill them, but my longing to know what you were doing and the force of my affection for you— this it was that was the death of me.'
"Then I tried to find some way of embracing my poor mother 's ghost.
Thrice I sprang towards her and tried to clasp her in my arms, but each time she flitted from my embrace as it were a dream or phantom, and being touched to the quick I said to her,' Mother, why do you not stay still when I would embrace you?
If we could throw our arms around one another we might find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows even in the house of Hades; does Proserpine want to lay a still further load of grief upon me by mocking me with a phantom only?'
"'My son,' she answered,' most illfated of all mankind, it is not Proserpine that is beguiling you, but all people are like this when they are dead.
The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bones together; these perish in the fierceness of consuming fire as soon as life has left the body, and the soul flits away as though it were a dream.
Now, however, go back to the light of day as soon as you can, and note all these things that you may tell them to your wife hereafter.'
"Thus did we converse, and anon Proserpine sent up the ghosts of the wives and daughters of all the most famous men.
They gathered in crowds about the blood, and I considered how I might question them severally.
In the end I deemed that it would be best to draw the keen blade that hung by my sturdy thigh, and keep them from all drinking the blood at once.
So they came up one after the other, and each one as I questioned her told me her race and lineage.
"The first I saw was Tyro.
She was daughter of Salmoneus and wife of Cretheus the son of Aeolus.
She fell in love with the river Enipeus who is much the most beautiful river in the whole world.
Once when she was taking a walk by his side as usual, Neptune, disguised as her lover, lay with her at the mouth of the river, and a huge blue wave arched itself like a mountain over them to hide both woman and god, whereon he loosed her virgin girdle and laid her in a deep slumber.
When the god had accomplished the deed of love, he took her hand in his own and said,' Tyro, rejoice in all good will; the embraces of the gods are not fruitless, and you will have fine twins about this time twelve months.
Take great care of them.
I am Neptune, so now go home, but hold your tongue and do not tell any one.'
"Then he dived under the sea, and she in due course bore Pelias and Neleus, who both of them served Jove with all their might.
Pelias was a great breeder of sheep and lived in Iolcus, but the other lived in Pylos.
The rest of her children were by Cretheus, namely, Aeson, Pheres, and Amythaon, who was a mighty warrior and charioteer.
"Next to her I saw Antiope, daughter to Asopus, who could boast of having slept in the arms of even Jove himself, and who bore him two sons Amphion and Zethus.
These founded Thebes with its seven gates, and built a wall all round it; for strong though they were they could not hold Thebes till they had walled it.
"Then I saw Alcmena, the wife of Amphitryon, who also bore to Jove indomitable Hercules; and Megara who was daughter to great King Creon, and married the redoubtable son of Amphitryon.
"I also saw fair Epicaste mother of king Oedipodes whose awful lot it was to marry her own son without suspecting it.
He married her after having killed his father, but the gods proclaimed the whole story to the world; whereon he remained king of Thebes, in great grief for the spite the gods had borne him; but Epicaste went to the house of the mighty jailor Hades, having hanged herself for grief, and the avenging spirits haunted him as for an outraged mother— to his ruing bitterly thereafter.
"Then I saw Chloris, whom Neleus married for her beauty, having given priceless presents for her.
She was youngest daughter to Amphion son of Iasus and king of Minyan Orchomenus, and was Queen in Pylos.
She bore Nestor, Chromius, and Periclymenus, and she also bore that marvellously lovely woman Pero, who was wooed by all the country round; but Neleus would only give her to him who should raid the cattle of Iphicles from the grazing grounds of Phylace, and this was a hard task.
The only man who would undertake to raid them was a certain excellent seer but the will of heaven was against him, for the rangers of the cattle caught him and put him in prison; nevertheless when a full year had passed and the same season came round again, Iphicles set him at liberty, after he had expounded all the oracles of heaven.
Thus, then, was the will of Jove accomplished.
"And I saw Leda the wife of Tyndarus, who bore him two famous sons, Castor breaker of horses, and Pollux the mighty boxer.
Both these heroes are lying under the earth, though they are still alive, for by a special dispensation of Jove, they die and come to life again, each one of them every other day throughout all time, and they have the rank of gods.
"After her I saw Iphimedeia wife of Aloeus who boasted the embrace of Neptune.
She bore two sons Otus and Ephialtes, but both were short lived.
They were the finest children that were ever born in this world, and the best looking, Orion only excepted; for at nine years old they were nine fathoms high, and measured nine cubits round the chest.
They threatened to make war with the gods in Olympus, and tried to set Mount Ossa on the top of Mount Olympus, and Mount Pelion on the top of Ossa, that they might scale heaven itself, and they would have done it too if they had been grown up, but Apollo, son of Leto, killed both of them, before they had got so much as a sign of hair upon their cheeks or chin.
"Then I saw Phaedra, and Procris, and fair Ariadne daughter of the magician Minos, whom Theseus was carrying off from Crete to Athens, but he did not enjoy her, for before he could do so Diana killed her in the island of Dia on account of what Bacchus had said against her.
"I also saw Maera and Clymene and hateful Eriphyle, who sold her own husband for gold.
But it would take me all night if I were to name every single one of the wives and daughters of heroes whom I saw, and it is time for me to go to bed, either on board ship with my crew, or here.
As for my escort, heaven and yourselves will see to it."
Here he ended, and the guests sat all of them enthralled and speechless throughout the covered cloister.
Then Arete said to them:— "What do you think of this man, O Phaeacians?
Is he not tall and good looking, and is he not clever?
True, he is my own guest, but all of you share in the distinction.
Do not be in a hurry to send him away, nor niggardly in the presents you make to one who is in such great need, for heaven has blessed all of you with great abundance."
Then spoke the aged hero Echeneus who was one of the oldest men among them," My friends," said he," what our august queen has just said to us is both reasonable and to the purpose, therefore be persuaded by it; but the decision whether in word or deed rests ultimately with King Alcinous."
"The thing shall be done," exclaimed Alcinous," as surely as I still live and reign over the Phaeacians.
Our guest is indeed very anxious to get home, still we must persuade him to remain with us until tomorrow, by which time I shall be able to get together the whole sum that I mean to give him.
As regards his escort it will be a matter for you all, and mine above all others as the chief person among you."
And Ulysses answered," King Alcinous, if you were to bid me to stay here for a whole twelve months, and then speed me on my way, loaded with your noble gifts, I should obey you gladly and it would redound greatly to my advantage, for I should return fullerhanded to my own people, and should thus be more respected and beloved by all who see me when I get back to Ithaca."
"Ulysses," replied Alcinous," not one of us who sees you has any idea that you are a charlatan or a swindler.
I know there are many people going about who tell such plausible stories that it is very hard to see through them, but there is a style about your language which assures me of your good disposition.
Moreover you have told the story of your own misfortunes, and those of the Argives, as though you were a practiced bard; but tell me, and tell me true, whether you saw any of the mighty heroes who went to Troy at the same time with yourself, and perished there.
The evenings are still at their longest, and it is not yet bed time— go on, therefore, with your divine story, for I could stay here listening till tomorrow morning, so long as you will continue to tell us of your adventures."
"Alcinous," answered Ulysses," there is a time for making speeches, and a time for going to bed; nevertheless, since you so desire, I will not refrain from telling you the still sadder tale of those of my comrades who did not fall fighting with the Trojans, but perished on their return, through the treachery of a wicked woman.
"When Proserpine had dismissed the female ghosts in all directions, the ghost of Agamemnon son of Atreus came sadly up to me, surrounded by those who had perished with him in the house of Aegisthus.
As soon as he had tasted the blood, he knew me, and weeping bitterly stretched out his arms towards me to embrace me; but he had no strength nor substance any more, and I too wept and pitied him as I beheld him.'
How did you come by your death,' said I,' King Agamemnon?
Did Neptune raise his winds and waves against you when you were at sea, or did your enemies make an end of you on the main land when you were cattlelifting or sheepstealing, or while they were fighting in defence of their wives and city?'
"'Ulysses,' he answered,' noble son of Laertes, I was not lost at sea in any storm of Neptune 's raising, nor did my foes despatch me upon the mainland, but Aegisthus and my wicked wife were the death of me between them.
He asked me to his house, feasted me, and then butchered me most miserably as though I were a fat beast in a slaughter house, while all around me my comrades were slain like sheep or pigs for the wedding breakfast, or picnic, or gorgeous banquet of some great nobleman.
You must have seen numbers of men killed either in a general engagement, or in single combat, but you never saw anything so truly pitiable as the way in which we fell in that cloister, with the mixing bowl and the loaded tables lying all about, and the ground reeking with our blood.
I heard Priam 's daughter Cassandra scream as Clytemnestra killed her close beside me.
I lay dying upon the earth with the sword in my body, and raised my hands to kill the slut of a murderess, but she slipped away from me; she would not even close my lips nor my eyes when I was dying, for there is nothing in this world so cruel and so shameless as a woman when she has fallen into such guilt as hers was.
Fancy murdering her own husband!
I thought I was going to be welcomed home by my children and my servants, but her abominable crime has brought disgrace on herself and all women who shall come after— even on the good ones.'
"And I said,' In truth Jove has hated the house of Atreus from first to last in the matter of their women 's counsels.
See how many of us fell for Helen 's sake, and now it seems that Clytemnestra hatched mischief against you too during your absence.'
"'Be sure, therefore,' continued Agamemnon,' and not be too friendly even with your own wife.
Do not tell her all that you know perfectly well yourself.
Tell her a part only, and keep your own counsel about the rest.
Not that your wife, Ulysses, is likely to murder you, for Penelope is a very admirable woman, and has an excellent nature.
We left her a young bride with an infant at her breast when we set out for Troy.
This child no doubt is now grown up happily to man 's estate and he and his father will have a joyful meeting and embrace one another as it is right they should do, whereas my wicked wife did not even allow me the happiness of looking upon my son, but killed me ere I could do so.
Furthermore I say— and lay my saying to your heart— do not tell people when you are bringing your ship to Ithaca, but steal a march upon them, for after all this there is no trusting women.
But now tell me, and tell me true, can you give me any news of my son Orestes?
Is he in Orchomenus, or at Pylos, or is he at Sparta with Menelaus— for I presume that he is still living.'
"And I said,' Agamemnon, why do you ask me?
I do not know whether your son is alive or dead, and it is not right to talk when one does not know.'
"As we two sat weeping and talking thus sadly with one another the ghost of Achilles came up to us with Patroclus, Antilochus, and Ajax who was the finest and goodliest man of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus.
The fleet descendant of Aeacus knew me and spoke piteously, saying,' Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, what deed of daring will you undertake next, that you venture down to the house of Hades among us silly dead, who are but the ghosts of them that can labour no more?'
"And I said,' Achilles, son of Peleus, foremost champion of the Achaeans, I came to consult Teiresias, and see if he could advise me about my return home to Ithaca, for I have never yet been able to get near the Achaean land, nor to set foot in my own country, but have been in trouble all the time.
As for you, Achilles, no one was ever yet so fortunate as you have been, nor ever will be, for you were adored by all us Argives as long as you were alive, and now that you are here you are a great prince among the dead.
Do not, therefore, take it so much to heart even if you are dead.'
"'Say not a word,' he answered,' in death 's favour; I would rather be a paid servant in a poor man 's house and be above ground than king of kings among the dead.
But give me news about my son; is he gone to the wars and will he be a great soldier, or is this not so?
Tell me also if you have heard anything about my father Peleus— does he still rule among the Myrmidons, or do they show him no respect throughout Hellas and Phthia now that he is old and his limbs fail him?
Could I but stand by his side, in the light of day, with the same strength that I had when I killed the bravest of our foes upon the plain of Troy— could I but be as I then was and go even for a short time to my father 's house, any one who tried to do him violence or supersede him would soon rue it.'
"'I have heard nothing,' I answered,' of Peleus, but I can tell you all about your son Neoptolemus, for I took him in my own ship from Scyros with the Achaeans.
In our councils of war before Troy he was always first to speak, and his judgement was unerring.
Nestor and I were the only two who could surpass him; and when it came to fighting on the plain of Troy, he would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour.
Many a man did he kill in battle— I can not name every single one of those whom he slew while fighting on the side of the Argives, but will only say how he killed that valiant hero Eurypylus son of Telephus, who was the handsomest man I ever saw except Memnon; many others also of the Ceteians fell around him by reason of a woman 's bribes.
Moreover, when all the bravest of the Argives went inside the horse that Epeus had made, and it was left to me to settle when we should either open the door of our ambuscade, or close it, though all the other leaders and chief men among the Danaans were drying their eyes and quaking in every limb, I never once saw him turn pale nor wipe a tear from his cheek; he was all the time urging me to break out from the horse— grasping the handle of his sword and his bronzeshod spear, and breathing fury against the foe.
Yet when we had sacked the city of Priam he got his handsome share of the prize money and went on board( such is the fortune of war) without a wound upon him, neither from a thrown spear nor in close combat, for the rage of Mars is a matter of great chance.'
"When I had told him this, the ghost of Achilles strode off across a meadow full of asphodel, exulting over what I had said concerning the prowess of his son.
"The ghosts of other dead men stood near me and told me each his own melancholy tale; but that of Ajax son of Telamon alone held aloof— still angry with me for having won the cause in our dispute about the armour of Achilles.
Thetis had offered it as a prize, but the Trojan prisoners and Minerva were the judges.
Would that I had never gained the day in such a contest, for it cost the life of Ajax, who was foremost of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus, alike in stature and prowess.
"When I saw him I tried to pacify him and said,' Ajax, will you not forget and forgive even in death, but must the judgement about that hateful armour still rankle with you?
It cost us Argives dear enough to lose such a tower of strength as you were to us.
We mourned you as much as we mourned Achilles son of Peleus himself, nor can the blame be laid on anything but on the spite which Jove bore against the Danaans, for it was this that made him counsel your destruction— come hither, therefore, bring your proud spirit into subjection, and hear what I can tell you.'
"He would not answer, but turned away to Erebus and to the other ghosts; nevertheless, I should have made him talk to me in spite of his being so angry, or I should have gone on talking to him only that there were still others among the dead whom I desired to see.
"Then I saw Minos son of Jove with his golden sceptre in his hand sitting in judgement on the dead, and the ghosts were gathered sitting and standing round him in the spacious house of Hades, to learn his sentences upon them.
"After him I saw huge Orion in a meadow full of asphodel driving the ghosts of the wild beasts that he had killed upon the mountains, and he had a great bronze club in his hand, unbreakable for ever and ever.
"And I saw Tityus son of Gaia stretched upon the plain and covering some nine acres of ground.
Two vultures on either side of him were digging their beaks into his liver, and he kept on trying to beat them off with his hands, but could not; for he had violated Jove 's mistress Leto as she was going through Panopeus on her way to Pytho.
"I saw also the dreadful fate of Tantalus, who stood in a lake that reached his chin; he was dying to quench his thirst, but could never reach the water, for whenever the poor creature stooped to drink, it dried up and vanished, so that there was nothing but dry ground— parched by the spite of heaven.
There were tall trees, moreover, that shed their fruit over his head— pears, pomegranates, apples, sweet figs and juicy olives, but whenever the poor creature stretched out his hand to take some, the wind tossed the branches back again to the clouds.
"And I saw Sisyphus at his endless task raising his prodigious stone with both his hands.
With hands and feet he tried to roll it up to the top of the hill, but always, just before he could roll it over on to the other side, its weight would be too much for him, and the pitiless stone would come thundering down again on to the plain.
Then he would begin trying to push it up hill again, and the sweat ran off him and the steam rose after him.
"After him I saw mighty Hercules, but it was his phantom only, for he is feasting ever with the immortal gods, and has lovely Hebe to wife, who is daughter of Jove and Juno.
The ghosts were screaming round him like scared birds flying all whithers.
He looked black as night with his bare bow in his hands and his arrow on the string, glaring around as though ever on the point of taking aim.
About his breast there was a wondrous golden belt adorned in the most marvellous fashion with bears, wild boars, and lions with gleaming eyes; there was also war, battle, and death.
The man who made that belt, do what he might, would never be able to make another like it.
Hercules knew me at once when he saw me, and spoke piteously, saying,' My poor Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, are you too leading the same sorry kind of life that I did when I was above ground?
I was son of Jove, but I went through an infinity of suffering, for I became bondsman to one who was far beneath me— a low fellow who set me all manner of labours.
He once sent me here to fetch the hellhound— for he did not think he could find anything harder for me than this, but I got the hound out of Hades and brought him to him, for Mercury and Minerva helped me.'
"On this Hercules went down again into the house of Hades, but I stayed where I was in case some other of the mighty dead should come to me.
And I should have seen still other of them that are gone before, whom I would fain have seen— Theseus and Pirithous— glorious children of the gods, but so many thousands of ghosts came round me and uttered such appalling cries, that I was panic stricken lest Proserpine should send up from the house of Hades the head of that awful monster Gorgon.
On this I hastened back to my ship and ordered my men to go on board at once and loose the hawsers; so they embarked and took their places, whereon the ship went down the stream of the river Oceanus.
We had to row at first, but presently a fair wind sprang up.
Neptune helps the Achaeans—The feats of Idomeneus—Hector at the ships.
Now when Jove had thus brought Hector and the Trojans to the ships, he left them to their neverending toil, and turned his keen eyes away, looking elsewhither towards the horsebreeders of Thrace, the Mysians, fighters at close quarters, the noble Hippemolgi, who live on milk, and the Abians, justest of mankind.
He no longer turned so much as a glance towards Troy, for he did not think that any of the immortals would go and help either Trojans or Danaans.
But King Neptune had kept no blind lookout; he had been looking admiringly on the battle from his seat on the topmost crests of wooded Samothrace, whence he could see all Ida, with the city of Priam and the ships of the Achaeans.
He had come from under the sea and taken his place here, for he pitied the Achaeans who were being overcome by the Trojans; and he was furiously angry with Jove.
Presently he came down from his post on the mountain top, and as he strode swiftly onwards the high hills and the forest quaked beneath the tread of his immortal feet.
Three strides he took, and with the fourth he reached his goal— Aegae, where is his glittering golden palace, imperishable, in the depths of the sea.
When he got there, he yoked his fleet brazenfooted steeds with their manes of gold all flying in the wind; he clothed himself in raiment of gold, grasped his gold whip, and took his stand upon his chariot.
As he went his way over the waves the seamonsters left their lairs, for they knew their lord, and came gambolling round him from every quarter of the deep, while the sea in her gladness opened a path before his chariot.
So lightly did the horses fly that the bronze axle of the car was not even wet beneath it; and thus his bounding steeds took him to the ships of the Achaeans.
Now there is a certain huge cavern in the depths of the sea midway between Tenedos and rocky Imbrus; here Neptune lord of the earthquake stayed his horses, unyoked them, and set before them their ambrosial forage.
He hobbled their feet with hobbles of gold which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay there in that place until their lord should return.
This done he went his way to the host of the Achaeans.
Now the Trojans followed Hector son of Priam in close array like a stormcloud or flame of fire, fighting with might and main and raising the cry battle; for they deemed that they should take the ships of the Achaeans and kill all their chiefest heroes then and there.
Meanwhile earthencircling Neptune lord of the earthquake cheered on the Argives, for he had come up out of the sea and had assumed the form and voice of Calchas.
First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, who were doing their best already, and said," Ajaxes, you two can be the saving of the Achaeans if you will put out all your strength and not let yourselves be daunted.
I am not afraid that the Trojans, who have got over the wall in force, will be victorious in any other part, for the Achaeans can hold all of them in check, but I much fear that some evil will befall us here where furious Hector, who boasts himself the son of great Jove himself, is leading them on like a pillar of flame.
May some god, then, put it into your hearts to make a firm stand here, and to incite others to do the like.
In this case you will drive him from the ships even though he be inspired by Jove himself."
As he spoke the earthencircling lord of the earthquake struck both of them with his sceptre and filled their hearts with daring.
He made their legs light and active, as also their hands and their feet.
Then, as the soaring falcon poises on the wing high above some sheer rock, and presently swoops down to chase some bird over the plain, even so did Neptune lord of the earthquake wing his flight into the air and leave them.
Of the two, swift Ajax son of Oileus was the first to know who it was that had been speaking with them, and said to Ajax son of Telamon," Ajax, this is one of the gods that dwell on Olympus, who in the likeness of the prophet is bidding us fight hard by our ships.
It was not Calchas the seer and diviner of omens; I knew him at once by his feet and knees as he turned away, for the gods are soon recognised.
Moreover I feel the lust of battle burn more fiercely within me, while my hands and my feet under me are more eager for the fray."
And Ajax son of Telamon answered," I too feel my hands grasp my spear more firmly; my strength is greater, and my feet more nimble; I long, moreover, to meet furious Hector son of Priam, even in single combat."
Thus did they converse, exulting in the hunger after battle with which the god had filled them.
Meanwhile the earthencircler roused the Achaeans, who were resting in the rear by the ships overcome at once by hard fighting and by grief at seeing that the Trojans had got over the wall in force.
Tears began falling from their eyes as they beheld them, for they made sure that they should not escape destruction; but the lord of the earthquake passed lightly about among them and urged their battalions to the front.
First he went up to Teucer and Leitus, the hero Peneleos, and Thoas and Deipyrus; Meriones also and Antilochus, valiant warriors; all did he exhort. "
Shame on you young Argives," he cried," it was on your prowess I relied for the saving of our ships; if you fight not with might and main, this very day will see us overcome by the Trojans.
Of a truth my eyes behold a great and terrible portent which I had never thought to see— the Trojans at our ships— they, who were heretofore like panicstricken hinds, the prey of jackals and wolves in a forest, with no strength but in flight for they can not defend themselves.
Hitherto the Trojans dared not for one moment face the attack of the Achaeans, but now they have sallied far from their city and are fighting at our very ships through the cowardice of our leader and the disaffection of the people themselves, who in their discontent care not to fight in defence of the ships but are being slaughtered near them.
True, King Agamemnon son of Atreus is the cause of our disaster by having insulted the son of Peleus, still this is no reason why we should leave off fighting.
Let us be quick to heal, for the hearts of the brave heal quickly.
You do ill to be thus remiss, you, who are the finest soldiers in our whole army.
I blame no man for keeping out of battle if he is a weakling, but I am indignant with such men as you are.
My good friends, matters will soon become even worse through this slackness; think, each one of you, of his own honour and credit, for the hazard of the fight is extreme.
Great Hector is now fighting at our ships; he has broken through the gates and the strong bolt that held them."
Thus did the earthencircler address the Achaeans and urge them on.
Thereon round the two Ajaxes there gathered strong bands of men, of whom not even Mars nor Minerva, marshaller of hosts could make light if they went among them, for they were the picked men of all those who were now awaiting the onset of Hector and the Trojans.
They made a living fence, spear to spear, shield to shield, buckler to buckler, helmet to helmet, and man to man.
The horsehair crests on their gleaming helmets touched one another as they nodded forward, so closely serried were they; the spears they brandished in their strong hands were interlaced, and their hearts were set on battle.
The Trojans advanced in a dense body, with Hector at their head pressing right on as a rock that comes thundering down the side of some mountain from whose brow the winter torrents have torn it; the foundations of the dull thing have been loosened by floods of rain, and as it bounds headlong on its way it sets the whole forest in an uproar; it swerves neither to right nor left till it reaches level ground, but then for all its fury it can go no further— even so easily did Hector for a while seem as though he would career through the tents and ships of the Achaeans till he had reached the sea in his murderous course; but the closely serried battalions stayed him when he reached them, for the sons of the Achaeans thrust at him with swords and spears pointed at both ends, and drove him from them so that he staggered and gave ground ;thereon he shouted to the Trojans," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close combat, stand firm: the Achaeans have set themselves as a wall against me, but they will not check me for long; they will give ground before me if the mightiest of the gods, the thundering spouse of Juno, has indeed inspired my onset."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all.
Deiphobus son of Priam went about among them intent on deeds of daring with his round shield before him, under cover of which he strode quickly forward.
Meriones took aim at him with a spear, nor did he fail to hit the broad orb of oxhide; but he was far from piercing it for the spear broke in two pieces long ere he could do so; moreover Deiphobus had seen it coming and had held his shield well away from him.
Meriones drew back under cover of his comrades, angry alike at having failed to vanquish Deiphobus, and having broken his spear.
He turned therefore towards the ships and tents to fetch a spear which he had left behind in his tent.
The others continued fighting, and the cry of battle rose up into the heavens.
Teucer son of Telamon was the first to kill his man, to wit, the warrior Imbrius, son of Mentor, rich in horses.
Until the Achaeans came he had lived in Pedaeum, and had married Medesicaste, a bastard daughter of Priam; but on the arrival of the Danaan fleet he had gone back to Ilius, and was a great man among the Trojans, dwelling near Priam himself, who gave him like honour with his own sons.
The son of Telamon now struck him under the ear with a spear which he then drew back again, and Imbrius fell headlong as an ashtree when it is felled on the crest of some high mountain beacon, and its delicate green foliage comes toppling down to the ground.
Thus did he fall with his bronzedight armour ringing harshly round him, and Teucer sprang forward with intent to strip him of his armour; but as he was doing so, Hector took aim at him with a spear.
Teucer saw the spear coming and swerved aside, whereon it hit Amphimachus, son of Cteatus son of Actor, in the chest as he was coming into battle, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Hector sprang forward to take Amphimachus 's helmet from off his temples, and in a moment Ajax threw a spear at him, but did not wound him, for he was encased all over in his terrible armour; nevertheless the spear struck the boss of his shield with such force as to drive him back from the two corpses, which the Achaeans then drew off.
Stichius and Menestheus, captains of the Athenians, bore away Amphimachus to the host of the Achaeans, while the two brave and impetuous Ajaxes did the like by Imbrius.
As two lions snatch a goat from the hounds that have it in their fangs, and bear it through thick brushwood high above the ground in their jaws, thus did the Ajaxes bear aloft the body of Imbrius, and strip it of its armour.
Then the son of Oileus severed the head from the neck in revenge for the death of Amphimachus, and sent it whirling over the crowd as though it had been a ball, till it fell in the dust at Hector 's feet.
Neptune was exceedingly angry that his grandson Amphimachus should have fallen; he therefore went to the tents and ships of the Achaeans to urge the Danaans still further, and to devise evil for the Trojans.
Idomeneus met him, as he was taking leave of a comrade, who had just come to him from the fight, wounded in the knee.
His fellowsoldiers bore him off the field, and Idomeneus having given orders to the physicians went on to his tent, for he was still thirsting for battle.
Neptune spoke in the likeness and with the voice of Thoas son of Andraemon who ruled the Aetolians of all Pleuron and high Calydon, and was honoured among his people as though he were a god."
Idomeneus," said he," lawgiver to the Cretans, what has now become of the threats with which the sons of the Achaeans used to threaten the Trojans?"
And Idomeneus chief among the Cretans answered," Thoas, no one, so far as I know, is in fault, for we can all fight.
None are held back neither by fear nor slackness, but it seems to be the will of almighty Jove that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here far from Argos: you, Thoas, have been always staunch, and you keep others in heart if you see any fail in duty ;be not then remiss now, but exhort all to do their utmost."
To this Neptune lord of the earthquake made answer," Idomeneus, may he never return from Troy, but remain here for dogs to batten upon, who is this day wilfully slack in fighting.
Get your armour and go, we must make all haste together if we may be of any use, though we are only two.
Even cowards gain courage from companionship, and we two can hold our own with the bravest."
Therewith the god went back into the thick of the fight, and Idomeneus when he had reached his tent donned his armour, grasped his two spears, and sallied forth.
As the lightning which the son of Saturn brandishes from bright Olympus when he would show a sign to mortals, and its gleam flashes far and wide— even so did his armour gleam about him as he ran.
Meriones his sturdy squire met him while he was still near his tent( for he was going to fetch his spear) and Idomeneus said: "Meriones, fleet son of Molus, best of comrades, why have you left the field?
Are you wounded, and is the point of the weapon hurting you?
or have you been sent to fetch me?
I want no fetching ;I had far rather fight than stay in my tent."
"Idomeneus," answered Meriones," I come for a spear, if I can find one in my tent; I have broken the one I had, in throwing it at the shield of Deiphobus."
And Idomeneus captain of the Cretans answered," You will find one spear, or twenty if you so please, standing up against the end wall of my tent.
I have taken them from Trojans whom I have killed, for I am not one to keep my enemy at arm 's length; therefore I have spears, bossed shields, helmets, and burnished corslets."
Then Meriones said," I too in my tent and at my ship have spoils taken from the Trojans, but they are not at hand.
I have been at all times valorous, and wherever there has been hard fighting have held my own among the foremost.
There may be those among the Achaeans who do not know how I fight, but you know it well enough yourself."
Idomeneus answered," I know you for a brave man: you need not tell me.
If the best men at the ships were being chosen to go on an ambush— and there is nothing like this for showing what a man is made of; it comes out then who is cowardly and who brave; the coward will change colour at every touch and turn; he is full of fears, and keeps shifting his weight first on one knee and then on the other; his heart beats fast as he thinks of death, and one can hear the chattering of his teeth; whereas the brave man will not change colour nor be frightened on finding himself in ambush, but is all the time longing to go into action— if the best men were being chosen for such a service, no one could make light of your courage nor feats of arms.
If you were struck by a dart or smitten in close combat, it would not be from behind, in your neck nor back, but the weapon would hit you in the chest or belly as you were pressing forward to a place in the front ranks.
But let us no longer stay here talking like children, lest we be ill spoken of; go, fetch your spear from the tent at once."
On this Meriones, peer of Mars, went to the tent and got himself a spear of bronze.
He then followed after Idomeneus, big with great deeds of valour.
As when baneful Mars sallies forth to battle, and his son Panic so strong and dauntless goes with him, to strike terror even into the heart of a hero— the pair have gone from Thrace to arm themselves among the Ephyri or the brave Phlegyans, but they will not listen to both the contending hosts, and will give victory to one side or to the other— even so did Meriones and Idomeneus, captains of men, go out to battle clad in their bronze armour.
Meriones was first to speak.
"Son of Deucalion," said he," where would you have us begin fighting?
On the right wing of the host, in the centre, or on the left wing, where I take it the Achaeans will be weakest?"
Idomeneus answered," There are others to defend the centre— the two Ajaxes and Teucer, who is the finest archer of all the Achaeans, and is good also in a handtohand fight.
These will give Hector son of Priam enough to do; fight as he may, he will find it hard to vanquish their indomitable fury, and fire the ships, unless the son of Saturn fling a firebrand upon them with his own hand.
Great Ajax son of Telamon will yield to no man who is in mortal mould and eats the grain of Ceres, if bronze and great stones can overthrow him.
He would not yield even to Achilles in handtohand fight, and in fleetness of foot there is none to beat him; let us turn therefore towards the left wing, that we may know forthwith whether we are to give glory to some other, or he to us."
Meriones, peer of fleet Mars, then led the way till they came to the part of the host which Idomeneus had named.
Now when the Trojans saw Idomeneus coming on like a flame of fire, him and his squire clad in their richly wrought armour, they shouted and made towards him all in a body, and a furious handtohand fight raged under the ships ' sterns.
Fierce as the shrill winds that whistle upon a day when dust lies deep on the roads, and the gusts raise it into a thick cloud— even such was the fury of the combat, and might and main did they hack at each other with spear and sword throughout the host.
The field bristled with the long and deadly spears which they bore.
Dazzling was the sheen of their gleaming helmets, their freshburnished breastplates, and glittering shields as they joined battle with one another.
Iron indeed must be his courage who could take pleasure in the sight of such a turmoil, and look on it without being dismayed.
Thus did the two mighty sons of Saturn devise evil for mortal heroes.
Jove was minded to give victory to the Trojans and to Hector, so as to do honour to fleet Achilles, nevertheless he did not mean to utterly overthrow the Achaean host before Ilius, and only wanted to glorify Thetis and her valiant son.
Neptune on the other hand went about among the Argives to incite them, having come up from the grey sea in secret, for he was grieved at seeing them vanquished by the Trojans, and was furiously angry with Jove.
Both were of the same race and country, but Jove was elder born and knew more, therefore Neptune feared to defend the Argives openly, but in the likeness of man, he kept on encouraging them throughout their host.
Thus, then, did these two devise a knot of war and battle, that none could unloose or break, and set both sides tugging at it, to the failing of men 's knees beneath them.
And now Idomeneus, though his hair was already flecked with grey, called loud on the Danaans and spread panic among the Trojans as he leaped in among them.
He slew Othryoneus from Cabesus, a sojourner, who had but lately come to take part in the war.
He sought Cassandra, the fairest of Priam 's daughters, in marriage, but offered no gifts of wooing, for he promised a great thing, to wit, that he would drive the sons of the Achaeans willy nilly from Troy; old King Priam had given his consent and promised her to him, whereon he fought on the strength of the promises thus made to him.
Idomeneus aimed a spear, and hit him as he came striding on.
His cuirass of bronze did not protect him, and the spear stuck in his belly, so that he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Idomeneus vaunted over him saying," Othryoneus, there is no one in the world whom I shall admire more than I do you, if you indeed perform what you have promised Priam son of Dardanus in return for his daughter.
We too will make you an offer; we will give you the loveliest daughter of the son of Atreus, and will bring her from Argos for you to marry, if you will sack the goodly city of Ilius in company with ourselves; so come along with me, that we may make a covenant at the ships about the marriage, and we will not be hard upon you about gifts of wooing."
With this Idomeneus began dragging him by the foot through the thick of the fight, but Asius came up to protect the body, on foot, in front of his horses which his esquire drove so close behind him that he could feel their breath upon his shoulder.
He was longing to strike down Idomeneus, but ere he could do so Idomeneus smote him with his spear in the throat under the chin, and the bronze point went clean through it.
He fell as an oak, or poplar, or pine which shipwrights have felled for ship 's timber upon the mountains with whetted axes— even thus did he lie full length in front of his chariot and horses, grinding his teeth and clutching at the bloodstained dust.
His charioteer was struck with panic and did not dare turn his horses round and escape: thereupon Antilochus hit him in the middle of his body with a spear; his cuirass of bronze did not protect him, and the spear stuck in his belly.
He fell gasping from his chariot and Antilochus, great Nestor 's son, drove his horses from the Trojans to the Achaeans.
Deiphobus then came close up to Idomeneus to avenge Asius, and took aim at him with a spear, but Idomeneus was on the lookout and avoided it, for he was covered by the round shield he always bore— a shield of oxhide and bronze with two armrods on the inside.
He crouched under cover of this, and the spear flew over him, but the shield rang out as the spear grazed it, and the weapon sped not in vain from the strong hand of Deiphobus, for it struck Hypsenor son of Hippasus, shepherd of his people, in the liver under the midriff, and his limbs failed beneath him.
Deiphobus vaunted over him and cried with a loud voice saying," Of a truth Asius has not fallen unavenged; he will be glad even while passing into the house of Hades, strong warden of the gate, that I have sent some one to escort him."
Thus did he vaunt, and the Argives were stung by his saying.
Noble Antilochus was more angry than any one, but grief did not make him forget his friend and comrade.
He ran up to him, bestrode him, and covered him with his shield; then two of his staunch comrades, Mecisteus son of Echius, and Alastor, stooped down, and bore him away groaning heavily to the ships.
But Idomeneus ceased not his fury.
He kept on striving continually either to enshroud some Trojan in the darkness of death, or himself to fall while warding off the evil day from the Achaeans.
Then fell Alcathous son of noble Aesyetes; he was soninlaw to Anchises, having married his eldest daughter Hippodameia, who was the darling of her father and mother, and excelled all her generation in beauty, accomplishments, and understanding, wherefore the bravest man in all Troy had taken her to wife— him did Neptune lay low by the hand of Idomeneus, blinding his bright eyes and binding his strong limbs in fetters so that he could neither go back nor to one side, but stood stock still like pillar or lofty tree when Idomeneus struck him with a spear in the middle of his chest.
The coat of mail that had hitherto protected his body was now broken, and rang harshly as the spear tore through it.
He fell heavily to the ground, and the spear stuck in his heart, which still beat, and made the buttend of the spear quiver till dread Mars put an end to his life.
Idomeneus vaunted over him and cried with a loud voice saying," Deiphobus, since you are in a mood to vaunt, shall we cry quits now that we have killed three men to your one?
Nay, sir, stand in fight with me yourself, that you may learn what manner of Jovebegotten man am I that have come hither.
Jove first begot Minos, chief ruler in Crete, and Minos in his turn begot a son, noble Deucalion.
Deucalion begot me to be a ruler over many men in Crete, and my ships have now brought me hither, to be the bane of yourself, your father, and the Trojans."
Thus did he speak, and Deiphobus was in two minds, whether to go back and fetch some other Trojan to help him, or to take up the challenge singlehanded.
In the end, he deemed it best to go and fetch Aeneas, whom he found standing in the rear, for he had long been aggrieved with Priam because in spite of his brave deeds he did not give him his due share of honour.
Deiphobus went up to him and said," Aeneas, prince among the Trojans, if you know any ties of kinship, help me now to defend the body of your sister 's husband; come with me to the rescue of Alcathous, who being husband to your sister brought you up when you were a child in his house, and now Idomeneus has slain him."
With these words he moved the heart of Aeneas, and he went in pursuit of Idomeneus, big with great deeds of valour; but Idomeneus was not to be thus daunted as though he were a mere child; he held his ground as a wild boar at bay upon the mountains, who abides the coming of a great crowd of men in some lonely place— the bristles stand upright on his back, his eyes flash fire, and he whets his tusks in his eagerness to defend himself against hounds and men— even so did famed Idomeneus hold his ground and budge not at the coming of Aeneas.
He cried aloud to his comrades looking towards Ascalaphus, Aphareus, Deipyrus, Meriones, and Antilochus, all of them brave soldiers—"Hither my friends," he cried," and leave me not singlehanded— I go in great fear by fleet Aeneas, who is coming against me, and is a redoubtable dispenser of death battle.
Moreover he is in the flower of youth when a man 's strength is greatest; if I was of the same age as he is and in my present mind, either he or I should soon bear away the prize of victory."
On this, all of them as one man stood near him, shield on shoulder.
Aeneas on the other side called to his comrades, looking towards Deiphobus, Paris, and Agenor, who were leaders of the Trojans along with himself, and the people followed them as sheep follow the ram when they go down to drink after they have been feeding, and the heart of the shepherd is glad— even so was the heart of Aeneas gladdened when he saw his people follow him.
Then they fought furiously in close combat about the body of Alcathous, wielding their long spears; and the bronze armour about their bodies rang fearfully as they took aim at one another in the press of the fight, while the two heroes Aeneas and Idomeneus, peers of Mars, outvied everyone in their desire to hack at each other with sword and spear.
Aeneas took aim first, but Idomeneus was on the lookout and avoided the spear, so that it sped from Aeneas ' strong hand in vain, and fell quivering in the ground.
Idomeneus meanwhile smote Oenomaus in the middle of his belly, and broke the plate of his corslet, whereon his bowels came gushing out and he clutched the earth in the palms of his hands as he fell sprawling in the dust.
Idomeneus drew his spear out of the body, but could not strip him of the rest of his armour for the rain of darts that were showered upon him: moreover his strength was now beginning to fail him so that he could no longer charge, and could neither spring forward to recover his own weapon nor swerve aside to avoid one that was aimed at him; therefore, though he still defended himself in handtohand fight, his heavy feet could not bear him swiftly out of the battle.
Deiphobus aimed a spear at him as he was retreating slowly from the field, for his bitterness against him was as fierce as ever, but again he missed him, and hit Ascalaphus, the son of Mars; the spear went through his shoulder, and he clutched the earth in the palms of his hands as he fell sprawling in the dust.
Grim Mars of awful voice did not yet know that his son had fallen, for he was sitting on the summits of Olympus under the golden clouds, by command of Jove, where the other gods were also sitting, forbidden to take part in the battle.
Meanwhile men fought furiously about the body.
Deiphobus tore the helmet from off his head, but Meriones sprang upon him, and struck him on the arm with a spear so that the visored helmet fell from his hand and came ringing down upon the ground.
Thereon Meriones sprang upon him like a vulture, drew the spear from his shoulder, and fell back under cover of his men.
Then Polites, own brother of Deiphobus passed his arms around his waist, and bore him away from the battle till he got to his horses that were standing in the rear of the fight with the chariot and their driver.
These took him towards the city groaning and in great pain, with the blood flowing from his arm.
The others still fought on, and the battlecry rose to heaven without ceasing.
Aeneas sprang on Aphareus son of Caletor, and struck him with a spear in his throat which was turned towards him; his head fell on one side, his helmet and shield came down along with him, and death, life 's foe, was shed around him.
Antilochus spied his chance, flew forward towards Thoon, and wounded him as he was turning round.
He laid open the vein that runs all the way up the back to the neck; he cut this vein clean away throughout its whole course, and Thoon fell in the dust face upwards, stretching out his hands imploringly towards his comrades.
Antilochus sprang upon him and stripped the armour from his shoulders, glaring round him fearfully as he did so.
The Trojans came about him on every side and struck his broad and gleaming shield, but could not wound his body, for Neptune stood guard over the son of Nestor, though the darts fell thickly round him.
He was never clear of the foe, but was always in the thick of the fight; his spear was never idle; he poised and aimed it in every direction, so eager was he to hit someone from a distance or to fight him hand to hand.
As he was thus aiming among the crowd, he was seen by Adamas, son of Asius, who rushed towards him and struck him with a spear in the middle of his shield, but Neptune made its point without effect, for he grudged him the life of Antilochus.
One half, therefore, of the spear stuck fast like a charred stake in Antilochus 's shield, while the other lay on the ground.
Adamas then sought shelter under cover of his men, but Meriones followed after and hit him with a spear midway between the private parts and the navel, where a wound is particularly painful to wretched mortals.
There did Meriones transfix him, and he writhed convulsively about the spear as some bull whom mountain herdsmen have bound with ropes of withes and are taking away perforce.
Even so did he move convulsively for a while, but not for very long, till Meriones came up and drew the spear out of his body, and his eyes were veiled in darkness.
Helenus then struck Deipyrus with a great Thracian sword, hitting him on the temple in close combat and tearing the helmet from his head; the helmet fell to the ground, and one of those who were fighting on the Achaean side took charge of it as it rolled at his feet, but the eyes of Deipyrus were closed in the darkness of death.
On this Menelaus was grieved, and made menacingly towards Helenus, brandishing his spear; but Helenus drew his bow, and the two attacked one another at one and the same moment, the one with his spear, and the other with his bow and arrow.
The son of Priam hit the breastplate of Menelaus 's corslet, but the arrow glanced from off it.
As black beans or pulse come pattering down on to a threshingfloor from the broad winnowingshovel, blown by shrill winds and shaken by the shovel— even so did the arrow glance off and recoil from the shield of Menelaus, who in his turn wounded the hand with which Helenus carried his bow; the spear went right through his hand and stuck in the bow itself, so that to his life he retreated under cover of his men, with his hand dragging by his side— for the spear weighed it down till Agenor drew it out and bound the hand carefully up in a woollen sling which his esquire had with him.
Pisander then made straight at Menelaus— his evil destiny luring him on to his doom, for he was to fall in fight with you, O Menelaus.
When the two were hard by one another the spear of the son of Atreus turned aside and he missed his aim; Pisander then struck the shield of brave Menelaus but could not pierce it, for the shield stayed the spear and broke the shaft; nevertheless he was glad and made sure of victory; forthwith, however, the son of Atreus drew his sword and sprang upon him.
Pisander then seized the bronze battleaxe, with its long and polished handle of olive wood that hung by his side under his shield, and the two made at one another.
Pisander struck the peak of Menelaus 's crested helmet just under the crest itself, and Menelaus hit Pisander as he was coming towards him, on the forehead, just at the rise of his nose; the bones cracked and his two gorebedrabbled eyes fell by his feet in the dust.
He fell backwards to the ground, and Menelaus set his heel upon him, stripped him of his armour, and vaunted over him saying," Even thus shall you Trojans leave the ships of the Achaeans, proud and insatiate of battle though you be, nor shall you lack any of the disgrace and shame which you have heaped upon myself.
Cowardly shewolves that you are ,you feared not the anger of dread Jove, avenger of violated hospitality, who will one day destroy your city; you stole my wedded wife and wickedly carried off much treasure when you were her guest, and now you would fling fire upon our ships, and kill our heroes.
A day will come when, rage as you may, you shall be stayed.
O father Jove, you, who they say art above all, both gods and men, in wisdom, and from whom all things that befall us do proceed, how can you thus favour the Trojans— men so proud and overweening, that they are never tired of fighting?
All things pall after a while— sleep, love, sweet song, and stately dance— still these are things of which a man would surely have his fill rather than of battle, whereas it is of battle that the Trojans are insatiate."
So saying Menelaus stripped the bloodstained armour from the body of Pisander, and handed it over to his men; then he again ranged himself among those who were in the front of the fight.
Harpalion son of King Pylaemenes then sprang upon him; he had come to fight at Troy along with his father, but he did not go home again.
He struck the middle of Menelaus 's shield with his spear but could not pierce it, and to save his life drew back under cover of his men, looking round him on every side lest he should be wounded.
But Meriones aimed a bronzetipped arrow at him as he was leaving the field, and hit him on the right buttock; the arrow pierced the bone through and through, and penetrated the bladder, so he sat down where he was and breathed his last in the arms of his comrades, stretched like a worm upon the ground and watering the earth with the blood that flowed from his wound.
The brave Paphlagonians tended him with all due care; they raised him into his chariot, and bore him sadly off to the city of Troy; his father went also with him weeping bitterly, but there was no ransom that could bring his dead son to life again.
Paris was deeply grieved by the death of Harpalion, who was his host when he went among the Paphlagonians; he aimed an arrow, therefore, in order to avenge him.
Now there was a certain man named Euchenor, son of Polyidus the prophet, a brave man and wealthy, whose home was in Corinth.
This Euchenor had set sail for Troy well knowing that it would be the death of him, for his good old father Polyidus had often told him that he must either stay at home and die of a terrible disease, or go with the Achaeans and perish at the hands of the Trojans; he chose, therefore, to avoid incurring the heavy fine the Achaeans would have laid upon him, and at the same time to escape the pain and suffering of disease.
Paris now smote him on the jaw under his ear, whereon the life went out of him and he was enshrouded in the darkness of death.
Thus then did they fight as it were a flaming fire.
But Hector had not yet heard, and did not know that the Argives were making havoc of his men on the left wing of the battle, where the Achaeans ere long would have triumphed over them, so vigorously did Neptune cheer them on and help them.
He therefore held on at the point where he had first forced his way through the gates and the wall, after breaking through the serried ranks of Danaan warriors.
It was here that the ships of Ajax and Protesilaus were drawn up by the seashore; here the wall was at its lowest, and the fight both of man and horse raged most fiercely.
The Boeotians and the Ionians with their long tunics, the Locrians, the men of Phthia, and the famous force of the Epeans could hardly stay Hector as he rushed on towards the ships, nor could they drive him from them, for he was as a wall of fire.
The chosen men of the Athenians were in the van, led by Menestheus son of Peteos, with whom were also Pheidas, Stichius, and stalwart Bias; Meges son of Phyleus, Amphion, and Dracius commanded the Epeans, while Medon and staunch Podarces led the men of Phthia.
Of these, Medon was bastard son to Oileus and brother of Ajax, but he lived in Phylace away from his own country, for he had killed the brother of his stepmother Eriopis, the wife of Oileus; the other, Podarces, was the son of Iphiclus, son of Phylacus.
These two stood in the van of the Phthians, and defended the ships along with the Boeotians.
Ajax son of Oileus, never for a moment left the side of Ajax, son of Telamon, but as two swart oxen both strain their utmost at the plough which they are drawing in a fallow field, and the sweat steams upwards from about the roots of their horns— nothing but the yoke divides them as they break up the ground till they reach the end of the field— even so did the two Ajaxes stand shoulder to shoulder by one another.
Many and brave comrades followed the son of Telamon, to relieve him of his shield when he was overcome with sweat and toil, but the Locrians did not follow so close after the son of Oileus, for they could not hold their own in a handtohand fight.
They had no bronze helmets with plumes of horsehair, neither had they shields nor ashen spears, but they had come to Troy armed with bows, and with slings of twisted wool from which they showered their missiles to break the ranks of the Trojans.
The others, therefore, with their heavy armour bore the brunt of the fight with the Trojans and with Hector, while the Locrians shot from behind, under their cover; and thus the Trojans began to lose heart, for the arrows threw them into confusion.
The Trojans would now have been driven in sorry plight from the ships and tents back to windy Ilius, had not Polydamas presently said to Hector," Hector, there is no persuading you to take advice.
Because heaven has so richly endowed you with the arts of war, you think that you must therefore excel others in counsel; but you can not thus claim preeminence in all things.
Heaven has made one man an excellent soldier; of another it has made a dancer or a singer and player on the lyre; while yet in another Jove has implanted a wise understanding of which men reap fruit to the saving of many, and he himself knows more about it than any one; therefore I will say what I think will be best.
The fight has hemmed you in as with a circle of fire, and even now that the Trojans are within the wall some of them stand aloof in full armour, while others are fighting scattered and outnumbered near the ships.
Draw back, therefore, and call your chieftains round you, that we may advise together whether to fall now upon the ships in the hope that heaven may vouchsafe us victory, or to beat a retreat while we can yet safely do so.
I greatly fear that the Achaeans will pay us their debt of yesterday in full, for there is one abiding at their ships who is never weary of battle, and who will not hold aloof much longer."
Thus spoke Polydamas, and his words pleased Hector well.
He sprang in full armour from his chariot and said," Polydamas, gather the chieftains here; I will go yonder into the fight, but will return at once when I have given them their orders."
He then sped onward, towering like a snowy mountain, and with a loud cry flew through the ranks of the Trojans and their allies.
When they heard his voice they all hastened to gather round Polydamas, the excellent son of Panthous, but Hector kept on among the foremost, looking everywhere to find Deiphobus and prince Helenus, Adamas son of Asius, and Asius son of Hyrtacus; living, indeed, and scatheless he could no longer find them, for the two last were lying by the sterns of the Achaean ships, slain by the Argives, while the others had been also stricken and wounded by them; but upon the left wing of the dread battle he found Alexandrus, husband of lovely Helen, cheering his men and urging them on to fight.
He went up to him and upbraided him.
"Paris," said he," evilhearted Paris, fair to see but womanmad and false of tongue, where are Deiphobus and King Helenus?
Where are Adamas son of Asius, and Asius son of Hyrtacus?
Where too is Othryoneus?
Ilius is undone and will now surely fall!"
Alexandrus answered," Hector, why find fault when there is no one to find fault with?
I should hold aloof from battle on any day rather than this, for my mother bore me with nothing of the coward about me.
From the moment when you set our men fighting about the ships we have been staying here and doing battle with the Danaans.
Our comrades about whom you ask me are dead; Deiphobus and King Helenus alone have left the field, wounded both of them in the hand, but the son of Saturn saved them alive.
Now, therefore, lead on where you would have us go, and we will follow with right goodwill; you shall not find us fail you in so far as our strength holds out, but no man can do more than in him lies, no matter how willing he may be."
With these words he satisfied his brother, and the two went towards the part of the battle where the fight was thickest, about Cebriones, brave Polydamas, Phalces, Orthaeus, godlike Polyphetes, Palmys, Ascanius, and Morys son of Hippotion, who had come from fertile Ascania on the preceding day to relieve other troops.
Then Jove urged them on to fight.
They flew forth like the blasts of some fierce wind that strike earth in the van of a thunderstorm— they buffet the salt sea into an uproar; many and mighty are the great waves that come crashing in one after the other upon the shore with their arching heads all crested with foam— even so did rank behind rank of Trojans arrayed in gleaming armour follow their leaders onward.
The way was led by Hector son of Priam, peer of murderous Mars, with his round shield before him— his shield of oxhides covered with plates of bronze— and his gleaming helmet upon his temples.
He kept stepping forward under cover of his shield in every direction, making trial of the ranks to see if they would give way before him, but he could not daunt the courage of the Achaeans.
Ajax was the first to stride out and challenge him. "
Sir," he cried," draw near; why do you think thus vainly to dismay the Argives?
We Achaeans are excellent soldiers, but the scourge of Jove has fallen heavily upon us.
Your heart, forsooth, is set on destroying our ships, but we too have hands that can keep you at bay, and your own fair town shall be sooner taken and sacked by ourselves.
The time is near when you shall pray Jove and all the gods in your flight, that your steeds may be swifter than hawks as they raise the dust on the plain and bear you back to your city."
As he was thus speaking a bird flew by upon his right hand, and the host of the Achaeans shouted, for they took heart at the omen.
But Hector answered," Ajax, braggart and false of tongue, would that I were as sure of being son for evermore to aegisbearing Jove, with Queen Juno for my mother, and of being held in like honour with Minerva and Apollo, as I am that this day is big with the destruction of the Achaeans; and you shall fall among them if you dare abide my spear; it shall rend your fair body and bid you glut our hounds and birds of prey with your fat and your flesh, as you fall by the ships of the Achaeans."
With these words he led the way and the others followed after with a cry that rent the air, while the host shouted behind them.
The Argives on their part raised a shout likewise, nor did they forget their prowess, but stood firm against the onslaught of the Trojan chieftains, and the cry from both the hosts rose up to heaven and to the brightness of Jove 's presence.
Alexandria, also called Paris, challenges Menelaus—Helen and Priam view the Achaeans from the wall—The covenant—Paris and Menelaus fight, and Paris is worsted—Venus carries him off to save him—Scene between him and Helen.
When the companies were thus arrayed, each under its own captain, the Trojans advanced as a flight of wild fowl or cranes that scream overhead when rain and winter drive them over the flowing waters of Oceanus to bring death and destruction on the Pygmies, and they wrangle in the air as they fly; but the Achaeans marched silently, in high heart, and minded to stand by one another.
As when the south wind spreads a curtain of mist upon the mountain tops, bad for shepherds but better than night for thieves, and a man can see no further than he can throw a stone, even so rose the dust from under their feet as they made all speed over the plain.
When they were close up with one another, Alexandrus came forward as champion on the Trojan side.
On his shoulders he bore the skin of a panther, his bow, and his sword, and he brandished two spears shod with bronze as a challenge to the bravest of the Achaeans to meet him in single fight.
Menelaus saw him thus stride out before the ranks, and was glad as a hungry lion that lights on the carcase of some goat or horned stag, and devours it there and then, though dogs and youths set upon him.
Even thus was Menelaus glad when his eyes caught sight of Alexandrus, for he deemed that now he should be revenged.
He sprang, therefore, from his chariot, clad in his suit of armour.
Alexandrus quailed as he saw Menelaus come forward, and shrank in fear of his life under cover of his men.
As one who starts back affrighted, trembling and pale, when he comes suddenly upon a serpent in some mountain glade, even so did Alexandrus plunge into the throng of Trojan warriors, terrorstricken at the sight of the son of Atreus.
Then Hector upbraided him.
"Paris," said he," evilhearted Paris, fair to see, but womanmad, and false of tongue, would that you had never been born, or that you had died unwed.
Better so, than live to be disgraced and looked askance at.
Will not the Achaeans mock at us and say that we have sent one to champion us who is fair to see but who has neither wit nor courage?
Did you not, such as you are, get your following together and sail beyond the seas?
Did you not from your a far country carry off a lovely woman wedded among a people of warriors— to bring sorrow upon your father, your city, and your whole country, but joy to your enemies, and hangdog shamefacedness to yourself?
And now can you not dare face Menelaus and learn what manner of man he is whose wife you have stolen?
Where indeed would be your lyre and your lovetricks, your comely locks and your fair favour, when you were lying in the dust before him?
The Trojans are a weakkneed people, or ere this you would have had a shirt of stones for the wrongs you have done them."
And Alexandrus answered," Hector, your rebuke is just.
You are hard as the axe which a shipwright wields at his work, and cleaves the timber to his liking.
As the axe in his hand, so keen is the edge of your scorn.
Still, taunt me not with the gifts that golden Venus has given me; they are precious; let not a man disdain them, for the gods give them where they are minded, and none can have them for the asking.
If you would have me do battle with Menelaus, bid the Trojans and Achaeans take their seats, while he and I fight in their midst for Helen and all her wealth.
Let him who shall be victorious and prove to be the better man take the woman and all she has, to bear them to his home, but let the rest swear to a solemn covenant of peace whereby you Trojans shall stay here in Troy, while the others go home to Argos and the land of the Achaeans."
When Hector heard this he was glad, and went about among the Trojan ranks holding his spear by the middle to keep them back, and they all sat down at his bidding: but the Achaeans still aimed at him with stones and arrows, till Agamemnon shouted to them saying," Hold, Argives, shoot not, sons of the Achaeans; Hector desires to speak."
They ceased taking aim and were still, whereon Hector spoke."
Hear from my mouth," said he," Trojans and Achaeans, the saying of Alexandrus, through whom this quarrel has come about.
He bids the Trojans and Achaeans lay their armour upon the ground, while he and Menelaus fight in the midst of you for Helen and all her wealth.
Let him who shall be victorious and prove to be the better man take the woman and all she has, to bear them to his own home, but let the rest swear to a solemn covenant of peace."
Thus he spoke, and they all held their peace, till Menelaus of the loud battlecry addressed them."
And now," he said," hear me too, for it is I who am the most aggrieved.
I deem that the parting of Achaeans and Trojans is at hand, as well it may be, seeing how much have suffered for my quarrel with Alexandrus and the wrong he did me.
Let him who shall die, die, and let the others fight no more.
Bring, then, two lambs, a white ram and a black ewe, for Earth and Sun, and we will bring a third for Jove.
Moreover, you shall bid Priam come, that he may swear to the covenant himself; for his sons are highhanded and ill to trust, and the oaths of Jove must not be transgressed or taken in vain.
Young men 's minds are light as air, but when an old man comes he looks before and after, deeming that which shall be fairest upon both sides."
The Trojans and Achaeans were glad when they heard this, for they thought that they should now have rest.
They backed their chariots toward the ranks, got out of them, and put off their armour, laying it down upon the ground; and the hosts were near to one another with a little space between them.
Hector sent two messengers to the city to bring the lambs and to bid Priam come, while Agamemnon told Talthybius to fetch the other lamb from the ships, and he did as Agamemnon had said.
Meanwhile Iris went to Helen in the form of her sisterinlaw, wife of the son of Antenor, for Helicaon, son of Antenor, had married Laodice, the fairest of Priam 's daughters.
She found her in her own room, working at a great web of purple linen, on which she was embroidering the battles between Trojans and Achaeans, that Mars had made them fight for her sake.
Iris then came close up to her and said," Come hither, child, and see the strange doings of the Trojans and Achaeans.
Till now they have been warring upon the plain, mad with lust of battle, but now they have left off fighting, and are leaning upon their shields, sitting still with their spears planted beside them.
Alexandrus and Menelaus are going to fight about yourself, and you are to be the wife of him who is the victor."
Thus spoke the goddess, and Helen 's heart yearned after her former husband, her city, and her parents.
She threw a white mantle over her head, and hurried from her room, weeping as she went, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids, Aethrae, daughter of Pittheus, and Clymene.
And straightway they were at the Scaean gates.
The two sages, Ucalegon and Antenor, elders of the people, were seated by the Scaean gates, with Priam, Panthous, Thymoetes, Lampus, Clytius, and Hiketaon of the race of Mars.
These were too old to fight, but they were fluent orators, and sat on the tower like cicales that chirrup delicately from the boughs of some high tree in a wood.
When they saw Helen coming towards the tower, they said softly to one another," Small wonder that Trojans and Achaeans should endure so much and so long, for the sake of a woman so marvellously and divinely lovely.
Still, fair though she be, let them take her and go, or she will breed sorrow for us and for our children after us."
But Priam bade her draw nigh. "
My child," said he," take your seat in front of me that you may see your former husband, your kinsmen and your friends.
I lay no blame upon you, it is the gods, not you who are to blame.
It is they that have brought about this terrible war with the Achaeans.
Tell me, then, who is yonder huge hero so great and goodly?
I have seen men taller by a head, but none so comely and so royal.
Surely he must be a king."
"Sir," answered Helen," father of my husband, dear and reverend in my eyes, would that I had chosen death rather than to have come here with your son, far from my bridal chamber, my friends, my darling daughter, and all the companions of my girlhood.
But it was not to be, and my lot is one of tears and sorrow.
As for your question, the hero of whom you ask is Agamemnon, son of Atreus, a good king and a brave soldier, brotherinlaw as surely as that he lives, to my abhorred and miserable self."
The old man marvelled at him and said," Happy son of Atreus, child of good fortune.
I see that the Achaeans are subject to you in great multitudes.
When I was in Phrygia I saw much horsemen, the people of Otreus and of Mygdon, who were camping upon the banks of the river Sangarius; I was their ally, and with them when the Amazons, peers of men, came up against them, but even they were not so many as the Achaeans."
The old man next looked upon Ulysses;" Tell me," he said," who is that other, shorter by a head than Agamemnon, but broader across the chest and shoulders?
His armour is laid upon the ground, and he stalks in front of the ranks as it were some great woolly ram ordering his ewes."
And Helen answered," He is Ulysses, a man of great craft, son of Laertes.
He was born in rugged Ithaca, and excels in all manner of stratagems and subtle cunning."
On this Antenor said," Madam, you have spoken truly.
Ulysses once came here as envoy about yourself, and Menelaus with him.
I received them in my own house, and therefore know both of them by sight and conversation.
When they stood up in presence of the assembled Trojans, Menelaus was the broader shouldered, but when both were seated Ulysses had the more royal presence.
After a time they delivered their message, and the speech of Menelaus ran trippingly on the tongue; he did not say much, for he was a man of few words, but he spoke very clearly and to the point, though he was the younger man of the two; Ulysses, on the other hand, when he rose to speak, was at first silent and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.
There was no play nor graceful movement of his sceptre; he kept it straight and stiff like a man unpractised in oratory— one might have taken him for a mere churl or simpleton; but when he raised his voice, and the words came driving from his deep chest like winter snow before the wind, then there was none to touch him, and no man thought further of what he looked like."
Priam then caught sight of Ajax and asked," Who is that great and goodly warrior whose head and broad shoulders tower above the rest of the Argives?"
"That," answered Helen," is huge Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans, and on the other side of him, among the Cretans, stands Idomeneus looking like a god, and with the captains of the Cretans round him.
Often did Menelaus receive him as a guest in our house when he came visiting us from Crete.
I see, moreover, many other Achaeans whose names I could tell you, but there are two whom I can nowhere find, Castor, breaker of horses, and Pollux the mighty boxer; they are children of my mother, and own brothers to myself.
Either they have not left Lacedaemon, or else, though they have brought their ships, they will not show themselves in battle for the shame and disgrace that I have brought upon them."
She knew not that both these heroes were already lying under the earth in their own land of Lacedaemon.
Meanwhile the heralds were bringing the holy oathofferings through the city— two lambs and a goatskin of wine, the gift of earth; and Idaeus brought the mixing bowl and the cups of gold.
He went up to Priam and said," Son of Laomedon, the princes of the Trojans and Achaeans bid you come down on to the plain and swear to a solemn covenant.
Alexandrus and Menelaus are to fight for Helen in single combat, that she and all her wealth may go with him who is the victor.
We are to swear to a solemn covenant of peace whereby we others shall dwell here in Troy, while the Achaeans return to Argos and the land of the Achaeans."
The old man trembled as he heard, but bade his followers yoke the horses, and they made all haste to do so.
He mounted the chariot, gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor took his seat beside him; they then drove through the Scaean gates on to the plain.
When they reached the ranks of the Trojans and Achaeans they left the chariot, and with measured pace advanced into the space between the hosts.
Agamemnon and Ulysses both rose to meet them.
The attendants brought on the oathofferings and mixed the wine in the mixingbowls; they poured water over the hands of the chieftains, and the son of Atreus drew the dagger that hung by his sword, and cut wool from the lambs ' heads; this the menservants gave about among the Trojan and Achaean princes, and the son of Atreus lifted up his hands in prayer. "
Father Jove," he cried," that rulest in Ida, most glorious in power, and thou oh Sun, that seest and givest ear to all things, Earth and Rivers, and ye who in the realms below chastise the soul of him that has broken his oath, witness these rites and guard them, that they be not vain.
If Alexandrus kills Menelaus, let him keep Helen and all her wealth, while we sail home with our ships; but if Menelaus kills Alexandrus, let the Trojans give back Helen and all that she has; let them moreover pay such fine to the Achaeans as shall be agreed upon, in testimony among those that shall be born hereafter.
And if Priam and his sons refuse such fine when Alexandrus has fallen, then will I stay here and fight on till I have got satisfaction."
As he spoke he drew his knife across the throats of the victims, and laid them down gasping and dying upon the ground, for the knife had reft them of their strength.
Then they poured wine from the mixingbowl into the cups, and prayed to the everlasting gods, saying, Trojans and Achaeans among one another," Jove, most great and glorious, and ye other everlasting gods, grant that the brains of them who shall first sin against their oaths— of them and their children— may be shed upon the ground even as this wine, and let their wives become the slaves of strangers."
Thus they prayed, but not as yet would Jove grant them their prayer.
Then Priam, descendant of Dardanus, spoke, saying," Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, I will now go back to the windbeaten city of Ilius: I dare not with my own eyes witness this fight between my son and Menelaus, for Jove and the other immortals alone know which shall fall."
On this he laid the two lambs on his chariot and took his seat.
He gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor sat beside him; the two then went back to Ilius.
Hector and Ulysses measured the ground, and cast lots from a helmet of bronze to see which should take aim first.
Meanwhile the two hosts lifted up their hands and prayed saying," Father Jove, that rulest from Ida, most glorious in power, grant that he who first brought about this war between us may die, and enter the house of Hades, while we others remain at peace and abide by our oaths."
Great Hector now turned his head aside while he shook the helmet, and the lot of Paris flew out first.
The others took their several stations, each by his horses and the place where his arms were lying, while Alexandrus, husband of lovely Helen, put on his goodly armour.
First he greaved his legs with greaves of good make and fitted with ancleclasps of silver; after this he donned the cuirass of his brother Lycaon, and fitted it to his own body; he hung his silverstudded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then his mighty shield.
On his comely head he set his helmet, wellwrought, with a crest of horsehair that nodded menacingly above it, and he grasped a redoubtable spear that suited his hands.
In like fashion Menelaus also put on his armour.
When they had thus armed, each amid his own people, they strode fierce of aspect into the open space, and both Trojans and Achaeans were struck with awe as they beheld them.
They stood near one another on the measured ground, brandishing their spears, and each furious against the other.
Alexandrus aimed first, and struck the round shield of the son of Atreus, but the spear did not pierce it, for the shield turned its point.
Menelaus next took aim, praying to Father Jove as he did so. "
King Jove," he said," grant me revenge on Alexandrus who has wronged me; subdue him under my hand that in ages yet to come a man may shrink from doing ill deeds in the house of his host."
He poised his spear as he spoke, and hurled it at the shield of Alexandrus.
Through shield and cuirass it went, and tore the shirt by his flank, but Alexandrus swerved aside, and thus saved his life.
Then the son of Atreus drew his sword, and drove at the projecting part of his helmet, but the sword fell shivered in three or four pieces from his hand, and he cried, looking towards Heaven," Father Jove, of all gods thou art the most despiteful; I made sure of my revenge, but the sword has broken in my hand, my spear has been hurled in vain, and I have not killed him."
With this he flew at Alexandrus, caught him by the horsehair plume of his helmet, and began dragging him towards the Achaeans.
The strap of the helmet that went under his chin was choking him, and Menelaus would have dragged him off to his own great glory had not Jove 's daughter Venus been quick to mark and to break the strap of oxhide, so that the empty helmet came away in his hand.
This he flung to his comrades among the Achaeans, and was again springing upon Alexandrus to run him through with a spear, but Venus snatched him up in a moment( as a god can do), hid him under a cloud of darkness, and conveyed him to his own bedchamber.
Then she went to call Helen, and found her on a high tower with the Trojan women crowding round her.
She took the form of an old woman who used to dress wool for her when she was still in Lacedaemon, and of whom she was very fond.
Thus disguised she plucked her by perfumed robe and said," Come hither; Alexandrus says you are to go to the house; he is on his bed in his own room, radiant with beauty and dressed in gorgeous apparel.
No one would think he had just come from fighting, but rather that he was going to a dance, or had done dancing and was sitting down."
With these words she moved the heart of Helen to anger.
When she marked the beautiful neck of the goddess, her lovely bosom, and sparkling eyes, she marvelled at her and said," Goddess, why do you thus beguile me?
Are you going to send me afield still further to some man whom you have taken up in Phrygia or fair Meonia?
Menelaus has just vanquished Alexandrus, and is to take my hateful self back with him.
You are come here to betray me.
Go sit with Alexandrus yourself; henceforth be goddess no longer ;never let your feet carry you back to Olympus; worry about him and look after him till he make you his wife, or, for the matter of that, his slave— but me?
I shall not go; I can garnish his bed no longer; I should be a byword among all the women of Troy.
Besides, I have trouble on my mind."
Venus was very angry, and said," Bold hussy, do not provoke me; if you do, I shall leave you to your fate and hate you as much as I have loved you.
I will stir up fierce hatred between Trojans and Achaeans, and you shall come to a bad end."
At this Helen was frightened.
She wrapped her mantle about her and went in silence, following the goddess and unnoticed by the Trojan women.
When they came to the house of Alexandrus the maidservants set about their work, but Helen went into her own room, and the laughterloving goddess took a seat and set it for her facing Alexandrus.
On this Helen, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, sat down, and with eyes askance began to upbraid her husband.
"So you are come from the fight," said she;" would that you had fallen rather by the hand of that brave man who was my husband.
You used to brag that you were a better man with hands and spear than Menelaus.
Go, then, and challenge him again— but I should advise you not to do so, for if you are foolish enough to meet him in single combat, you will soon fall by his spear."
And Paris answered," Wife, do not vex me with your reproaches.
This time, with the help of Minerva, Menelaus has vanquished me; another time I may myself be victor, for I too have gods that will stand by me.
Come, let us lie down together and make friends.
Never yet was I so passionately enamoured of you as at this moment— not even when I first carried you off from Lacedaemon and sailed away with you— not even when I had converse with you upon the couch of love in the island of Cranae was I so enthralled by desire of you as now. "
On this he led her towards the bed, and his wife went with him.
Thus they laid themselves on the bed together; but the son of Atreus strode among the throng, looking everywhere for Alexandrus, and no man, neither of the Trojans nor of the allies, could find him.
If they had seen him they were in no mind to hide him, for they all of them hated him as they did death itself.
Then Agamemnon, king of men, spoke, saying," Hear me, Trojans, Dardanians, and allies.
The victory has been with Menelaus; therefore give back Helen with all her wealth, and pay such fine as shall be agreed upon, in testimony among them that shall be born hereafter."
Thus spoke the son of Atreus, and the Achaeans shouted in applause.
CHAPTER SOUNDS.
BUT WHILE we are confined to books, though the most select and classic, and read only particular written languages, which are themselves but dialects and provincial, we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is copious and standard.
Much is published, but little printed.
The rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed.
No method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert.
What is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen?
Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer?
Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.
I did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans.
Nay, I often did better than this.
There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hands.
I love a broad margin to my life.
Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time.
I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been.
They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.
I realized what the Orientals mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works.
For the most part, I minded not how the hours went.
The day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished.
Instead of singing like the birds, I silently smiled at my incessant good fortune.
As the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so had I my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest.
My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any heathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the ticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day."
This was sheer idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should not have been found wanting.
A man must find his occasions in himself, it is true.
The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his indolence.
I had this advantage, at least, in my mode of life, over those who were obliged to look abroad for amusement, to society and the theatre, that my life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel.
It was a drama of many scenes and without an end.
If we were always, indeed, getting our living, and regulating our lives according to the last and best mode we had learned, we should never be troubled with ennui.
Follow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every hour.
Housework was a pleasant pastime.
When my floor was dirty, I rose early, and, setting all my furniture out of doors on the grass, bed and bedstead making but one budget, dashed water on the floor, and sprinkled white sand from the pond on it, and then with a broom scrubbed it clean and white; and by the time the villagers had broken their fast the morning sun had dried my house sufficiently to allow me to move in again, and my meditations were almost uninterupted.
It was pleasant to see my whole household effects out on the grass, making a little pile like a gypsy's pack, and my three-legged table, from which I did not remove the books and pen and ink, standing amid the pines and hickories.
They seemed glad to get out themselves, and as if unwilling to be brought in.
I was sometimes tempted to stretch an awning over them and take my seat there.
It was worth the while to see the sun shine on these things, and hear the free wind blow on them; so much more interesting most familiar objects look out of doors than in the house.
A bird sits on the next bough, life-everlasting grows under the table, and blackberry vines run round its legs; pine cones, chestnut burs, and strawberry leaves are strewn about.
It looked as if this was the way these forms came to be transferred to our furniture, to tables, chairs, and bedsteadsbecause they once stood in their midst.
My house was on the side of a hill, immediately on the edge of the larger wood, in the midst of a young forest of pitch pines and hickories, and half a dozen rods from the pond, to which a narrow footpath led down the hill.
In my front yard grew the strawberry, blackberry, and life-everlasting, johnswort and goldenrod, shrub oaks and sand cherry, blueberry and groundnut.
Near the end of May, the sand cherry (Cerasus pumila) adorned the sides of the path with its delicate flowers arranged in umbels cylindrically about its short stems, which last, in the fall, weighed down with goodsized and handsome cherries, fell over in wreaths like rays on every side.
I tasted them out of compliment to Nature, though they were scarcely palatable.
The sumach (Rhus glabra) grew luxuriantly about the house, pushing up through the embankment which I had made, and growing five or six feet the first season.
Its broad pinnate tropical leaf was pleasant though strange to look on.
The large buds, suddenly pushing out late in the spring from dry sticks which had seemed to be dead, developed themselves as by magic into graceful green and tender boughs, an inch in diameter; and sometimes, as I sat at my window, so heedlessly did they grow and tax their weak joints, I heard a fresh and tender bough suddenly fall like a fan to the ground, when there was not a breath of air stirring, broken off by its own weight.
In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke the tender limbs.
As I sit at my window this summer afternoon, hawks are circling about my clearing; the tantivy of wild pigeons, flying by two and threes athwart my view, or perching restless on the white pine boughs behind my house, gives a voice to the air; a fish hawk dimples the glassy surface of the pond and brings up a fish; a mink steals out of the marsh before my door and seizes a frog by the shore; the sedge is bending under the weight of the reed-birds flitting hither and thither; and for the last half-hour I have heard the rattle of railroad cars, now dying away and then reviving like the beat of a partridge, conveying travellers from Boston to the country.
For I did not live so out of the world as that boy who, as I hear, was put out to a farmer in the east part of the town, but ere long ran away and came home again, quite down at the heel and homesick.
He had never seen such a dull and out-of-the-way place; the folks were all gone off; why, you couldn't even hear the whistle!
I doubt if there is such a place in Massachusetts now: "In truth, our village has become a butt For one of those fleet railroad shafts, and o'er Our peaceful plain its soothing sound isConcord."
The Fitchburg Railroad touches the pond about a hundred rods south of where I dwell.
I usually go to the village along its causeway, and am, as it were, related to society by this link.
The men on the freight trains, who go over the whole length of the road, bow to me as to an old acquaintance, they pass me so often, and apparently they take me for an employee; and so I am.
I too would fain be a track-repairer somewhere in the orbit of the earth.
The whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and winter, sounding like the scream of a hawk sailing over some farmer's yard, informing me that many restless city merchants are arriving within the circle of the town, or adventurous country traders from the other side.
As they come under one horizon, they shout their warning to get off the track to the other, heard sometimes through the circles of two towns.
Here come your groceries, country; your rations, countrymen!
Nor is there any man so independent on his farm that he can say them nay.
And here's your pay for them!
screams the countryman's whistle; timber like long battering-rams going twenty miles an hour against the city's walls, and chairs enough to seat all the weary and heavy-laden that dwell within them.
With such huge and lumbering civility the country hands a chair to the city.
All the Indian huckleberry hills are stripped, all the cranberry meadows are raked into the city.
Up comes the cotton, down goes the woven cloth; up comes the silk, down goes the woollen; up come the books, but down goes the wit that writes them.
When I meet the engine with its train of cars moving off with planetary motionor, rather, like a comet, for the beholder knows not if with that velocity and with that direction it will ever revisit this system, since its orbit does not look like a returning curvewith its steam cloud like a banner streaming behind in golden and silver wreaths, like many a downy cloud which I have seen, high in the heavens, unfolding its masses to the lightas if this traveling demigod, this cloudcompeller, would ere long take the sunset sky for the livery of his train; when I hear the iron horse make the bills echo with his snort like thunder, shaking the earth with his feet, and breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils (what kind of winged horse or fiery dragon they will put into the new Mythology I don't know), it seems as if the earth had got a race now worthy to inhabit it.
If all were as it seems, and men made the elements their servants for noble ends!
If the cloud that hangs over the engine were the perspiration of heroic deeds, or as beneficent as that which floats over the farmer's fields, then the elements and Nature herself would cheerfully accompany men on their errands and be their escort.
I watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling that I do the rising of the sun, which is hardly more regular.
Their train of clouds stretching far behind and rising higher and higher, going to heaven while the cars are going to Boston, conceals the sun for a minute and casts my distant field into the shade, a celestial train beside which the petty train of cars which bugs the earth is but the barb of the spear.
The stabler of the iron horse was up early this winter morning by the light of the stars amid the mountains, to fodder and harness his steed.
Fire, too, was awakened thus early to put the vital beat in him and get him off.
If the enterprise were as innocent as it is early!
If the snow lies deep, they strap on his snowshoes, and, with the giant plow, plow a furrow from the mountains to the seaboard, in which the cars, like a following drill-barrow, sprinkle all the restless men and floating merchandise in the country for seed.
All day the fire-steed flies over the country, stopping only that his master may rest, and I am awakened by his tramp and defiant snort at midnight, when in some remote glen in the woods he fronts the elements incased in ice and snow; and he will reach his stall only with the morning star, to start once more on his travels without rest or slumber.
Or perchance, at evening, I hear him in his stable blowing off the superfluous energy of the day, that he may calm his nerves and cool his liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber.
If the enterprise were as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and unwearied!
Far through unfrequented woods on the confines of towns, where once only the hunter penetrated by day, in the darkest night dart these bright saloons without the knowledge of their inhabitants; this moment stopping at some brilliant station-house in town or city, where a social crowd is gathered, the next in the Dismal Swamp, scaring the owl and fox.
The startings and arrivals of the cars are now the epochs in the village day.
They go and come with such regularity and precision, and their whistle can be heard so far, that the farmers set their clocks by them, and thus one well-conducted institution regulates a whole country.
Have not men improved somewhat in punctuality since the railroad was invented?
Do they not talk and think faster in the depot than they did in the stage-office?
There is something electrifying in the atmosphere of the former place.
I have been astonished at the miracles it has wrought; that some of my neighbors, who, I should have prophesied, once for all, would never get to Boston by so prompt a conveyance, are on hand when the bell rings.
To do things "railroad fashion" is now the byword; and it is worth the while to be warned so often and so sincerely by any power to get off its track.
There is no stopping to read the riot act, no firing over the heads of the mob, in this case.
We have constructed a fate, an Atropos, that never turns aside.
(Let that be the name of your engine.)
Men are advertised that at a certain hour and minute these bolts will be shot toward particular points of the compass; yet it interferes with no man's business, and the children go to school on the other track.
We live the steadier for it.
We are all educated thus to be sons of Tell.
The air is full of invisible bolts.
Every path but your own is the path of fate.
Keep on your own track, then.
What recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery.
It does not clasp its hands and pray to Jupiter.
I see these men every day go about their business with more or less courage and content, doing more even than they suspect, and perchance better employed than they could have consciously devised.
I am less affected by their heroism who stood up for half an hour in the front line at Buena Vista, than by the steady and cheerful valor of the men who inhabit the snowplow for their winter quarters; who have not merely the three-o'-clock-in-the-morning courage, which Bonaparte thought was the rarest, but whose courage does not go to rest so early, who go to sleep only when the storm sleeps or the sinews of their iron steed are frozen.
On this morning of the Great Snow, perchance, which is still raging and chilling men's blood, I bear the muffled tone of their engine bell from out the fog bank of their chilled breath, which announces that the cars are coming, without long delay, notwithstanding the veto of a New England northeast snow-storm, and I behold the plowmen covered with snow and rime, their heads peering, above the mould-board which is turning down other than daisies and the nests of field mice, like bowlders of the Sierra Nevada, that occupy an outside place in the universe.
Commerce is unexpectedly confident and serene, alert, adventurous, and unwearied.
It is very natural in its methods withal, far more so than many fantastic enterprises and sentimental experiments, and hence its singular success.
I am refreshed and expanded when the freight train rattles past me, and I smell the stores which go dispensing their odors all the way from Long Wharf to Lake Champlain, reminding me of foreign parts, of coral reefs, and Indian oceans, and tropical climes, and the extent of the globe.
I feel more like a citizen of the world at the sight of the palm-leaf which will cover so many flaxen New England heads the next summer, the Manilla hemp and cocoanut husks, the old junk, gunny bags, scrap iron, and rusty nails.
This carload of torn sails is more legible and interesting now than if they should be wrought into paper and printed books.
Who can write so graphically the history of the storms they have weathered as these rents have done?
They are proof-sheets which need no correction.
Here goes lumber from the Maine woods, which did not go out to sea in the last freshet, risen four dollars on the thousand because of what did go out or was split up; pine, spruce, cedarfirst, second, third, and fourth qualities, so lately all of one quality, to wave over the bear, and moose, and caribou.
Next rolls Thomaston lime, a prime lot, which will get far among the hills before it gets slacked.
These rags in bales, of all hues and qualities, the lowest condition to which cotton and linen descend, the final result of dressof patterns which are now no longer cried up, unless it be in Milwaukee, as those splendid articles, English, French, or American prints, ginghams, muslins, etc., gathered from all quarters both of fashion and poverty, going to become paper of one color or a few shades only, on which, forsooth, will be written tales of real life, high and low, and founded on fact!
This closed car smells of salt fish, the strong New England and commercial scent, reminding me of the Grand Banks and the fisheries.
Who has not seen a salt fish, thoroughly cured for this world, so that nothing can spoil it, and putting, the perseverance of the saints to the blush?
with which you may sweep or pave the streets, and split your kindlings, and the teamster shelter himself and his lading against sun, wind, and rain behind itand the trader, as a Concord trader once did, bang it up by his door for a sign when he commences business, until at last his oldest customer cannot tell surely whether it be animal, vegetable, or mineral, and yet it shall be as pure as a snowflake, and if it be put into a pot and boiled, will come out an excellent dunfish for a Saturday's dinner.
Next Spanish hides, with the tails still preserving their twist and the angle of elevation they had when the oxen that wore them were careering over the pampas of the Spanish Maina type of all obstinacy, and evincing how almost hopeless and incurable are all constitutional vices.
I confess, that practically speaking, when I have learned a man's real disposition, I have no hopes of changing it for the better or worse in this state of existence.
As the Orientals say, "A cur's tail may be warmed, and pressed, and bound round with ligatures, and after a twelve years' labor bestowed upon it, still it will retain its natural form."
The only effectual cure for such inveteracies as these tails exhibit is to make glue of them, which I believe is what is usually done with them, and then they will stay put and stick.
Here is a hogshead of molasses or of brandy directed to John Smith, Cuttingsville, Vermont, some trader among the Green Mountains, who imports for the farmers near his clearing, and now perchance stands over his bulkhead and thinks of the last arrivals on the coast, how they may affect the price for him, telling his customers this moment, as he has told them twenty times before this morning, that he expects some by the next train of prime quality.
It is advertised in the Cuttingsville Times.
While these things go up other things come down.
Warned by the whizzing sound, I look up from my book and see some tall pine, hewn on far northern hills, which has winged its way over the Green Mountains and the Connecticut, shot like an arrow through the township within ten minutes, and scarce another eye beholds it; going "to be the mast Of some great ammiral."
And hark!
here comes the cattle-train bearing the cattle of a thousand hills, sheepcots, stables, and cow-yards in the air, drovers with their sticks, and shepherd boys in the midst of their flocks, all but the mountain pastures, whirled along like leaves blown from the mountains by the September gales.
The air is filled with the bleating of calves and sheep, and the hustling of oxen, as if a pastoral valley were going by.
When the old bellwether at the head rattles his bell, the mountains do indeed skip like rams and the little hills like lambs.
A carload of drovers, too, in the midst, on a level with their droves now, their vocation gone, but still clinging to their useless sticks as their badge of office.
But their dogs, where are they?
It is a stampede to them; they are quite thrown out; they have lost the scent.
Methinks I hear them barking behind the Peterboro' Hills, or panting up the western slope of the Green Mountains.
They will not be in at the death.
Their vocation, too, is gone.
Their fidelity and sagacity are below par now.
They will slink back to their kennels in disgrace, or perchance run wild and strike a league with the wolf and the fox.
So is your pastoral life whirled past and away.
But the bell rings, and I must get off the track and let the cars go by; What's the railroad to me?
I never go to see Where it ends.
It fills a few hollows, And makes banks for the swallows, It sets the sand a-blowing, And the blackberries a-growing, but I cross it like a cart-path in the woods.
I will not have my eyes put out and my ears spoiled by its smoke and steam and hissing.
Now that the cars are gone by and all the restless world with them, and the fishes in the pond no longer feel their rumbling, I am more alone than ever.
For the rest of the long afternoon, perhaps, my meditations are interrupted only by the faint rattle of a carriage or team along the distant highway.
Sometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton, Bedford, or Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint, sweet, and, as it were, natural melody, worth importing into the wilderness.
At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound acquires a certain vibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept.
All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the intervening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it.
There came to me in this case a melody which the air had strained, and which had conversed with every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the sound which the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to vale.
The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and therein is the magic and charm of it.
It is not merely a repetition of what was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood; the same trivial words and notes sung by a wood-nymph.
At evening, the distant lowing of some cow in the horizon beyond the woods sounded sweet and melodious, and at first I would mistake it for the voices of certain minstrels by whom I was sometimes serenaded, who might be straying over hill and dale; but soon I was not unpleasantly disappointed when it was prolonged into the cheap and natural music of the cow.
I do not mean to be satirical, but to express my appreciation of those youths' singing, when I state that I perceived clearly that it was akin to the music of the cow, and they were at length one articulation of Nature.
Regularly at half-past seven, in one part of the summer, after the evening train had gone by, the whip-poor-wills chanted their vespers for half an hour, sitting on a stump by my door, or upon the ridge-pole of the house.
They would begin to sing almost with as much precision as a clock, within five minutes of a particular time, referred to the setting of the sun, every evening.
I had a rare opportunity to become acquainted with their habits.
Sometimes I heard four or five at once in different parts of the wood, by accident one a bar behind another, and so near me that I distinguished not only the cluck after each note, but often that singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider's web, only proportionally louder.
Sometimes one would circle round and round me in the woods a few feet distant as if tethered by a string, when probably I was near its eggs.
They sang at intervals throughout the night, and were again as musical as ever just before and about dawn.
When other birds are still, the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu.
Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonsonian.
Wise midnight bags!
It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tuwho of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves.
Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the woodside; reminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung.
They are the spirits, the low spirits and melancholy forebodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness, now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions.
They give me a new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our common dwelling.
Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n!
sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with the restlessness of despair to some new perch on the gray oaks.
Thenthat I never had been bor-r-r-r-n!
echoes another on the farther side with tremulous sincerity, andbor-r-r-r-n!
comes faintly from far in the Lincoln woods.
I was also serenaded by a hooting owl.
Near at hand you could fancy it the most melancholy sound in Nature, as if she meant by this to stereotype and make permanent in her choir the dying moans of a human beingsome poor weak relic of mortality who has left hope behind, and howls like an animal, yet with human sobs, on entering the dark valley, made more awful by a certain gurgling melodiousnessI find myself beginning with the letters gl when I try to imitate itexpressive of a mind which has reached the gelatinous, mildewy stage in the mortification of all healthy and courageous thought.
It reminded me of ghouls and idiots and insane howlings.
But now one answers from far woods in a strain made really melodious by distanceHoo hoo hoo, hoorer hoo: and indeed for the most part it suggested only pleasing associations, whether heard by day or night, summer or winter.
I rejoice that there are owls.
Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men.
It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not recognized.
They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have.
All day the sun has shone on the surface of some savage swamp, where the single spruce stands hung with usnea lichens, and small hawks circulate above, and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens, and the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath; but now a more dismal arid fitting day dawns, and a different race of creatures awakes to express the meaning of Nature there.
Late in the evening I heard the distant rumbling of wagons over bridgesa sound heard farther than almost any other at nightthe baying of dogs, and sometimes again the lowing of some disconsolate cow in a distant barn-yard.
In the meanwhile all the shore rang with the trump of bullfrogs, the sturdy spirits of ancient wine-bibbers and wassailers, still unrepentant, trying to sing a catch in their Stygian lakeif the Walden nymphs will pardon the comparison, for though there are almost no weeds, there are frogs therewho would fain keep up the hilarious rules of their old festal tables, though their voices have waxed hoarse and solemnly grave, mocking at mirth, and the mine has lost its flavor, and become only liquor to distend their paunches, and sweet intoxication never comes to drown the memory of the past, but mere saturation and waterloggedness and distention.
The most aldermanic, with his chin upon a heart-leaf, which serves for a napkin to his drooling chaps, under this northern shore quaffs a deep draught of the once scorned water, and passes round the cup with the ejaculation tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r--oonk, tr-r-r-oonk!
and straightway comes over the water from some distant cove the same password repeated, where the next in seniority and girth has gulped down to his mark; and when this observance has made the circuit of the shores, then ejaculates the master of ceremonies, with satisfaction, tr-r-r-oonk!
and each in his turn repeats the same down to the least distended, leakiest, and flabbiest paunched, that there be no mistake; and then the howl goes round again and again, until the sun disperses the morning mist, and only the patriarch is not under the pond, but vainly bellowing troonk from time to time, and pausing for a reply.
I am not sure that I ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from my clearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep a cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird.
The note of this once wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird's, and if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hooting of the owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses when their lords' clarions rested!
No wonder that man added this bird to his tame stockto say nothing of the eggs and drumsticks.
To walk in a winter morning in a wood where these birds abounded, their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels crow on the trees, clear and shrill for miles over the resounding earth, drowning the feebler notes of other birdsthink of it!
It would put nations on the alert.
Who would not be early to rise, and rise earlier and earlier every successive day of his life, till he became unspeakably healthy, wealthy, and wise?
This foreign bird's note is celebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native songsters.
All climates agree with brave Chanticleer.
He is more indigenous even than the natives.
His health is ever good, his lungs are sound, his spirits never flag.
Even the sailor on the Atlantic and Pacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound never roused me from my slumbers.
I kept neither dog, cat, cow, pig, nor hens, so that you would have said there was a deficiency of domestic sounds; neither the chum, nor the spinning-wheel, nor even the singing of the kettle, nor the hissing of the urn, nor children crying, to comfort one.
An old-fashioned man would have lost his senses or died of ennui before this.
Not even rats in the wall, for they were starved out, or rather were never baited inonly squirrels on the roof and under the floor, a whip-poor-will on the ridge-pole, a blue jay screaming beneath the window, a hare or woodchuck under the house, a screech owl or a cat owl behind it, a flock of wild geese or a laughing loon on the pond, and a fox to bark in the night.
Not even a lark or an oriole, those mild plantation birds, ever visited my clearing.
No cockerels to crow nor hens to cackle in the yard.
No yard!
but unfenced nature reaching up to your very sills.
A young forest growing up under your meadows, and wild sumachs and blackberry vines breaking through into your cellar; sturdy pitch pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for want of room, their roots reaching quite under the house.
Instead of a scuttle or a blind blown off in the galea pine tree snapped off or torn up by the roots behind your house for fuel.
Instead of no path to the front-yard gate in the Great Snowno gateno front-yardand no path to the civilized world.
SOLITUDE
CHAPTER READING.
WITH A LITTLE more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike.
In accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor accident.
The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision.
No dust has settled on that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed.
That time which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary circulating library, I had more than ever come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to time on to linen paper.
Says the poet Mir Camar Uddin Mast, "Being seated, to run through the region of the spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books.
To be intoxicated by a single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the liquor of the esoteric doctrines."
I kept Homer's Iliad on my table through the summer, though I looked at his page only now and then.
Incessant labor with my hands, at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same time, made more study impossible.
Yet I sustained myself by the prospect of such reading in future.
I read one or two shallow books of travel in the intervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and I asked where it was then that I lived.
The student may read Homer or Aeschylus in the Greek without danger of dissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulate their heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their pages.
The heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valor and generosity we have.
The modern cheap and fertile press, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity.
They seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious, as ever.
It is worth the expense of youthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to be perpetual suggestions and provocations.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin words which he has heard.
Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be.
For what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man?
They are the only oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem.
It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object.
Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written.
It is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken and the written language, the language heard and the language read.
The one is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers.
The other is the maturity and experience of that; if that is our mother tongue, this is our father tongue, a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be born again in order to speak.
The crowds of men who merely spoke the Greek and Latin tongues in the Middle Ages were not entitled by the accident of birth to read the works of genius written in those languages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin which they knew, but in the select language of literature.
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome, but the very materials on which they were written were waste paper to them, and they prized instead a cheap contemporary literature.
But when the several nations of Europe had acquired distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of antiquity.
What the Roman and Grecian multitude could not hear, after the lapse of ages a few scholars read, and a few scholars only are still reading it.
However much we may admire the orator's occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds.
There are the stars, and they who can may read them.
The astronomers forever comment on and observe them.
They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket.
A written word is the choicest of relics.
It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art.
It is the work of art nearest to life itself.
It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips;not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.
The symbol of an ancient man's thought becomes a modern man's speech.
Two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of time.
Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations.
Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage.
They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them.
Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes the founder of a family.
Those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language in which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history of the human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever been made into any modern tongue, unless our civilization itself may be regarded as such a transcript.
Homer has never yet been printed in English, nor Aeschylus, nor Virgil evenworks as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful almost as the morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their genius, have rarely, if ever, equalled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the ancients.
They only talk of forgetting them who never knew them.
It will be soon enough to forget them when we have the learning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and appreciate them.
That age will be rich indeed when those relics which we call Classics, and the still older and more than classic but even less known Scriptures of the nations, shall have still further accumulated, when the Vaticans shall be filled with Vedas and Zendavestas and Bibles, with Homers and Dantes and Shakespeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively deposited their trophies in the forum of the world.
By such a pile we may hope to scale heaven at last.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read them.
They have only been read as the multitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
Most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only is reading, in a high sense, not that which lulls us as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the while, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read and devote our most alert and wakeful hours to.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in literature, and not be forever repeating our a-b-abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives.
Most men are satisfied if they read or hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book, the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their faculties in what is called easy reading.
There is a work in several volumes in our Circulating Library entitled "Little Reading," which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to.
There are those who, like cormorants and ostriches, can digest all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for they suffer nothing to be wasted.
If others are the machines to provide this provender, they are the machines to read it.
They read the nine thousandth tale about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true love run smoothat any rate, how it did run and stumble, and get up again and go on!
how some poor unfortunate got up on to a steeple, who had better never have gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O dear!
how he did get down again!
For my part, I think that they had better metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man weather-cocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother honest men with their pranks.
The next time the novelist rings the bell I will not stir though the meeting-house burn down.
"The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a Romance of the Middle Ages, by the celebrated author of 'Tittle-Tol-Tan,' to appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together."
All this they read with saucer eyes, and erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of Cinderellawithout any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties.
This sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and finds a surer market.
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to?
There is in this town, with a very few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English literature, whose words all can read and spell.
Even the college-bred and so-called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts anywhere made to become acquainted with them.
I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says, for he is above that, but to "keep himself in practice," he being a Canadian by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English.
This is about as much as the college-bred generally do or aspire to do, and they take an English paper for the purpose.
One who has just come from reading perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can converse about it?
Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so-called illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence about it.
Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures, or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles?
Most men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture.
A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;and yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leave school, the "Little Reading," and story-books, which are for boys and beginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.
I aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our Concord soil has produced, whose names are hardly known here.
Or shall I hear the name of Plato and never read his book?
As if Plato were my townsman and I never saw himmy next neighbor and I never heard him speak or attended to the wisdom of his words.
But how actually is it?
His Dialogues, which contain what was immortal in him, lie on the next shelf, and yet I never read them.
We are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and in this respect I confess I do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read at all and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for children and feeble intellects.
We should be as good as the worthies of antiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were.
We are a race of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
There are probably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really bear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us.
How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!
The book exists for us, perchance, which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones.
The at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life.
Moreover, with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of Concord, who has had his second birth and peculiar religious experience, and is driven as he believes into the silent gravity and exclusiveness by his faith, may think it is not true; but Zoroaster, thousands of years ago, travelled the same road and had the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, and treated his neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented and established worship among men.
Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster then, and through the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with Jesus Christ himself, and let "our church" go by the board.
We boast that we belong to the Nineteenth Century and are making the most rapid strides of any nation.
But consider how little this village does for its own culture.
I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them, for that will not advance either of us.
We need to be provokedgoaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot.
We have a comparatively decent system of common schools, schools for infants only; but excepting the half-starved Lyceum in the winter, and latterly the puny beginning of a library suggested by the State, no school for ourselves.
We spend more on almost any article of bodily aliment or ailment than on our mental ailment.
It is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women.
It is time that villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants the fellows of universities, with leisureif they are, indeed, so well offto pursue liberal studies the rest of their lives.
Shall the world be confined to one Paris or one Oxford forever?
Cannot students be boarded here and get a liberal education under the skies of Concord?
Can we not hire some Abelard to lecture to us?
Alas!
what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school too long, and our education is sadly neglected.
In this country, the village should in some respects take the place of the nobleman of Europe.
It should be the patron of the fine arts.
It is rich enough.
It wants only the magnanimity and refinement.
It can spend money enough on such things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought Utopian to propose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be of far more worth.
This town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a town-house, thank fortune or politics, but probably it will not spend so much on living wit, the true meat to put into that shell, in a hundred years.
The one hundred and twenty-five dollars annually subscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other equal sum raised in the town.
If we live in the Nineteenth Century, why should we not enjoy the advantages which the Nineteenth Century offers?
Why should our life be in any respect provincial?
If we will read newspapers, why not skip the gossip of Boston and take the best newspaper in the world at once?not be sucking the pap of "neutral family" papers, or browsing "Olive Branches" here in New England.
Let the reports of all the learned societies come to us, and we will see if they know anything.
Why should we leave it to Harper & Brothers and Redding & Co. to select our reading?
As the nobleman of cultivated taste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to his culturegeniuslearningwitbookspaintingsstatuarymusicphilosophical instruments, and the like; so let the village do-not stop short at a pedagogue, a parson, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen, because our Pilgrim forefathers got through a cold winter once on a bleak rock with these.
To act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions; and I am confident that, as our circumstances are more flourishing, our means are greater than the nobleman's.
New England can hire all the wise men in the world to come and teach her, and board them round the while, and not be provincial at all.
That is the uncommon school we want.
Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men.
If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.
SOUNDS
CHAPTER XI Mr. Elton must now be left to himself.
It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures.
The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers.
They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no.
She hardly wished to have more leisure for them.
There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.
Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety.
The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible.
She could never see a fault in any of them.
She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.
They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour.
He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased.
The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his.
He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law.
Nothing wrong in him escaped her.
She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself.
Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father.
There he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed.
It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not.
The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.
They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
"Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business."
"Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir."
"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably."
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.
"Oh!
no--none in the least.
I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life--never looking so well.
Papa is only speaking his own regret."
"Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply.
"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?"
asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish."
"Oh!
papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married.
Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here.
They are very, very kind in their visits.
Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself.
Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all.
Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact truth."
"Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it was from your letters.
Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy.
I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."
"Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again."
"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite forget poor Mr.
Weston."
"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has some little claim.
You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband.
I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force.
As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can."
"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.-"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve.
I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper.
I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor."
"Where is the young man?"
said John Knightley.
"Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?"
"He has not been here yet," replied Emma.
"There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately."
"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father.
"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was.
She shewed it to me.
I thought it very well done of him indeed.
Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell.
He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--" "My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty.
You forget how time passes."
"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother!
Well, time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad.
However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure.
I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed 'F.
C. Weston Churchill.'
--I remember that perfectly."
"How very pleasing and proper of him!"
cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley.
"I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father!
There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home!
I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him.
To give up one's child!
I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else."
"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly.
"But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John.
Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords."
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass.
She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.
CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton.
A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be.
It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-"There it is.
There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."
--Harriet's was-"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."
"I do not often walk this way now," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but then there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury."
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.
"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father."
She pondered, but could think of nothing.
After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married!
so charming as you are!"
-Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least.
And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all."
"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it."
"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do not wish to see any such person.
I would rather not be tempted.
I cannot really change for the better.
If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it."
"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"
-"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.
Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!
but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.
And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine.
Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."
"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!"
"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates!
so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow.
But between us, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried."
"But still, you will be an old maid!
and that's so dreadful!"
"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public!
A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid!
the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else.
And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.
Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross.
This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor.
Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm."
"Dear me!
but what shall you do?
how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?"
"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty.
Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation.
If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work.
And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about.
There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need.
There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder.
My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me."
"Do you know Miss Bates's niece?
That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"
"Oh!
yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury.
By the bye, that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece.
Heaven forbid!
at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax.
One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax.
Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month.
I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded.
Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse.
She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will.
In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away, "These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good.
How trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?"
"Very true," said Harriet.
"Poor creatures!
one can think of nothing else."
"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again.
"I do not think it will," stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within.
"Oh!
dear, no," said her companion.
They walked on.
The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, "Ah!
Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts.
Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important.
If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves."
Harriet could just answer, "Oh!
dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them.
The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting.
He had been going to call on them.
His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done.
Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.
"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of love on each side.
I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration.
It must, if I were not here.
I wish I were anywhere else."
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road.
But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her.
This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute.
They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield.
To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her.
She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them.
Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them.
Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert.
"This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart.
If I could but have kept longer away!"
They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more.
She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
"Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to contrive.
I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped.
Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on."
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage.
The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner.
She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it.
It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room.
For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself.
It could be protracted no longer.
She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully.
But it would not do; he had not come to the point.
He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.
"Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure."
Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.
THE FIGHT WITH IRUS—ULYSSES WARNS AMPHINOMUS—PENELOPE GETS PRESENTS FROM THE SUITORS—THE BRAZIERS—ULYSSES REBUKES EURYMACHUS.
Now there came a certain common tramp who used to go begging all over the city of Ithaca, and was notorious as an incorrigible glutton and drunkard.
This man had no strength nor stay in him, but he was a great hulking fellow to look at; his real name, the one his mother gave him, was Arnaeus, but the young men of the place called him Irus because he used to run errands for any one who would send him.
As soon as he came he began to insult Ulysses, and to try and drive him out of his own house.
"Be off, old man," he cried," from the doorway, or you shall be dragged out neck and heels.
Do you not see that they are all giving me the wink, and wanting me to turn you out by force ,only I do not like to do so?
Get up then, and go of yourself, or we shall come to blows."
Ulysses frowned on him and said," My friend, I do you no manner of harm; people give you a great deal, but I am not jealous.
There is room enough in this doorway for the pair of us, and you need not grudge me things that are not yours to give.
You seem to be just such another tramp as myself, but perhaps the gods will give us better luck by and by.
Do not, however, talk too much about fighting or you will incense me, and old though I am, I shall cover your mouth and chest with blood.
I shall have more peace tomorrow if I do, for you will not come to the house of Ulysses any more."
Irus was very angry and answered," You filthy glutton, you run on trippingly like an old fishfag.
I have a good mind to lay both hands about you, and knock your teeth out of your head like so many boar 's tusks.
Get ready, therefore, and let these people here stand by and look on.
You will never be able to fight one who is so much younger than yourself."
Thus roundly did they rate one another on the smooth pavement in front of the doorway and when Antinous saw what was going on he laughed heartily and said to the others," This is the finest sport that you ever saw; heaven never yet sent anything like it into this house.
The stranger and Irus have quarreled and are going to fight, let us set them on to do so at once."
The suitors all came up laughing, and gathered round the two ragged tramps. "
Listen to me," said Antinous," there are some goats ' paunches down at the fire, which we have filled with blood and fat, and set aside for supper; he who is victorious and proves himself to be the better man shall have his pick of the lot; he shall be free of our table and we will not allow any other beggar about the house at all."
The others all agreed, but Ulysses, to throw them off the scent, said," Sirs, an old man like myself, worn out with suffering, can not hold his own against a young one; but my irrepressible belly urges me on, though I know it can only end in my getting a drubbing.
You must swear, however that none of you will give me a foul blow to favour Irus and secure him the victory."
They swore as he told them, and when they had completed their oath Telemachus put in a word and said," Stranger, if you have a mind to settle with this fellow, you need not be afraid of any one here.
Whoever strikes you will have to fight more than one.
I am host, and the other chiefs, Antinous and Eurymachus, both of them men of understanding, are of the same mind as I am."
Every one assented, and Ulysses girded his old rags about his loins, thus baring his stalwart thighs, his broad chest and shoulders, and his mighty arms; but Minerva came up to him and made his limbs even stronger still.
The suitors were beyond measure astonished, and one would turn towards his neighbour saying," The stranger has brought such a thigh out of his old rags that there will soon be nothing left of Irus."
Irus began to be very uneasy as he heard them, but the servants girded him by force, and brought him[ into the open part of the court] in such a fright that his limbs were all of a tremble.
Antinous scolded him and said," You swaggering bully, you ought never to have been born at all if you are afraid of such an old broken down creature as this tramp is.
I say, therefore— and it shall surely be— if he beats you and proves himself the better man, I shall pack you off on board ship to the mainland and send you to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him.
He will cut off your nose and ears, and draw out your entrails for the dogs to eat."
This frightened Irus still more, but they brought him into the middle of the court, and the two men raised their hands to fight.
Then Ulysses considered whether he should let drive so hard at him as to make an end of him then and there, or whether he should give him a lighter blow that should only knock him down; in the end he deemed it best to give the lighter blow for fear the Achaeans should begin to suspect who he was.
Then they began to fight, and Irus hit Ulysses on the right shoulder; but Ulysses gave Irus a blow on the neck under the ear that broke in the bones of his skull, and the blood came gushing out of his mouth; he fell groaning in the dust, gnashing his teeth and kicking on the ground, but the suitors threw up their hands and nearly died of laughter, as Ulysses caught hold of him by the foot and dragged him into the outer court as far as the gatehouse.
There he propped him up against the wall and put his staff in his hands."
Sit here," said he," and keep the dogs and pigs off; you are a pitiful creature, and if you try to make yourself king of the beggars any more you shall fare still worse."
Then he threw his dirty old wallet, all tattered and torn over his shoulder with the cord by which it hung, and went back to sit down upon the threshold; but the suitors went within the cloisters, laughing and saluting him," May Jove, and all the other gods," said they," grant you whatever you want for having put an end to the importunity of this insatiable tramp.
We will take him over to the mainland presently, to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him."
Ulysses hailed this as of good omen, and Antinous set a great goat 's paunch before him filled with blood and fat.
Amphinomus took two loaves out of the breadbasket and brought them to him, pledging him as he did so in a golden goblet of wine. "
Good luck to you," he said," father stranger, you are very badly off at present, but I hope you will have better times by and by."
To this Ulysses answered," Amphinomus, you seem to be a man of good understanding, as indeed you may well be, seeing whose son you are.
I have heard your father well spoken of; he is Nisus of Dulichium, a man both brave and wealthy.
They tell me you are his son, and you appear to be a considerable person; listen, therefore, and take heed to what I am saying.
Man is the vainest of all creatures that have their being upon earth.
As long as heaven vouchsafes him health and strength, he thinks that he shall come to no harm hereafter, and even when the blessed gods bring sorrow upon him, he bears it as he needs must, and makes the best of it; for God almighty gives men their daily minds day by day.
I know all about it, for I was a rich man once, and did much wrong in the stubbornness of my pride, and in the confidence that my father and my brothers would support me; therefore let a man fear God in all things always, and take the good that heaven may see fit to send him without vain glory.
Consider the infamy of what these suitors are doing; see how they are wasting the estate, and doing dishonour to the wife, of one who is certain to return some day, and that, too, not long hence.
Nay, he will be here soon; may heaven send you home quietly first that you may not meet with him in the day of his coming, for once he is here the suitors and he will not part bloodlessly."
With these words he made a drinkoffering, and when he had drunk he put the gold cup again into the hands of Amphinomus, who walked away serious and bowing his head, for he foreboded evil.
But even so he did not escape destruction, for Minerva had doomed him to fall by the hand of Telemachus.
So he took his seat again at the place from which he had come.
Then Minerva put it into the mind of Penelope to show herself to the suitors, that she might make them still more enamoured of her, and win still further honour from her son and husband.
So she feigned a mocking laugh and said," Eurynome, I have changed my mind, and have a fancy to show myself to the suitors although I detest them.
I should like also to give my son a hint that he had better not have anything more to do with them.
They speak fairly enough but they mean mischief."
"My dear child," answered Eurynome," all that you have said is true, go and tell your son about it, but first wash yourself and anoint your face.
Do not go about with your cheeks all covered with tears; it is not right that you should grieve so incessantly; for Telemachus, whom you always prayed that you might live to see with a beard, is already grown up."
"I know, Eurynome," replied Penelope," that you mean well, but do not try and persuade me to wash and to anoint myself, for heaven robbed me of all my beauty on the day my husband sailed; nevertheless, tell Autonoe and Hippodamia that I want them.
They must be with me when I am in the cloister; I am not going among the men alone; it would not be proper for me to do so."
On this the old woman went out of the room to bid the maids go to their mistress.
In the meantime Minerva bethought her of another matter, and sent Penelope off into a sweet slumber; so she lay down on her couch and her limbs became heavy with sleep.
Then the goddess shed grace and beauty over her that all the Achaeans might admire her.
She washed her face with the ambrosial loveliness that Venus wears when she goes dancing with the Graces; she made her taller and of a more commanding figure, while as for her complexion it was whiter than sawn ivory.
When Minerva had done all this she went away, whereon the maids came in from the women 's room and woke Penelope with the sound of their talking.
"What an exquisitely delicious sleep I have been having," said she, as she passed her hands over her face," in spite of all my misery.
I wish Diana would let me die so sweetly now at this very moment, that I might no longer waste in despair for the loss of my dear husband, who possessed every kind of good quality and was the most distinguished man among the Achaeans."
With these words she came down from her upper room, not alone but attended by two of her maidens, and when she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearingposts supporting the roof of the cloister, holding a veil before her face, and with a staid maid servant on either side of her.
As they beheld her the suitors were so overpowered and became so desperately enamoured of her, that each one prayed he might win her for his own bed fellow.
"Telemachus," said she, addressing her son," I fear you are no longer so discreet and well conducted as you used to be.
When you were younger you had a greater sense of propriety; now, however, that you are grown up, though a stranger to look at you would take you for the son of a well to do father as far as size and good looks go ,your conduct is by no means what it should be.
What is all this disturbance that has been going on, and how came you to allow a stranger to be so disgracefully illtreated?
What would have happened if he had suffered serious injury while a suppliant in our house?
Surely this would have been very discreditable to you."
"I am not surprised, my dear mother, at your displeasure," replied Telemachus," I understand all about it and know when things are not as they should be, which I could not do when I was younger; I can not, however, behave with perfect propriety at all times.
First one and then another of these wicked people here keeps driving me out of my mind, and I have no one to stand by me.
After all, however, this fight between Irus and the stranger did not turn out as the suitors meant it to do, for the stranger got the best of it.
I wish Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo would break the neck of every one of these wooers of yours, some inside the house and some out; and I wish they might all be as limp as Irus is over yonder in the gate of the outer court.
See how he nods his head like a drunken man; he has had such a thrashing that he can not stand on his feet nor get back to his home, wherever that may be, for he has no strength left in him."
Thus did they converse.
Eurymachus then came up and said," Queen Penelope, daughter of Icarius, if all the Achaeans in Iasian Argos could see you at this moment, you would have still more suitors in your house by tomorrow morning, for you are the most admirable woman in the whole world both as regards personal beauty and strength of understanding."
To this Penelope replied," Eurymachus, heaven robbed me of all my beauty whether of face or figure when the Argives set sail for Troy and my dear husband with them.
If he were to return and look after my affairs, I should both be more respected and show a better presence to the world.
As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me.
My husband foresaw it all, and when he was leaving home he took my right wrist in his hand—'Wife,' he said,' we shall not all of us come safe home from Troy, for the Trojans fight well both with bow and spear.
They are excellent also at fighting from chariots, and nothing decides the issue of a fight sooner than this.
I know not, therefore, whether heaven will send me back to you, or whether I may not fall over there at Troy.
In the meantime do you look after things here.
Take care of my father and mother as at present, and even more so during my absence, but when you see our son growing a beard, then marry whom you will, and leave this your present home.'
This is what he said and now it is all coming true.
A night will come when I shall have to yield myself to a marriage which I detest, for Jove has taken from me all hope of happiness.
This further grief, moreover, cuts me to the very heart.
You suitors are not wooing me after the custom of my country.
When men are courting a woman who they think will be a good wife to them and who is of noble birth, and when they are each trying to win her for himself, they usually bring oxen and sheep to feast the friends of the lady, and they make her magnificent presents, instead of eating up other people 's property without paying for it."
This was what she said, and Ulysses was glad when he heard her trying to get presents out of the suitors, and flattering them with fair words which he knew she did not mean.
Then Antinous said," Queen Penelope, daughter of Icarius, take as many presents as you please from any one who will give them to you; it is not well to refuse a present; but we will not go about our business nor stir from where we are, till you have married the best man among us whoever he may be."
The others applauded what Antinous had said, and each one sent his servant to bring his present.
Antinous 's man returned with a large and lovely dress most exquisitely embroidered.
It had twelve beautifully made brooch pins of pure gold with which to fasten it.
Eurymachus immediately brought her a magnificent chain of gold and amber beads that gleamed like sunlight.
Eurydamas 's two men returned with some earrings fashioned into three brilliant pendants which glistened most beautifully; while king Pisander son of Polyctor gave her a necklace of the rarest workmanship, and every one else brought her a beautiful present of some kind.
Then the queen went back to her room upstairs, and her maids brought the presents after her.
Meanwhile the suitors took to singing and dancing, and stayed till evening came.
They danced and sang till it grew dark; they then brought in three braziers to give light, and piled them up with chopped firewood very old and dry, and they lit torches from them, which the maids held up turn and turn about.
Then Ulysses said: "Maids, servants of Ulysses who has so long been absent, go to the queen inside the house; sit with her and amuse her, or spin, and pick wool.
I will hold the light for all these people.
They may stay till morning, but shall not beat me, for I can stand a great deal."
The maids looked at one another and laughed, while pretty Melantho began to gibe at him contemptuously.
She was daughter to Dolius, but had been brought up by Penelope, who used to give her toys to play with, and looked after her when she was a child; but in spite of all this she showed no consideration for the sorrows of her mistress, and used to misconduct herself with Eurymachus, with whom she was in love.
"Poor wretch," said she," are you gone clean out of your mind?
Go and sleep in some smithy, or place of public gossips, instead of chattering here.
Are you not ashamed of opening your mouth before your betters— so many of them too?
Has the wine been getting into your head, or do you always babble in this way?
You seem to have lost your wits because you beat the tramp Irus; take care that a better man than he does not come and cudgel you about the head till he pack you bleeding out of the house."
"Vixen," replied Ulysses, scowling at her," I will go and tell Telemachus what you have been saying, and he will have you torn limb from limb."
With these words he scared the women, and they went off into the body of the house.
They trembled all over, for they thought he would do as he said.
But Ulysses took his stand near the burning braziers, holding up torches and looking at the people— brooding the while on things that should surely come to pass.
But Minerva would not let the suitors for one moment cease their insolence, for she wanted Ulysses to become even more bitter against them; she therefore set Eurymachus son of Polybus on to gibe at him, which made the others laugh. "
Listen to me," said he," you suitors of Queen Penelope, that I may speak even as I am minded.
It is not for nothing that this man has come to the house of Ulysses; I believe the light has not been coming from the torches, but from his own head— for his hair is all gone, every bit of it."
Then turning to Ulysses he said," Stranger, will you work as a servant, if I send you to the wolds and see that you are well paid?
Can you build a stone fence, or plant trees?
I will have you fed all the year round, and will find you in shoes and clothing.
Will you go, then?
Not you; for you have got into bad ways, and do not want to work; you had rather fill your belly by going round the country begging."
"Eurymachus," answered Ulysses," if you and I were to work one against the other in early summer when the days are at their longest— give me a good scythe, and take another yourself, and let us see which will last the longer or mow the stronger, from dawn till dark when the mowing grass is about.
Or if you will plough against me, let us each take a yoke of tawny oxen, wellmated and of great strength and endurance :turn me into a four acre field, and see whether you or I can drive the straighter furrow.
If, again, war were to break out this day, give me a shield, a couple of spears and a helmet fitting well upon my temples— you would find me foremost in the fray, and would cease your gibes about my belly.
You are insolent and cruel, and think yourself a great man because you live in a little world, and that a bad one.
If Ulysses comes to his own again, the doors of his house are wide, but you will find them narrow when you try to fly through them."
Eurymachus was furious at all this.
He scowled at him and cried," You wretch, I will soon pay you out for daring to say such things to me, and in public too.
Has the wine been getting into your head or do you always babble in this way?
You seem to have lost your wits because you beat the tramp Irus. "
With this he caught hold of a footstool, but Ulysses sought protection at the knees of Amphinomus of Dulichium, for he was afraid.
The stool hit the cupbearer on his right hand and knocked him down: the man fell with a cry flat on his back, and his winejug fell ringing to the ground.
The suitors in the covered cloister were now in an uproar, and one would turn towards his neighbour, saying," I wish the stranger had gone somewhere else, bad luck to him, for all the trouble he gives us.
We can not permit such disturbance about a beggar; if such ill counsels are to prevail we shall have no more pleasure at our banquet."
On this Telemachus came forward and said," Sirs, are you mad?
Can you not carry your meat and your liquor decently?
Some evil spirit has possessed you.
I do not wish to drive any of you away, but you have had your suppers, and the sooner you all go home to bed the better."
The suitors bit their lips and marvelled at the boldness of his speech; but Amphinomus the son of Nisus, who was son to Aretias, said," Do not let us take offence; it is reasonable, so let us make no answer.
Neither let us do violence to the stranger nor to any of Ulysses ' servants.
Let the cupbearer go round with the drinkofferings, that we may make them and go home to our rest.
As for the stranger, let us leave Telemachus to deal with him, for it is to his house that he has come."
Thus did he speak, and his saying pleased them well, so Mulius of Dulichium, servant to Amphinomus, mixed them a bowl of wine and water and handed it round to each of them man by man, whereon they made their drinkofferings to the blessed gods: Then, when they had made their drinkofferings and had drunk each one as he was minded, they took their several ways each of them to his own abode.
BANQUET IN THE HOUSE OF ALCINOUS—THE GAMES.
Now when the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the Phaeacian place of assembly, which was near the ships.
When they got there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous' servants, and went round the town in order to help Ulysses to get home.
She went up to the citizens, man by man, and said," Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god."
With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded.
Every one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaeacians favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him.
Then, when they were got together, Alcinous spoke: "Hear me," said he," aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded.
This stranger, whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or other either East or West.
He wants an escort and wishes to have the matter settled.
Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea— one that has never yet made a voyage— and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors.
Then when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship and come to my house to prepare a feast.
I will find you in everything.
I am giving these instructions to the young men who will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the cloisters.
I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing about."
Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a servant went to fetch Demodocus.
The fiftytwo picked oarsmen went to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound the oars to the tholepins with twisted thongs of leather, all in due course, and spread the white sails aloft.
They moored the vessel a little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house of King Alcinous.
The out houses yards, and all the precincts were filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young; and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two oxen.
These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent banquet.
A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil, for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had robbed him of his eyesight.
Pontonous set a seat for him among the guests, leaning it up against a bearingpost.
He hung the lyre for him on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it with his hands.
He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he was so disposed.
The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit, the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that they heaped on one another as they sat together at a banquet.
But Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the stone floor to consult the oracle.
Here was the beginning of the evil that by the will of Jove fell both upon Danaans and Trojans.
Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see that he was weeping.
When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a drinkoffering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly.
No one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him, and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving.
So he at once said," Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers, and runners."
With these words he led the way, and the others followed after.
A servant hung Demodocus 's lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of several thousands of people followed them, and there were many excellent competitors for all the prizes.
Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon, Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton.
There was also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was the best looking man among the Phaeacians except Laodamas.
Three sons of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
The foot races came first.
The course was set out for them from the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all flew forward at the same moment.
Clytoneus came in first by a long way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field.
They then turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be the best man.
Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous 's son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games ,"Let us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems very powerfully built; his thighs, calves, hands, and neck are of prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man, no matter how strong he is."
"You are quite right, Laodamas," replied Euryalus," go up to your guest and speak to him about it yourself."
When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the crowd and said to Ulysses," I hope, Sir, that you will enter yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are skilled in any of them— and you must have gone in for many a one before now.
There is nothing that does any one so much credit all his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and feet.
Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from your mind.
Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found."
Ulysses answered," Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way?
my mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying your king and people to further me on my return home."
Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said," I gather, then, that you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight in.
I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of their outward freights and homeward cargoes.
There does not seem to be much of the athlete about you."
"For shame, Sir," answered Ulysses, fiercely," you are an insolent fellow— so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in speech, person, and understanding.
One man may be of weak presence, but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to.
Another may be as handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case.
No god could make a finer looking fellow than you are, but you are a fool.
Your illjudged remarks have made me exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a great many athletic exercises ;indeed, so long as I had youth and strength, I was among the first athletes of the age.
Now, however, I am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the quick."
So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the Phaeacians when discthrowing among themselves.
Then, swinging it back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in the air as he did so.
The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any mark that had been made yet.
Minerva, in the form of a man, came and marked the place where it had fallen. "
A blind man, Sir," said she," could easily tell your mark by groping for it— it is so far ahead of any other.
You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours."
Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookerson, so he began to speak more pleasantly. "
Young men," said he," come up to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or even heavier.
If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but not with him because I am his guest, and one can not compete with one 's own personal friend.
At least I do not think it a prudent or a sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host 's family at any game, especially when he is in a foreign country.
He will cut the ground from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is the best man.
I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known among mankind.
I am an excellent archer.
In battle I am always the first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are taking aim at him alongside of me.
Philoctetes was the only man who could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy and in practice.
I far excel every one else in the whole world, of those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus the Oechalian— men who could shoot against the gods themselves.
This in fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer.
I can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow.
Running is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the Phaeacians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea; my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak."
They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began," Sir, we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety.
I hope you will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any one of your chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all kinds.
We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent sailors.
We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing, that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers, and minstrels.
Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or other of you and fetch it for him."
On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king 's house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the dancers.
Presently the servant came back with Demodocus 's lyre, and he took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan.
Mars made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan 's marriage bed, so the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan.
Vulcan was very angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay there in that place.
When he had finished his snare he went into his bedroom and festooned the bedposts all over with chains like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the ceiling.
Not even a god could see them so fine and subtle were they.
As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of all places in the world was the one he was most fond of.
But Mars kept no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his house, burning with love for Venus.
Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, and said as he took her hand in his own," Let us go to the couch of Vulcan :he is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose speech is barbarous."
She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but found too late that they were in a trap.
Then Vulcan came up to them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout the sun told him what was going on.
He was in a furious passion, and stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all the gods.
"Father Jove," he cried," and all you other blessed gods who live for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight that I will show you.
Jove 's daughter Venus is always dishonouring me because I am lame.
She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and clean built, whereas I am a cripple— but my parents are to blame for that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me.
Come and see the pair together asleep on my bed.
It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep much ;there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but not honest."
On this the gods gathered to the house of Vulcan.
Earthencircling Neptune came, and Mercury the bringer of luck, and King Apollo, but the goddesses staid at home all of them for shame.
Then the givers of all good things stood in the doorway, and the blessed gods roared with inextinguishable laughter, as they saw how cunning Vulcan had been, whereon one would turn towards his neighbour saying: "Ill deeds do not prosper, and the weak confound the strong.
See how limping Vulcan, lame as he is, has caught Mars who is the fleetest god in heaven; and now Mars will be cast in heavy damages."
Thus did they converse, but King Apollo said to Mercury," Messenger Mercury, giver of good things, you would not care how strong the chains were, would you, if you could sleep with Venus?"
"King Apollo," answered Mercury," I only wish I might get the chance, though there were three times as many chains— and you might look on, all of you, gods and goddesses, but I would sleep with her if I could."
The immortal gods burst out laughing as they heard him, but Neptune took it all seriously, and kept on imploring Vulcan to set Mars free again."
Let him go," he cried," and I will undertake, as you require, that he shall pay you all the damages that are held reasonable among the immortal gods."
"Do not," replied Vulcan," ask me to do this; a bad man 's bond is bad security; what remedy could I enforce against you if Mars should go away and leave his debts behind him along with his chains?"
"Vulcan," said Neptune," if Mars goes away without paying his damages, I will pay you myself."
So Vulcan answered," In this case I can not and must not refuse you."
Thereon he loosed the bonds that bound them, and as soon as they were free they scampered off, Mars to Thrace and laughterloving Venus to Cyprus and to Paphos, where is her grove and her altar fragrant with burnt offerings.
Here the Graces bathed her, and anointed her with oil of ambrosia such as the immortal gods make use of, and they clothed her in raiment of the most enchanting beauty.
Thus sang the bard, and both Ulysses and the seafaring Phaeacians were charmed as they heard him.
Then Alcinous told Laodamas and Halius to dance alone, for there was no one to compete with them.
So they took a red ball which Polybus had made for them, and one of them bent himself backwards and threw it up towards the clouds, while the other jumped from off the ground and caught it with ease before it came down again.
When they had done throwing the ball straight up into the air they began to dance, and at the same time kept on throwing it backwards and forwards to one another, while all the young men in the ring applauded and made a great stamping with their feet.
Then Ulysses said: "King Alcinous, you said your people were the nimblest dancers in the world, and indeed they have proved themselves to be so.
I was astonished as I saw them."
The king was delighted at this, and exclaimed to the Phaeacians," Aldermen and town councillors, our guest seems to be a person of singular judgement; let us give him such proof of our hospitality as he may reasonably expect.
There are twelve chief men among you, and counting myself there are thirteen; contribute, each of you, a clean cloak, a shirt, and a talent of fine gold; let us give him all this in a lump down at once, so that when he gets his supper he may do so with a light heart.
As for Euryalus he will have to make a formal apology and a present too, for he has been rude."
Thus did he speak.
The others all of them applauded his saying, and sent their servants to fetch the presents.
Then Euryalus said," King Alcinous, I will give the stranger all the satisfaction you require.
He shall have my sword, which is of bronze, all but the hilt, which is of silver.
I will also give him the scabbard of newly sawn ivory into which it fits.
It will be worth a great deal to him."
As he spoke he placed the sword in the hands of Ulysses and said," Good luck to you, father stranger; if anything has been said amiss may the winds blow it away with them, and may heaven grant you a safe return, for I understand you have been long away from home, and have gone through much hardship."
To which Ulysses answered," Good luck to you too my friend, and may the gods grant you every happiness.
I hope you will not miss the sword you have given me along with your apology."
With these words he girded the sword about his shoulders and towards sundown the presents began to make their appearance, as the servants of the donors kept bringing them to the house of King Alcinous; here his sons received them, and placed them under their mother 's charge.
Then Alcinous led the way to the house and bade his guests take their seats.
"Wife," said he, turning to Queen Arete," Go, fetch the best chest we have, and put a clean cloak and shirt in it.
Also, set a copper on the fire and heat some water; our guest will take a warm bath; see also to the careful packing of the presents that the noble Phaeacians have made him; he will thus better enjoy both his supper and the singing that will follow.
I shall myself give him this golden goblet— which is of exquisite workmanship— that he may be reminded of me for the rest of his life whenever he makes a drink offering to Jove, or to any of the gods."
Then Arete told her maids to set a large tripod upon the fire as fast as they could, whereon they set a tripod full of bath water on to a clear fire; they threw on sticks to make it blaze, and the water became hot as the flame played about the belly of the tripod.
Meanwhile Arete brought a magnificent chest from her own room, and inside it she packed all the beautiful presents of gold and raiment which the Phaeacians had brought.
Lastly she added a cloak and a good shirt from Alcinous, and said to Ulysses: "See to the lid yourself, and have the whole bound round at once, for fear any one should rob you by the way when you are asleep in your ship."
When Ulysses heard this he put the lid on the chest and made it fast with a bond that Circe had taught him.
He had done so before an upper servant told him to come to the bath and wash himself.
He was very glad of a warm bath, for he had had no one to wait upon him ever since he left the house of Calypso, who as long as he remained with her had taken as good care of him as though he had been a god.
When the servants had done washing and anointing him with oil, and had given him a clean cloak and shirt, he left the bath room and joined the guests who were sitting over their wine.
Lovely Nausicaa stood by one of the bearingposts supporting the roof of the cloister, and admired him as she saw him pass. "
Farewell stranger," said she," do not forget me when you are safe at home again, for it is to me first that you owe a ransom for having saved your life."
And Ulysses said," Nausicaa, daughter of great Alcinous, may Jove the mighty husband of Juno, grant that I may reach my home; so shall I bless you as my guardian angel all my days, for it was you who saved me."
When he had said this, he seated himself beside Alcinous.
Supper was then served, and the wine was mixed for drinking.
A servant led in the favourite bard Demodocus, and set him in the midst of the company, near one of the bearingposts supporting the cloister, that he might lean against it.
Then Ulysses cut off a piece of roast pork with plenty of fat( for there was abundance left on the joint) and said to a servant," Take this piece of pork over to Demodocus and tell him to eat it; for all the pain his lays may cause me I will salute him none the less; bards are honoured and respected throughout the world, for the muse teaches them their songs and loves them."
The servant carried the pork in his fingers over to Demodocus, who took it and was very much pleased.
They then laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had to eat and drink, Ulysses said to Demodocus," Demodocus, there is no one in the world whom I admire more than I do you.
You must have studied under the Muse, Jove 's daughter, and under Apollo, so accurately do you sing the return of the Achaeans with all their sufferings and adventures.
If you were not there yourself, you must have heard it all from some one who was.
Now, however, change your song and tell us of the wooden horse which Epeus made with the assistance of Minerva, and which Ulysses got by stratagem into the fort of Troy after freighting it with the men who afterwards sacked the city.
If you will sing this tale aright I will tell all the world how magnificently heaven has endowed you."
The bard inspired of heaven took up the story at the point where some of the Argives set fire to their tents and sailed away while others, hidden within the horse were waiting with Ulysses in the Trojan place of assembly.
For the Trojans themselves had drawn the horse into their fortress, and it stood there while they sat in council round it, and were in three minds as to what they should do.
Some were for breaking it up then and there; others would have it dragged to the top of the rock on which the fortress stood, and then thrown down the precipice; while yet others were for letting it remain as an offering and propitiation for the gods.
And this was how they settled it in the end, for the city was doomed when it took in that horse, within which were all the bravest of the Argives waiting to bring death and destruction on the Trojans.
Anon he sang how the sons of the Achaeans issued from the horse, and sacked the town, breaking out from their ambuscade.
He sang how they overran the city hither and thither and ravaged it, and how Ulysses went raging like Mars along with Menelaus to the house of Deiphobus.
It was there that the fight raged most furiously, nevertheless by Minerva 's help he was victorious.
All this he told, but Ulysses was overcome as he heard him, and his cheeks were wet with tears.
He wept as a woman weeps when she throws herself on the body of her husband who has fallen before his own city and people, fighting bravely in defence of his home and children.
She screams aloud and flings her arms about him as he lies gasping for breath and dying, but her enemies beat her from behind about the back and shoulders, and carry her off into slavery, to a life of labour and sorrow, and the beauty fades from her cheeks— even so piteously did Ulysses weep, but none of those present perceived his tears except Alcinous, who was sitting near him, and could hear the sobs and sighs that he was heaving.
The king, therefore, at once rose and said: "Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, let Demodocus cease his song, for there are those present who do not seem to like it.
From the moment that we had done supper and Demodocus began to sing, our guest has been all the time groaning and lamenting.
He is evidently in great trouble, so let the bard leave off, that we may all enjoy ourselves, hosts and guest alike.
This will be much more as it should be, for all these festivities, with the escort and the presents that we are making with so much good will are wholly in his honour, and any one with even a moderate amount of right feeling knows that he ought to treat a guest and a suppliant as though he were his own brother.
"Therefore, Sir, do you on your part affect no more concealment nor reserve in the matter about which I shall ask you; it will be more polite in you to give me a plain answer; tell me the name by which your father and mother over yonder used to call you, and by which you were known among your neighbours and fellowcitizens.
There is no one, neither rich nor poor, who is absolutely without any name whatever, for people 's fathers and mothers give them names as soon as they are born.
Tell me also your country, nation, and city, that our ships may shape their purpose accordingly and take you there.
For the Phaeacians have no pilots; their vessels have no rudders as those of other nations have, but the ships themselves understand what it is that we are thinking about and want ;they know all the cities and countries in the whole world, and can traverse the sea just as well even when it is covered with mist and cloud, so that there is no danger of being wrecked or coming to any harm.
Still I do remember hearing my father say that Neptune was angry with us for being too easygoing in the matter of giving people escorts.
He said that one of these days he should wreck a ship of ours as it was returning from having escorted some one and bury our city under a high mountain.
This is what my father used to say, but whether the god will carry out his threat or no is a matter which he will decide for himself.
"And now, tell me and tell me true.
Where have you been wandering, and in what countries have you travelled?
Tell us of the peoples themselves, and of their cities— who were hostile, savage and uncivilised, and who, on the other hand, hospitable and humane.
Tell us also why you are made so unhappy on hearing about the return of the Argive Danaans from Troy.
The gods arranged all this, and sent them their misfortunes in order that future generations might have something to sing about.
Did you lose some brave kinsman of your wife 's when you were before Troy?
a soninlaw or fatherinlaw— which are the nearest relations a man has outside his own flesh and blood?
or was it some brave and kindlynatured comrade— for a good friend is as dear to a man as his own brother?"
The grief of Achilles over Patroclus—The visit of Thetis to Vulcan and the armour that he made for Achilles.
Thus then did they fight as it were a flaming fire.
Meanwhile the fleet runner Antilochus, who had been sent as messenger, reached Achilles, and found him sitting by his tall ships and boding that which was indeed too surely true."
Alas," said he to himself in the heaviness of his heart," why are the Achaeans again scouring the plain and flocking towards the ships?
Heaven grant the gods be not now bringing that sorrow upon me of which my mother Thetis spoke, saying that while I was yet alive the bravest of the Myrmidons should fall before the Trojans, and see the light of the sun no longer.
I fear the brave son of Menoetius has fallen through his own daring and yet I bade him return to the ships as soon as he had driven back those that were bringing fire against them, and not join battle with Hector."
As he was thus pondering, the son of Nestor came up to him and told his sad tale, weeping bitterly the while."
Alas," he cried," son of noble Peleus, I bring you bad tidings, would indeed that they were untrue.
Patroclus has fallen, and a fight is raging about his naked body— for Hector holds his armour."
A dark cloud of grief fell upon Achilles as he listened.
He filled both hands with dust from off the ground, and poured it over his head, disfiguring his comely face, and letting the refuse settle over his shirt so fair and new.
He flung himself down all huge and hugely at full length, and tore his hair with his hands.
The bondswomen whom Achilles and Patroclus had taken captive screamed aloud for grief, beating their breasts, and with their limbs failing them for sorrow.
Antilochus bent over him the while, weeping and holding both his hands as he lay groaning for he feared that he might plunge a knife into his own throat.
Then Achilles gave a loud cry and his mother heard him as she was sitting in the depths of the sea by the old man her father, whereon she screamed, and all the goddesses daughters of Nereus that dwelt at the bottom of the sea, came gathering round her.
There were Glauce, Thalia and Cymodoce, Nesaia, Speo, Thoe and darkeyed Halie, Cymothoe, Actaea and Limnorea, Melite, Iaera, Amphithoe and Agave, Doto and Proto, Pherusa and Dynamene, Dexamene, Amphinome and Callianeira, Doris, Panope, and the famous seanymph Galatea, Nemertes, Apseudes and Callianassa.
There were also Clymene, Ianeira and Ianassa, Maera, Oreithuia and Amatheia of the lovely locks, with other Nereids who dwell in the depths of the sea.
The crystal cave was filled with their multitude and they all beat their breasts while Thetis led them in their lament.
"Listen," she cried," sisters, daughters of Nereus, that you may hear the burden of my sorrows.
Alas, woe is me, woe in that I have borne the most glorious of offspring.
I bore him fair and strong, hero among heroes, and he shot up as a sapling; I tended him as a plant in a goodly garden, and sent him with his ships to Ilius to fight the Trojans, but never shall I welcome him back to the house of Peleus.
So long as he lives to look upon the light of the sun he is in heaviness, and though I go to him I can not help him.
Nevertheless I will go, that I may see my dear son and learn what sorrow has befallen him though he is still holding aloof from battle."
She left the cave as she spoke, while the others followed weeping after, and the waves opened a path before them.
When they reached the rich plain of Troy, they came up out of the sea in a long line on to the sands, at the place where the ships of the Myrmidons were drawn up in close order round the tents of Achilles.
His mother went up to him as he lay groaning; she laid her hand upon his head and spoke piteously, saying," My son, why are you thus weeping?
What sorrow has now befallen you?
Tell me; hide it not from me.
Surely Jove has granted you the prayer you made him, when you lifted up your hands and besought him that the Achaeans might all of them be pent up at their ships, and rue it bitterly in that you were no longer with them."
Achilles groaned and answered," Mother, Olympian Jove has indeed vouchsafed me the fulfilment of my prayer, but what boots it to me, seeing that my dear comrade Patroclus has fallen— he whom I valued more than all others, and loved as dearly as my own life?
I have lost him; aye, and Hector when he had killed him stripped the wondrous armour, so glorious to behold, which the gods gave to Peleus when they laid you in the couch of a mortal man.
Would that you were still dwelling among the immortal seanymphs, and that Peleus had taken to himself some mortal bride.
For now you shall have grief infinite by reason of the death of that son whom you can never welcome home— nay, I will not live nor go about among mankind unless Hector fall by my spear, and thus pay me for having slain Patroclus son of Menoetius."
Thetis wept and answered," Then, my son, is your end near at hand— for your own death awaits you full soon after that of Hector."
Then said Achilles in his great grief," I would die here and now, in that I could not save my comrade.
He has fallen far from home, and in his hour of need my hand was not there to help him.
What is there for me?
Return to my own land I shall not, and I have brought no saving neither to Patroclus nor to my other comrades of whom so many have been slain by mighty Hector; I stay here by my ships a bootless burden upon the earth, I, who in fight have no peer among the Achaeans, though in council there are better than I.
Therefore, perish strife both from among gods and men, and anger, wherein even a righteous man will harden his heart— which rises up in the soul of a man like smoke, and the taste thereof is sweeter than drops of honey.
Even so has Agamemnon angered me.
And yet— so be it, for it is over; I will force my soul into subjection as I needs must; I will go; I will pursue Hector who has slain him whom I loved so dearly, and will then abide my doom when it may please Jove and the other gods to send it.
Even Hercules, the best beloved of Jove— even he could not escape the hand of death, but fate and Juno 's fierce anger laid him low, as I too shall lie when I am dead if a like doom awaits me.
Till then I will win fame, and will bid Trojan and Dardanian women wring tears from their tender cheeks with both their hands in the grievousness of their great sorrow; thus shall they know that he who has held aloof so long will hold aloof no longer.
Hold me not back ,therefore, in the love you bear me, for you shall not move me."
Then silverfooted Thetis answered," My son, what you have said is true.
It is well to save your comrades from destruction, but your armour is in the hands of the Trojans; Hector bears it in triumph upon his own shoulders.
Full well I know that his vaunt shall not be lasting, for his end is close at hand ;go not, however, into the press of battle till you see me return hither; tomorrow at break of day I shall be here, and will bring you goodly armour from King Vulcan."
On this she left her brave son, and as she turned away she said to the seanymphs her sisters," Dive into the bosom of the sea and go to the house of the old seagod my father.
Tell him everything; as for me, I will go to the cunning workman Vulcan on high Olympus, and ask him to provide my son with a suit of splendid armour."
When she had so said, they dived forthwith beneath the waves, while silverfooted Thetis went her way that she might bring the armour for her son.
Thus, then, did her feet bear the goddess to Olympus, and meanwhile the Achaeans were flying with loud cries before murderous Hector till they reached the ships and the Hellespont, and they could not draw the body of Mars 's servant Patroclus out of reach of the weapons that were showered upon him, for Hector son of Priam with his host and horsemen had again caught up to him like the flame of a fiery furnace; thrice did brave Hector seize him by the feet, striving with might and main to draw him away and calling loudly on the Trojans, and thrice did the two Ajaxes, clothed in valour as with a garment, beat him from off the body; but all undaunted he would now charge into the thick of the fight, and now again he would stand still and cry aloud, but he would give no ground.
As upland shepherds that can not chase some famished lion from a carcase, even so could not the two Ajaxes scare Hector son of Priam from the body of Patroclus.
And now he would even have dragged it off and have won imperishable glory, had not Iris fleet as the wind, winged her way as messenger from Olympus to the son of Peleus and bidden him arm.
She came secretly without the knowledge of Jove and of the other gods, for Juno sent her, and when she had got close to him she said," Up, son of Peleus, mightiest of all mankind; rescue Patroclus about whom this fearful fight is now raging by the ships.
Men are killing one another, the Danaans in defence of the dead body, while the Trojans are trying to hale it away, and take it to windy Ilius: Hector is the most furious of them all; he is for cutting the head from the body and fixing it on the stakes of the wall.
Up, then, and bide here no longer; shrink from the thought that Patroclus may become meat for the dogs of Troy.
Shame on you, should his body suffer any kind of outrage."
And Achilles said," Iris, which of the gods was it that sent you to me?"
Iris answered," It was Juno the royal spouse of Jove, but the son of Saturn does not know of my coming, nor yet does any other of the immortals who dwell on the snowy summits of Olympus."
Then fleet Achilles answered her saying," How can I go up into the battle?
They have my armour.
My mother forbade me to arm till I should see her come, for she promised to bring me goodly armour from Vulcan; I know no man whose arms I can put on, save only the shield of Ajax son of Telamon, and he surely must be fighting in the front rank and wielding his spear about the body of dead Patroclus."
Iris said," We know that your armour has been taken, but go as you are; go to the deep trench and show yourself before the Trojans, that they may fear you and cease fighting.
Thus will the fainting sons of the Achaeans gain some brief breathingtime, which in battle may hardly be."
Iris left him when she had so spoken.
But Achilles dear to Jove arose, and Minerva flung her tasselled aegis round his strong shoulders; she crowned his head with a halo of golden cloud from which she kindled a glow of gleaming fire.
As the smoke that goes up into heaven from some city that is being beleaguered on an island far out at sea— all day long do men sally from the city and fight their hardest, and at the going down of the sun the line of beaconfires blazes forth, flaring high for those that dwell near them to behold, if so be that they may come with their ships and succour them— even so did the light flare from the head of Achilles, as he stood by the trench, going beyond the wall— but he did not join the Achaeans for he heeded the charge which his mother laid upon him.
There did he stand and shout aloud.
Minerva also raised her voice from afar, and spread terror unspeakable among the Trojans.
Ringing as the note of a trumpet that sounds alarm then the foe is at the gates of a city, even so brazen was the voice of the son of Aeacus, and when the Trojans heard its clarion tones they were dismayed; the horses turned back with their chariots for they boded mischief, and their drivers were awestruck by the steady flame which the greyeyed goddess had kindled above the head of the great son of Peleus.
Thrice did Achilles raise his loud cry as he stood by the trench, and thrice were the Trojans and their brave allies thrown into confusion; whereon twelve of their noblest champions fell beneath the wheels of their chariots and perished by their own spears.
The Achaeans to their great joy then drew Patroclus out of reach of the weapons, and laid him on a litter: his comrades stood mourning round him, and among them fleet Achilles who wept bitterly as he saw his true comrade lying dead upon his bier.
He had sent him out with horses and chariots into battle, but his return he was not to welcome.
Then Juno sent the busy sun, loth though he was, into the waters of Oceanus; so he set, and the Achaeans had rest from the tug and turmoil of war.
Now the Trojans when they had come out of the fight, unyoked their horses and gathered in assembly before preparing their supper.
They kept their feet, nor would any dare to sit down, for fear had fallen upon them all because Achilles had shown himself after having held aloof so long from battle.
Polydamas son of Panthous was first to speak, a man of judgement, who alone among them could look both before and after.
He was comrade to Hector, and they had been born upon the same night; with all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:— "Look to it well, my friends; I would urge you to go back now to your city and not wait here by the ships till morning, for we are far from our walls.
So long as this man was at enmity with Agamemnon the Achaeans were easier to deal with, and I would have gladly camped by the ships in the hope of taking them; but now I go in great fear of the fleet son of Peleus; he is so daring that he will never bide here on the plain whereon the Trojans and Achaeans fight with equal valour, but he will try to storm our city and carry off our women.
Do then as I say, and let us retreat.
For this is what will happen.
The darkness of night will for a time stay the son of Peleus, but if he find us here in the morning when he sallies forth in full armour, we shall have knowledge of him in good earnest.
Glad indeed will he be who can escape and get back to Ilius, and many a Trojan will become meat for dogs and vultures may I never live to hear it.
If we do as I say, little though we may like it, we shall have strength in counsel during the night, and the great gates with the doors that close them will protect the city.
At dawn we can arm and take our stand on the walls; he will then rue it if he sallies from the ships to fight us.
He will go back when he has given his horses their fill of being driven all whithers under our walls, and will be in no mind to try and force his way into the city.
Neither will he ever sack it, dogs shall devour him ere he do so."
Hector looked fiercely at him and answered," Polydamas, your words are not to my liking in that you bid us go back and be pent within the city.
Have you not had enough of being cooped up behind walls?
In the olddays the city of Priam was famous the whole world over for its wealth of gold and bronze, but our treasures are wasted out of our houses, and much goods have been sold away to Phrygia and fair Meonia, for the hand of Jove has been laid heavily upon us.
Now, therefore, that the son of scheming Saturn has vouchsafed me to win glory here and to hem the Achaeans in at their ships, prate no more in this fool 's wise among the people.
You will have no man with you; it shall not be; do all of you as I now say;—take your suppers in your companies throughout the host, and keep your watches and be wakeful every man of you.
If any Trojan is uneasy about his possessions, let him gather them and give them out among the people.
Better let these, rather than the Achaeans, have them.
At daybreak we will arm and fight about the ships; granted that Achilles has again come forward to defend them, let it be as he will, but it shall go hard with him.
I shall not shun him, but will fight him, to fall or conquer.
The god of war deals out like measure to all, and the slayer may yet be slain."
Thus spoke Hector; and the Trojans, fools that they were, shouted in applause, for Pallas Minerva had robbed them of their understanding.
They gave ear to Hector with his evil counsel, but the wise words of Polydamas no man would heed.
They took their supper throughout the host, and meanwhile through the whole night the Achaeans mourned Patroclus, and the son of Peleus led them in their lament.
He laid his murderous hands upon the breast of his comrade, groaning again and again as a bearded lion when a man who was chasing deer has robbed him of his young in some dense forest; when the lion comes back he is furious, and searches dingle and dell to track the hunter if he can find him, for he is mad with rage— even so with many a sigh did Achilles speak among the Myrmidons saying," Alas!
vain were the words with which I cheered the hero Menoetius in his own house; I said that I would bring his brave son back again to Opoeis after he had sacked Ilius and taken his share of the spoils— but Jove does not give all men their heart 's desire.
The same soil shall be reddened here at Troy by the blood of us both, for I too shall never be welcomed home by the old knight Peleus, nor by my mother Thetis, but even in this place shall the earth cover me.
Nevertheless, O Patroclus, now that I am left behind you, I will not bury you, till I have brought hither the head and armour of mighty Hector who has slain you.
Twelve noble sons of Trojans will I behead before your bier to avenge you; till I have done so you shall lie as you are by the ships, and fair women of Troy and Dardanus, whom we have taken with spear and strength of arm when we sacked men 's goodly cities, shall weep over you both night and day."
Then Achilles told his men to set a large tripod upon the fire that they might wash the clotted gore from off Patroclus.
Thereon they set a tripod full of bath water on to a clear fire: they threw sticks on to it to make it blaze, and the water became hot as the flame played about the belly of the tripod.
When the water in the cauldron was boiling they washed the body, anointed it with oil, and closed its wounds with ointment that had been kept nine years.
Then they laid it on a bier and covered it with a linen cloth from head to foot, and over this they laid a fair white robe.
Thus all night long did the Myrmidons gather round Achilles to mourn Patroclus.
Then Jove said to Juno his sisterwife," So, Queen Juno, you have gained your end, and have roused fleet Achilles.
One would think that the Achaeans were of your own flesh and blood."
And Juno answered," Dread son of Saturn, why should you say this thing?
May not a man though he be only mortal and knows less than we do, do what he can for another person?
And shall not I— foremost of all goddesses both by descent and as wife to you who reign in heaven— devise evil for the Trojans if I am angry with them?"
Thus did they converse.
Meanwhile Thetis came to the house of Vulcan, imperishable, starbespangled, fairest of the abodes in heaven, a house of bronze wrought by the lame god 's own hands.
She found him busy with his bellows, sweating and hard at work, for he was making twenty tripods that were to stand by the wall of his house, and he set wheels of gold under them all that they might go of their own selves to the assemblies of the gods, and come back again— marvels indeed to see.
They were finished all but the ears of cunning workmanship which yet remained to be fixed to them: these he was now fixing, and he was hammering at the rivets.
While he was thus at work silverfooted Thetis came to the house.
Charis, of graceful headdress, wife to the farfamed lame god, came towards her as soon as she saw her, and took her hand in her own, saying," Why have you come to our house, Thetis, honoured and ever welcome— for you do not visit us often?
Come inside and let me set refreshment before you."
The goddess led the way as she spoke, and bade Thetis sit on a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver; there was a footstool also under her feet.
Then she called Vulcan and said," Vulcan, come here, Thetis wants you"; and the farfamed lame god answered," Then it is indeed an august and honoured goddess who has come here; she it was that took care of me when I was suffering from the heavy fall which I had through my cruel mother 's anger— for she would have got rid of me because I was lame.
It would have gone hardly with me had not Eurynome, daughter of the everencircling waters of Oceanus, and Thetis, taken me to their bosom.
Nine years did I stay with them, and many beautiful works in bronze, brooches, spiral armlets, cups, and chains, did I make for them in their cave, with the roaring waters of Oceanus foaming as they rushed ever past it; and no one knew, neither of gods nor men, save only Thetis and Eurynome who took care of me.
If, then, Thetis has come to my house I must make her due requital for having saved me; entertain her, therefore, with all hospitality, while I put by my bellows and all my tools."
On this the mighty monster hobbled off from his anvil, his thin legs plying lustily under him.
He set the bellows away from the fire, and gathered his tools into a silver chest.
Then he took a sponge and washed his face and hands, his shaggy chest and brawny neck; he donned his shirt, grasped his strong staff, and limped towards the door.
There were golden handmaids also who worked for him, and were like real young women, with sense and reason, voice also and strength, and all the learning of the immortals; these busied themselves as the king bade them, while he drew near to Thetis, seated her upon a goodly seat, and took her hand in his own, saying," Why have you come to our house, Thetis honoured and ever welcome— for you do not visit us often?
Say what you want, and I will do it for you at once if I can, and if it can be done at all."
Thetis wept and answered," Vulcan, is there another goddess in Olympus whom the son of Saturn has been pleased to try with so much affliction as he has me?
Me alone of the marine goddesses did he make subject to a mortal husband, Peleus son of Aeacus, and sorely against my will did I submit to the embraces of one who was but mortal, and who now stays at home worn out with age.
Neither is this all.
Heaven vouchsafed me a son, hero among heroes, and he shot up as a sapling.
I tended him as a plant in a goodly garden and sent him with his ships to Ilius to fight the Trojans, but never shall I welcome him back to the house of Peleus.
So long as he lives to look upon the light of the sun, he is in heaviness, and though I go to him I can not help him; King Agamemnon has made him give up the maiden whom the sons of the Achaeans had awarded him, and he wastes with sorrow for her sake.
Then the Trojans hemmed the Achaeans in at their ships ' sterns and would not let them come forth; the elders, therefore, of the Argives besought Achilles and offered him great treasure, whereon he refused to bring deliverance to them himself, but put his own armour on Patroclus and sent him into the fight with much people after him.
All day long they fought by the Scaean gates and would have taken the city there and then, had not Apollo vouchsafed glory to Hector and slain the valiant son of Menoetius after he had done the Trojans much evil.
Therefore I am suppliant at your knees if haply you may be pleased to provide my son, whose end is near at hand, with helmet and shield, with goodly greaves fitted with ancleclasps, and with a breastplate, for he lost his own when his true comrade fell at the hands of the Trojans, and he now lies stretched on earth in the bitterness of his soul."
And Vulcan answered," Take heart, and be no more disquieted about this matter; would that I could hide him from death 's sight when his hour is come, so surely as I can find him armour that shall amaze the eyes of all who behold it."
When he had so said he left her and went to his bellows, turning them towards the fire and bidding them do their office.
Twenty bellows blew upon the meltingpots, and they blew blasts of every kind, some fierce to help him when he had need of them, and others less strong as Vulcan willed it in the course of his work.
He threw tough copper into the fire, and tin, with silver and gold; he set his great anvil on its block, and with one hand grasped his mighty hammer while he took the tongs in the other.
First he shaped the shield so great and strong, adorning it all over and binding it round with a gleaming circuit in three layers; and the baldric was made of silver.
He made the shield in five thicknesses, and with many a wonder did his cunning hand enrich it.
He wrought the earth, the heavens, and the sea; the moon also at her full and the untiring sun, with all the signs that glorify the face of heaven— the Pleiads, the Hyads, huge Orion, and the Bear, which men also call the Wain and which turns round ever in one place, facing Orion, and alone never dips into the stream of Oceanus.
He wrought also two cities, fair to see and busy with the hum of men.
In the one were weddings and weddingfeasts, and they were going about the city with brides whom they were escorting by torchlight from their chambers.
Loud rose the cry of Hymen, and the youths danced to the music of flute and lyre, while the women stood each at her house door to see them.
Meanwhile the people were gathered in assembly, for there was a quarrel, and two men were wrangling about the bloodmoney for a man who had been killed, the one saying before the people that he had paid damages in full, and the other that he had not been paid.
Each was trying to make his own case good, and the people took sides, each man backing the side that he had taken; but the heralds kept them back, and the elders sate on their seats of stone in a solemn circle, holding the staves which the heralds had put into their hands.
Then they rose and each in his turn gave judgement, and there were two talents laid down, to be given to him whose judgement should be deemed the fairest.
About the other city there lay encamped two hosts in gleaming armour, and they were divided whether to sack it, or to spare it and accept the half of what it contained.
But the men of the city would not yet consent, and armed themselves for a surprise; their wives and little children kept guard upon the walls, and with them were the men who were past fighting through age; but the others sallied forth with Mars and Pallas Minerva at their head— both of them wrought in gold and clad in golden raiment, great and fair with their armour as befitting gods, while they that followed were smaller.
When they reached the place where they would lay their ambush, it was on a riverbed to which live stock of all kinds would come from far and near to water; here, then, they lay concealed, clad in full armour.
Some way off them there were two scouts who were on the lookout for the coming of sheep or cattle, which presently came, followed by two shepherds who were playing on their pipes, and had not so much as a thought of danger.
When those who were in ambush saw this, they cut off the flocks and herds and killed the shepherds.
Meanwhile the besiegers, when they heard much noise among the cattle as they sat in council, sprang to their horses, and made with all speed towards them; when they reached them they set battle in array by the banks of the river, and the hosts aimed their bronzeshod spears at one another.
With them were Strife and Riot, and fell Fate who was dragging three men after her, one with a fresh wound, and the other unwounded, while the third was dead, and she was dragging him along by his heel: and her robe was bedrabbled in men 's blood.
They went in and out with one another and fought as though they were living people haling away one another 's dead.
He wrought also a fair fallow field, large and thrice ploughed already.
Many men were working at the plough within it, turning their oxen to and fro, furrow after furrow.
Each time that they turned on reaching the headland a man would come up to them and give them a cup of wine, and they would go back to their furrows looking forward to the time when they should again reach the headland.
The part that they had ploughed was dark behind them, so that the field, though it was of gold, still looked as if it were being ploughed— very curious to behold.
He wrought also a field of harvest corn, and the reapers were reaping with sharp sickles in their hands.
Swathe after swathe fell to the ground in a straight line behind them, and the binders bound them in bands of twisted straw.
There were three binders, and behind them there were boys who gathered the cut corn in armfuls and kept on bringing them to be bound: among them all the owner of the land stood by in silence and was glad.
The servants were getting a meal ready under an oak, for they had sacrificed a great ox, and were busy cutting him up, while the women were making a porridge of much white barley for the labourers ' dinner.
He wrought also a vineyard, golden and fair to see, and the vines were loaded with grapes.
The bunches overhead were black, but the vines were trained on poles of silver.
He ran a ditch of dark metal all round it, and fenced it with a fence of tin; there was only one path to it, and by this the vintagers went when they would gather the vintage.
Youths and maidens all blithe and full of glee, carried the luscious fruit in plaited baskets; and with them there went a boy who made sweet music with his lyre, and sang the Linossong with his clear boyish voice.
He wrought also a herd of horned cattle.
He made the cows of gold and tin, and they lowed as they came full speed out of the yards to go and feed among the waving reeds that grow by the banks of the river.
Along with the cattle there went four shepherds, all of them in gold, and their nine fleet dogs went with them.
Two terrible lions had fastened on a bellowing bull that was with the foremost cows, and bellow as he might they haled him, while the dogs and men gave chase: the lions tore through the bull 's thick hide and were gorging on his blood and bowels, but the herdsmen were afraid to do anything, and only hounded on their dogs; the dogs dared not fasten on the lions but stood by barking and keeping out of harm 's way.
The god wrought also a pasture in a fair mountain dell, and a large flock of sheep, with a homestead and huts, and sheltered sheepfolds.
Furthermore he wrought a green, like that which Daedalus once made in Cnossus for lovely Ariadne.
Hereon there danced youths and maidens whom all would woo, with their hands on one another 's wrists.
The maidens wore robes of light linen, and the youths well woven shirts that were slightly oiled.
The girls were crowned with garlands, while the young men had daggers of gold that hung by silver baldrics; sometimes they would dance deftly in a ring with merry twinkling feet, as it were a potter sitting at his work and making trial of his wheel to see whether it will run, and sometimes they would go all in line with one another, and much people was gathered joyously about the green.
There was a bard also to sing to them and play his lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them when the man struck up with his tune.
All round the outermost rim of the shield he set the mighty stream of the river Oceanus.
Then when he had fashioned the shield so great and strong, he made a breastplate also that shone brighter than fire.
He made a helmet, close fitting to the brow, and richly worked, with a golden plume overhanging it; and he made greaves also of beaten tin.
Lastly, when the famed lame god had made all the armour, he took it and set it before the mother of Achilles; whereon she darted like a falcon from the snowy summits of Olympus and bore away the gleaming armour from the house of Vulcan.
Jove forbids the gods to interfere further—There is an even fight till midday, but then Jove inclines the scales of victory in favour of the Trojans, who eventually chase the Achaeans within their wall—Juno and Minerva set out to help the Trojans: Jove sends Iris to turn them back, but later on he promises Juno that she shall have her way in the end—Hector's triumph is stayed by nightfall—The Trojans bivouac on the plain.
Now when Morning, clad in her robe of saffron, had begun to suffuse light over the earth, Jove called the gods in council on the topmost crest of serrated Olympus.
Then he spoke and all the other gods gave ear. "
Hear me," said he," gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as I am minded.
Let none of you neither goddess nor god try to cross me, but obey me every one of you that I may bring this matter to an end.
If I see anyone acting apart and helping either Trojans or Danaans, he shall be beaten inordinately ere he come back again to Olympus; or I will hurl him down into dark Tartarus far into the deepest pit under the earth, where the gates are iron and the floor bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is high above the earth, that you may learn how much the mightiest I am among you.
Try me and find out for yourselves.
Hangs me a golden chain from heaven, and lay hold of it all of you, gods and goddesses together— tug as you will, you will not drag Jove the supreme counsellor from heaven to earth; but were I to pull at it myself I should draw you up with earth and sea into the bargain, then would I bind the chain about some pinnacle of Olympus and leave you all dangling in the mid firmament.
So far am I above all others either of gods or men."
They were frightened and all of them of held their peace, for he had spoken masterfully; but at last Minerva answered," Father, son of Saturn, king of kings, we all know that your might is not to be gainsaid, but we are also sorry for the Danaan warriors, who are perishing and coming to a bad end.
We will, however, since you so bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable suggestions to the Argives that they may not all of them perish in your displeasure."
Jove smiled at her and answered," Take heart, my child, Tritoborn; I am not really in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you."
With this he yoked his fleet horses, with hoofs of bronze and manes of glittering gold.
He girded himself also with gold about the body, seized his gold whip and took his seat in his chariot.
Thereon he lashed his horses and they flew forward nothing loth midway twixt earth and starry heaven.
After a while he reached manyfountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, and Gargarus, where are his grove and fragrant altar.
There the father of gods and men stayed his horses, took them from the chariot, and hid them in a thick cloud; then he took his seat all glorious upon the topmost crests, looking down upon the city of Troy and the ships of the Achaeans.
The Achaeans took their morning meal hastily at the ships, and afterwards put on their armour.
The Trojans on the other hand likewise armed themselves throughout the city, fewer in numbers but nevertheless eager perforce to do battle for their wives and children.
All the gates were flung wide open, and horse and foot sallied forth with the tramp as of a great multitude.
When they were got together in one place, shield clashed with shield, and spear with spear, in the conflict of mailclad men.
Mighty was the din as the bossed shields pressed hard on one another— death— cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth ran red with blood.
Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning their weapons beat against one another, and the people fell, but when the sun had reached mid heaven, the sire of all balanced his golden scales, and put two fates of death within them, one for the Trojans and the other for the Achaeans.
He took the balance by the middle, and when he lifted it up the day of the Achaeans sank; the deathfraught scale of the Achaeans settled down upon the ground, while that of the Trojans rose heavenwards.
Then he thundered aloud from Ida, and sent the glare of his lightning upon the Achaeans; when they saw this, pale fear fell upon them and they were sore afraid.
Idomeneus dared not stay nor yet Agamemnon, nor did the two Ajaxes, servants of Mars, hold their ground.
Nestor knight of Gerene alone stood firm, bulwark of the Achaeans, not of his own will, but one of his horses was disabled.
Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen had hit it with an arrow just on the top of its head where the mane begins to grow away from the skull, a very deadly place.
The horse bounded in his anguish as the arrow pierced his brain, and his struggles threw others into confusion.
The old man instantly began cutting the traces with his sword, but Hector 's fleet horses bore down upon him through the rout with their bold charioteer, even Hector himself, and the old man would have perished there and then had not Diomed been quick to mark, and with a loud cry called Ulysses to help him.
"Ulysses," he cried," noble son of Laertes where are you flying to, with your back turned like a coward?
See that you are not struck with a spear between the shoulders.
Stay here and help me to defend Nestor from this man 's furious onset."
Ulysses would not give ear, but sped onward to the ships of the Achaeans, and the son of Tydeus flinging himself alone into the thick of the fight took his stand before the horses of the son of Neleus. "
Sir," said he," these young warriors are pressing you hard, your force is spent, and age is heavy upon you, your squire is naught, and your horses are slow to move.
Mount my chariot and see what the horses of Tros can do— how cleverly they can scud hither and thither over the plain either in flight or in pursuit.
I took them from the hero Aeneas.
Let our squires attend to your own steeds, but let us drive mine straight at the Trojans, that Hector may learn how furiously I too can wield my spear."
Nestor knight of Gerene hearkened to his words.
Thereon the doughty squires, Sthenelus and kindhearted Eurymedon, saw to Nestor 's horses, while the two both mounted Diomed 's chariot.
Nestor took the reins in his hands and lashed the horses on; they were soon close up with Hector, and the son of Tydeus aimed a spear at him as he was charging full speed towards them.
He missed him, but struck his charioteer and squire Eniopeus son of noble Thebaeus in the breast by the nipple while the reins were in his hands, so that he died there and then, and the horses swerved as he fell headlong from the chariot.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but let him lie for all his sorrow, while he went in quest of another driver; nor did his steeds have to go long without one, for he presently found brave Archeptolemus the son of Iphitus, and made him get up behind the horses, giving the reins into his hand.
All had then been lost and no help for it, for they would have been penned up in Ilius like sheep, had not the sire of gods and men been quick to mark, and hurled a fiery flaming thunderbolt which fell just in front of Diomed 's horses with a flare of burning brimstone.
The horses were frightened and tried to back beneath the car, while the reins dropped from Nestor 's hands.
Then he was afraid and said to Diomed," Son of Tydeus, turn your horses in flight; see you not that the hand of Jove is against you?
Today he vouchsafes victory to Hector; tomorrow, if it so please him, he will again grant it to ourselves; no man, however brave, may thwart the purpose of Jove, for he is far stronger than any."
Diomed answered," All that you have said is true; there is a grief however which pierces me to the very heart, for Hector will talk among the Trojans and say,' The son of Tydeus fled before me to the ships.'
This is the vaunt he will make, and may earth then swallow me."
"Son of Tydeus," replied Nestor," what mean you?
Though Hector say that you are a coward the Trojans and Dardanians will not believe him, nor yet the wives of the mighty warriors whom you have laid low."
So saying he turned the horses back through the thick of the battle, and with a cry that rent the air the Trojans and Hector rained their darts after them.
Hector shouted to him and said," Son of Tydeus, the Danaans have done you honour hitherto as regards your place at table, the meals they give you, and the filling of your cup with wine.
Henceforth they will despise you, for you are become no better than a woman.
Be off, girl and coward that you are, you shall not scale our walls through any flinching upon my part; neither shall you carry off our wives in your ships, for I shall kill you with my own hand."
The son of Tydeus was in two minds whether or no to turn his horses round again and fight him.
Thrice did he doubt, and thrice did Jove thunder from the heights of Ida in token to the Trojans that he would turn the battle in their favour.
Hector then shouted to them and said," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, lovers of close fighting, be men, my friends, and fight with might and with main; I see that Jove is minded to vouchsafe victory and great glory to myself, while he will deal destruction upon the Danaans.
Fools, for having thought of building this weak and worthless wall.
It shall not stay my fury; my horses will spring lightly over their trench, and when I am at their ships forget not to bring me fire that I may burn them, while I slaughter the Argives who will be all dazed and bewildered by the smoke."
Then he cried to his horses," Xanthus and Podargus, and you Aethon and goodly Lampus, pay me for your keep now and for all the honeysweet corn with which Andromache daughter of great Eetion has fed you, and for she has mixed wine and water for you to drink whenever you would, before doing so even for me who am her own husband.
Haste in pursuit, that we may take the shield of Nestor, the fame of which ascends to heaven, for it is of solid gold, armrods and all, and that we may strip from the shoulders of Diomed the cuirass which Vulcan made him.
Could we take these two things, the Achaeans would set sail in their ships this selfsame night."
Thus did he vaunt, but Queen Juno made high Olympus quake as she shook with rage upon her throne.
Then said she to the mighty god of Neptune," What now, wide ruling lord of the earthquake?
Can you find no compassion in your heart for the dying Danaans, who bring you many a welcome offering to Helice and to Aegae?
Wish them well then.
If all of us who are with the Danaans were to drive the Trojans back and keep Jove from helping them, he would have to sit there sulking alone on Ida."
King Neptune was greatly troubled and answered," Juno, rash of tongue, what are you talking about?
We other gods must not set ourselves against Jove, for he is far stronger than we are."
Thus did they converse; but the whole space enclosed by the ditch, from the ships even to the wall, was filled with horses and warriors, who were pent up there by Hector son of Priam, now that the hand of Jove was with him.
He would even have set fire to the ships and burned them, had not Queen Juno put it into the mind of Agamemnon, to bestir himself and to encourage the Achaeans.
To this end he went round the ships and tents carrying a great purple cloak, and took his stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses ' ship, which was middlemost of all; it was from this place that his voice would carry farthest, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles— for these two heroes, well assured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up their ships at the two ends of the line.
From this spot then, with a voice that could be heard afar, he shouted to the Danaans, saying," Argives, shame on you cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only; where are now our vaunts that we should prove victorious— the vaunts we made so vaingloriously in Lemnos, when we ate the flesh of horned cattle and filled our mixingbowls to the brim?
You vowed that you would each of you stand against a hundred or two hundred men, and now you prove no match even for one— for Hector, who will be ere long setting our ships in a blaze.
Father Jove, did you ever so ruin a great king and rob him so utterly of his greatness?
Yet, when to my sorrow I was coming hither ,I never let my ship pass your altars without offering the fat and thighbones of heifers upon every one of them, so eager was I to sack the city of Troy.
Vouchsafe me then this prayer— suffer us to escape at any rate with our lives, and let not the Achaeans be so utterly vanquished by the Trojans."
Thus did he pray, and father Jove pitying his tears vouchsafed him that his people should live, not die; forthwith he sent them an eagle, most unfailingly portentous of all birds, with a young fawn in its talons; the eagle dropped the fawn by the altar on which the Achaeans sacrificed to Jove the lord of omens; when, therefore, the people saw that the bird had come from Jove ,they sprang more fiercely upon the Trojans and fought more boldly.
There was no man of all the many Danaans who could then boast that he had driven his horses over the trench and gone forth to fight sooner than the son of Tydeus; long before any one else could do so he slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Agelaus the son of Phradmon.
He had turned his horses in flight, but the spear struck him in the back midway between his shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell forward from his chariot.
After him came Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, the two Ajaxes clothed in valour as with a garment, Idomeneus and his companion in arms Meriones, peer of murderous Mars, and Eurypylus the brave son of Euaemon.
Ninth came Teucer with his bow, and took his place under cover of the shield of Ajax son of Telamon.
When Ajax lifted his shield Teucer would peer round, and when he had hit any one in the throng, the man would fall dead; then Teucer would hie back to Ajax as a child to its mother, and again duck down under his shield.
Which of the Trojans did brave Teucer first kill?
Orsilochus, and then Ormenus and Ophelestes, Daetor, Chromius, and godlike Lycophontes, Amopaon son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus.
All these in turn did he lay low upon the earth, and King Agamemnon was glad when he saw him making havoc of the Trojans with his mighty bow.
He went up to him and said," Teucer, man after my own heart, son of Telamon, captain among the host, shoot on, and be at once the saving of the Danaans and the glory of your father Telamon, who brought you up and took care of you in his own house when you were a child, bastard though you were.
Cover him with glory though he is far off; I will promise and I will assuredly perform; if aegisbearing Jove and Minerva grant me to sack the city of Ilius, you shall have the next best meed of honour after my own— a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman who shall go up into your bed."
And Teucer answered," Most noble son of Atreus, you need not urge me; from the moment we began to drive them back to Ilius, I have never ceased so far as in me lies to look out for men whom I can shoot and kill; I have shot eight barbed shafts, and all of them have been buried in the flesh of warlike youths, but this mad dog I can not hit."
As he spoke he aimed another arrow straight at Hector, for he was bent on hitting him; nevertheless he missed him, and the arrow hit Priam 's brave son Gorgythion in the breast.
His mother, fair Castianeira, lovely as a goddess, had been married from Aesyme, and now he bowed his head as a garden poppy in full bloom when it is weighed down by showers in spring— even thus heavy bowed his head beneath the weight of his helmet.
Again he aimed at Hector, for he was longing to hit him, and again his arrow missed, for Apollo turned it aside; but he hit Hector 's brave charioteer Archeptolemus in the breast, by the nipple, as he was driving furiously into the fight.
The horses swerved aside as he fell headlong from the chariot, and there was no life left in him.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but for all his sorrow he let him lie where he fell, and bade his brother Cebriones, who was hard by, take the reins.
Cebriones did as he had said.
Hector thereon with a loud cry sprang from his chariot to the ground, and seizing a great stone made straight for Teucer with intent to kill him.
Teucer had just taken an arrow from his quiver and had laid it upon the bowstring, but Hector struck him with the jagged stone as he was taking aim and drawing the string to his shoulder; he hit him just where the collarbone divides the neck from the chest, a very deadly place, and broke the sinew of his arm so that his wrist was less, and the bow dropped from his hand as he fell forward on his knees.
Ajax saw that his brother had fallen, and running towards him bestrode him and sheltered him with his shield.
Meanwhile his two trusty squires, Mecisteus son of Echius, and Alastor, came up and bore him to the ships groaning in his great pain.
Jove now again put heart into the Trojans, and they drove the Achaeans to their deep trench with Hector in all his glory at their head.
As a hound grips a wild boar or lion in flank or buttock when he gives him chase, and watches warily for his wheeling, even so did Hector follow close upon the Achaeans, ever killing the hindmost as they rushed panicstricken onwards.
When they had fled through the set stakes and trench and many Achaeans had been laid low at the hands of the Trojans, they halted at their ships, calling upon one another and praying every man instantly as they lifted up their hands to the gods; but Hector wheeled his horses this way and that, his eyes glaring like those of Gorgo or murderous Mars.
Juno when she saw them had pity upon them, and at once said to Minerva," Alas, child of aegisbearing Jove, shall you and I take no more thought for the dying Danaans, though it be the last time we ever do so?
See how they perish and come to a bad end before the onset of but a single man.
Hector the son of Priam rages with intolerable fury, and has already done great mischief."
Minerva answered," Would, indeed, this fellow might die in his own land, and fall by the hands of the Achaeans; but my father Jove is mad with spleen, ever foiling me, ever headstrong and unjust.
He forgets how often I saved his son when he was worn out by the labours Eurystheus had laid on him.
He would weep till his cry came up to heaven, and then Jove would send me down to help him; if I had had the sense to foresee all this, when Eurystheus sent him to the house of Hades, to fetch the hellhound from Erebus, he would never have come back alive out of the deep waters of the river Styx.
And now Jove hates me, while he lets Thetis have her way because she kissed his knees and took hold of his beard, when she was begging him to do honour to Achilles.
I shall know what to do next time he begins calling me his greyeyed darling.
Get our horses ready, while I go within the house of aegisbearing Jove and put on my armour; we shall then find out whether Priam 's son Hector will be glad to meet us in the highways of battle, or whether the Trojans will glut hounds and vultures with the fat of their flesh as they be dead by the ships of the Achaeans."
Thus did she speak and whitearmed Juno, daughter of great Saturn, obeyed her words; she set about harnessing her goldbedizened steeds, while Minerva daughter of aegisbearing Jove flung her richly vesture, made with her own hands, on to the threshold of her father, and donned the shirt of Jove, arming herself for battle.
Then she stepped into her flaming chariot, and grasped the spear so stout and sturdy and strong with which she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her.
Juno lashed her horses, and the gates of heaven bellowed as they flew open of their own accord— gates over which the Hours preside, in whose hands are heaven and Olympus, either to open the dense cloud that hides them or to close it.
Through these the goddesses drove their obedient steeds.
But father Jove when he saw them from Ida was very angry, and sent winged Iris with a message to them. "
Go," said he," fleet Iris, turn them back, and see that they do not come near me, for if we come to fighting there will be mischief.
This is what I say, and this is what I mean to do.
I will lame their horses for them; I will hurl them from their chariot, and will break it in pieces.
It will take them all ten years to heal the wounds my lightning shall inflict upon them; my greyeyed daughter will then learn what quarrelling with her father means.
I am less surprised and angry with Juno, for whatever I say she always contradicts me."
With this Iris went her way, fleet as the wind, from the heights of Ida to the lofty summits of Olympus.
She met the goddesses at the outer gates of its many valleys and gave them her message. "
What," said she," are you about?
Are you mad?
The son of Saturn forbids going.
This is what he says, and this is what he means to do, he will lame your horses for you, he will hurl you from your chariot, and will break it in pieces.
It will take you all ten years to heal the wounds his lightning will inflict upon you, that you may learn, greyeyed goddess, what quarrelling with your father means.
He is less hurt and angry with Juno, for whatever he says she always contradicts him but you, bold hussy ,will you really dare to raise your huge spear in defiance of Jove?"
With this she left them, and Juno said to Minerva," Of a truth, child of aegisbearing Jove, I am not for fighting men 's battles further in defiance of Jove.
Let them live or die as luck will have it, and let Jove mete out his judgements upon the Trojans and Danaans according to his own pleasure."
She turned her steeds; the Hours presently unyoked them, made them fast to their ambrosial mangers, and leaned the chariot against the end wall of the courtyard.
The two goddesses then sat down upon their golden thrones, amid the company of the other gods; but they were very angry.
Presently father Jove drove his chariot to Olympus, and entered the assembly of gods.
The mighty lord of the earthquake unyoked his horses for him, set the car upon its stand, and threw a cloth over it.
Jove then sat down upon his golden throne and Olympus reeled beneath him.
Minerva and Juno sat alone, apart from Jove, and neither spoke nor asked him questions, but Jove knew what they meant, and said," Minerva and Juno, why are you so angry?
Are you fatigued with killing so many of your dear friends the Trojans?
Be this as it may, such is the might of my hands that all the gods in Olympus can not turn me; you were both of you trembling all over ere ever you saw the fight and its terrible doings.
I tell you thereforeand it would have surely been— I should have struck you with lightning, and your chariots would never have brought you back again to Olympus."
Minerva and Juno groaned in spirit as they sat side by side and brooded mischief for the Trojans.
Minerva sat silent without a word, for she was in a furious passion and bitterly incensed against her father; but Juno could not contain herself and said," What, dread son of Saturn, are you talking about?
We know how great your power is, nevertheless we have compassion upon the Danaan warriors who are perishing and coming to a bad end.
We will, however, since you so bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable suggestions to the Argives, that they may not all of them perish in your displeasure."
And Jove answered," Tomorrow morning, Juno, if you choose to do so, you will see the son of Saturn destroying large numbers of the Argives, for fierce Hector shall not cease fighting till he has roused the son of Peleus when they are fighting in dire straits at their ships ' sterns about the body of Patroclus.
Like it or no, this is how it is decreed; for aught I care, you may go to the lowest depths beneath earth and sea, where Iapetus and Saturn dwell in lone Tartarus with neither ray of light nor breath of wind to cheer them.
You may go on and on till you get there, and I shall not care one whit for your displeasure; you are the greatest vixen living."
Juno made him no answer.
The sun 's glorious orb now sank into Oceanus and drew down night over the land.
Sorry indeed were the Trojans when light failed them, but welcome and thrice prayed for did darkness fall upon the Achaeans.
Then Hector led the Trojans back from the ships, and held a council on the open space near the river, where there was a spot clear of corpses.
They left their chariots and sat down on the ground to hear the speech he made them.
He grasped a spear eleven cubits long, the bronze point of which gleamed in front of it, while the ring round the spearhead was of gold.
Spear in hand he spoke. "
Hear me," said he," Trojans, Dardanians, and allies.
I deemed but now that I should destroy the ships and all the Achaeans with them ere I went back to Ilius, but darkness came on too soon.
It was this alone that saved them and their ships upon the seashore.
Now, therefore, let us obey the behests of night, and prepare our suppers.
Take your horses out of their chariots and give them their feeds of corn; then make speed to bring sheep and cattle from the city; bring wine also and corn for your horses and gather much wood, that from dark till dawn we may burn watchfires whose flare may reach to heaven.
For the Achaeans may try to fly beyond the sea by night, and they must not embark scatheless and unmolested; many a man among them must take a dart with him to nurse at home, hit with spear or arrow as he is leaping on board his ship, that others may fear to bring war and weeping upon the Trojans.
Moreover let the heralds tell it about the city that the growing youths and greybearded men are to camp upon its heavenbuilt walls.
Let the women each of them light a great fire in her house, and let watch be safely kept lest the town be entered by surprise while the host is outside.
See to it, brave Trojans, as I have said, and let this suffice for the moment; at daybreak I will instruct you further.
I pray in hope to Jove and to the gods that we may then drive those fatesped hounds from our land, for ' tis the fates that have borne them and their ships hither.
This night, therefore, let us keep watch, but with early morning let us put on our armour and rouse fierce war at the ships of the Achaeans; I shall then know whether brave Diomed the son of Tydeus will drive me back from the ships to the wall, or whether I shall myself slay him and carry off his bloodstained spoils.
Tomorrow let him show his mettle, abide my spear if he dare.
I ween that at break of day, he shall be among the first to fall and many another of his comrades round him.
Would that I were as sure of being immortal and never growing old, and of being worshipped like Minerva and Apollo, as I am that this day will bring evil to the Argives."
Thus spoke Hector and the Trojans shouted applause.
They took their sweating steeds from under the yoke, and made them fast each by his own chariot.
They made haste to bring sheep and cattle from the city, they brought wine also and corn from their houses and gathered much wood.
They then offered unblemished hecatombs to the immortals, and the wind carried the sweet savour of sacrifice to heaven— but the blessed gods partook not thereof, for they bitterly hated Ilius with Priam and Priam 's people.
Thus high in hope they sat through the livelong night by the highways of war, and many a watchfire did they kindle.
As when the stars shine clear, and the moon is bright— there is not a breath of air, not a peak nor glade nor jutting headland but it stands out in the ineffable radiance that breaks from the serene of heaven; the stars can all of them be told and the heart of the shepherd is glad— even thus shone the watchfires of the Trojans before Ilius midway between the ships and the river Xanthus.
A thousand campfires gleamed upon the plain, and in the glow of each there sat fifty men, while the horses, champing oats and corn beside their chariots, waited till dawn should come.
CHAPTER THE BEAN-FIELD.
MEANWHILE MY beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest had grown considerably before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be put off.
What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not.
I came to love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted.
They attached me to the earth, and so I got strength like Antaeus.
But why should I raise them?
Only Heaven knows.
This was my curious labor all summerto make this portion of the earth's surface, which had yielded only cinquefoil, blackberries, johnswort, and the like, before, sweet wild fruits and pleasant flowers, produce instead this pulse.
What shall I learn of beans or beans of me?
I cherish them, I hoe them, early and late I have an eye to them; and this is my day's work.
It is a fine broad leaf to look on.
My auxiliaries are the dews and rains which water this dry soil, and what fertility is in the soil itself, which for the most part is lean and effete.
My enemies are worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks.
The last have nibbled for me a quarter of an acre clean.
But what right had I to oust johnswort and the rest, and break up their ancient herb garden?
Soon, however, the remaining beans will be too tough for them, and go forward to meet new foes.
When I was four years old, as I well remember, I was brought from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field, to the pond.
It is one of the oldest seenes stamped on my memory.
And now tonight my flute has waked the echoes over that very water.
The pines still stand here older than I; or, if some have fallen, I have cooked my supper with their stumps, and a new growth is rising all around, preparing another aspect for new infant eyes.
Almost the same johnswort springs from the same perennial root in this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my infant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines.
I planted about two acres and a half of upland; and as it was only about fifteen years since the land was cleared, and I myself had got out two or three cords of stumps, I did not give it any manure; but in the course of the summer it appeared by the arrowheads which I turned up in hoeing, that an extinct nation had anciently dwelt here and planted corn and beans ere white men came to clear the land, and so, to some extent, had exhausted the soil for this very crop.
Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel had run across the road, or the sun had got above the shrub oaks, while all the dew was on, though the farmers warned me against itI would advise you to do all your work if possible while the dew is onI began to level the ranks of haughty weeds in my bean-field and throw dust upon their heads.
Early in the morning I worked barefooted, dabbling like a plastic artist in the dewy and crumbling sand, but later in the day the sun blistered my feet.
There the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing slowly backward and forward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green rows, fifteen rods, the one end terminating in a shrub oak copse where I could rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I had made another bout.
Removing the weeds, putting fresh soil about the bean stems, and encouraging this weed which I had sown, making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms rather than in wormwood and piper and millet grass, making the earth say beans instead of grassthis was my daily work.
As I had little aid from horses or cattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I was much slower, and became much more intimate with my beans than usual.
But labor of the hands, even when pursued to the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness.
It has a constant and imperishable moral, and to the scholar it yields a classic result.
A very agricola laboriosus was I to travellers bound westward through Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where; they sitting at their ease in gigs, with elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in festoons; I the home-staying, laborious native of the soil.
But soon my homestead was out of their sight and thought.
It was the only open and cultivated field for a great distance on either side of the road, so they made the most of it; and sometimes the man in the field heard more of travellers' gossip and comment than was meant for his ear: "Beans so late!
peas so late!
"for I continued to plant when others had begun to hoethe ministerial husbandman had not suspected it.
"Corn, my boy, for fodder; corn for fodder."
"Does he live there?"
asks the black bonnet of the gray coat; and the hard-featured farmer reins up his grateful dobbin to inquire what you are doing where he sees no manure in the furrow, and recommends a little chip dirt, or any little waste stuff, or it may be ashes or plaster.
But here were two acres and a half of furrows, and only a hoe for cart and two hands to draw itthere being an aversion to other carts and horsesand chip dirt far away.
Fellow-travellers as they rattled by compared it aloud with the fields which they had passed, so that I came to know how I stood in the agricultural world.
This was one field not in Mr. Colman's report.
And, by the way, who estimates the value of the crop which nature yields in the still wilder fields unimproved by man?
The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the silicates and the potash; but in all dells and pond-holes in the woods and pastures and swamps grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by man.
Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between wild and cultivated fields; as some states are civilized, and others half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field was, though not in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field.
They were beans cheerfully returning to their wild and primitive state that I cultivated, and my hoe played the Ranz des Vaches for them.
Near at hand, upon the topmost spray of a birch, sings the brown thrasheror red mavis, as some love to call himall the morning, glad of your society, that would find out another farmer's field if yours were not here.
While you are planting the seed, he cries"Drop it, drop itcover it up, cover it uppull it up, pull it up, pull it up."
But this was not corn, and so it was safe from such enemies as he.
You may wonder what his rigmarole, his amateur Paganini performances on one string or on twenty, have to do with your planting, and yet prefer it to leached ashes or plaster.
It was a cheap sort of top dressing in which I had entire faith.
As I drew a still fresher soil about the rows with my hoe, I disturbed the ashes of unchronicled nations who in primeval years lived under these heavens, and their small implements of war and hunting were brought to the light of this modern day.
They lay mingled with other natural stones, some of which bore the marks of having been burned by Indian fires, and some by the sun, and also bits of pottery and glass brought hither by the recent cultivators of the soil.
When my hoe tinkled against the stones, that music echoed to the woods and the sky, and was an accompaniment to my labor which yielded an instant and immeasurable crop.
It was no longer beans that I hoed, nor I that hoed beans; and I remembered with as much pity as pride, if I remembered at all, my acquaintances who had gone to the city to attend the oratorios.
The nighthawk circled overhead in the sunny afternoonsfor I sometimes made a day of itlike a mote in the eye, or in heaven's eye, falling from time to time with a swoop and a sound as if the heavens were rent, torn at last to very rags and tatters, and yet a seamless cope remained; small imps that fill the air and lay their eggs on the ground on bare sand or rocks on the tops of hills, where few have found them; graceful and slender like ripples caught up from the pond, as leaves are raised by the wind to float in the heavens; such kindredship is in nature.
The hawk is aerial brother of the wave which he sails over and surveys, those his perfect airinflated wings answering to the elemental unfledged pinions of the sea.
Or sometimes I watched a pair of henhawks circling high in the sky, alternately soaring and descending, approaching, and leaving one another, as if they were the embodiment of my own thoughts, Or I was attracted by the passage of wild pigeons from this wood to that, with a slight quivering winnowing sound and carrier haste; or from under a rotten stump my hoe turned up a sluggish portentous and outlandish spotted salamander, a trace of Egypt and the Nile, yet our contemporary.
When I paused to lean on my hoe, these sounds and sights I heard and saw anywhere in the row, a part of the inexhaustible entertainment which the country offers.
On gala days the town fires its great guns, which echo like popguns to these woods, and some waifs of martial music occasionally penetrate thus far.
To me, away there in my bean-field at the other end of the town, the big guns sounded as if a puffball had burst; and when there was a military turnout of which I was ignorant, I have sometimes had a vague sense all the day of some sort of itching and disease in the horizon, as if some eruption would break out there soon, either scarlatina or canker-rash, until at length some more favorable puff of wind, making haste over the fields and up the Wayland road, brought me information of the "trainers."
It seemed by the distant hum as if somebody's bees had swarmed, and that the neighbors, according to Virgil's advice, by a faint tintinnabulum upon the most sonorous of their domestic utensils, were endeavoring to call them down into the hive again.
And when the sound died quite away, and the hum had ceased, and the most favorable breezes told no tale, I knew that they had got the last drone of them all safely into the Middlesex hive, and that now their minds were bent on the honey with which it was smeared.
I felt proud to know that the liberties of Massachusetts and of our fatherland were in such safe keeping; and as I turned to my hoeing again I was filled with an inexpressible confidence, and pursued my labor cheerfully with a calm trust in the future.
When there were several bands of musicians, it sounded as if all the village was a vast bellows and all the buildings expanded and collapsed alternately with a din.
But sometimes it was a really noble and inspiring strain that reached these woods, and the trumpet that sings of fame, and I felt as if I could spit a Mexican with a good relishfor why should we always stand for trifles?and looked round for a woodchuck or a skunk to exercise my chivalry upon.
These martial strains seemed as far away as Palestine, and reminded me of a march of crusaders in the horizon, with a slight tantivy and tremulous motion of the elm tree tops which overhang the village.
This was one of the great days; though the sky had from my clearing only the same everlastingly great look that it wears daily, and I saw no difference in it.
It was a singular experience that long acquaintance which I cultivated with beans, what with planting, and hoeing, and harvesting, and threshing, and picking over and selling themthe last was the hardest of allI might add eating, for I did taste.
I was determined to know beans.
When they were growing, I used to hoe from five o'clock in the morning till noon, and commonly spent the rest of the day about other affairs.
Consider the intimate and curious acquaintance one makes with various kinds of weedsit will bear some iteration in the account, for there was no little iteration in the labordisturbing their delicate organizations so ruthlessly, and making such invidious distinctions with his hoe, levelling whole ranks of one species, and sedulously cultivating another.
That's Roman wormwoodthat's pigweedthat's sorrelthat's piper-grasshave at him, chop him up, turn his roots upward to the sun, don't let him have a fibre in the shade, if you do he'll turn himself t'other side up and be as green as a leek in two days.
A long war, not with cranes, but with weeds, those Trojans who had sun and rain and dews on their side.
Daily the beans saw me come to their rescue armed with a hoe, and thin the ranks of their enemies, filling up the trenches with weedy dead.
Many a lusty crestwaving Hector, that towered a whole foot above his crowding comrades, fell before my weapon and rolled in the dust.
Those summer days which some of my contemporaries devoted to the fine arts in Boston or Rome, and others to contemplation in India, and others to trade in London or New York, I thus, with the other farmers of New England, devoted to husbandry.
Not that I wanted beans to eat, for I am by nature a Pythagorean, so far as beans are concerned, whether they mean porridge or voting, and exchanged them for rice; but, perchance, as some must work in fields if only for the sake of tropes and expression, to serve a parable-maker one day.
It was on the whole a rare amusement, which, continued too long, might have become a dissipation.
Though I gave them no manure, and did not hoe them all once, I hoed them unusualy well as far as I went, and was paid for it in the end, "there being in truth," as Evelyn says, "no compost or laetation whatsoever comparable to this continual motion, repastination, and turning of the mould with the spade."
"The earth," he adds elsewhere, "especially if fresh, has a certain magnetism in it, by which it attracts the salt, power, or virtue (call it either) which gives it life, and is the logic of all the labor and stir we keep about it, to sustain us; all dungings and other sordid temperings being but the vicars succedaneous to this improvement."
Moreover, this being one of those "wornout and exhausted lay fields which enjoy their sabbath," had perchance, as Sir Kenelm Digby thinks likely, attracted "vital spirits" from the air.
I harvested twelve bushels of beans.
But to be more particular, for it is complained that Mr. Colman has reported chiefly the expensive experiments of gentlemen farmers, my outgoes were, For a hoe.....................................$ 0.54 Plowing, harrowing, and furrowing............. 7.50 (Too much.)
Beans for seed................................ 3.12 1/2 Potatoes for seed............................. 1.33 Peas for seed................................. 0.40 Turnip seed................................... 0.06 White line for crow fence..................... 0.02 Horse cultivator and boy three hours.......... 1.00 Horse and cart to get crop.................... 0.75 ----In all.......................................$ 14.72 1/2 My income was (patremfamilias vendacem, non emacem esse oportet), from Nine bushels and twelve quarts of beans sold..$ 16.94 Five bushels large potatoes................... 2.50 Nine bushels small potatoes................... 2.25 Grass......................................... 1.00 Stalks........................................ 0.75 ----In all......................................$ 23.44 Leaving a pecuniary profit, as I have elsewhere said, of..............$ 8.71 1/2 This is the result of my experience in raising beans: Plant the common small white bush bean about the first of June, in rows three feet by eighteen inches apart, being careful to select fresh round and unmixed seed.
First look out for worms, and supply vacancies by planting anew.
Then look out for woodchucks, if it is an exposed place, for they will nibble off the earliest tender leaves almost clean as they go; and again, when the young tendrils make their appearance, they have notice of it, and will shear them off with both buds and young pods, sitting erect like a squirrel.
But above all harvest as early as possible, if you would escape frosts and have a fair and salable crop; you may save much loss by this means.
This further experience also I gained: I said to myself, I will not plant beans and corn with so much industry another summer, but such seeds, if the seed is not lost, as sincerity, truth, simplicity, faith, innocence, and the like, and see if they will not grow in this soil, even with less toil and manurance, and sustain me, for surely it has not been exhausted for these crops.
Alas!
I said this to myself; but now another summer is gone, and another, and another, and I am obliged to say to you, Reader, that the seeds which I planted, if indeed they were the seeds of those virtues, were wormeaten or had lost their vitality, and so did not come up.
Commonly men will only be brave as their fathers were brave, or timid.
This generation is very sure to plant corn and beans each new year precisely as the Indians did centuries ago and taught the first settlers to do, as if there were a fate in it.
I saw an old man the other day, to my astonishment, making the holes with a hoe for the seventieth time at least, and not for himself to lie down in!
But why should not the New Englander try new adventures, and not lay so much stress on his grain, his potato and grass crop, and his orchardsraise other crops than these?
Why concern ourselves so much about our beans for seed, and not be concerned at all about a new generation of men?
We should really be fed and cheered if when we met a man we were sure to see that some of the qualities which I have named, which we all prize more than those other productions, but which are for the most part broadcast and floating in the air, had taken root and grown in him.
Here comes such a subtile and ineffable quality, for instance, as truth or justice, though the slightest amount or new variety of it, along the road.
Our ambassadors should be instructed to send home such seeds as these, and Congress help to distribute them over all the land.
We should never stand upon ceremony with sincerity.
We should never cheat and insult and banish one another by our meanness, if there were present the kernel of worth and friendliness.
We should not meet thus in haste.
Most men I do not meet at all, for they seem not to have time; they are busy about their beans.
We would not deal with a man thus plodding ever, leaning on a hoe or a spade as a staff between his work, not as a mushroom, but partially risen out of the earth, something more than erect, like swallows alighted and walking on the ground: "And as he spake, his mings would now and then Spread, as he meant to fly, then close again-" so that we should suspect that we might be conversing with an angel.
Bread may not always nourish us; but it always does us good, it even takes stiffness out of our joints, and makes us supple and buoyant, when we knew not what ailed us, to recognize any generosity in man or Nature, to share any unmixed and heroic joy.
Ancient poetry and mythology suggest, at least, that husbandry was once a sacred art; but it is pursued with irreverent haste and heedlessness by us, our object being to have large farms and large crops merely.
We have no festival, nor procession, nor ceremony, not excepting our cattle-shows and so-called Thanksgivings, by which the farmer expresses a sense of the sacredness of his calling, or is reminded of its sacred origin.
It is the premium and the feast which tempt him.
He sacrifices not to Ceres and the Terrestrial Jove, but to the infernal Plutus rather.
By avarice and selfishness, and a grovelling habit, from which none of us is free, of regarding the soil as property, or the means of acquiring property chiefly, the landscape is deformed, husbandry is degraded with us, and the farmer leads the meanest of lives.
He knows Nature but as a robber.
Cato says that the profits of agriculture are particularly pious or just (maximeque pius quaestus), and according to Varro the old Romans "called the same earth Mother and Ceres, and thought that they who cultivated it led a pious and useful life, and that they alone were left of the race of King Saturn."
We are wont to forget that the sun looks on our cultivated fields and on the prairies and forests without distinction.
They all reflect and absorb his rays alike, and the former make but a small part of the glorious picture which he beholds in his daily course.
In his view the earth is all equally cultivated like a garden.
Therefore we should receive the benefit of his light and beat with a corresponding trust and magnanimity.
What though I value the seed of these beans, and harvest that in the fall of the year?
This broad field which I have looked at so long looks not to me as the principal cultivator, but away from me to influences more genial to it, which water and make it green.
These beans have results which are not harvested by me.
Do they not grow for woodchucks partly?
The ear of wheat (in Latin spica, obsoletely speca, from spe, hope) should not be the only hope of the husbandman; its kernel or grain (granum from gerendo, bearing) is not all that it bears.
How, then, can our harvest fail?
Shall I not rejoice also at the abundance of the weeds whose seeds are the granary of the birds?
It matters little comparatively whether the fields fill the farmer's barns.
The true husbandman will cease from anxiety, as the squirrels manifest no concern whether the woods will bear chestnuts this year or not, and finish his labor with every day, relinquishing all claim to the produce of his fields, and sacrificing in his mind not only his first but his last fruits also.
VILLAGE
CHAPTER THE VILLAGE.
AFTER HOEING, or perhaps reading and writing, in the forenoon, I usually bathed again in the pond, swimming across one of its coves for a stint, and washed the dust of labor from my person, or smoothed out the last wrinkle which study had made, and for the afternoon was absolutely free.
Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear some of the gossip which is incessantly going on there, circulating either from mouth to mouth, or from newspaper to newspaper, and which, taken in homeopathic doses, was really as refreshing in its way as the rustle of leaves and the peeping of frogs.
As I walked in the woods to see the birds and squirrels, so I walked in the village to see the men and boys; instead of the wind among the pines I heard the carts rattle.
In one direction from my house there was a colony of muskrats in the river meadows; under the grove of elms and buttonwoods in the other horizon was a village of busy men, as curious to me as if they had been prairie-dogs, each sitting at the mouth of its burrow, or running over to a neighbor's to gossip.
I went there frequently to observe their habits.
The village appeared to me a great news room; and on one side, to support it, as once at Redding & Company's on State Street, they kept nuts and raisins, or salt and meal and other groceries.
Some have such a vast appetite for the former commodity, that is, the news, and such sound digestive organs, that they can sit forever in public avenues without stirring, and let it simmer and whisper through them like the Etesian winds, or as if inhaling ether, it only producing numbness and insensibility to painotherwise it would often be painful to bearwithout affecting the consciousness.
I hardly ever failed, when I rambled through the village, to see a row of such worthies, either sitting on a ladder sunning themselves, with their bodies inclined forward and their eyes glancing along the line this way and that, from time to time, with a voluptuous expression, or else leaning against a barn with their hands in their pockets, like caryatides, as if to prop it up.
They, being commonly out of doors, heard whatever was in the wind.
These are the coarsest mills, in which all gossip is first rudely digested or cracked up before it is emptied into finer and more delicate hoppers within doors.
I observed that the vitals of the village were the grocery, the bar-room, the post-office, and the bank; and, as a necessary part of the machinery, they kept a bell, a big gun, and a fire-engine, at convenient places; and the houses were so arranged as to make the most of mankind, in lanes and fronting one another, so that every traveller had to run the gauntlet, and every man, woman, and child might get a lick at him.
Of course, those who were stationed nearest to the head of the line, where they could most see and be seen, and have the first blow at him, paid the highest prices for their places; and the few straggling inhabitants in the outskirts, where long gaps in the line began to occur, and the traveller could get over walls or turn aside into cow-paths, and so escape, paid a very slight ground or window tax.
Signs were hung out on all sides to allure him; some to catch him by the appetite, as the tavern and victualling cellar; some by the fancy, as the dry goods store and the jeweller's; and others by the hair or the feet or the skirts, as the barber, the shoe-maker, or the tailor.
Besides, there was a still more terrible standing invitation to call at every one of these houses, and company expected about these times.
For the most part I escaped wonderfully from these dangers, either by proceeding at once boldly and without deliberation to the goal, as is recommended to those who run the gauntlet, or by keeping my thoughts on high things, like Orpheus, who, "loudly singing the praises of the gods to his lyre, drowned the voices of the Sirens, and kept out of danger."
Sometimes I bolted suddenly, and nobody could tell my whereabouts, for I did not stand much about gracefulness, and never hesitated at a gap in a fence.
I was even accustomed to make an irruption into some houses, where I was well entertained, and after learning the kernels and very last sieveful of newswhat had subsided, the prospects of war and peace, and whether the world was likely to hold together much longerI was let out through the rear avenues, and so escaped to the woods again.
It was very pleasant, when I stayed late in town, to launch myself into the night, especially if it was dark and tempestuous, and set sail from some bright village parlor or lecture room, with a bag of rye or Indian meal upon my shoulder, for my snug harbor in the woods, having made all tight without and withdrawn under hatches with a merry crew of thoughts, leaving only my outer man at the helm, or even tying up the helm when it was plain sailing.
I had many a genial thought by the cabin fire "as I sailed."
I was never cast away nor distressed in any weather, though I encountered some severe storms.
It is darker in the woods, even in common nights, than most suppose.
I frequently had to look up at the opening between the trees above the path in order to learn my route, and, where there was no cart-path, to feel with my feet the faint track which I had worn, or steer by the known relation of particular trees which I felt with my hands, passing between two pines for instance, not more than eighteen inches apart, in the midst of the woods, invariably, in the darkest night.
Sometimes, after coming home thus late in a dark and muggy night, when my feet felt the path which my eyes could not see, dreaming and absent-minded all the way, until I was aroused by having to raise my hand to lift the latch, I have not been able to recall a single step of my walk, and I have thought that perhaps my body would find its way home if its master should forsake it, as the hand finds its way to the mouth without assistance.
Several times, when a visitor chanced to stay into evening, and it proved a dark night, I was obliged to conduct him to the cart-path in the rear of the house, and then point out to him the direction he was to pursue, and in keeping which he was to be guided rather by his feet than his eyes.
One very dark night I directed thus on their way two young men who had been fishing in the pond.
They lived about a mile off through the woods, and were quite used to the route.
A day or two after one of them told me that they wandered about the greater part of the night, close by their own premises, and did not get home till toward morning, by which time, as there had been several heavy showers in the meanwhile, and the leaves were very wet, they were drenched to their skins.
I have heard of many going astray even in the village streets, when the darkness was so thick that you could cut it with a knife, as the saying is.
Some who live in the outskirts, having come to town a-shopping in their wagons, have been obliged to put up for the night; and gentlemen and ladies making a call have gone half a mile out of their way, feeling the sidewalk only with their feet, and not knowing when they turned.
It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time.
Often in a snow-storm, even by day, one will come out upon a well-known road and yet find it impossible to tell which way leads to the village.
Though he knows that he has travelled it a thousand times, he cannot recognize a feature in it, but it is as strange to him as if it were a road in Siberia.
By night, of course, the perplexity is infinitely greater.
In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned roundfor a man needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lostdo we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of nature.
Every man has to learn the points of compass again as often as be awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction.
Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.
One afternoon, near the end of the first summer, when I went to the village to get a shoe from the cobbler's, I was seized and put into jail, because, as I have elsewhere related, I did not pay a tax to, or recognize the authority of, the State which buys and sells men, women, and children, like cattle, at the door of its senate-house.
I had gone down to the woods for other purposes.
But, wherever a man goes, men will pursue and paw him with their dirty institutions, and, if they can, constrain him to belong to their desperate odd-fellow society.
It is true, I might have resisted forcibly with more or less effect, might have run "amok" against society; but I preferred that society should run "amok" against me, it being the desperate party.
However, I was released the next day, obtained my mended shoe, and returned to the woods in season to get my dinner of huckleberries on Fair Haven Hill.
I was never molested by any person but those who represented the State.
I had no lock nor bolt but for the desk which held my papers, not even a nail to put over my latch or windows.
I never fastened my door night or day, though I was to be absent several days; not even when the next fall I spent a fortnight in the woods of Maine.
And yet my house was more respected than if it had been surrounded by a file of soldiers.
The tired rambler could rest and warm himself by my fire, the literary amuse himself with the few books on my table, or the curious, by opening my closet door, see what was left of my dinner, and what prospect I had of a supper.
Yet, though many people of every class came this way to the pond, I suffered no serious inconvenience from these sources, and I never missed anything but one small book, a volume of Homer, which perhaps was improperly gilded, and this I trust a soldier of our camp has found by this time.
I am convinced, that if all men were to live as simply as I then did, thieving and robbery would be unknown.
These take place only in communities where some have got more than is sufficient while others have not enough.
The Pope's Homers would soon get properly distributed.
"Nec bella fuerunt, Faginus astabat dum scyphus ante dapes."
"Nor wars did men molest, When only beechen bowls were in request."
"You who govern public affairs, what need have you to employ punishments?
Love virtue, and the people will be virtuous.
The virtues of a superior man are like the wind; the virtues of a common man are like the grassI the grass, when the wind passes over it, bends."
PONDS
CHAPTER IV Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man.
He had gone away rejected and mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one.
He had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost.
He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs. Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented.
He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously gallant.
The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air.
She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again.
She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.
The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage.
Many vain solicitudes would be prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it.
A Mrs. Elton would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark.
It would be almost beginning their life of civility again.
Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little.
She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side.
As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing.
On that article, truth seemed attainable.
What she was, must be uncertain; but who she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior.
She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.
Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also.
Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived.
Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.
And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was very well married, to a gentleman in a great way, near Bristol, who kept two carriages!
That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all!
She had talked her into love; but, alas!
she was not so easily to be talked out of it.
The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away.
He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her.
Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love.
And now, poor girl!
she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton.
She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other.
Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture.
She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her.
Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!
Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations.
Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other.
Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin.
The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards.
Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess.
But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares.
While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.
How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.
Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude.
It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance--!
After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance.
She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.
She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
CHAPTER V Small heart had Harriet for visiting.
Only half an hour before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to The Rev.
Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour.
She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young man.
She came solitarily down the gravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account.
She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls.
They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner.
In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends.
There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.
He had done it.
They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was over.
The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer.
It was a bad business.
She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life.
They were so deserving, that a little higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent.
They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it.
Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins.
The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither "master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
"This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away.
"And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so disappointed."
And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.
Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her.
There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, "How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad to see him so well.
Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so.
If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather.
We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish."
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose.
To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy.
It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.
The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated.
"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife.
"We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the girls."
"Well, well, I am ready;"--and turning again to Emma, "but you must not be expecting such a very fine young man; you have only had my account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs. Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for her.
"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr. Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before.
When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?"
--was a question, however, which did not augur much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four.
"My dear, dear anxious friend,"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right."
The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall.
"'Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here.
I am sure they will bring him soon."
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son.
They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a very good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible.
She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before.
She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
"I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named.
I remembered what I used to do myself.
One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs."
"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming home I felt I might do any thing."
The word home made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed.
He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's own country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it.
That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled.
His manner had no air of study or exaggeration.
He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance.
On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?"
But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her.
He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter.
He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else.
"His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him."
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's.
And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.
"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs.
Weston."
"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be eighteen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words.
Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman."
"I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms."
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance.
She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about.
His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening.
Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance.
Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them.
She blessed the favouring blindness.
He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else."
His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, "As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now.
I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax.
I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates.
Do you know any family of that name?"
"To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her house--I saw Miss Bates at the window.
True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is.
Call upon her, by all means."
"There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man; "another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which--" "Oh!
go to-day, go to-day.
Do not defer it.
What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.
And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her here should be carefully avoided.
You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on.
If you do not call early it will be a slight."
The son looked convinced.
"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very elegant young woman."
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it.
"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she, "I think you will to-day.
You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue."
"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?"
said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady.
She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life.
They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way."
"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me."
"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street."
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump."
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave.
Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort.
CHAPTER XIX If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty.
A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known.
She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr.
Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend.
She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement.
She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness.
She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out.
She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr.
Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it.
But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation.
Still, however, he was not happy.
Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed.
She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she could not proceed.
In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--Mrs.
Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man.
Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was housebreaking to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life.
The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence.
While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.
The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."
--But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on.
A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving.
It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by.
After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news."
"Good or bad?"
said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
"I do not know which it ought to be called."
"Oh!
good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance.
You are trying not to smile."
"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it."
"Indeed!
but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too."
"There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike."
He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face.
"Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith."
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what.
"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?"
cried he.
"You have, I believe, and know the whole."
"No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me."
"You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is.
Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin."
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!"
but her lips were closed.
"It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself.
He left me not half an hour ago."
She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same.
But in time they will.
Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject."
"You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself.
"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it.
It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin.
You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet.
You only mean, that he intends it."
"I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted."
"Good God!"
she cried.--"Well!"
--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me.
How, where, when?--Let me know it all.
I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?"
"It is a very simple story.
He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's.
They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's.
The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith.
My friend Robert could not resist.
They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving.
He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own.
This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when.
Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy."
He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply.
To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad.
Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected.
His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more.
His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands.
His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match.
I think Harriet is doing extremely well.
Her connexions may be worse than his.
In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are.
I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize.
You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me!
how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before."
"You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her."
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright accepted him.
I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox."
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature.
It could not be otherwise.
"Do you dare say this?"
cried Mr. Knightley.
"Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?"
"Oh!
I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer.
Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?"
"I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so.
He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do.
He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends.
Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard?
I assured him that I could not.
Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."
"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy."
"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before."
"I hope so--for at that time I was a fool."
"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities.
I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her.
I have often talked to her a good deal.
You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for."
"Me!"
cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah!
poor Harriet!"
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father.
She was not sorry.
She wanted to be alone.
Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected.
She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined.
The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for?
Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them.
She must laugh at such a close!
Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back!
Such a heart--such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure.
It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.
The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over.
She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed.
They arrived.--Mrs.
Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.
"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston.
"I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope."
In half a minute they were in the room.
Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side.
They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure.
When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston's letters.
I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon.
I hope you do not retract what you then said."
"No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least.
I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy in person."
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
"Is not she looking well?"
said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
"I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame."
"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be.
But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late.
Early, I know, you had none."
"I never had the smallest, I assure you."
"That appears quite wonderful.
I was once very near--and I wish I had--it would have been better.
But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing."
"It is not now worth a regret," said Emma.
"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her.
When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation.
Do not you pity me?"
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried, "Ah!
by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?"
He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour.
Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were, "Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness!
such delicacy!--and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair.
It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most distinguishing complexion!
So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour enough for beauty."
"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?"
"Oh!
no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--" But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying, "I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am sure it was a consolation to you."
"Oh!
no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing?
I was the most miserable wretch!"
"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth.
I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation.
I think there is a little likeness between us."
He bowed.
"If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own."
"True, true," he answered, warmly.
"No, not true on your side.
You can have no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel.
Look at her.
Is not she an angel in every gesture?
Observe the turn of her throat.
Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels.
They are to be new set.
I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head.
Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?"
"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out, "How delighted I am to see you again!
and to see you in such excellent looks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world.
I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant's appearing not quite well.
She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry.
Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again.
This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it.
"She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment.
She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often.
It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had seen it."
Frank Churchill caught the name.
"Perry!"
said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss Fairfax's eye.
"My friend Mr. Perry!
What are they saying about Mr.
Perry?--Has he been here this morning?--And how does he travel now?--Has he set up his carriage?"
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!"
he cried.
"I can never think of it without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse.
I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown.
Look at her.
Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye--that the whole blunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?"
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice, "How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!--They will sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!"
He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character.
The happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.
ULYSSES LEAVES SCHERIA AND RETURNS TO ITHACA.
Thus did he speak, and they all held their peace throughout the covered cloister, enthralled by the charm of his story, till presently Alcinous began to speak.
"Ulysses," said he," now that you have reached my house I doubt not you will get home without further misadventure no matter how much you have suffered in the past.
To you others, however, who come here night after night to drink my choicest wine and listen to my bard, I would insist as follows.
Our guest has already packed up the clothes, wrought gold and other valuables which you have brought for his acceptance; let us now, therefore, present him further, each one of us, with a large tripod and a cauldron.
We will recoup ourselves by the levy of a general rate; for private individuals can not be expected to bear the burden of such a handsome present."
Every one approved of this, and then they went home to bed each in his own abode.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared they hurried down to the ship and brought their cauldrons with them.
Alcinous went on board and saw everything so securely stowed under the ship 's benches that nothing could break adrift and injure the rowers.
Then they went to the house of Alcinous to get dinner, and he sacrificed a bull for them in honour of Jove who is the lord of all.
They set the steaks to grill and made an excellent dinner, after which the inspired bard, Demodocus, who was a favourite with every one, sang to them; but Ulysses kept on turning his eyes towards the sun, as though to hasten his setting, for he was longing to be on his way.
As one who has been all day ploughing a fallow field with a couple of oxen keeps thinking about his supper and is glad when night comes that he may go and get it, for it is all his legs can do to carry him, even so did Ulysses rejoice when the sun went down, and he at once said to the Phaeacians, addressing himself more particularly to King Alcinous: "Sir, and all of you, farewell.
Make your drinkofferings and send me on my way rejoicing, for you have fulfilled my heart 's desire by giving me an escort, and making me presents, which heaven grant that I may turn to good account; may I find my admirable wife living in peace among friends and may you whom I leave behind me give satisfaction to your wives and children ;may heaven vouchsafe you every good grace, and may no evil thing come among your people."
Thus did he speak.
His hearers all of them approved his saying and agreed that he should have his escort inasmuch as he had spoken reasonably.
Alcinous therefore said to his servant," Pontonous, mix some wine and hand it round to everybody, that we may offer a prayer to father Jove, and speed our guest upon his way."
Pontonous mixed the wine and handed it to every one in turn; the others each from his own seat made a drinkoffering to the blessed gods that live in heaven, but Ulysses rose and placed the double cup in the hands of queen Arete.
"Farewell, queen," said he," henceforward and for ever, till age and death, the common lot of mankind, lay their hands upon you.
I now take my leave; be happy in this house with your children, your people, and with king Alcinous."
As he spoke he crossed the threshold, and Alcinous sent a man to conduct him to his ship and to the sea shore.
Arete also sent some maidservants with him— one with a clean shirt and cloak, another to carry his strong box, and a third with corn and wine.
When they got to the water side the crew took these things and put them on board, with all the meat and drink; but for Ulysses they spread a rug and a linen sheet on deck that he might sleep soundly in the stern of the ship.
Then he too went on board and lay down without a word, but the crew took every man his place and loosed the hawser from the pierced stone to which it had been bound.
Thereon, when they began rowing out to sea, Ulysses fell into a deep, sweet, and almost deathlike slumber.
The ship bounded forward on her way as a four in hand chariot flies over the course when the horses feel the whip.
Her prow curvetted as it were the neck of a stallion, and a great wave of dark blue water seethed in her wake.
She held steadily on her course, and even a falcon, swiftest of all birds, could not have kept pace with her.
Thus, then, she cut her way through the water, carrying one who was as cunning as the gods, but who was now sleeping peacefully, forgetful of all that he had suffered both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea.
When the bright star that heralds the approach of dawn began to show, the ship drew near to land.
Now there is in Ithaca a haven of the old merman Phorcys, which lies between two points that break the line of the sea and shut the harbour in.
These shelter it from the storms of wind and sea that rage outside, so that, when once within it, a ship may lie without being even moored.
At the head of this harbour there is a large olive tree, and at no great distance a fine overarching cavern sacred to the nymphs who are called Naiads.
There are mixing bowls within it and winejars of stone, and the bees hive there.
Moreover, there are great looms of stone on which the nymphs weave their robes of sea purple— very curious to see— and at all times there is water within it.
It has two entrances, one facing North by which mortals can go down into the cave, while the other comes from the South and is more mysterious; mortals can not possibly get in by it, it is the way taken by the gods.
Into this harbour, then, they took their ship, for they knew the place.
She had so much way upon her that she ran half her own length on to the shore; when, however, they had landed, the first thing they did was to lift Ulysses with his rug and linen sheet out of the ship, and lay him down upon the sand still fast asleep.
Then they took out the presents which Minerva had persuaded the Phaeacians to give him when he was setting out on his voyage homewards.
They put these all together by the root of the olive tree, away from the road, for fear some passer by might come and steal them before Ulysses awoke; and then they made the best of their way home again.
But Neptune did not forget the threats with which he had already threatened Ulysses, so he took counsel with Jove."
Father Jove," said he," I shall no longer be held in any sort of respect among you gods, if mortals like the Phaeacians, who are my own flesh and blood, show such small regard for me.
I said I would let Ulysses get home when he had suffered sufficiently.
I did not say that he should never get home at all, for I knew you had already nodded your head about it, and promised that he should do so; but now they have brought him in a ship fast asleep and have landed him in Ithaca after loading him with more magnificent presents of bronze, gold, and raiment than he would ever have brought back from Troy, if he had had his share of the spoil and got home without misadventure."
And Jove answered," What, O Lord of the Earthquake, are you talking about?
The gods are by no means wanting in respect for you.
It would be monstrous were they to insult one so old and honoured as you are.
As regards mortals, however, if any of them is indulging in insolence and treating you disrespectfully, it will always rest with yourself to deal with him as you may think proper, so do just as you please."
"I should have done so at once," replied Neptune," if I were not anxious to avoid anything that might displease you; now, therefore, I should like to wreck the Phaeacian ship as it is returning from its escort.
This will stop them from escorting people in future; and I should also like to bury their city under a huge mountain."
"My good friend," answered Jove," I should recommend you at the very moment when the people from the city are watching the ship on her way, to turn it into a rock near the land and looking like a ship.
This will astonish everybody, and you can then bury their city under the mountain."
When earthencircling Neptune heard this he went to Scheria where the Phaeacians live, and stayed there till the ship, which was making rapid way, had got close in.
Then he went up to it, turned it into stone, and drove it down with the flat of his hand so as to root it in the ground.
After this he went away.
The Phaeacians then began talking among themselves, and one would turn towards his neighbour, saying," Bless my heart, who is it that can have rooted the ship in the sea just as she was getting into port?
We could see the whole of her only a moment ago."
This was how they talked, but they knew nothing about it; and Alcinous said," I remember now the old prophecy of my father.
He said that Neptune would be angry with us for taking every one so safely over the sea, and would one day wreck a Phaeacian ship as it was returning from an escort, and bury our city under a high mountain.
This was what my old father used to say, and now it is all coming true.
Now therefore let us all do as I say; in the first place we must leave off giving people escorts when they come here, and in the next let us sacrifice twelve picked bulls to Neptune that he may have mercy upon us, and not bury our city under the high mountain.
"When the people heard this they were afraid and got ready the bulls.
Thus did the chiefs and rulers of the Phaeacians pray to king Neptune, standing round his altar; and at the same time Ulysses woke up once more upon his own soil.
He had been so long away that he did not know it again; moreover, Jove 's daughter Minerva had made it a foggy day, so that people might not know of his having come, and that she might tell him everything without either his wife or his fellow citizens and friends recognising him until he had taken his revenge upon the wicked suitors.
Everything, therefore, seemed quite different to him— the long straight tracks, the harbours, the precipices, and the goodly trees, appeared all changed as he started up and looked upon his native land.
So he smote his thighs with the flat of his hands and cried aloud despairingly.
"Alas," he exclaimed," among what manner of people am I fallen?
Are they savage and uncivilised or hospitable and humane?
Where shall I put all this treasure, and which way shall I go?
I wish I had staid over there with the Phaeacians; or I could have gone to some other great chief who would have been good to me and given me an escort.
As it is I do not know where to put my treasure, and I can not leave it here for fear somebody else should get hold of it.
In good truth the chiefs and rulers of the Phaeacians have not been dealing fairly by me, and have left me in the wrong country; they said they would take me back to Ithaca and they have not done so :may Jove the protector of suppliants chastise them, for he watches over everybody and punishes those who do wrong.
Still, I suppose I must count my goods and see if the crew have gone off with any of them."
He counted his goodly coppers and cauldrons, his gold and all his clothes, but there was nothing missing; still he kept grieving about not being in his own country, and wandered up and down by the shore of the sounding sea bewailing his hard fate.
Then Minerva came up to him disguised as a young shepherd of delicate and princely mien, with a good cloak folded double about her shoulders; she had sandals on her comely feet and held a javelin in her hand.
Ulysses was glad when he saw her, and went straight up to her.
"My friend," said he," you are the first person whom I have met with in this country; I salute you, therefore, and beg you to be well disposed towards me.
Protect these my goods, and myself too, for I embrace your knees and pray to you as though you were a god.
Tell me, then, and tell me truly, what land and country is this?
Who are its inhabitants?
Am I on an island, or is this the sea board of some continent?"
Minerva answered," Stranger, you must be very simple, or must have come from somewhere a long way off, not to know what country this is.
It is a very celebrated place, and everybody knows it East and West.
It is rugged and not a good driving country, but it is by no means a bad island for what there is of it.
It grows any quantity of corn and also wine, for it is watered both by rain and dew; it breeds cattle also and goats; all kinds of timber grow here, and there are watering places where the water never runs dry; so, sir, the name of Ithaca is known even as far as Troy, which I understand to be a long way off from this Achaean country."
Ulysses was glad at finding himself, as Minerva told him, in his own country, and he began to answer, but he did not speak the truth, and made up a lying story in the instinctive wiliness of his heart.
"I heard of Ithaca," said he," when I was in Crete beyond the seas, and now it seems I have reached it with all these treasures.
I have left as much more behind me for my children, but am flying because I killed Orsilochus son of Idomeneus, the fleetest runner in Crete.
I killed him because he wanted to rob me of the spoils I had got from Troy with so much trouble and danger both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; he said I had not served his father loyally at Troy as vassal, but had set myself up as an independent ruler, so I lay in wait for him with one of my followers by the road side, and speared him as he was coming into town from the country.
It was a very dark night and nobody saw us; it was not known, therefore, that I had killed him, but as soon as I had done so I went to a ship and besought the owners, who were Phoenicians, to take me on board and set me in Pylos or in Elis where the Epeans rule, giving them as much spoil as satisfied them.
They meant no guile, but the wind drove them off their course, and we sailed on till we came hither by night.
It was all we could do to get inside the harbour, and none of us said a word about supper though we wanted it badly, but we all went on shore and lay down just as we were.
I was very tired and fell asleep directly, so they took my goods out of the ship, and placed them beside me where I was lying upon the sand.
Then they sailed away to Sidonia, and I was left here in great distress of mind."
Such was his story, but Minerva smiled and caressed him with her hand.
Then she took the form of a woman, fair, stately, and wise," He must be indeed a shifty lying fellow," said she," who could surpass you in all manner of craft even though you had a god for your antagonist.
Dare devil that you are, full of guile, unwearying in deceit, can you not drop your tricks and your instinctive falsehood, even now that you are in your own country again?
We will say no more, however, about this, for we can both of us deceive upon occasion— you are the most accomplished counsellor and orator among all mankind, while I for diplomacy and subtlety have no equal among the gods.
Did you not know Jove 's daughter Minerva— me, who have been ever with you, who kept watch over you in all your troubles, and who made the Phaeacians take so great a liking to you?
And now, again, I am come here to talk things over with you, and help you to hide the treasure I made the Phaeacians give you; I want to tell you about the troubles that await you in your own house; you have got to face them, but tell no one, neither man nor woman, that you have come home again.
Bear everything, and put up with every man 's insolence, without a word."
And Ulysses answered," A man, goddess, may know a great deal, but you are so constantly changing your appearance that when he meets you it is a hard matter for him to know whether it is you or not.
This much, however, I know exceedingly well; you were very kind to me as long as we Achaeans were fighting before Troy, but from the day on which we went on board ship after having sacked the city of Priam, and heaven dispersed us— from that day, Minerva, I saw no more of you, and can not ever remember your coming to my ship to help me in a difficulty; I had to wander on sick and sorry till the gods delivered me from evil and I reached the city of the Phaeacians, where you encouraged me and took me into the town.
And now, I beseech you in your father 's name, tell me the truth, for I do not believe I am really back in Ithaca.
I am in some other country and you are mocking me and deceiving me in all you have been saying.
Tell me then truly, have I really got back to my own country?"
"You are always taking something of that sort in your head," replied Minerva," and that is why I can not desert you in your afflictions; you are so plausible, shrewd and shifty.
Any one but yourself on returning from so long a voyage would at once have gone home to see his wife and children, but you do not seem to care about asking after them or hearing any news about them till you have exploited your wife, who remains at home vainly grieving for you, and having no peace night or day for the tears she sheds on your behalf.
As for my not coming near you, I was never uneasy about you, for I was certain you would get back safely though you would lose all your men, and I did not wish to quarrel with my uncle Neptune, who never forgave you for having blinded his son.
I will now, however, point out to you the lie of the land, and you will then perhaps believe me.
This is the haven of the old merman Phorcys, and here is the olive tree that grows at the head of it;[ near it is the cave sacred to the Naiads; here too is the overarching cavern in which you have offered many an acceptable hecatomb to the nymphs, and this is the wooded mountain Neritum."
As she spoke the goddess dispersed the mist and the land appeared.
Then Ulysses rejoiced at finding himself again in his own land, and kissed the bounteous soil; he lifted up his hands and prayed to the nymphs, saying," Naiad nymphs, daughters of Jove, I made sure that I was never again to see you, now therefore I greet you with all loving salutations, and I will bring you offerings as in the old days, if Jove 's redoubtable daughter will grant me life, and bring my son to manhood."
"Take heart, and do not trouble yourself about that," rejoined Minerva," let us rather set about stowing your things at once in the cave, where they will be quite safe.
Let us see how we can best manage it all."
Therewith she went down into the cave to look for the safest hiding places, while Ulysses brought up all the treasure of gold, bronze, and good clothing which the Phaeacians had given him.
They stowed everything carefully away, and Minerva set a stone against the door of the cave.
Then the two sat down by the root of the great olive, and consulted how to compass the destruction of the wicked suitors.
"Ulysses," said Minerva," noble son of Laertes, think how you can lay hands on these disreputable people who have been lording it in your house these three years, courting your wife and making wedding presents to her, while she does nothing but lament your absence, giving hope and sending encouraging messages to every one of them, but meaning the very opposite of all she says."
And Ulysses answered," In good truth, goddess, it seems I should have come to much the same bad end in my own house as Agamemnon did, if you had not given me such timely information.
Advise me how I shall best avenge myself.
Stand by my side and put your courage into my heart as on the day when we loosed Troy 's fair diadem from her brow.
Help me now as you did then, and I will fight three hundred men, if you, goddess, will be with me."
"Trust me for that," said she," I will not lose sight of you when once we set about it, and I imagine that some of those who are devouring your substance will then bespatter the pavement with their blood and brains.
I will begin by disguising you so that no human being shall know you; I will cover your body with wrinkles; you shall lose all your yellow hair; I will clothe you in a garment that shall fill all who see it with loathing; I will blear your fine eyes for you, and make you an unseemly object in the sight of the suitors, of your wife, and of the son whom you left behind you.
Then go at once to the swineherd who is in charge of your pigs; he has been always well affected towards you, and is devoted to Penelope and your son; you will find him feeding his pigs near the rock that is called Raven by the fountain Arethusa, where they are fattening on beechmast and spring water after their manner.
Stay with him and find out how things are going, while I proceed to Sparta and see your son, who is with Menelaus at Lacedaemon, where he has gone to try and find out whether you are still alive."
"But why," said Ulysses," did you not tell him, for you knew all about it?
Did you want him too to go sailing about amid all kinds of hardship while others are eating up his estate?"
Minerva answered," Never mind about him, I sent him that he might be well spoken of for having gone.
He is in no sort of difficulty, but is staying quite comfortably with Menelaus, and is surrounded with abundance of every kind.
The suitors have put out to sea and are lying in wait for him, for they mean to kill him before he can get home.
I do not much think they will succeed, but rather that some of those who are now eating up your estate will first find a grave themselves."
As she spoke Minerva touched him with her wand and covered him with wrinkles, took away all his yellow hair, and withered the flesh over his whole body; she bleared his eyes, which were naturally very fine ones; she changed his clothes and threw an old rag of a wrap about him, and a tunic, tattered, filthy, and begrimed with smoke; she also gave him an undressed deer skin as an outer garment, and furnished him with a staff and a wallet all in holes, with a twisted thong for him to sling it over his shoulder.
When the pair had thus laid their plans they parted, and the goddess went straight to Lacedaemon to fetch Telemachus.
TELEMACHUS VISITS NESTOR AT PYLOS.
but as the sun was rising from the fair sea into the firmament of heaven to shed light on mortals and immortals, they reached Pylos the city of Neleus.
Now the people of Pylos were gathered on the sea shore to offer sacrifice of black bulls to Neptune lord of the Earthquake.
There were nine guilds with five hundred men in each, and there were nine bulls to each guild.
As they were eating the inward meats and burning the thigh bones[ on the embers] in the name of Neptune, Telemachus and his crew arrived, furled their sails, brought their ship to anchor, and went ashore.
Minerva led the way and Telemachus followed her.
Presently she said," Telemachus, you must not be in the least shy or nervous; you have taken this voyage to try and find out where your father is buried and how he came by his end; so go straight up to Nestor that we may see what he has got to tell us.
Beg of him to speak the truth, and he will tell no lies, for he is an excellent person."
"But how, Mentor," replied Telemachus," dare I go up to Nestor, and how am I to address him?
I have never yet been used to holding long conversations with people, and am ashamed to begin questioning one who is so much older than myself."
"Some things, Telemachus," answered Minerva," will be suggested to you by your own instinct, and heaven will prompt you further; for I am assured that the gods have been with you from the time of your birth until now."
She then went quickly on, and Telemachus followed in her steps till they reached the place where the guilds of the Pylian people were assembled.
There they found Nestor sitting with his sons, while his company round him were busy getting dinner ready, and putting pieces of meat on to the spits while other pieces were cooking.
When they saw the strangers they crowded round them, took them by the hand and bade them take their places.
Nestor 's son Pisistratus at once offered his hand to each of them, and seated them on some soft sheepskins that were lying on the sands near his father and his brother Thrasymedes.
Then he gave them their portions of the inward meats and poured wine for them into a golden cup, handing it to Minerva first, and saluting her at the same time.
"Offer a prayer, sir," said he," to King Neptune, for it is his feast that you are joining; when you have duly prayed and made your drink offering, pass the cup to your friend that he may do so also.
I doubt not that he too lifts his hands in prayer, for man can not live without God in the world.
Still he is younger than you are, and is much of an age with myself, so I will give you the precedence."
As he spoke he handed her the cup.
Minerva thought it very right and proper of him to have given it to herself first; she accordingly began praying heartily to Neptune. "
O thou," she cried," that encirclest the earth, vouchsafe to grant the prayers of thy servants that call upon thee.
More especially we pray thee send down thy grace on Nestor and on his sons; thereafter also make the rest of the Pylian people some handsome return for the goodly hecatomb they are offering you.
Lastly, grant Telemachus and myself a happy issue, in respect of the matter that has brought us in our ship to Pylos."
When she had thus made an end of praying, she handed the cup to Telemachus and he prayed likewise.
By and by, when the outer meats were roasted and had been taken off the spits, the carvers gave every man his portion and they all made an excellent dinner.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Nestor, knight of Gerene, began to speak.
"Now," said he," that our guests have done their dinner, it will be best to ask them who they are.
Who, then, sir strangers, are you, and from what port have you sailed?
Are you traders?
or do you sail the seas as rovers with your hand against every man, and every man 's hand against you?"
Telemachus answered boldly, for Minerva had given him courage to ask about his father and get himself a good name.
"Nestor," said he," son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name ,you ask whence we come, and I will tell you.
We come from Ithaca under Neritum and the matter about which I would speak is of private not public import.
I seek news of my unhappy father Ulysses, who is said to have sacked the town of Troy in company with yourself.
We know what fate befell each one of the other heroes who fought at Troy, but as regards Ulysses heaven has hidden from us the knowledge even that he is dead at all, for no one can certify us in what place he perished, nor say whether he fell in battle on the mainland, or was lost at sea amid the waves of Amphitrite.
Therefore I am suppliant at your knees, if haply you may be pleased to tell me of his melancholy end, whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other traveller, for he was a man born to trouble.
Do not soften things out of any pity for me, but tell me in all plainness exactly what you saw.
If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service, either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed among the Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all."
"My friend," answered Nestor," you recall a time of much sorrow to my mind, for the brave Achaeans suffered much both at sea, while privateering under Achilles, and when fighting before the great city of king Priam.
Our best men all of them fell there— Ajax, Achilles, Patroclus peer of gods in counsel, and my own dear son Antilochus, a man singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant.
But we suffered much more than this; what mortal tongue indeed could tell the whole story?
Though you were to stay here and question me for five years, or even six, I could not tell you all that the Achaeans suffered, and you would turn homeward weary of my tale before it ended.
Nine long years did we try every kind of stratagem, but the hand of heaven was against us; during all this time there was no one who could compare with your father in subtlety— if indeed you are his son— I can hardly believe my eyes— and you talk just like him too —no one would say that people of such different ages could speak so much alike.
He and I never had any kind of difference from first to last neither in camp nor council, but in singleness of heart and purpose we advised the Argives how all might be ordered for the best.
"When, however, we had sacked the city of Priam, and were setting sail in our ships as heaven had dispersed us, then Jove saw fit to vex the Argives on their homeward voyage; for they had not all been either wise or understanding, and hence many came to a bad end through the displeasure of Jove 's daughter Minerva, who brought about a quarrel between the two sons of Atreus.
"The sons of Atreus called a meeting which was not as it should be, for it was sunset and the Achaeans were heavy with wine.
When they explained why they had called the people together, it seemed that Menelaus was for sailing homeward at once, and this displeased Agamemnon, who thought that we should wait till we had offered hecatombs to appease the anger of Minerva.
Fool that he was, he might have known that he would not prevail with her, for when the gods have made up their minds they do not change them lightly.
So the two stood bandying hard words, whereon the Achaeans sprang to their feet with a cry that rent the air, and were of two minds as to what they should do.
"That night we rested and nursed our anger, for Jove was hatching mischief against us.
But in the morning some of us drew our ships into the water and put our goods with our women on board, while the rest, about half in number, stayed behind with Agamemnon.
We— the other half— embarked and sailed; and the ships went well, for heaven had smoothed the sea.
When we reached Tenedos we offered sacrifices to the gods, for we were longing to get home; cruel Jove, however, did not yet mean that we should do so, and raised a second quarrel in the course of which some among us turned their ships back again, and sailed away under Ulysses to make their peace with Agamemnon; but I, and all the ships that were with me pressed forward, for I saw that mischief was brewing.
The son of Tydeus went on also with me, and his crews with him.
Later on Menelaus joined us at Lesbos, and found us making up our minds about our course— for we did not know whether to go outside Chios by the island of Psyra, keeping this to our left, or inside Chios, over against the stormy headland of Mimas.
So we asked heaven for a sign, and were shown one to the effect that we should be soonest out of danger if we headed our ships across the open sea to Euboea.
This we therefore did, and a fair wind sprang up which gave us a quick passage during the night to Geraestus where we offered many sacrifices to Neptune for having helped us so far on our way.
Four days later Diomed and his men stationed their ships in Argos, but I held on for Pylos, and the wind never fell light from the day when heaven first made it fair for me.
"Therefore, my dear young friend, I returned without hearing anything about the others.
I know neither who got home safely nor who were lost but, as in duty bound, I will give you without reserve the reports that have reached me since I have been here in my own house.
They say the Myrmidons returned home safely under Achilles ' son Neoptolemus; so also did the valiant son of Poias, Philoctetes.
Idomeneus, again, lost no men at sea, and all his followers who escaped death in the field got safe home with him to Crete.
No matter how far out of the world you live, you will have heard of Agamemnon and the bad end he came to at the hands of Aegisthus— and a fearful reckoning did Aegisthus presently pay.
See what a good thing it is for a man to leave a son behind him to do as Orestes did, who killed false Aegisthus the murderer of his noble father.
You too, then— for you are a tall smartlooking fellow— show your mettle and make yourself a name in story."
"Nestor son of Neleus," answered Telemachus," honour to the Achaean name, the Achaeans applaud Orestes and his name will live through all time for he has avenged his father nobly.
Would that heaven might grant me to do like vengeance on the insolence of the wicked suitors, who are ill treating me and plotting my ruin; but the gods have no such happiness in store for me and for my father, so we must bear it as best we may."
"My friend," said Nestor," now that you remind me, I remember to have heard that your mother has many suitors, who are ill disposed towards you and are making havoc of your estate.
Do you submit to this tamely, or are public feeling and the voice of heaven against you?
Who knows but what Ulysses may come back after all, and pay these scoundrels in full, either singlehanded or with a force of Achaeans behind him?
If Minerva were to take as great a liking to you as she did to Ulysses when we were fighting before Troy( for I never yet saw the gods so openly fond of any one as Minerva then was of your father), if she would take as good care of you as she did of him, these wooers would soon some of them forget their wooing."
Telemachus answered," I can expect nothing of the kind; it would be far too much to hope for.
I dare not let myself think of it.
Even though the gods themselves willed it no such good fortune could befall me."
On this Minerva said," Telemachus, what are you talking about?
Heaven has a long arm if it is minded to save a man; and if it were me, I should not care how much I suffered before getting home, provided I could be safe when I was once there.
I would rather this, than get home quickly, and then be killed in my own house as Agamemnon was by the treachery of Aegisthus and his wife.
Still, death is certain, and when a man 's hour is come, not even the gods can save him, no matter how fond they are of him."
"Mentor," answered Telemachus," do not let us talk about it any more.
There is no chance of my father 's ever coming back; the gods have long since counselled his destruction.
There is something else, however, about which I should like to ask Nestor, for he knows much more than any one else does.
They say he has reigned for three generations so that it is like talking to an immortal.
Tell me, therefore, Nestor, and tell me true; how did Agamemnon come to die in that way?
What was Menelaus doing?
And how came false Aegisthus to kill so far better a man than himself?
Was Menelaus away from Achaean Argos, voyaging elsewhither among mankind, that Aegisthus took heart and killed Agamemnon?"
"I will tell you truly," answered Nestor," and indeed you have yourself divined how it all happened.
If Menelaus when he got back from Troy had found Aegisthus still alive in his house, there would have been no barrow heaped up for him, not even when he was dead, but he would have been thrown outside the city to dogs and vultures, and not a woman would have mourned him, for he had done a deed of great wickedness; but we were over there, fighting hard at Troy, and Aegisthus, who was taking his ease quietly in the heart of Argos, cajoled Agamemnon 's wife Clytemnestra with incessant flattery.
"At first she would have nothing to do with his wicked scheme, for she was of a good natural disposition; moreover there was a bard with her, to whom Agamemnon had given strict orders on setting out for Troy, that he was to keep guard over his wife; but when heaven had counselled her destruction, Aegisthus carried this bard off to a desert island and left him there for crows and seagulls to batten upon— after which she went willingly enough to the house of Aegisthus.
Then he offered many burnt sacrifices to the gods, and decorated many temples with tapestries and gilding, for he had succeeded far beyond his expectations.
"Meanwhile Menelaus and I were on our way home from Troy, on good terms with one another.
When we got to Sunium, which is the point of Athens, Apollo with his painless shafts killed Phrontis the steersman of Menelaus ' ship( and never man knew better how to handle a vessel in rough weather) so that he died then and there with the helm in his hand, and Menelaus, though very anxious to press forward, had to wait in order to bury his comrade and give him his due funeral rites.
Presently, when he too could put to sea again, and had sailed on as far as the Malean heads, Jove counselled evil against him and made it blow hard till the waves ran mountains high.
Here he divided his fleet and took the one half towards Crete where the Cydonians dwell round about the waters of the river Iardanus.
There is a high headland hereabouts stretching out into the sea from a place called Gortyn, and all along this part of the coast as far as Phaestus the sea runs high when there is a south wind blowing, but after Phaestus the coast is more protected, for a small headland can make a great shelter.
Here this part of the fleet was driven on to the rocks and wrecked; but the crews just managed to save themselves.
As for the other five ships, they were taken by winds and seas to Egypt, where Menelaus gathered much gold and substance among people of an alien speech.
Meanwhile Aegisthus here at home plotted his evil deed.
For seven years after he had killed Agamemnon he ruled in Mycene, and the people were obedient under him, but in the eighth year Orestes came back from Athens to be his bane, and killed the murderer of his father.
Then he celebrated the funeral rites of his mother and of false Aegisthus by a banquet to the people of Argos, and on that very day Menelaus came home with as much treasure as his ships could carry.
"Take my advice then, and do not go travelling about for long so far from home, nor leave your property with such dangerous people in your house; they will eat up everything you have among them, and you will have been on a fool 's errand.
Still, I should advise you by all means to go and visit Menelaus, who has lately come off a voyage among such distant peoples as no man could ever hope to get back from, when the winds had once carried him so far out of his reckoning; even birds can not fly the distance in a twelvemonth, so vast and terrible are the seas that they must cross.
Go to him, therefore, by sea, and take your own men with you; or if you would rather travel by land you can have a chariot, you can have horses, and here are my sons who can escort you to Lacedaemon where Menelaus lives.
Beg of him to speak the truth, and he will tell you no lies, for he is an excellent person."
As he spoke the sun set and it came on dark, whereon Minerva said," Sir, all that you have said is well; now, however, order the tongues of the victims to be cut, and mix wine that we may make drinkofferings to Neptune, and the other immortals, and then go to bed, for it is bed time.
People should go away early and not keep late hours at a religious festival."
Thus spoke the daughter of Jove, and they obeyed her saying.
Men servants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixingbowls with wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drink offering; then they threw the tongues of the victims into the fire, and stood up to make their drink offerings.
When they had made their offerings and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Minerva and Telemachus were for going on board their ship, but Nestor caught them up at once and stayed them.
"Heaven and the immortal gods," he exclaimed," forbid that you should leave my house to go on board of a ship.
Do you think I am so poor and short of clothes, or that I have so few cloaks and as to be unable to find comfortable beds both for myself and for my guests?
Let me tell you I have store both of rugs and cloaks, and shall not permit the son of my old friend Ulysses to camp down on the deck of a ship— not while I live— nor yet will my sons after me, but they will keep open house as I have done."
Then Minerva answered," Sir, you have spoken well, and it will be much better that Telemachus should do as you have said; he, therefore, shall return with you and sleep at your house, but I must go back to give orders to my crew, and keep them in good heart.
I am the only older person among them; the rest are all young men of Telemachus ' own age, who have taken this voyage out of friendship; so I must return to the ship and sleep there.
Moreover tomorrow I must go to the Cauconians where I have a large sum of money long owing to me.
As for Telemachus, now that he is your guest, send him to Lacedaemon in a chariot, and let one of your sons go with him.
Be pleased to also provide him with your best and fleetest horses."
When she had thus spoken, she flew away in the form of an eagle, and all marvelled as they beheld it.
Nestor was astonished, and took Telemachus by the hand. "
My friend," said he," I see that you are going to be a great hero some day, since the gods wait upon you thus while you are still so young.
This can have been none other of those who dwell in heaven than Jove 's redoubtable daughter, the Tritoborn, who shewed such favour towards your brave father among the Argives.
Holy queen," he continued," vouchsafe to send down thy grace upon myself, my good wife, and my children.
In return, I will offer you in sacrifice a broadbrowed heifer of a year old, unbroken, and never yet brought by man under the yoke.
I will gild her horns, and will offer her up to you in sacrifice."
Thus did he pray, and Minerva heard his prayer.
He then led the way to his own house, followed by his sons and sons in law.
When they had got there and had taken their places on the benches and seats, he mixed them a bowl of sweet wine that was eleven years old when the housekeeper took the lid off the jar that held it.
As he mixed the wine, he prayed much and made drink offerings to Minerva, daughter of Aegisbearing Jove.
Then, when they had made their drink offerings and had drunk each as much as he was minded, the others went home to bed each in his own abode; but Nestor put Telemachus to sleep in the room that was over the gateway along with Pisistratus, who was the only unmarried son now left him.
As for himself, he slept in an inner room of the house, with the queen his wife by his side.
Now when the child of morning rosyfingered Dawn appeared, Nestor left his couch and took his seat on the benches of white and polished marble that stood in front of his house.
Here aforetime sat Neleus, peer of gods in counsel, but he was now dead, and had gone to the house of Hades; so Nestor sat in his seat sceptre in hand, as guardian of the public weal.
His sons as they left their rooms gathered round him, Echephron, Stratius, Perseus, Aretus, and Thrasymedes; the sixth son was Pisistratus, and when Telemachus joined them they made him sit with them.
Nestor then addressed them.
"My sons," said he," make haste to do as I shall bid you.
I wish first and foremost to propitiate the great goddess Minerva, who manifested herself visibly to me during yesterday 's festivities.
Go, then, one or other of you to the plain, tell the stockman to look me out a heifer, and come on here with it at once.
Another must go to Telemachus ' ship, and invite all the crew, leaving two men only in charge of the vessel.
Some one else will run and fetch Laerceus the goldsmith to gild the horns of the heifer.
The rest, stay all of you where you are; tell the maids in the house to prepare an excellent dinner, and to fetch seats, and logs of wood for a burnt offering.
Tell them also to bring me some clear spring water."
On this they hurried off on their several errands.
The heifer was brought in from the plain, and Telemachus 's crew came from the ship; the goldsmith brought the anvil, hammer, and tongs, with which he worked his gold, and Minerva herself came to accept the sacrifice.
Nestor gave out the gold, and the smith gilded the horns of the heifer that the goddess might have pleasure in their beauty.
Then Stratius and Echephron brought her in by the horns; Aretus fetched water from the house in a ewer that had a flower pattern on it, and in his other hand he held a basket of barley meal; sturdy Thrasymedes stood by with a sharp axe, ready to strike the heifer, while Perseus held a bucket.
Then Nestor began with washing his hands and sprinkling the barley meal, and he offered many a prayer to Minerva as he threw a lock from the heifer 's head upon the fire.
When they had done praying and sprinkling the barley meal Thrasymedes dealt his blow, and brought the heifer down with a stroke that cut through the tendons at the base of her neck, whereon the daughters and daughters in law of Nestor, and his venerable wife Eurydice( she was eldest daughter to Clymenus) screamed with delight.
Then they lifted the heifer 's head from off the ground, and Pisistratus cut her throat.
When she had done bleeding and was quite dead, they cut her up.
They cut out the thigh bones all in due course, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set some pieces of raw meat on the top of them; then Nestor laid them upon the wood fire and poured wine over them, while the young men stood near him with fivepronged spits in their hands.
When the thighs were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest of the meat up small, put the pieces on the spits and toasted them over the fire.
Meanwhile lovely Polycaste, Nestor 's youngest daughter, washed Telemachus.
When she had washed him and anointed him with oil, she brought him a fair mantle and shirt and he looked like a god as he came from the bath and took his seat by the side of Nestor.
When the outer meats were done they drew them off the spits and sat down to dinner where they were waited upon by some worthy henchmen, who kept pouring them out their wine in cups of gold.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Nestor said," Sons, put Telemachus 's horses to the chariot that he may start at once."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said, and yoked the fleet horses to the chariot.
The housekeeper packed them up a provision of bread, wine, and sweet meats fit for the sons of princes.
Then Telemachus got into the chariot, while Pisistratus gathered up the reins and took his seat beside him.
He lashed the horses on and they flew forward nothing loth into the open country, leaving the high citadel of Pylos behind them.
All that day did they travel, swaying the yoke upon their necks till the sun went down and darkness was over all the land.
Then they reached Pherae where Diocles lived, who was son to Ortilochus and grandson to Alpheus.
Here they passed the night and Diocles entertained them hospitably.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, they again yoked their horses and drove out through the gateway under the echoing gatehouse.
Pisistratus lashed the horses on and they flew forward nothing loth; presently they came to the corn lands of the open country, and in the course of time completed their journey, so well did their steeds take them.
Now when the sun had set and darkness was over the land,
CHAPTER X The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
"This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated.
You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed."
"What!"
said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet?
you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate."
"I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe.
You see we have been wedging one leg with paper.
This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come.
I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home."
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again.
That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to.
Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill.
I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize.
I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself.
Do not you think so?"
Jane did not look round.
She was not obliged to hear.
Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment.
"It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess.
Do not distress her."
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy.
Soon afterwards he began again, "How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax.
I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand.
Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?"
He paused.
She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering, "Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence.
It must be all conjecture."
"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong.
I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm.
What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing.
There, it is done.
I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present."
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.
"If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night;--let me live them over again.
You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time.
I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever has to give--for another half-hour."
She played.
"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth."
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else.
He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, "Here is something quite new to me.
Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here are a new set of Irish melodies.
That, from such a quarter, one might expect.
This was all sent with the instrument.
Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here.
I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart.
Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete.
True affection only could have prompted it."
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma took the opportunity of whispering, "You speak too plain.
She must understand you."
"I hope she does.
I would have her understand me.
I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning."
"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."
"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me.
I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways.
Leave shame to her.
If she does wrong, she ought to feel it."
"She is not entirely without it, I think."
"I do not see much sign of it.
She is playing Robin Adair at this moment--his favourite."
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to thank him.
I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know.
I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here.
Quite delightful to have you all meet so!--Our little room so honoured!"
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment.
"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you.
So obliged to you for the carriage last night.
We were just in time; my mother just ready for us.
Pray come in; do come in.
You will find some friends here."
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece.
How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold last night.
How is she to-day?
Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else.
The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning.
But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism.
"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage," resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with, "I am going to Kingston.
Can I do any thing for you?"
"Oh!
dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs.
Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston."
"Mrs. Cole has servants to send.
Can I do any thing for you?"
"No, I thank you.
But do come in.
Who do you think is here?--Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.
Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in."
"Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps."
"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful; so many friends!"
"No, not now, I thank you.
I could not stay two minutes.
I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can."
"Oh!
do come in.
They will be so very happy to see you."
"No, no; your room is full enough.
I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte."
"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh!
Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it."
"Oh!
very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too.
I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England.
Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it."
"Oh!
Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!"
"What is the matter now?"
"To think of your sending us all your store apples.
You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.
We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.
William Larkins mentioned it here.
You should not have done it, indeed you should not.
Ah!
he is off.
He never can bear to be thanked.
But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed.
Mr. Knightley cannot stop.
He is going to Kingston.
He asked me if he could do any thing...." "Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing."
"Oh!
yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud.
You must have heard every thing to be sure.
'Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?'
said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you."
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.
CHAPTER XI It may be possible to do without dancing entirely.
Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject.
Frank's was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance.
But still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced--for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's should be finished there--that the same party should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence.
Mr. Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space to every couple.
"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five," had been repeated many times over.
"And there will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.
Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure.
You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room."
But soon it came to be on one side, "But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think there will."
On another, "And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to stand up.
Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
It will not do to invite five couple.
It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment."
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and must be invited with the rest.
Somebody else believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked.
A word was put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.
"Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?"
It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better.
Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health.
It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
"Oh!
no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence.
I could not bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong.
She would catch a dreadful cold.
So would poor little Harriet.
So you would all.
Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing.
Pray do not let them talk of it.
That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless.
Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing.
He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately.
He does not think of the draught.
I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!"
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge.
She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away.
Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.
"We were too magnificent," said he.
"We allowed unnecessary room.
Ten couple may stand here very well."
Emma demurred.
"It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?"
"Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad."
But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, "I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple."
"No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable.
It would be dreadful to be standing so close!
Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!"
"There is no denying it," he replied.
"I agree with you exactly.
A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words.
Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up.
It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.
Had she intended ever to marry him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme.
It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms.
I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon.
May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?"
"The Crown!"
"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.
Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls.
It is his own idea.
Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied.
This is what we all feel.
Oh!
you were perfectly right!
Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing any thing to like to yield.
Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you consent?"
"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not.
I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could be.
Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?"
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable.
"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much worse than the other.
A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited.
If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls.
He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh!
no--a very bad plan.
They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere."
"I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls!
Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could."
"Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character.
Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill.
But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house."
"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir.
We shall have no occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief."
"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls.
Nobody could be so imprudent!
I never heard of such a thing.
Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it."
"Ah!
sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected.
I have often known it done myself."
"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me!
I never could have supposed it.
But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear.
However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration.
One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.
If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done."
"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--" "Oh!"
interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over.
There is no hurry at all.
If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses.
They will be so near their own stable."
"So they will, my dear.
That is a great thing.
Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can.
If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted?
I doubt it.
I do not know her, even by sight."
"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care.
Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole."
"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself.
Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?
'If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.'
How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!"
"Aye, very true.
Mr. Perry did say so.
I shall never forget it.
Poor little Emma!
You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention.
He came four times a day for a week.
He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint.
I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry."
"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment," said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house.
I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot.
I was desired to say so from both.
It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there.
They can do nothing satisfactorily without you."
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.
"Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected.
Look!
in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined."
"My dear, you are too particular," said her husband.
"What does all that signify?
You will see nothing of it by candlelight.
It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight.
We never see any thing of it on our club-nights."
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares."
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room.
At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition.
What was to be done?
This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper?
Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.
This made a difficulty.
Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion.
A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.
She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed, "I do not think it is so very small.
We shall not be many, you know."
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out, "You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear.
It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs."
"I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best.
To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be."
"Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true.
You want your neighbours' opinions.
I do not wonder at you.
If one could ascertain what the chief of them--the Coles, for instance.
They are not far off.
Shall I call upon them?
Or Miss Bates?
She is still nearer.--And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body.
I think we do want a larger council.
Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?"
"Well--if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you think she will be of any use."
"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma.
"She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing.
She will not even listen to your questions.
I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates."
"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing!
I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk.
And I need not bring the whole family, you know."
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at once.
She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties.
Fetch Miss Bates.
We are growing a little too nice.
She is a standing lesson of how to be happy.
But fetch them both.
Invite them both."
"Both sir!
Can the old lady?"...
"The old lady!
No, the young lady, to be sure.
I shall think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."
"Oh!
I beg your pardon, sir.
I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both."
And away he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and here ended the difficulties of decision.
All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth.
All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes.--Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused.
And a delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome.
Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future.
The party did not break up without Emma's being positively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, "He has asked her, my dear.
That's right.
I knew he would!"
The quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles—Achilles withdraws from the war, and sends his mother Thetis to ask Jove to help the Trojans—Scene between Jove and Juno on Olympus.
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.
Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel?
It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest.
Now Chryses had come to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo wreathed with a suppliant 's wreath, and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.
"Sons of Atreus," he cried," and all other Achaeans, may the gods who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove."
On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "
Old man," said he," let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter.
Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing.
I will not free her.
She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."
The old man feared him and obeyed.
Not a word he spoke, but went by the shore of the sounding sea and prayed apart to King Apollo whom lovely Leto had borne.
"Hear me," he cried," O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla and rulest Tenedos with thy might, hear me oh thou of Sminthe.
If I have ever decked your temple with garlands, or burned your thighbones in fat of bulls or goats, grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Danaans."
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer.
He came down furious from the summits of Olympus, with his bow and his quiver upon his shoulder, and the arrows rattled on his back with the rage that trembled within him.
He sat himself down away from the ships with a face as dark as night, and his silver bow rang death as he shot his arrow in the midst of them.
First he smote their mules and their hounds, but presently he aimed his shafts at the people themselves, and all day long the pyres of the dead were burning.
For nine whole days he shot his arrows among the people, but upon the tenth day Achilles called them in assembly— moved thereto by Juno, who saw the Achaeans in their deaththroes and had compassion upon zthem.
Then, when they were got together, he rose and spoke among them.
"Son of Atreus," said he," I deem that we should now turn roving home if we would escape destruction, for we are being cut down by war and pestilence at once.
Let us ask some priest or prophet, or some reader of dreams( for dreams, too, are of Jove) who can tell us why Phoebus Apollo is so angry, and say whether it is for some vow that we have broken, or hecatomb that we have not offered, and whether he will accept the savour of lambs and goats without blemish, so as to take away the plague from us."
With these words he sat down, and Calchas son of Thestor, wisest of augurs, who knew things past present and to come, rose to speak.
He it was who had guided the Achaeans with their fleet to Ilius, through the prophesyings with which Phoebus Apollo had inspired him.
With all sincerity and goodwill he addressed them thus:— "Achilles, loved of heaven, you bid me tell you about the anger of King Apollo, I will therefore do so; but consider first and swear that you will stand by me heartily in word and deed, for I know that I shall offend one who rules the Argives with might, to whom all the Achaeans are in subjection.
A plain man can not stand against the anger of a king, who if he swallow his displeasure now, will yet nurse revenge till he has wreaked it.
Consider, therefore, whether or no you will protect me."
And Achilles answered," Fear not, but speak as it is borne in upon you from heaven, for by Apollo, Calchas, to whom you pray, and whose oracles you reveal to us, not a Danaan at our ships shall lay his hand upon you, while I yet live to look upon the face of the earth— no, not though you name Agamemnon himself, who is by far the foremost of the Achaeans."
Thereon the seer spoke boldly. "
The god," he said," is angry neither about vow nor hecatomb, but for his priest 's sake, whom Agamemnon has dishonoured, in that he would not free his daughter nor take a ransom for her; therefore has he sent these evils upon us, and will yet send others.
He will not deliver the Danaans from this pestilence till Agamemnon has restored the girl without fee or ransom to her father, and has sent a holy hecatomb to Chryse.
Thus we may perhaps appease him."
With these words he sat down, and Agamemnon rose in anger.
His heart was black with rage, and his eyes flashed fire as he scowled on Calchas and said," Seer of evil, you never yet prophesied smooth things concerning me, but have ever loved to foretell that which was evil.
You have brought me neither comfort nor performance; and now you come seeing among Danaans, and saying that Apollo has plagued us because I would not take a ransom for this girl, the daughter of Chryses.
I have set my heart on keeping her in my own house, for I love her better even than my own wife Clytemnestra, whose peer she is alike in form and feature, in understanding and accomplishments.
Still I will give her up if I must, for I would have the people live, not die; but you must find me a prize instead, or I alone among the Argives shall be without one.
This is not well; for you behold, all of you, that my prize is to go elsewhither."
And Achilles answered," Most noble son of Atreus, covetous beyond all mankind, how shall the Achaeans find you another prize?
We have no common store from which to take one.
Those we took from the cities have been awarded; we can not disallow the awards that have been made already.
Give this girl, therefore, to the god, and if ever Jove grants us to sack the city of Troy we will requite you three and fourfold."
Then Agamemnon said," Achilles, valiant though you be, you shall not thus outwit me.
You shall not overreach and you shall not persuade me.
Are you to keep your own prize, while I sit tamely under my loss and give up the girl at your bidding?
Let the Achaeans find me a prize in fair exchange to my liking, or I will come and take your own, or that of Ajax or of Ulysses; and he to whomsoever I may come shall rue my coming.
But of this we will take thought hereafter; for the present, let us draw a ship into the sea, and find a crew for her expressly; let us put a hecatomb on board, and let us send Chryseis also; further, let some chief man among us be in command, either Ajax, or Idomeneus, or yourself, son of Peleus, mighty warrior that you are, that we may offer sacrifice and appease the anger of the god."
Achilles scowled at him and answered," You are steeped in insolence and lust of gain.
With what heart can any of the Achaeans do your bidding, either on foray or in open fighting?
I came not warring here for any ill the Trojans had done me.
I have no quarrel with them.
They have not raided my cattle nor my horses, nor cut down my harvests on the rich plains of Phthia; for between me and them there is a great space, both mountain and sounding sea.
We have followed you, Sir Insolence!
for your pleasure, not ours— to gain satisfaction from the Trojans for your shameless self and for Menelaus.
You forget this, and threaten to rob me of the prize for which I have toiled, and which the sons of the Achaeans have given me.
Never when the Achaeans sack any rich city of the Trojans do I receive so good a prize as you do, though it is my hands that do the better part of the fighting.
When the sharing comes, your share is far the largest, and I, forsooth, must go back to my ships, take what I can get and be thankful, when my labour of fighting is done.
Now, therefore, I shall go back to Phthia; it will be much better for me to return home with my ships, for I will not stay here dishonoured to gather gold and substance for you."
And Agamemnon answered," Fly if you will, I shall make you no prayers to stay you.
I have others here who will do me honour, and above all Jove, the lord of counsel.
There is no king here so hateful to me as you are, for you are ever quarrelsome and illaffected.
What though you be brave?
Was it not heaven that made you so?
Go home, then, with your ships and comrades to lord it over the Myrmidons.
I care neither for you nor for your anger; and thus will I do: since Phoebus Apollo is taking Chryseis from me, I shall send her with my ship and my followers, but I shall come to your tent and take your own prize Briseis, that you may learn how much stronger I am than you are, and that another may fear to set himself up as equal or comparable with me."
The son of Peleus was furious, and his heart within his shaggy breast was divided whether to draw his sword, push the others aside, and kill the son of Atreus, or to restrain himself and check his anger.
While he was thus in two minds, and was drawing his mighty sword from its scabbard, Minerva came down from heaven( for Juno had sent her in the love she bore to them both), and seized the son of Peleus by his yellow hair, visible to him alone, for of the others no man could see her.
Achilles turned in amaze, and by the fire that flashed from her eyes at once knew that she was Minerva.
"Why are you here," said he," daughter of aegisbearing Jove?
To see the pride of Agamemnon, son of Atreus?
Let me tell you— and it shall surely be— he shall pay for this insolence with his life."
And Minerva said," I come from heaven, if you will hear me, to bid you stay your anger.
Juno has sent me, who cares for both of you alike.
Cease, then, this brawling, and do not draw your sword; rail at him if you will, and your railing will not be vain, for I tell you— and it shall surely be— that you shall hereafter receive gifts three times as splendid by reason of this present insult.
Hold, therefore, and obey."
"Goddess," answered Achilles," however angry a man may be, he must do as you two command him.
This will be best, for the gods ever hear the prayers of him who has obeyed them."
He stayed his hand on the silver hilt of his sword, and thrust it back into the scabbard as Minerva bade him.
Then she went back to Olympus among the other gods, and to the house of aegisbearing Jove.
But the son of Peleus again began railing at the son of Atreus, for he was still in a rage."
Winebibber," he cried," with the face of a dog and the heart of a hind, you never dare to go out with the host in fight, nor yet with our chosen men in ambuscade.
You shun this as you do death itself.
You had rather go round and rob his prizes from any man who contradicts you.
You devour your people, for you are king over a feeble folk; otherwise, son of Atreus, henceforward you would insult no man.
Therefore I say, and swear it with a great oath— nay, by this my sceptre which shalt sprout neither leaf nor shoot, nor bud anew from the day on which it left its parent stem upon the mountains— for the axe stripped it of leaf and bark, and now the sons of the Achaeans bear it as judges and guardians of the decrees of heaven— so surely and solemnly do I swear that hereafter they shall look fondly for Achilles and shall not find him.
In the day of your distress, when your men fall dying by the murderous hand of Hector, you shall not know how to help them, and shall rend your heart with rage for the hour when you offered insult to the bravest of the Achaeans."
With this the son of Peleus dashed his goldbestudded sceptre on the ground and took his seat, while the son of Atreus was beginning fiercely from his place upon the other side.
Then uprose smoothtongued Nestor, the facile speaker of the Pylians, and the words fell from his lips sweeter than honey.
Two generations of men born and bred in Pylos had passed away under his rule, and he was now reigning over the third.
With all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:— "Of a truth," he said," a great sorrow has befallen the Achaean land.
Surely Priam with his sons would rejoice, and the Trojans be glad at heart if they could hear this quarrel between you two, who are so excellent in fight and counsel.
I am older than either of you; therefore be guided by me.
Moreover I have been the familiar friend of men even greater than you are, and they did not disregard my counsels.
Never again can I behold such men as Pirithous and Dryas shepherd of his people, or as Caeneus, Exadius, godlike Polyphemus, and Theseus son of Aegeus, peer of the immortals.
These were the mightiest men ever born upon this earth: mightiest were they, and when they fought the fiercest tribes of mountain savages they utterly overthrew them.
I came from distant Pylos, and went about among them, for they would have me come, and I fought as it was in me to do.
Not a man now living could withstand them, but they heard my words, and were persuaded by them.
So be it also with yourselves, for this is the more excellent way.
Therefore, Agamemnon, though you be strong, take not this girl away, for the sons of the Achaeans have already given her to Achilles; and you, Achilles, strive not further with the king, for no man who by the grace of Jove wields a sceptre has like honour with Agamemnon.
You are strong, and have a goddess for your mother; but Agamemnon is stronger than you, for he has more people under him.
Son of Atreus, check your anger, I implore you; end this quarrel with Achilles, who in the day of battle is a tower of strength to the Achaeans."
And Agamemnon answered," Sir, all that you have said is true, but this fellow must needs become our lord and master: he must be lord of all, king of all, and captain of all, and this shall hardly be.
Granted that the gods have made him a great warrior, have they also given him the right to speak with railing?"
Achilles interrupted him.
"I should be a mean coward," he cried," were I to give in to you in all things.
Order other people about, not me, for I shall obey no longer.
Furthermore I say— and lay my saying to your heart— I shall fight neither you nor any man about this girl, for those that take were those also that gave.
But of all else that is at my ship you shall carry away nothing by force.
Try, that others may see; if you do, my spear shall be reddened with your blood."
When they had quarrelled thus angrily, they rose, and broke up the assembly at the ships of the Achaeans.
The son of Peleus went back to his tents and ships with the son of Menoetius and his company, while Agamemnon drew a vessel into the water and chose a crew of twenty oarsmen.
He escorted Chryseis on board and sent moreover a hecatomb for the god.
And Ulysses went as captain.
These, then, went on board and sailed their ways over the sea.
But the son of Atreus bade the people purify themselves; so they purified themselves and cast their filth into the sea.
Then they offered hecatombs of bulls and goats without blemish on the seashore, and the smoke with the savour of their sacrifice rose curling up towards heaven.
Thus did they busy themselves throughout the host.
But Agamemnon did not forget the threat that he had made Achilles, and called his trusty messengers and squires Talthybius and Eurybates. "
Go," said he," to the tent of Achilles, son of Peleus; take Briseis by the hand and bring her hither; if he will not give her I shall come with others and take her— which will press him harder."
He charged them straightly further and dismissed them, whereon they went their way sorrowfully by the seaside, till they came to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons.
They found Achilles sitting by his tent and his ships, and illpleased he was when he beheld them.
They stood fearfully and reverently before him, and never a word did they speak, but he knew them and said," Welcome, heralds, messengers of gods and men; draw near; my quarrel is not with you but with Agamemnon who has sent you for the girl Briseis.
Therefore, Patroclus, bring her and give her to them, but let them be witnesses by the blessed gods, by mortal men, and by the fierceness of Agamemnon 's anger, that if ever again there be need of me to save the people from ruin, they shall seek and they shall not find.
Agamemnon is mad with rage and knows not how to look before and after that the Achaeans may fight by their ships in safety."
Patroclus did as his dear comrade had bidden him.
He brought Briseis from the tent and gave her over to the heralds, who took her with them to the ships of the Achaeans— and the woman was loth to go.
Then Achilles went all alone by the side of the hoar sea, weeping and looking out upon the boundless waste of waters.
He raised his hands in prayer to his immortal mother," Mother ,"he cried," you bore me doomed to live but for a little season; surely Jove, who thunders from Olympus, might have made that little glorious.
It is not so.
Agamemnon, son of Atreus, has done me dishonour, and has robbed me of my prize by force."
As he spoke he wept aloud, and his mother heard him where she was sitting in the depths of the sea hard by the old man her father.
Forthwith she rose as it were a grey mist out of the waves, sat down before him as he stood weeping, caressed him with her hand, and said," My son, why are you weeping?
What is it that grieves you?
Keep it not from me, but tell me, that we may know it together."
Achilles drew a deep sigh and said," You know it; why tell you what you know well already?
We went to Thebe the strong city of Eetion, sacked it, and brought hither the spoil.
The sons of the Achaeans shared it duly among themselves, and chose lovely Chryseis as the meed of Agamemnon; but Chryses, priest of Apollo, came to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo, wreathed with a suppliant 's wreath, and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus who were their chiefs.
"On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away.
So he went back in anger, and Apollo, who loved him dearly, heard his prayer.
Then the god sent a deadly dart upon the Argives, and the people died thick on one another, for the arrows went everywhither among the wide host of the Achaeans.
At last a seer in the fulness of his knowledge declared to us the oracles of Apollo, and I was myself first to say that we should appease him.
Whereon the son of Atreus rose in anger, and threatened that which he has since done.
The Achaeans are now taking the girl in a ship to Chryse, and sending gifts of sacrifice to the god; but the heralds have just taken from my tent the daughter of Briseus, whom the Achaeans had awarded to myself.
"Help your brave son, therefore, if you are able.
Go to Olympus, and if you have ever done him service in word or deed, implore the aid of Jove.
Ofttimes in my father 's house have I heard you glory in that you alone of the immortals saved the son of Saturn from ruin, when the others, with Juno, Neptune, and Pallas Minerva would have put him in bonds.
It was you, goddess, who delivered him by calling to Olympus the hundredhanded monster whom gods call Briareus, but men Aegaeon, for he is stronger even than his father; when therefore he took his seat allglorious beside the son of Saturn, the other gods were afraid, and did not bind him.
Go, then, to him, remind him of all this, clasp his knees, and bid him give succour to the Trojans.
Let the Achaeans be hemmed in at the sterns of their ships, and perish on the seashore, that they may reap what joy they may of their king, and that Agamemnon may rue his blindness in offering insult to the foremost of the Achaeans."
Thetis wept and answered," My son, woe is me that I should have borne or suckled you.
Would indeed that you had lived your span free from all sorrow at your ships, for it is all too brief; alas, that you should be at once short of life and long of sorrow above your peers: woe, therefore, was the hour in which I bore you; nevertheless I will go to the snowy heights of Olympus, and tell this tale to Jove, if he will hear our prayer: meanwhile stay where you are with your ships, nurse your anger against the Achaeans, and hold aloof from fight.
For Jove went yesterday to Oceanus, to a feast among the Ethiopians, and the other gods went with him.
He will return to Olympus twelve days hence; I will then go to his mansion paved with bronze and will beseech him; nor do I doubt that I shall be able to persuade him."
On this she left him, still furious at the loss of her that had been taken from him.
Meanwhile Ulysses reached Chryse with the hecatomb.
When they had come inside the harbour they furled the sails and laid them in the ship 's hold; they slackened the forestays, lowered the mast into its place, and rowed the ship to the place where they would have her lie; there they cast out their mooringstones and made fast the hawsers.
They then got out upon the seashore and landed the hecatomb for Apollo; Chryseis also left the ship, and Ulysses led her to the altar to deliver her into the hands of her father. "
Chryses," said he," King Agamemnon has sent me to bring you back your child, and to offer sacrifice to Apollo on behalf of the Danaans, that we may propitiate the god, who has now brought sorrow upon the Argives."
So saying he gave the girl over to her father, who received her gladly, and they ranged the holy hecatomb all orderly round the altar of the god.
They washed their hands and took up the barleymeal to sprinkle over the victims, while Chryses lifted up his hands and prayed aloud on their behalf."
Hear me," he cried," O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla, and rulest Tenedos with thy might.
Even as thou didst hear me aforetime when I prayed, and didst press hardly upon the Achaeans, so hear me yet again, and stay this fearful pestilence from the Danaans."
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer.
When they had done praying and sprinkling the barleymeal, they drew back the heads of the victims and killed and flayed them.
They cut out the thighbones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, set some pieces of raw meat on the top of them, and then Chryses laid them on the wood fire and poured wine over them, while the young men stood near him with fivepronged spits in their hands.
When the thighbones were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small, put the pieces upon the spits, roasted them till they were done, and drew them off: then, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share, so that all were satisfied.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, pages filled the mixingbowl with wine and water and handed it round, after giving every man his drinkoffering.
Thus all day long the young men worshipped the god with song, hymning him and chaunting the joyous paean, and the god took pleasure in their voices; but when the sun went down, and it came on dark, they laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables of the ship, and when the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared they again set sail for the host of the Achaeans.
Apollo sent them a fair wind, so they raised their mast and hoisted their white sails aloft.
As the sail bellied with the wind the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward.
When they reached the widestretching host of the Achaeans, they drew the vessel ashore, high and dry upon the sands, set her strong props beneath her, and went their ways to their own tents and ships.
But Achilles abode at his ships and nursed his anger.
He went not to the honourable assembly, and sallied not forth to fight, but gnawed at his own heart, pining for battle and the warcry.
Now after twelve days the immortal gods came back in a body to Olympus, and Jove led the way.
Thetis was not unmindful of the charge her son had laid upon her, so she rose from under the sea and went through great heaven with early morning to Olympus, where she found the mighty son of Saturn sitting all alone upon its topmost ridges.
She sat herself down before him, and with her left hand seized his knees, while with her right she caught him under the chin, and besought him, saying:— "Father Jove, if I ever did you service in word or deed among the immortals, hear my prayer, and do honour to my son, whose life is to be cut short so early.
King Agamemnon has dishonoured him by taking his prize and keeping her.
Honour him then yourself, Olympian lord of counsel, and grant victory to the Trojans, till the Achaeans give my son his due and load him with riches in requital."
Jove sat for a while silent, and without a word, but Thetis still kept firm hold of his knees, and besought him a second time. "
Incline your head," said she," and promise me surely, or else deny me— for you have nothing to fear— that I may learn how greatly you disdain me."
At this Jove was much troubled and answered," I shall have trouble if you set me quarrelling with Juno, for she will provoke me with her taunting speeches; even now she is always railing at me before the other gods and accusing me of giving aid to the Trojans.
Go back now, lest she should find out.
I will consider the matter, and will bring it about as you wish.
See, I incline my head that you may believe me.
This is the most solemn promise that I can give to any god.
I never recall my word, or deceive, or fail to do what I say, when I have nodded my head."
As he spoke the son of Saturn bowed his dark brows, and the ambrosial locks swayed on his immortal head, till vast Olympus reeled.
When the pair had thus laid their plans, they parted— Jove to his house, while the goddess quitted the splendour of Olympus, and plunged into the depths of the sea.
The gods rose from their seats, before the coming of their sire.
Not one of them dared to remain sitting, but all stood up as he came among them.
There, then, he took his seat.
But Juno, when she saw him, knew that he and the old merman 's daughter, silverfooted Thetis, had been hatching mischief, so she at once began to upbraid him."
Trickster," she cried," which of the gods have you been taking into your counsels now?
You are always settling matters in secret behind my back, and have never yet told me, if you could help it, one word of your intentions."
"Juno," replied the sire of gods and men," you must not expect to be informed of all my counsels.
You are my wife, but you would find it hard to understand them.
When it is proper for you to hear, there is no one, god or man, who will be told sooner, but when I mean to keep a matter to myself, you must not pry nor ask questions."
"Dread son of Saturn," answered Juno," what are you talking about?
I?
Pry and ask questions?
Never.
I let you have your own way in everything.
Still, I have a strong misgiving that the old merman 's daughter Thetis has been talking you over, for she was with you and had hold of your knees this selfsame morning.
I believe, therefore, that you have been promising her to give glory to Achilles, and to kill much people at the ships of the Achaeans."
"Wife," said Jove," I can do nothing but you suspect me and find it out.
You will take nothing by it, for I shall only dislike you the more, and it will go harder with you.
Granted that it is as you say; I mean to have it so; sit down and hold your tongue as I bid you for if I once begin to lay my hands about you, though all heaven were on your side it would profit you nothing."
On this Juno was frightened, so she curbed her stubborn will and sat down in silence.
But the heavenly beings were disquieted throughout the house of Jove, till the cunning workman Vulcan began to try and pacify his mother Juno.
"It will be intolerable," said he," if you two fall to wrangling and setting heaven in an uproar about a pack of mortals.
If such ill counsels are to prevail, we shall have no pleasure at our banquet.
Let me then advise my mother— and she must herself know that it will be better— to make friends with my dear father Jove, lest he again scold her and disturb our feast.
If the Olympian Thunderer wants to hurl us all from our seats, he can do so, for he is far the strongest, so give him fair words, and he will then soon be in a good humour with us."
As he spoke, he took a double cup of nectar, and placed it in his mother 's hand."
Cheer up, my dear mother," said he," and make the best of it.
I love you dearly, and should be very sorry to see you get a thrashing; however grieved I might be, I could not help, for there is no standing against Jove.
Once before when I was trying to help you, he caught me by the foot and flung me from the heavenly threshold.
All day long from morn till eve, was I falling, till at sunset I came to ground in the island of Lemnos, and there I lay, with very little life left in me, till the Sintians came and tended me."
Juno smiled at this, and as she smiled she took the cup from her son 's hands.
Then Vulcan drew sweet nectar from the mixingbowl, and served it round among the gods, going from left to right; and the blessed gods laughed out a loud applause as they saw him bustling about the heavenly mansion.
Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and every one had his full share, so that all were satisfied.
Apollo struck his lyre, and the Muses lifted up their sweet voices, calling and answering one another.
But when the sun 's glorious light had faded, they went home to bed, each in his own abode, which lame Vulcan with his consummate skill had fashioned for them.
So Jove, the Olympian Lord of Thunder, hied him to the bed in which he always slept; and when he had got on to it he went to sleep, with Juno of the golden throne by his side.
In the forenoon the fight is equal, but Agamemnon turns the fortune of the day towards the Achaeans until he gets wounded and leaves the field—Hector then drives everything before him till he is wounded by Diomed—Paris wounds Diomed—Ulysses, Nestor, and Idomeneus perform prodigies of valour—Machaon is wounded—Nestor drives him off in his chariot—Achilles sees the pair driving towards the camp and sends Patroclus to ask who it is that is wounded—This is the beginning of evil for Patroclus—Nestor makes a long speech.
And now as Dawn rose from her couch beside Tithonus, harbinger of light alike to mortals and immortals, Jove sent fierce Discord with the ensign of war in her hands to the ships of the Achaeans.
She took her stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses ' ship which was middlemost of all, so that her voice might carry farthest on either side, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles— for these two heroes, wellassured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up their ships at the two ends of the line.
There she took her stand, and raised a cry both loud and shrill that filled the Achaeans with courage, giving them heart to fight resolutely and with all their might, so that they had rather stay there and do battle than go home in their ships.
The son of Atreus shouted aloud and bade the Argives gird themselves for battle while he put on his armour.
First he girded his goodly greaves about his legs, making them fast with ankleclasps of silver; and about his chest he set the breastplate which Cinyras had once given him as a guestgift.
It had been noised abroad as far as Cyprus that the Achaeans were about to sail for Troy, and therefore he gave it to the king.
It had ten courses of dark cyanus, twelve of gold, and ten of tin.
There were serpents of cyanus that reared themselves up towards the neck, three upon either side, like the rainbows which the son of Saturn has set in heaven as a sign to mortal men.
About his shoulders he threw his sword, studded with bosses of gold; and the scabbard was of silver with a chain of gold wherewith to hang it.
He took moreover the richlydight shield that covered his body when he was in battle— fair to see, with ten circles of bronze running all round it.
On the body of the shield there were twenty bosses of white tin, with another of dark cyanus in the middle: this last was made to show a Gorgon 's head, fierce and grim, with Rout and Panic on either side.
The band for the arm to go through was of silver, on which there was a writhing snake of cyanus with three heads that sprang from a single neck, and went in and out among one another.
On his head Agamemnon set a helmet, with a peak before and behind, and four plumes of horsehair that nodded menacingly above it; then he grasped two redoubtable bronzeshod spears, and the gleam of his armour shot from him as a flame into the firmament, while Juno and Minerva thundered in honour of the king of rich Mycene.
Every man now left his horses in charge of his charioteer to hold them in readiness by the trench, while he went into battle on foot clad in full armour, and a mighty uproar rose on high into the dawning.
The chiefs were armed and at the trench before the horses got there, but these came up presently.
The son of Saturn sent a portent of evil sound about their host, and the dew fell red with blood, for he was about to send many a brave man hurrying down to Hades.
The Trojans, on the other side upon the rising slope of the plain, were gathered round great Hector, noble Polydamas, Aeneas who was honoured by the Trojans like an immortal, and the three sons of Antenor, Polybus, Agenor, and young Acamas beauteous as a god.
Hector 's round shield showed in the front rank, and as some baneful star that shines for a moment through a rent in the clouds and is again hidden beneath them; even so was Hector now seen in the front ranks and now again in the hindermost, and his bronze armour gleamed like the lightning of aegisbearing Jove.
And now as a band of reapers mow swathes of wheat or barley upon a rich man 's land, and the sheaves fall thick before them, even so did the Trojans and Achaeans fall upon one another; they were in no mood for yielding but fought like wolves, and neither side got the better of the other.
Discord was glad as she beheld them, for she was the only god that went among them; the others were not there, but stayed quietly each in his own home among the dells and valleys of Olympus.
All of them blamed the son of Saturn for wanting to give victory to the Trojans, but father Jove heeded them not: he held aloof from all, and sat apart in his allglorious majesty, looking down upon the city of the Trojans, the ships of the Achaeans, the gleam of bronze, and alike upon the slayers and on the slain.
Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning, their darts rained thick on one another and the people perished, but as the hour drew nigh when a woodman working in some mountain forest will get his midday meal— for he has felled till his hands are weary; he is tired out, and must now have food— then the Danaans with a cry that rang through all their ranks, broke the battalions of the enemy.
Agamemnon led them on, and slew first Bienor, a leader of his people, and afterwards his comrade and charioteer Oileus, who sprang from his chariot and was coming full towards him; but Agamemnon struck him on the forehead with his spear; his bronze visor was of no avail against the weapon, which pierced both bronze and bone, so that his brains were battered in and he was killed in full fight.
Agamemnon stripped their shirts from off them and left them with their breasts all bare to lie where they had fallen.
He then went on to kill Isus and Antiphus two sons of Priam, the one a bastard, the other born in wedlock; they were in the same chariot— the bastard driving, while noble Antiphus fought beside him.
Achilles had once taken both of them prisoners in the glades of Ida, and had bound them with fresh withes as they were shepherding, but he had taken a ransom for them; now, however, Agamemnon son of Atreus smote Isus in the chest above the nipple with his spear, while he struck Antiphus hard by the ear and threw him from his chariot.
Forthwith he stripped their goodly armour from off them and recognized them, for he had already seen them at ships when Achilles brought them in from Ida.
As a lion fastens on the fawns of a hind and crushes them in his great jaws, robbing them of their tender life while he on his way back to his lair— the hind can do nothing for them even though she be close by, for she is in an agony of fear, and flies through the thick forest, sweating, and at her utmost speed before the mighty monster— so, no man of the Trojans could help Isus and Antiphus, for they were themselves flying in panic before the Argives.
Then King Agamemnon took the two sons of Antimachus, Pisander and brave Hippolochus.
It was Antimachus who had been foremost in preventing Helen 's being restored to Menelaus, for he was largely bribed by Alexandrus; and now Agamemnon took his two sons, both in the same chariot, trying to bring their horses to a stand— for they had lost hold of the reins and the horses were mad with fear.
The son of Atreus sprang upon them like a lion, and the pair besought him from their chariot. "
Take us alive," they cried," son of Atreus, and you shall receive a great ransom for us.
Our father Antimachus has great store of gold, bronze, and wrought iron, and from this he will satisfy you with a very large ransom should he hear of our being alive at the ships of the Achaeans."
With such piteous words and tears did they beseech the king, but they heard no pitiful answer in return.
"If," said Agamemnon," you are sons of Antimachus, who once at a council of Trojans proposed that Menelaus and Ulysses, who had come to you as envoys, should be killed and not suffered to return, you shall now pay for the foul iniquity of your father."
As he spoke he felled Pisander from his chariot to the earth, smiting him on the chest with his spear, so that he lay face uppermost upon the ground.
Hippolochus fled, but him too did Agamemnon smite; he cut off his hands and his head— which he sent rolling in among the crowd as though it were a ball.
There he let them both lie, and wherever the ranks were thickest thither he flew, while the other Achaeans followed.
Foot soldiers drove the foot soldiers of the foe in rout before them, and slew them; horsemen did the like by horsemen, and the thundering tramp of the horses raised a cloud of dust from off the plain.
King Agamemnon followed after, ever slaying them and cheering on the Achaeans.
As when some mighty forest is all ablaze— the eddying gusts whirl fire in all directions till the thickets shrivel and are consumed before the blast of the flame— even so fell the heads of the flying Trojans before Agamemnon son of Atreus, and many a noble pair of steeds drew an empty chariot along the highways of war, for lack of drivers who were lying on the plain, more useful now to vultures than to their wives.
Jove drew Hector away from the darts and dust, with the carnage and din of battle; but the son of Atreus sped onwards, calling out lustily to the Danaans.
They flew on by the tomb of old Ilus, son of Dardanus, in the middle of the plain, and past the place of the wild figtree making always for the city— the son of Atreus still shouting, and with hands all bedrabbled in gore; but when they had reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree, there they halted and waited for the others to come up.
Meanwhile the Trojans kept on flying over the middle of the plain like a herd of cows maddened with fright when a lion has attacked them in the dead of night— he springs on one of them, seizes her neck in the grip of his strong teeth and then laps up her blood and gorges himself upon her entrails— even so did King Agamemnon son of Atreus pursue the foe, ever slaughtering the hindmost as they fled pellmell before him.
Many a man was flung headlong from his chariot by the hand of the son of Atreus, for he wielded his spear with fury.
But when he was just about to reach the high wall and the city, the father of gods and men came down from heaven and took his seat, thunderbolt in hand, upon the crest of manyfountained Ida.
He then told Iris of the golden wings to carry a message for him. "
Go," said he," fleet Iris, and speak thus to Hector— say that so long as he sees Agamemnon heading his men and making havoc of the Trojan ranks, he is to keep aloof and bid the others bear the brunt of the battle, but when Agamemnon is wounded either by spear or arrow, and takes to his chariot, then will I vouchsafe him strength to slay till he reach the ships and night falls at the going down of the sun."
Iris hearkened and obeyed.
Down she went to strong Ilius from the crests of Ida, and found Hector son of Priam standing by his chariot and horses.
Then she said," Hector son of Priam, peer of gods in counsel, father Jove has sent me to bear you this message— so long as you see Agamemnon heading his men and making havoc of the Trojan ranks, you are to keep aloof and bid the others bear the brunt of the battle, but when Agamemnon is wounded either by spear or arrow, and takes to his chariot, then will Jove vouchsafe you strength to slay till you reach the ships, and till night falls at the going down of the sun."
When she had thus spoken Iris left him, and Hector sprang full armed from his chariot to the ground, brandishing his spear as he went about everywhere among the host, cheering his men on to fight, and stirring the dread strife of battle.
The Trojans then wheeled round, and again met the Achaeans, while the Argives on their part strengthened their battalions.
The battle was now in array and they stood face to face with one another, Agamemnon ever pressing forward in his eagerness to be ahead of all others.
Tell me now ye Muses that dwell in the mansions of Olympus, who, whether of the Trojans or of their allies, was first to face Agamemnon?
It was Iphidamas son of Antenor, a man both brave and of great stature, who was brought up in fertile Thrace, the mother of sheep.
Cisses, his mother 's father, brought him up in his own house when he was a child— Cisses, father to fair Theano.
When he reached manhood, Cisses would have kept him there, and was for giving him his daughter in marriage, but as soon as he had married he set out to fight the Achaeans with twelve ships that followed him: these he had left at Percote and had come on by land to Ilius.
He it was that now met Agamemnon son of Atreus.
When they were close up with one another, the son of Atreus missed his aim, and Iphidamas hit him on the girdle below the cuirass and then flung himself upon him, trusting to his strength of arm; the girdle, however, was not pierced, nor nearly so, for the point of the spear struck against the silver and was turned aside as though it had been lead: King Agamemnon caught it from his hand, and drew it towards him with the fury of a lion; he then drew his sword, and killed Iphidamas by striking him on the neck.
So there the poor fellow lay, sleeping a sleep as it were of bronze, killed in the defence of his fellowcitizens, far from his wedded wife, of whom he had had no joy though he had given much for her: he had given a hundredhead of cattle down, and had promised later on to give a thousand sheep and goats mixed, from the countless flocks of which he was possessed.
Agamemnon son of Atreus then despoiled him, and carried off his armour into the host of the Achaeans.
When noble Coon, Antenor 's eldest son, saw this, sore indeed were his eyes at the sight of his fallen brother.
Unseen by Agamemnon he got beside him, spear in hand, and wounded him in the middle of his arm below the elbow, the point of the spear going right through the arm.
Agamemnon was convulsed with pain, but still not even for this did he leave off struggling and fighting, but grasped his spear that flew as fleet as the wind, and sprang upon Coon who was trying to drag off the body of his brother— his father 's son— by the foot, and was crying for help to all the bravest of his comrades; but Agamemnon struck him with a bronzeshod spear and killed him as he was dragging the dead body through the press of men under cover of his shield: he then cut off his head, standing over the body of Iphidamas.
Thus did the sons of Antenor meet their fate at the hands of the son of Atreus, and go down into the house of Hades.
As long as the blood still welled warm from his wound Agamemnon went about attacking the ranks of the enemy with spear and sword and with great handfuls of stone, but when the blood had ceased to flow and the wound grew dry, the pain became great.
As the sharp pangs which the Eilithuiae, goddesses of childbirth, daughters of Juno and dispensers of cruel pain, send upon a woman when she is in labour— even so sharp were the pangs of the son of Atreus.
He sprang on to his chariot, and bade his charioteer drive to the ships, for he was in great agony.
With a loud clear voice he shouted to the Danaans," My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, defend the ships yourselves, for Jove has not suffered me to fight the whole day through against the Trojans."
With this the charioteer turned his horses towards the ships, and they flew forward nothing loth.
Their chests were white with foam and their bellies with dust, as they drew the wounded king out of the battle.
When Hector saw Agamemnon quit the field, he shouted to the Trojans and Lycians saying," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanian warriors, be men, my friends, and acquit yourselves in battle bravely; their best man has left them, and Jove has vouchsafed me a great triumph; charge the foe with your chariots that you may win still greater glory."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and as a huntsman hounds his dogs on against a lion or wild boar, even so did Hector, peer of Mars, hound the proud Trojans on against the Achaeans.
Full of hope he plunged in among the foremost, and fell on the fight like some fierce tempest that swoops down upon the sea, and lashes its deep blue waters into fury.
What, then is the full tale of those whom Hector son of Priam killed in the hour of triumph which Jove then vouchsafed him?
First Asaeus, Autonous, and Opites; Dolops son of Clytius, Opheltius and Agelaus; Aesymnus, Orus and Hipponous steadfast in battle; these chieftains of the Achaeans did Hector slay, and then he fell upon the rank and file.
As when the west wind hustles the clouds of the white south and beats them down with the fierceness of its fury— the waves of the sea roll high, and the spray is flung aloft in the rage of the wandering wind— even so thick were the heads of them that fell by the hand of Hector.
All had then been lost and no help for it, and the Achaeans would have fled pellmell to their ships, had not Ulysses cried out to Diomed," Son of Tydeus, what has happened to us that we thus forget our prowess?
Come, my good fellow, stand by my side and help me, we shall be shamed for ever if Hector takes the ships."
And Diomed answered," Come what may, I will stand firm; but we shall have scant joy of it, for Jove is minded to give victory to the Trojans rather than to us."
With these words he struck Thymbraeus from his chariot to the ground, smiting him in the left breast with his spear, while Ulysses killed Molion who was his squire.
These they let lie, now that they had stopped their fighting; the two heroes then went on playing havoc with the foe, like two wild boars that turn in fury and rend the hounds that hunt them.
Thus did they turn upon the Trojans and slay them, and the Achaeans were thankful to have breathing time in their flight from Hector.
They then took two princes with their chariot, the two sons of Merops of Percote, who excelled all others in the arts of divination.
He had forbidden his sons to go to the war, but they would not obey him, for fate lured them to their fall.
Diomed son of Tydeus slew them both and stripped them of their armour, while Ulysses killed Hippodamus and Hypeirochus.
And now the son of Saturn as he looked down from Ida ordained that neither side should have the advantage, and they kept on killing one another.
The son of Tydeus speared Agastrophus son of Paeon in the hipjoint with his spear.
His chariot was not at hand for him to fly with, so blindly confident had he been.
His squire was in charge of it at some distance and he was fighting on foot among the foremost until he lost his life.
Hector soon marked the havoc Diomed and Ulysses were making, and bore down upon them with a loud cry, followed by the Trojan ranks; brave Diomed was dismayed when he saw them, and said to Ulysses who was beside him," Great Hector is bearing down upon us and we shall be undone; let us stand firm and wait his onset."
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it, nor did he miss his mark.
He had aimed at Hector 's head near the top of his helmet, but bronze was turned by bronze, and Hector was untouched, for the spear was stayed by the visored helm made with three plates of metal, which Phoebus Apollo had given him.
Hector sprang back with a great bound under cover of the ranks; he fell on his knees and propped himself with his brawny hand leaning on the ground, for darkness had fallen on his eyes.
The son of Tydeus having thrown his spear dashed in among the foremost fighters, to the place where he had seen it strike the ground; meanwhile Hector recovered himself and springing back into his chariot mingled with the crowd, by which means he saved his life.
But Diomed made at him with his spear and said," Dog, you have again got away though death was close on your heels.
Phoebus Apollo, to whom I ween you pray ere you go into battle ,has again saved you, nevertheless I will meet you and make an end of you hereafter, if there is any god who will stand by me too and be my helper.
For the present I must pursue those I can lay hands on."
As he spoke he began stripping the spoils from the son of Paeon, but Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen aimed an arrow at him, leaning against a pillar of the monument which men had raised to Ilus son of Dardanus, a ruler in days of old.
Diomed had taken the cuirass from off the breast of Agastrophus, his heavy helmet also, and the shield from off his shoulders, when Paris drew his bow and let fly an arrow that sped not from his hand in vain, but pierced the flat of Diomed 's right foot, going right through it and fixing itself in the ground.
Thereon Paris with a hearty laugh sprang forward from his hidingplace, and taunted him saying," You are wounded— my arrow has not been shot in vain; would that it had hit you in the belly and killed you, for thus the Trojans, who fear you as goats fear a lion, would have had a truce from evil."
Diomed all undaunted answered," Archer, you who without your bow are nothing, slanderer and seducer, if you were to be tried in single combat fighting in full armour, your bow and your arrows would serve you in little stead.
Vain is your boast in that you have scratched the sole of my foot.
I care no more than if a girl or some silly boy had hit me.
A worthless coward can inflict but a light wound; when I wound a man though I but graze his skin it is another matter, for my weapon will lay him low.
His wife will tear her cheeks for grief and his children will be fatherless: there will he rot, reddening the earth with his blood, and vultures, not women, will gather round him."
Thus he spoke, but Ulysses came up and stood over him.
Under this cover he sat down to draw the arrow from his foot, and sharp was the pain he suffered as he did so.
Then he sprang on to his chariot and bade the charioteer drive him to the ships, for he was sick at heart.
Ulysses was now alone; not one of the Argives stood by him, for they were all panicstricken."
Alas," said he to himself in his dismay," what will become of me?
It is ill if I turn and fly before these odds, but it will be worse if I am left alone and taken prisoner, for the son of Saturn has struck the rest of the Danaans with panic.
But why talk to myself in this way?
Well do I know that though cowards quit the field, a hero, whether he wound or be wounded, must stand firm and hold his own."
While he was thus in two minds, the ranks of the Trojans advanced and hemmed him in, and bitterly did they come to rue it.
As hounds and lusty youths set upon a wild boar that sallies from his lair whetting his white tusks— they attack him from every side and can hear the gnashing of his jaws, but for all his fierceness they still hold their ground— even so furiously did the Trojans attack Ulysses.
First he sprang spear in hand upon Deiopites and wounded him on the shoulder with a downward blow; then he killed Thoon and Ennomus.
After these he struck Chersidamas in the loins under his shield as he had just sprung down from his chariot; so he fell in the dust and clutched the earth in the hollow of his hand.
These he let lie, and went on to wound Charops son of Hippasus own brother to noble Socus.
Socus, hero that he was, made all speed to help him, and when he was close to Ulysses he said," Farfamed Ulysses, insatiable of craft and toil, this day you shall either boast of having killed both the sons of Hippasus and stripped them of their armour, or you shall fall before my spear."
With these words he struck the shield of Ulysses.
The spear went through the shield and passed on through his richly wrought cuirass, tearing the flesh from his side, but Pallas Minerva did not suffer it to pierce the entrails of the hero.
Ulysses knew that his hour was not yet come, but he gave ground and said to Socus," Wretch, you shall now surely die.
You have stayed me from fighting further with the Trojans, but you shall now fall by my spear, yielding glory to myself, and your soul to Hades of the noble steeds."
Socus had turned in flight, but as he did so, the spear struck him in the back midway between the shoulders, and went right through his chest.
He fell heavily to the ground and Ulysses vaunted over him saying," O Socus, son of Hippasus tamer of horses, death has been too quick for you and you have not escaped him: poor wretch, not even in death shall your father and mother close your eyes, but the ravening vultures shall enshroud you with the flapping of their dark wings and devour you.
Whereas even though I fall the Achaeans will give me my due rites of burial."
So saying he drew Socus 's heavy spear out of his flesh and from his shield, and the blood welled forth when the spear was withdrawn so that he was much dismayed.
When the Trojans saw that Ulysses was bleeding they raised a great shout and came on in a body towards him; he therefore gave ground, and called his comrades to come and help him.
Thrice did he cry as loudly as man can cry, and thrice did brave Menelaus hear him; he turned, therefore, to Ajax who was close beside him and said," Ajax, noble son of Telamon, captain of your people, the cry of Ulysses rings in my ears, as though the Trojans had cut him off and were worsting him while he is singlehanded.
Let us make our way through the throng; it will be well that we defend him ;I fear he may come to harm for all his valour if he be left without support, and the Danaans would miss him sorely."
He led the way and mighty Ajax went with him.
The Trojans had gathered round Ulysses like ravenous mountain jackals round the carcase of some horned stag that has been hit with an arrow— the stag has fled at full speed so long as his blood was warm and his strength has lasted, but when the arrow has overcome him, the savage jackals devour him in the shady glades of the forest.
Then heaven sends a fierce lion thither, whereon the jackals fly in terror and the lion robs them of their prey— even so did Trojans many and brave gather round crafty Ulysses, but the hero stood at bay and kept them off with his spear.
Ajax then came up with his shield before him like a wall, and stood hard by, whereon the Trojans fled in all directions.
Menelaus took Ulysses by the hand, and led him out of the press while his squire brought up his chariot, but Ajax rushed furiously on the Trojans and killed Doryclus, a bastard son of Priam; then he wounded Pandocus, Lysandrus, Pyrasus, and Pylartes; as some swollen torrent comes rushing in full flood from the mountains on to the plain, big with the rain of heaven— many a dry oak and many a pine does it engulf, and much mud does it bring down and cast into the sea— even so did brave Ajax chase the foe furiously over the plain, slaying both men and horses.
Hector did not yet know what Ajax was doing, for he was fighting on the extreme left of the battle by the banks of the river Scamander, where the carnage was thickest and the warcry loudest round Nestor and brave Idomeneus.
Among these Hector was making great slaughter with his spear and furious driving, and was destroying the ranks that were opposed to him; still the Achaeans would have given no ground, had not Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen stayed the prowess of Machaon, shepherd of his people, by wounding him in the right shoulder with a triplebarbed arrow.
The Achaeans were in great fear that as the fight had turned against them the Trojans might take him prisoner, and Idomeneus said to Nestor," Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, mount your chariot at once; take Machaon with you and drive your horses to the ships as fast as you can.
A physician is worth more than several other men put together, for he can cut out arrows and spread healing herbs."
Nestor knight of Gerene did as Idomeneus had counselled; he at once mounted his chariot, and Machaon son of the famed physician Aesculapius, went with him.
He lashed his horses and they flew onward nothing loth towards the ships, as though of their own free will.
Then Cebriones seeing the Trojans in confusion said to Hector from his place beside him," Hector, here are we two fighting on the extreme wing of the battle, while the other Trojans are in pellmell rout, they and their horses.
Ajax son of Telamon is driving them before him; I know him by the breadth of his shield: let us turn our chariot and horses thither, where horse and foot are fighting most desperately, and where the cry of battle is loudest."
With this he lashed his goodly steeds, and when they felt the whip they drew the chariot full speed among the Achaeans and Trojans, over the bodies and shields of those that had fallen: the axle was bespattered with blood, and the rail round the car was covered with splashes both from the horses ' hoofs and from the tyres of the wheels.
Hector tore his way through and flung himself into the thick of the fight, and his presence threw the Danaans into confusion, for his spear was not long idle; nevertheless though he went among the ranks with sword and spear, and throwing great stones, he avoided Ajax son of Telamon, for Jove would have been angry with him if he had fought a better man than himself.
Then father Jove from his high throne struck fear into the heart of Ajax, so that he stood there dazed and threw his shield behind him— looking fearfully at the throng of his foes as though he were some wild beast, and turning hither and thither but crouching slowly backwards.
As peasants with their hounds chase a lion from their stockyard, and watch by night to prevent his carrying off the pick of their herd— he makes his greedy spring, but in vain, for the darts from many a strong hand fall thick around him, with burning brands that scare him for all his fury, and when morning comes he slinks foiled and angry away— even so did Ajax, sorely against his will, retreat angrily before the Trojans, fearing for the ships of the Achaeans.
Or as some lazy ass that has had many a cudgel broken about his back, when he into a field begins eating the corn— boys beat him but he is too many for them, and though they lay about with their sticks they can not hurt him; still when he has had his fill they at last drive him from the field— even so did the Trojans and their allies pursue great Ajax, ever smiting the middle of his shield with their darts.
Now and again he would turn and show fight, keeping back the battalions of the Trojans, and then he would again retreat; but he prevented any of them from making his way to the ships.
Singlehanded he stood midway between the Trojans and Achaeans: the spears that sped from their hands stuck some of them in his mighty shield, while many, though thirsting for his blood, fell to the ground ere they could reach him to the wounding of his fair flesh.
Now when Eurypylus the brave son of Euaemon saw that Ajax was being overpowered by the rain of arrows, he went up to him and hurled his spear.
He struck Apisaon son of Phausius in the liver below the midriff, and laid him low.
Eurypylus sprang upon him, and stripped the armour from his shoulders; but when Alexandrus saw him, he aimed an arrow at him which struck him in the right thigh; the arrow broke, but the point that was left in the wound dragged on the thigh; he drew back, therefore, under cover of his comrades to save his life, shouting as he did so to the Danaans," My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, rally to the defence of Ajax who is being overpowered, and I doubt whether he will come out of the fight alive.
Hither, then, to the rescue of great Ajax son of Telamon."
Even so did he cry when he was wounded; thereon the others came near, and gathered round him, holding their shields upwards from their shoulders so as to give him cover.
Ajax then made towards them, and turned round to stand at bay as soon as he had reached his men.
Thus then did they fight as it were a flaming fire.
Meanwhile the mares of Neleus, all in a lather with sweat, were bearing Nestor out of the fight, and with him Machaon shepherd of his people.
Achilles saw and took note, for he was standing on the stern of his ship watching the hard stress and struggle of the fight.
He called from the ship to his comrade Patroclus, who heard him in the tent and came out looking like Mars himself— here indeed was the beginning of the ill that presently befell him. "
Why," said he," Achilles, do you call me?
What do you want with me?"
And Achilles answered," Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart, I take it that I shall now have the Achaeans praying at my knees, for they are in great straits; go, Patroclus, and ask Nestor who it is that he is bearing away wounded from the field; from his back I should say it was Machaon son of Aesculapius, but I could not see his face for the horses went by me at full speed."
Patroclus did as his dear comrade had bidden him, and set off running by the ships and tents of the Achaeans.
When Nestor and Machaon had reached the tents of the son of Neleus, they dismounted, and an esquire, Eurymedon, took the horses from the chariot.
The pair then stood in the breeze by the seaside to dry the sweat from their shirts, and when they had so done they came inside and took their seats.
Fair Hecamede, whom Nestor had had awarded to him from Tenedos when Achilles took it, mixed them a mess; she was daughter of wise Arsinous, and the Achaeans had given her to Nestor because he excelled all of them in counsel.
First she set for them a fair and wellmade table that had feet of cyanus; on it there was a vessel of bronze and an onion to give relish to the drink, with honey and cakes of barleymeal.
There was also a cup of rare workmanship which the old man had brought with him from home, studded with bosses of gold; it had four handles, on each of which there were two golden doves feeding, and it had two feet to stand on.
Any one else would hardly have been able to lift it from the table when it was full, but Nestor could do so quite easily.
In this the woman, as fair as a goddess, mixed them a mess with Pramnian wine; she grated goat 's milk cheese into it with a bronze grater, threw in a handful of white barleymeal, and having thus prepared the mess she bade them drink it.
When they had done so and had thus quenched their thirst, they fell talking with one another, and at this moment Patroclus appeared at the door.
When the old man saw him he sprang from his seat, seized his hand, led him into the tent, and bade him take his place among them; but Patroclus stood where he was and said," Noble sir, I may not stay, you can not persuade me to come in; he that sent me is not one to be trifled with, and he bade me ask who the wounded man was whom you were bearing away from the field.
I can now see for myself that he is Machaon, shepherd of his people.
I must go back and tell Achilles.
You, sir, know what a terrible man he is, and how ready to blame even where no blame should lie."
And Nestor answered," Why should Achilles care to know how many of the Achaeans may be wounded?
He recks not of the dismay that reigns in our host; our most valiant chieftains lie disabled, brave Diomed, son of Tydeus, is wounded; so are Ulysses and Agamemnon; Eurypylus has been hit with an arrow in the thigh, and I have just been bringing this man from the field— he too wounded with an arrow.
Nevertheless, Achilles, so valiant though he be, cares not and knows no ruth.
Will he wait till the ships, do what we may, are in a blaze, and we perish one upon the other?
As for me, I have no strength nor stay in me any longer; would that I were still young and strong as in the days when there was a fight between us and the men of Elis about some cattleraiding.
I then killed Itymoneus, the valiant son of Hypeirochus, a dweller in Elis, as I was driving in the spoil; he was hit by a dart thrown by my hand while fighting in the front rank in defence of his cows, so he fell and the country people around him were in great fear.
We drove off a vast quantity of booty from the plain, fifty herds of cattle and as many flocks of sheep; fifty droves also of pigs, and as many widespreading flocks of goats.
Of horses, moreover, we seized a hundred and fifty, all of them mares, and many had foals running with them.
All these did we drive by night to Pylus, the city of Neleus, taking them within the city; and the heart of Neleus was glad in that I had taken so much, though it was the first time I had ever been in the field.
At daybreak the heralds went round crying that all in Elis to whom there was a debt owing should come; and the leading Pylians assembled to divide the spoils.
There were many to whom the Epeans owed chattels, for we men of Pylus were few and had been oppressed with wrong; in former years Hercules had come, and had laid his hand heavy upon us, so that all our best men had perished.
Neleus had had twelve sons, but I alone was left; the others had all been killed.
The Epeans presuming upon all this had looked down upon us and had done us much evil.
My father chose a herd of cattle and a great flock of sheep— three hundred in all— and he took their shepherds with him, for there was a great debt due to him in Elis, to wit four horses, winners of prizes.
They and their chariots with them had gone to the games and were to run for a tripod, but King Augeas took them, and sent back their driver grieving for the loss of his horses.
Neleus was angered by what he had both said and done, and took great value in return, but he divided the rest, that no man might have less than his full share.
"Thus did we order all things, and offer sacrifices to the gods throughout the city; but three days afterwards the Epeans came in a body, many in number, they and their chariots, in full array, and with them the two Moliones in their armour, though they were still lads and unused to fighting.
Now there is a certain town, Thryoessa, perched upon a rock on the river Alpheus, the border city of Pylus.
This they would destroy, and pitched their camp about it, but when they had crossed their whole plain, Minerva darted down by night from Olympus and bade us set ourselves in array; and she found willing soldiers in Pylos, for the men meant fighting.
Neleus would not let me arm, and hid my horses, for he said that as yet I could know nothing about war ;nevertheless Minerva so ordered the fight that, all on foot as I was, I fought among our mounted forces and vied with the foremost of them.
There is a river Minyeius that falls into the sea near Arene, and there they that were mounted( and I with them) waited till morning, when the companies of foot soldiers came up with us in force.
Thence in full panoply and equipment we came towards noon to the sacred waters of the Alpheus, and there we offered victims to almighty Jove, with a bull to Alpheus, another to Neptune, and a herdheifer to Minerva.
After this we took supper in our companies, and laid us down to rest each in his armour by the river.
"The Epeans were beleaguering the city and were determined to take it, but ere this might be there was a desperate fight in store for them.
When the sun 's rays began to fall upon the earth we joined battle, praying to Jove and to Minerva, and when the fight had begun, I was the first to kill my man and take his horses— to wit the warrior Mulius.
He was soninlaw to Augeas, having married his eldest daughter, goldenhaired Agamede, who knew the virtues of every herb which grows upon the face of the earth.
I speared him as he was coming towards me, and when he fell headlong in the dust, I sprang upon his chariot and took my place in the front ranks.
The Epeans fled in all directions when they saw the captain of their horsemen( the best man they had) laid low, and I swept down on them like a whirlwind, taking fifty chariots— and in each of them two men bit the dust, slain by my spear.
I should have even killed the two Moliones, sons of Actor, unless their real father, Neptune lord of the earthquake, had hidden them in a thick mist and borne them out of the fight.
Thereon Jove vouchsafed the Pylians a great victory, for we chased them far over the plain, killing the men and bringing in their armour, till we had brought our horses to Buprasium, rich in wheat, and to the Olenian rock, with the hill that is called Alision, at which point Minerva turned the people back.
There I slew the last man and left him; then the Achaeans drove their horses back from Buprasium to Pylos and gave thanks to Jove among the gods, and among mortal men to Nestor.
"Such was I among my peers, as surely as ever was, but Achilles is for keeping all his valour for himself; bitterly will he rue it hereafter when the host is being cut to pieces.
My good friend, did not Menoetius charge you thus, on the day when he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon?
Ulysses and I were in the house, inside, and heard all that he said to you; for we came to the fair house of Peleus while beating up recruits throughout all Achaea, and when we got there we found Menoetius and yourself, and Achilles with you.
The old knight Peleus was in the outer court, roasting the fat thighbones of a heifer to Jove the lord of thunder; and he held a gold chalice in his hand from which he poured drinkofferings of wine over the burning sacrifice.
You two were busy cutting up the heifer, and at that moment we stood at the gates, whereon Achilles sprang to his feet, led us by the hand into the house, placed us at table, and set before us such hospitable entertainment as guests expect.
When we had satisfied ourselves with meat and drink, I said my say and urged both of you to join us.
You were ready enough to do so, and the two old men charged you much and straitly.
Old Peleus bade his son Achilles fight ever among the foremost and outvie his peers, while Menoetius the son of Actor spoke thus to you:' My son,' said he,' Achilles is of nobler birth than you are, but you are older than he, though he is far the better man of the two.
Counsel him wisely, guide him in the right way, and he will follow you to his own profit.'
Thus did your father charge you, but you have forgotten; nevertheless, even now, say all this to Achilles if he will listen to you.
Who knows but with heaven 's help you may talk him over, for it is good to take a friend 's advice.
If, however, he is fearful about some oracle, or if his mother has told him something from Jove, then let him send you, and let the rest of the Myrmidons follow with you, if perchance you may bring light and saving to the Danaans.
And let him send you into battle clad in his own armour, that the Trojans may mistake you for him and leave off fighting; the sons of the Achaeans may thus have time to get their breath, for they are hard pressed and there is little breathing time in battle.
You, who are fresh, might easily drive a tired enemy back to his walls and away from the tents and ships."
With these words he moved the heart of Patroclus, who set off running by the line of the ships to Achilles, descendant of Aeacus.
When he had got as far as the ships of Ulysses, where was their place of assembly and court of justice, with their altars dedicated to the gods, Eurypylus son of Euaemon, met him, wounded in the thigh with an arrow, and limping out of the fight.
Sweat rained from his head and shoulders, and black blood welled from his cruel wound, but his mind did not wander.
The son of Menoetius when he saw him had compassion upon him and spoke piteously saying," O unhappy princes and counsellors of the Danaans, are you then doomed to feed the hounds of Troy with your fat, far from your friends and your native land?
Say, noble Eurypylus, will the Achaeans be able to hold great Hector in check, or will they fall now before his spear?"
Wounded Eurypylus made answer," Noble Patroclus, there is no hope left for the Achaeans but they will perish at their ships.
All they that were princes among us are lying struck down and wounded at the hands of the Trojans, who are waxing stronger and stronger.
But save me and take me to your ship; cut out the arrow from my thigh; wash the black blood from off it with warm water, and lay upon it those gracious herbs which, so they say, have been shown you by Achilles, who was himself shown them by Chiron, most righteous of all the centaurs.
For of the physicians Podalirius and Machaon, I hear that the one is lying wounded in his tent and is himself in need of healing, while the other is fighting the Trojans upon the plain."
"Hero Eurypylus," replied the brave son of Menoetius," how may these things be?
What can I do?
I am on my way to bear a message to noble Achilles from Nestor of Gerene, bulwark of the Achaeans, but even so I will not be unmindful of your distress."
With this he clasped him round the middle and led him into the tent, and a servant, when he saw him, spread bullockskins on the ground for him to lie on.
He laid him at full length and cut out the sharp arrow from his thigh; he washed the black blood from the wound with warm water; he then crushed a bitter herb, rubbing it between his hands, and spread it upon the wound; this was a virtuous herb which killed all pain; so the wound presently dried and the blood left off flowing.
CHAPTER COMPLEMENTAL VERSES.
The Pretensions of Poverty.
Thou dost presume too much, poor needy wretch, To claim a station in the firmament Because thy humble cottage, or thy tub, Nurses some lazy or pedantic virtue In the cheap sunshine or by shady springs, With roots and pot-herbs; where thy right hand, Tearing those humane passions from the mind, Upon whose stocks fair blooming virtues flourish, Degradeth nature, and benumbeth sense, And, Gorgon-like, turns active men to stone.
We not require the dull society Of your necessitated temperance, Or that unnatural stupidity That knows nor joy nor sorrow; nor your forc'd Falsely exalted passive fortitude Above the active.
This low abject brood, That fix their seats in mediocrity, Become your servile minds; but we advance Such virtues only as admit excess, Brave, bounteous acts, regal magnificence, All-seeing prudence, magnanimity That knows no bound, and that heroic virtue For which antiquity hath left no name, But patterns only, such as Hercules, Achilles, Theseus.
Back to thy loath'd cell; And when thou seest the new enlightened sphere, Study to know but what those worthies were.
T. CAREW
CHAPTER WHERE I LIVED, AND WHAT I LIVED FOR.
AT A CERTAIN season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house.
I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live.
In imagination I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price.
I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher price on ittook everything but a deed of ittook his word for his deed, for I dearly love to talkcultivated it, and him too to some extent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on.
This experience entitled me to be regarded as a sort of real-estate broker by my friends.
Wherever I sat, there I might live, and the landscape radiated from me accordingly.
What is a house but a sedes, a seat?better if a country seat.
I discovered many a site for a house not likely to be soon improved, which some might have thought too far from the village, but to my eyes the village was too far from it.
Well, there I might live, I said; and there I did live, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how I could let the years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in.
The future inhabitants of this region, wherever they may place their houses, may be sure that they have been anticipated.
An afternoon sufficed to lay out the land into orchard, wood-lot, and pasture, and to decide what fine oaks or pines should be left to stand before the door, and whence each blasted tree could be seen to the best advantage; and then I let it lie, fallow, perchance, for a man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.
My imagination carried me so far that I even had the refusal of several farmsthe refusal was all I wantedbut I never got my fingers burned by actual possession.
The nearest that I came to actual possession was when I bought the Hollowell place, and had begun to sort my seeds, and collected materials with which to make a wheelbarrow to carry it on or off with; but before the owner gave me a deed of it, his wifeevery man has such a wifechanged her mind and wished to keep it, and he offered me ten dollars to release him.
Now, to speak the truth, I had but ten cents in the world, and it surpassed my arithmetic to tell, if I was that man who had ten cents, or who had a farm, or ten dollars, or all together.
However, I let him keep the ten dollars and the farm too, for I had carried it far enough; or rather, to be generous, I sold him the farm for just what I gave for it, and, as he was not a rich man, made him a present of ten dollars, and still had my ten cents, and seeds, and materials for a wheelbarrow left.
I found thus that I had been a rich man without any damage to my poverty.
But I retained the landscape, and I have since annually carried off what it yielded without a wheelbarrow.
With respect to landscapes, "I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute."
I have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most valuable part of a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he had got a few wild apples only.
Why, the owner does not know it for many years when a poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of invisible fence, has fairly impounded it, milked it, skimmed it, and got all the cream, and left the farmer only the skimmed milk.
The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its complete retirement, being, about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, nawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house-dog bark.
I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or, in short, had made any more of his improvements.
To enjoy these advantages I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shouldersI never heard what compensation he received for thatand do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone.
But it turned out as I have said.
All that I could say, then, with respect to farming on a large scaleI have always cultivated a gardenwas, that I had had my seeds ready.
Many think that seeds improve with age.
I have no doubt that time discriminates between the good and the bad; and when at last I shall plant, I shall be less likely to be disappointed.
But I would say to my fellows, once for all, As long as possible live free and uncommitted.
It makes but little difference whether you are committed to a farm or the county jail.
Old Cato, whose "De Re Rustica" is my "Cultivator," saysand the only translation I have seen makes sheer nonsense of the passage"When you think of getting a farm turn it thus in your mind, not to buy greedily; nor spare your pains to look at it, and do not think it enough to go round it once.
The oftener you go there the more it will please you, if it is good."
I think I shall not buy greedily, but go round and round it as long as I live, and be buried in it first, that it may please me the more at last.
The present was my next experiment of this kind, which I purpose to describe more at length, for convenience putting the experience of two years into one.
As I have said, I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up.
When first I took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to spend my nights as well as days there, which, by accident, was on Independence Day, or the Fourth of July, 1845, my house was not finished for winter, but was merely a defence against the rain, without plastering or chimney, the walls being of rough, weather-stained boards, with wide chinks, which made it cool at night.
The upright white hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave it a clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers were saturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them.
To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character, reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited a year before.
This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to entertain a travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments.
The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music.
The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.
Olympus is but the outside of the earth everywhere.
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time.
With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world.
This frame, so slightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder.
It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines.
I did not need to go outdoors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness.
It was not so much within doors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiest weather.
The Harivansa says, "An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning."
Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds; not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them.
I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the orchard, but to those smaller and more thrilling songsters of the forest which never, or rarely, serenade a villagerthe wood thrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager, the field sparrow, the whip-poor-will, and many others.
I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half south of the village of Concord and somewhat higher than it, in the midst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln, and about two miles south of that our only field known to fame, Concord Battle Ground; but I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore, half a mile off, like the rest, covered with wood, was my most distant horizon.
For the first week, whenever I looked out on the pond it impressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain, its bottom far above the surface of other lakes, and, as the sun arose, I saw it throwing off its nightly clothing of mist, and here and there, by degrees, its soft ripples or its smooth reflecting surface was revealed, while the mists, like ghosts, were stealthily withdrawing in every direction into the woods, as at the breaking up of some nocturnal conventicle.
The very dew seemed to hang upon the trees later into the day than usual, as on the sides of mountains.
This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a gentle rain-storm in August, when, both air and water being perfectly still, but the sky overcast, mid-afternoon had all the serenity of evening, and the wood thrush sang around, and was heard from shore to shore.
A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time; and the clear portion of the air above it being, shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself so much the more important.
From a hill-top near by, where the wood had been recently cut off, there was a pleasing vista southward across the pond, through a wide indentation in the hills which form the shore there, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggested a stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but stream there was none.
That way I looked between and over the near green hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon, tinged with blue.
Indeed, by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the northwest, those true-blue coins from heaven's own mint, and also of some portion of the village.
But in other directions, even from this point, I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me.
It is well to have some water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to and float the earth.
One value even of the smallest well is, that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular.
This is as important as that it keeps butter cool.
When I looked across the pond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood I distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley, like a coin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of interverting water, and I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land.
Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowded or confined in the least.
There was pasture enough for my imagination.
The low shrub oak plateau to which the opposite shore arose stretched away toward the prairies of the West and the steppes of Tartary, affording ample room for all the roving families of men.
"There are none happy in the world but beings who enjoy freely a vast horizon"said Damodara, when his herds required new and larger pastures.
Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me.
Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed nightly by astronomers.
We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestial corner of the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia's Chair, far from noise and disturbance.
I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe.
If it were worth the while to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the Hyades, to Aldebaran or Altair, then I was really there, or at an equal remoteness from the life which I had left behind, dwindled and twinkling with as fine a ray to my nearest neighbor, and to be seen only in moonless nights by him.
Such was that part of creation where I had squatted; "There was a shepherd that did live, And held his thoughts as high As were the mounts whereon his flocks Did hourly feed him by."
What should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?
Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.
I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks.
I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did.
They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of King Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again."
I can understand that.
Morning brings back the heroic ages.
I was as much affected by the faint burn of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame.
It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings.
There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world.
The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour.
Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.
Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the airto a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light.
That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way.
After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it can make.
All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere.
The Vedas say, "All intelligences awake with the morning."
Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour.
All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise.
To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning.
It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men.
Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.
Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep.
Why is it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have not been slumbering?
They are not such poor calculators.
If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something.
The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life.
To be awake is to be alive.
I have never yet met a man who was quite awake.
How could I have looked him in the face?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.
I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor.
It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do.
To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.
Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour.
If we refused, or rather used up, such paltry information as we get, the oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartanlike as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.
For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever."
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness.
Our life is frittered away by detail.
An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest.
Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!
I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.
In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowed for, that a man has to live, if he would not founder and go to the bottom and not make his port at all, by dead reckoning, and he must be a great calculator indeed who succeeds.
Simplify, simplify.
Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce other things in proportion.
Our life is like a German Confederacy, made up of petty states, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at any moment.
The nation itself, with all its socalled internal improvements, which, by the way are all external and superficial, is just such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, cluttered with furniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedless expense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as the million households in the land; and the only cure for it, as for them, is in a rigid economy, a stern and more than Spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.
It lives too fast.
Men think that it is essential that the Nation have commerce, and export ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour, without a doubt, whether they do or not; but whether we should live like baboons or like men, is a little uncertain.
If we do not get out sleepers, and forge rails, and devote days and nights to the work, but go to tinkering upon our lives to improve them, who will build railroads?
And if railroads are not built, how shall we get to heaven in season?
But if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads?
We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.
Did you ever think what those sleepers are that underlie the railroad?
Each one is a man, an Irishman, or a Yankee man.
The rails are laid on them, and they are covered with sand, and the cars run smoothly over them.
They are sound sleepers, I assure you.
And every few years a new lot is laid down and run over; so that, if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail, others have the misfortune to be ridden upon.
And when they run over a man that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong position, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hue and cry about it, as if this were an exception.
I am glad to know that it takes a gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down and level in their beds as it is, for this is a sign that they may sometime get up again.
Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life?
We are determined to be starved before we are hungry.
Men say that a stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches today to save nine tomorrow.
As for work, we haven't any of any consequence.
We have the Saint Vitus' dance, and cannot possibly keep our heads still.
If I should only give a few pulls at the parish bell-rope, as for a fire, that is, without setting the bell, there is hardly a man on his farm in the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that press of engagements which was his excuse so many times this morning, nor a boy, nor a woman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow that sound, not mainly to save property from the flames, but, if we will confess the truth, much more to see it burn, since burn it must, and we, be it known, did not set it on fireor to see it put out, and have a hand in it, if that is done as handsomely; yes, even if it were the parish church itself.
Hardly a man takes a half-hour's nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his head and asks, "What's the news?"
as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels.
Some give directions to be waked every half-hour, doubtless for no other purpose; and then, to pay for it, they tell what they have dreamed.
After a night's sleep the news is as indispensable as the breakfast.
"Pray tell me anything new that has happened to a man anywhere on this globe"and he reads it over his coffee and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morning on the Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in the dark unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment of an eye himself.
For my part, I could easily do without the post-office.
I think that there are very few important communications made through it.
To speak critically, I never received more than one or two letters in my lifeI wrote this some years agothat were worth the postage.
The penny-post is, commonly, an institution through which you seriously offer a man that penny for his thoughts which is so often safely offered in jest.
And I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper.
If we read of one man robbed, or murdered, or killed by accident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steamboat blown up, or one cow run over on the Western Railroad, or one mad dog killed, or one lot of grasshoppers in the winterwe never need read of another.
One is enough.
If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for a myriad instances and applications?
To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea.
Yet not a few are greedy after this gossip.
There was such a rush, as I hear, the other day at one of the offices to learn the foreign news by the last arrival, that several large squares of plate glass belonging to the establishment were broken by the pressurenews which I seriously think a ready wit might write a twelve-month, or twelve years, beforehand with sufficient accuracy.
As for Spain, for instance, if you know how to throw in Don Carlos and the Infanta, and Don Pedro and Seville and Granada, from time to time in the right proportionsthey may have changed the names a little since I saw the papersand serve up a bull-fight when other entertainments fail, it will be true to the letter, and give us as good an idea of the exact state or ruin of things in Spain as the most succinct and lucid reports under this head in the newspapers: and as for England, almost the last significant scrap of news from that quarter was the revolution of 1649; and if you have learned the history of her crops for an average year, you never need attend to that thing again, unless your speculations are of a merely pecuniary character.
If one may judge who rarely looks into the newspapers, nothing new does ever happen in foreign parts, a French revolution not excepted.
What news!
how much more important to know what that is which was never old!
"Kieou-he-yu (great dignitary of the state of Wei) sent a man to Khoung-tseu to know his news.
Khoung-tseu caused the messenger to be seated near him, and questioned him in these terms: What is your master doing?
The messenger answered with respect: My master desires to diminish the number of his faults, but he cannot come to the end of them.
The messenger being gone, the philosopher remarked: What a worthy messenger!
What a worthy messenger!"
The preacher, instead of vexing the ears of drowsy farmers on their day of rest at the end of the weekfor Sunday is the fit conclusion of an ill-spent week, and not the fresh and brave beginning of a new onewith this one other draggle-tail of a sermon, should shout with thundering voice, "Pause!
Avast!
Why so seeming fast, but deadly slow?"
Shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality is fabulous.
If men would steadily observe realities only, and not allow themselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we know, would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights' Entertainments.
If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets.
When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence, that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality.
This is always exhilarating and sublime.
By closing the eyes and slumbering, and consenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their daily life of routine and habit everywhere, which still is built on purely illusory foundations.
Children, who play life, discern its true law and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure.
I have read in a Hindoo book, that "there was a king's son, who, being expelled in infancy from his native city, was brought up by a forester, and, growing up to maturity in that state, imagined himself to belong to the barbarous race with which he lived.
One of his father's ministers having discovered him, revealed to him what he was, and the misconception of his character was removed, and he knew himself to be a prince.
So soul," continues the Hindoo philosopher, "from the circumstances in which it is placed, mistakes its own character, until the truth is revealed to it by some holy teacher, and then it knows itself to be Brahme."
I perceive that we inhabitants of New England live this mean life that we do because our vision does not penetrate the surface of things.
We think that that is which appears to be.
If a man should walk through this town and see only the reality, where, think you, would the "Mill-dam" go to?
If he should give us an account of the realities he beheld there, we should not recognize the place in his description.
Look at a meeting-house, or a court-house, or a jail, or a shop, or a dwelling-house, and say what that thing really is before a true gaze, and they would all go to pieces in your account of them.
Men esteem truth remote, in the outskirts of the system, behind the farthest star, before Adam and after the last man.
In eternity there is indeed something true and sublime.
But all these times and places and occasions are now and here.
God himself culminates in the present moment, and will never be more divine in the lapse of all the ages.
And we are enabled to apprehend at all what is sublime and noble only by the perpetual instilling and drenching of the reality that surrounds us.
The universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us.
Let us spend our lives in conceiving then.
The poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it.
Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito's wing that falls on the rails.
Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring and the children crydetermined to make a day of it.
Why should we knock under and go with the stream?
Let us not be upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, situated in the meridian shallows.
Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill.
With unrelaxed nerves, with morning vigor, sail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast like Ulysses.
If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains.
If the bell rings, why should we run?
We will consider what kind of music they are like.
Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through New York and Boston and Concord, through Church and State, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake; and then begin, having a point d'appui, below freshet and frost and fire, a place where you might found a wall or a state, or set a lamp-post safely, or perhaps a gauge, not a Nilometer, but a Realometer, that future ages might know how deep a freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time.
If you stand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmer on both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its sweet edge dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily conclude your mortal career.
Be it life or death, we crave only reality.
If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business.
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.
I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is.
Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.
I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.
I cannot count one.
I know not the first letter of the alphabet.
I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born.
The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.
I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary.
My head is hands and feet.
I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it.
My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and fore paws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills.
I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining-rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.
READING
CHAPTER XVI The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all.
Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.
"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing.
He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor Harriet!"
How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never!
She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion.
She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it.
His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet.
To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth.
Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.
To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility.
There was no denying that those brothers had penetration.
She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself.
It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion.
His professions and his proposals did him no service.
She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes.
He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for.
There had been no real affection either in his language or manners.
Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love.
She need not trouble herself to pity him.
He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.
But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind.
The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior.
He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the Eltons were nobody.
The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.
If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door.
It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together.
It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple.
She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
"Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man.
She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him.
Oh!
that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin.
There I was quite right.
That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance.
I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more.
But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.
I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh!
no, I could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer."
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be.
The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits.
The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church.
Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas.
The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner.
No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself.
It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them,-"Ah!
Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr.
Elton?"
These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield.
He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body.
But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.
CHAPTER XVII Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield.
The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them."
Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr.
Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired.
She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced.
Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.
She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion.
It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language.
It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening.
Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark.
She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return.
She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own.
Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of.
The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.
Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life.
Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making.
She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.
Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort unrequited, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in equal force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three.
Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society.
They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth.
Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself.
She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together.
Mrs. Elton left them no choice.
If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.
"Here is April come!"
said she, "I get quite anxious about you.
June will soon be here."
"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general."
"But have you really heard of nothing?"
"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet."
"Oh!
my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing."
"I not aware!"
said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?"
"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have.
You do not know how many candidates there always are for the first situations.
I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove.
A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle.
Wax-candles in the schoolroom!
You may imagine how desirable!
Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in."
"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.
"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself.
But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."
"Trouble!
aye, I know your scruples.
You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am.
I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible."
"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble."
"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us.
Your inexperience really amuses me!
A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.
When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed.
There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect."
"Oh!
my dear, human flesh!
You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition."
"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies.
But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do."
"Something that would do!"
repeated Mrs. Elton.
"Aye, that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life."
"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for."
"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle.
Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest."
"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me.
I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer.
For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am."
"And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us."
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively.
I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me.
But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner.
Oh!
I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous.
I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown.
How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery.
I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me.
A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery.
But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery are every thing.
I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin.
Do you think it will look well?"
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them.
He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over.
He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before.
John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply.
A man who had been in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party.
John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of him."
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room.
He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
"Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma."
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body.
"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think.
Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday.
As to her illness, all nothing of course.
But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town.
They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us.
This is precisely what I wanted.
Well, pretty good news, is not it?
Have you finished it?
Has Emma read it all?
Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now.
I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way."
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion.
Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them.
She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy.
Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently.
She was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.
It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted.
They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.
CHAPTER XVI Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage.
Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.
"I see how it is," said she.
"I see what a life I am to lead among you.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated.
We really seem quite the fashion.
If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable.
From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss."
No invitation came amiss to her.
Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners.
She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged.
In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons.
They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment.
A dinner there must be.
After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought.
Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it.
"She would rather not be in his company more than she could help.
She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable.
If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home."
It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing.
She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.-Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been.--Mr.
Knightley's words dwelt with her.
He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.
"This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will never like me now.
I have neglected her too long.
But I will shew her greater attention than I have done."
Every invitation was successful.
They were all disengaged and all happy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over.
A circumstance rather unlucky occurred.
The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day of this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so.
Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial.
She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma.
John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day.
He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner.
Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma's vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable.
Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her.
He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain.
It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said, "I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time.
I hope you turned directly."
"I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before the rain was much.
It is my daily errand.
I always fetch the letters when I am here.
It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out.
A walk before breakfast does me good."
"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine."
"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out."
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied, "That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.
When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for."
There was a little blush, and then this answer, "I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters."
"Indifferent!
Oh!
no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse."
"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship."
"I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly.
"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does."
"Ah!
you are not serious now.
I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body.
I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation.
You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day."
"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years," said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings.
I consider one as including the other.
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you.
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have."
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence.
A pleasant "thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh.
Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest urbanity, said, "I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain.
Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies are delicate plants.
They should take care of their health and their complexion.
My dear, did you change your stockings?"
"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me."
"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well.
They are some of my very old friends.
I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour.
You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure.
My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield."
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you."
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
"Oh!
do not tell me.
You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed!
Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?
You and I must positively exert our authority."
"My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do feel tempted to give.
Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year.
The spring I always think requires more than common care.
Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again.
Now do not you feel that you had?
Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable.
You look as if you would not do such a thing again."
"Oh!
she shall not do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton.
"We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--and nodding significantly--"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.
I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you.
That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation."
"You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early walk.
I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before."
"My dear Jane, say no more about it.
The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master.
You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves.
But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out.
If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled."
"Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant.
If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's."
"Oh!
my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to employ our men."
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.
"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!"
said she.--"The regularity and despatch of it!
If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!"
"It is certainly very well regulated."
"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears!
So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost!
And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder."
"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them.
If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it.
That is the key to a great deal of capacity.
The public pays and must be served well."
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made.
"I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough.
But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get.
Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike.
I have not always known their writing apart."
"Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness.
I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest."
"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and always did.
And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people?
Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress.
I certainly get better and better.--Now for it."
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw."
"I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley.
"It is too small--wants strength.
It is like a woman's writing."
This was not submitted to by either lady.
They vindicated him against the base aspersion.
"No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong.
Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?"
No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
"If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen.
I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?"
"He chose to say he was employed"-"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr.
Knightley."
"Oh!
when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best."
Dinner was on table.--Mrs.
Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-"Must I go first?
I really am ashamed of always leading the way."
Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any.
She suspected that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain.
She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained.
She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.
THE GHOSTS OF THE SUITORS IN HADES—ULYSSES AND HIS MEN GO TO THE HOUSE OF LAERTES—THE PEOPLE OF ITHACA COME OUT TO ATTACK ULYSSES, BUT MINERVA CONCLUDES A PEACE.
Then Mercury of Cyllene summoned the ghosts of the suitors, and in his hand he held the fair golden wand with which he seals men 's eyes in sleep or wakes them just as he pleases; with this he roused the ghosts and led them, while they followed whining and gibbering behind him.
As bats fly squealing in the hollow of some great cave, when one of them has fallen out of the cluster in which they hang, even so did the ghosts whine and squeal as Mercury the healer of sorrow led them down into the dark abode of death.
When they had passed the waters of Oceanus and the rock Leucas, they came to the gates of the sun and the land of dreams, whereon they reached the meadow of asphodel where dwell the souls and shadows of them that can labour no more.
Here they found the ghost of Achilles son of Peleus, with those of Patroclus, Antilochus, and Ajax, who was the finest and handsomest man of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus himself.
They gathered round the ghost of the son of Peleus, and the ghost of Agamemnon joined them, sorrowing bitterly.
Round him were gathered also the ghosts of those who had perished with him in the house of Aegisthus; and the ghost of Achilles spoke first.
"Son of Atreus," it said," we used to say that Jove had loved you better from first to last than any other hero, for you were captain over many and brave men, when we were all fighting together before Troy; yet the hand of death, which no mortal can escape, was laid upon you all too early.
Better for you had you fallen at Troy in the heyday of your renown, for the Achaeans would have built a mound over your ashes, and your son would have been heir to your good name, whereas it has now been your lot to come to a most miserable end."
"Happy son of Peleus," answered the ghost of Agamemnon," for having died at Troy far from Argos, while the bravest of the Trojans and the Achaeans fell round you fighting for your body.
There you lay in the whirling clouds of dust, all huge and hugely, heedless now of your chivalry.
We fought the whole of the livelong day, nor should we ever have left off if Jove had not sent a hurricane to stay us.
Then, when we had borne you to the ships out of the fray, we laid you on your bed and cleansed your fair skin with warm water and with ointments.
The Danaans tore their hair and wept bitterly round about you.
Your mother, when she heard, came with her immortal nymphs from out of the sea, and the sound of a great wailing went forth over the waters so that the Achaeans quaked for fear.
They would have fled panicstricken to their ships had not wise old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest checked them saying,' Hold, Argives, fly not sons of the Achaeans, this is his mother coming from the sea with her immortal nymphs to view the body of her son.'
"Thus he spoke, and the Achaeans feared no more.
The daughters of the old man of the sea stood round you weeping bitterly, and clothed you in immortal raiment.
The nine muses also came and lifted up their sweet voices in lament— calling and answering one another; there was not an Argive but wept for pity of the dirge they chaunted.
Days and nights seven and ten we mourned you, mortals and immortals, but on the eighteenth day we gave you to the flames, and many a fat sheep with many an ox did we slay in sacrifice around you.
You were burnt in raiment of the gods, with rich resins and with honey, while heroes, horse and foot, clashed their armour round the pile as you were burning, with the tramp as of a great multitude.
But when the flames of heaven had done their work, we gathered your white bones at daybreak and laid them in ointments and in pure wine.
Your mother brought us a golden vase to hold them— gift of Bacchus, and work of Vulcan himself; in this we mingled your bleached bones with those of Patroclus who had gone before you, and separate we enclosed also those of Antilochus, who had been closer to you than any other of your comrades now that Patroclus was no more.
"Over these the host of the Argives built a noble tomb, on a point jutting out over the open Hellespont, that it might be seen from far out upon the sea by those now living and by them that shall be born hereafter.
Your mother begged prizes from the gods, and offered them to be contended for by the noblest of the Achaeans.
You must have been present at the funeral of many a hero, when the young men gird themselves and make ready to contend for prizes on the death of some great chieftain, but you never saw such prizes as silverfooted Thetis offered in your honour; for the gods loved you well.
Thus even in death your fame, Achilles, has not been lost, and your name lives evermore among all mankind.
But as for me, what solace had I when the days of my fighting were done?
For Jove willed my destruction on my return, by the hands of Aegisthus and those of my wicked wife."
Thus did they converse, and presently Mercury came up to them with the ghosts of the suitors who had been killed by Ulysses.
The ghosts of Agamemnon and Achilles were astonished at seeing them, and went up to them at once.
The ghost of Agamemnon recognised Amphimedon son of Melaneus, who lived in Ithaca and had been his host, so it began to talk to him.
"Amphimedon," it said," what has happened to all you fine young men— all of an age too— that you are come down here under the ground?
One could pick no finer body of men from any city.
Did Neptune raise his winds and waves against you when you were at sea, or did your enemies make an end of you on the mainland when you were cattlelifting or sheepstealing, or while fighting in defence of their wives and city?
Answer my question, for I have been your guest.
Do you not remember how I came to your house with Menelaus, to persuade Ulysses to join us with his ships against Troy?
It was a whole month ere we could resume our voyage, for we had hard work to persuade Ulysses to come with us."
And the ghost of Amphimedon answered," Agamemnon, son of Atreus, king of men, I remember everything that you have said, and will tell you fully and accurately about the way in which our end was brought about.
Ulysses had been long gone, and we were courting his wife, who did not say point blank that she would not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, for she meant to compass our destruction: this, then, was the trick she played us.
She set up a great tambour frame in her room and began to work on an enormous piece of fine needlework.'
Sweethearts,' said she,' Ulysses is indeed dead, still, do not press me to marry again immediately ;wait— for I would not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded— till I have completed a pall for the hero Laertes, against the time when death shall take him.
He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.'
This is what she said, and we assented; whereupon we could see her working upon her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight.
She fooled us in this way for three years without our finding it out, but as time wore on and she was now in her fourth year, in the waning of moons and many days had been accomplished, one of her maids who knew what she was doing told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it whether she would or no; and when she showed us the robe she had made, after she had had it washed its splendour was as that of the sun or moon.
"Then some malicious god conveyed Ulysses to the upland farm where his swineherd lives.
Thither presently came also his son, returning from a voyage to Pylos, and the two came to the town when they had hatched their plot for our destruction.
Telemachus came first, and then after him, accompanied by the swineherd, came Ulysses, clad in rags and leaning on a staff as though he were some miserable old beggar.
He came so unexpectedly that none of us knew him, not even the older ones among us, and we reviled him and threw things at him.
He endured both being struck and insulted without a word, though he was in his own house; but when the will of Aegisbearing Jove inspired him, he and Telemachus took the armour and hid it in an inner chamber, bolting the doors behind them.
Then he cunningly made his wife offer his bow and a quantity of iron to be contended for by us illfated suitors; and this was the beginning of our end, for not one of us could string the bow— nor nearly do so.
When it was about to reach the hands of Ulysses, we all of us shouted out that it should not be given him, no matter what he might say, but Telemachus insisted on his having it.
When he had got it in his hands he strung it with ease and sent his arrow through the iron.
Then he stood on the floor of the cloister and poured his arrows on the ground, glaring fiercely about him.
First he killed Antinous, and then, aiming straight before him, he let fly his deadly darts and they fell thick on one another.
It was plain that some one of the gods was helping them, for they fell upon us with might and main throughout the cloisters, and there was a hideous sound of groaning as our brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with our blood.
This, Agamemnon, is how we came by our end, and our bodies are lying still uncared for in the house of Ulysses, for our friends at home do not yet know what has happened, so that they can not lay us out and wash the black blood from our wounds, making moan over us according to the offices due to the departed."
"Happy Ulysses, son of Laertes," replied the ghost of Agamemnon," you are indeed blessed in the possession of a wife endowed with such rare excellence of understanding, and so faithful to her wedded lord as Penelope the daughter of Icarius.
The fame, therefore, of her virtue shall never die, and the immortals shall compose a song that shall be welcome to all mankind in honour of the constancy of Penelope.
How far otherwise was the wickedness of the daughter of Tyndareus who killed her lawful husband; her song shall be hateful among men, for she has brought disgrace on all womankind even on the good ones."
Thus did they converse in the house of Hades deep down within the bowels of the earth.
Meanwhile Ulysses and the others passed out of the town and soon reached the fair and welltilled farm of Laertes, which he had reclaimed with infinite labour.
Here was his house, with a leanto running all round it, where the slaves who worked for him slept and sat and ate, while inside the house there was an old Sicel woman, who looked after him in this his countryfarm.
When Ulysses got there, he said to his son and to the other two: "Go to the house, and kill the best pig that you can find for dinner.
Meanwhile I want to see whether my father will know me, or fail to recognise me after so long an absence."
He then took off his armour and gave it to Eumaeus and Philoetius, who went straight on to the house, while he turned off into the vineyard to make trial of his father.
As he went down into the great orchard, he did not see Dolius, nor any of his sons nor of the other bondsmen, for they were all gathering thorns to make a fence for the vineyard, at the place where the old man had told them; he therefore found his father alone, hoeing a vine.
He had on a dirty old shirt, patched and very shabby; his legs were bound round with thongs of oxhide to save him from the brambles, and he also wore sleeves of leather; he had a goat skin cap on his head, and was looking very woebegone.
When Ulysses saw him so worn, so old and full of sorrow, he stood still under a tall pear tree and began to weep.
He doubted whether to embrace him, kiss him, and tell him all about his having come home, or whether he should first question him and see what he would say.
In the end he deemed it best to be crafty with him, so in this mind he went up to his father, who was bending down and digging about a plant.
"I see, sir," said Ulysses," that you are an excellent gardener— what pains you take with it, to be sure.
There is not a single plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear, nor flower bed, but bears the trace of your attention.
I trust, however, that you will not be offended if I say that you take better care of your garden than of yourself.
You are old, unsavoury, and very meanly clad.
It can not be because you are idle that your master takes such poor care of you, indeed your face and figure have nothing of the slave about them, and proclaim you of noble birth.
I should have said that you were one of those who should wash well, eat well, and lie soft at night as old men have a right to do; but tell me, and tell me true, whose bondman are you, and in whose garden are you working?
Tell me also about another matter.
Is this place that I have come to really Ithaca?
I met a man just now who said so, but he was a dull fellow, and had not the patience to hear my story out when I was asking him about an old friend of mine, whether he was still living, or was already dead and in the house of Hades.
Believe me when I tell you that this man came to my house once when I was in my own country and never yet did any stranger come to me whom I liked better.
He said that his family came from Ithaca and that his father was Laertes, son of Arceisius.
I received him hospitably, making him welcome to all the abundance of my house, and when he went away I gave him all customary presents.
I gave him seven talents of fine gold, and a cup of solid silver with flowers chased upon it.
I gave him twelve light cloaks, and as many pieces of tapestry; I also gave him twelve cloaks of single fold, twelve rugs, twelve fair mantles, and an equal number of shirts.
To all this I added four good looking women skilled in all useful arts, and I let him take his choice."
His father shed tears and answered," Sir, you have indeed come to the country that you have named, but it is fallen into the hands of wicked people.
All this wealth of presents has been given to no purpose.
If you could have found your friend here alive in Ithaca, he would have entertained you hospitably and would have requited your presents amply when you left him— as would have been only right considering what you had already given him.
But tell me, and tell me true, how many years is it since you entertained this guest— my unhappy son, as ever was?
Alas!
He has perished far from his own country; the fishes of the sea have eaten him, or he has fallen a prey to the birds and wild beasts of some continent.
Neither his mother, nor I his father, who were his parents, could throw our arms about him and wrap him in his shroud, nor could his excellent and richly dowered wife Penelope bewail her husband as was natural upon his death bed, and close his eyes according to the offices due to the departed.
But now, tell me truly for I want to know.
Who and whence are you— tell me of your town and parents?
Where is the ship lying that has brought you and your men to Ithaca?
Or were you a passenger on some other man 's ship, and those who brought you here have gone on their way and left you?"
"I will tell you everything," answered Ulysses," quite truly.
I come from Alybas, where I have a fine house.
I am son of king Apheidas, who is the son of Polypemon.
My own name is Eperitus; heaven drove me off my course as I was leaving Sicania, and I have been carried here against my will.
As for my ship it is lying over yonder, off the open country outside the town, and this is the fifth year since Ulysses left my country.
Poor fellow, yet the omens were good for him when he left me.
The birds all flew on our right hands, and both he and I rejoiced to see them as we parted, for we had every hope that we should have another friendly meeting and exchange presents."
A dark cloud of sorrow fell upon Laertes as he listened.
He filled both hands with the dust from off the ground and poured it over his grey head, groaning heavily as he did so.
The heart of Ulysses was touched, and his nostrils quivered as he looked upon his father; then he sprang towards him, flung his arms about him and kissed him, saying," I am he, father, about whom you are asking— I have returned after having been away for twenty years.
But cease your sighing and lamentation— we have no time to lose, for I should tell you that I have been killing the suitors in my house, to punish them for their insolence and crimes."
"If you really are my son Ulysses," replied Laertes," and have come back again, you must give me such manifest proof of your identity as shall convince me."
"First observe this scar," answered Ulysses," which I got from a boar 's tusk when I was hunting on Mt.
Parnassus.
You and my mother had sent me to Autolycus, my mother 's father, to receive the presents which when he was over here he had promised to give me.
Furthermore I will point out to you the trees in the vineyard which you gave me, and I asked you all about them as I followed you round the garden.
We went over them all, and you told me their names and what they all were.
You gave me thirteen pear trees, ten apple trees, and forty fig trees; you also said you would give me fifty rows of vines; there was corn planted between each row, and they yield grapes of every kind when the heat of heaven has been laid heavy upon them."
Laertes ' strength failed him when he heard the convincing proofs which his son had given him.
He threw his arms about him, and Ulysses had to support him, or he would have gone off into a swoon; but as soon as he came to, and was beginning to recover his senses, he said," O father Jove, then you gods are still in Olympus after all, if the suitors have really been punished for their insolence and folly.
Nevertheless, I am much afraid that I shall have all the townspeople of Ithaca up here directly, and they will be sending messengers everywhere throughout the cities of the Cephallenians."
Ulysses answered," Take heart and do not trouble yourself about that, but let us go into the house hard by your garden.
I have already told Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus to go on there and get dinner ready as soon as possible."
Thus conversing the two made their way towards the house.
When they got there they found Telemachus with the stockman and the swineherd cutting up meat and mixing wine with water.
Then the old Sicel woman took Laertes inside and washed him and anointed him with oil.
She put him on a good cloak, and Minerva came up to him and gave him a more imposing presence, making him taller and stouter than before.
When he came back his son was surprised to see him looking so like an immortal, and said to him," My dear father, some one of the gods has been making you much taller and betterlooking."
Laertes answered," Would, by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I were the man I was when I ruled among the Cephallenians, and took Nericum, that strong fortress on the foreland.
If I were still what I then was and had been in our house yesterday with my armour on, I should have been able to stand by you and help you against the suitors.
I should have killed a great many of them, and you would have rejoiced to see it."
Thus did they converse; but the others, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, left off working, and took each his proper place on the benches and seats.
Then they began eating; by and by old Dolius and his sons left their work and came up, for their mother, the Sicel woman who looked after Laertes now that he was growing old, had been to fetch them.
When they saw Ulysses and were certain it was he, they stood there lost in astonishment; but Ulysses scolded them good naturedly and said," Sit down to your dinner, old man, and never mind about your surprise; we have been wanting to begin for some time and have been waiting for you."
Then Dolius put out both his hands and went up to Ulysses. "
Sir," said he, seizing his master 's hand and kissing it at the wrist," we have long been wishing you home: and now heaven has restored you to us after we had given up hoping.
All hail, therefore, and may the gods prosper you.
But tell me, does Penelope already know of your return, or shall we send some one to tell her?"
"Old man," answered Ulysses," she knows already, so you need not trouble about that.
"On this he took his seat, and the sons of Dolius gathered round Ulysses to give him greeting and embrace him one after the other; then they took their seats in due order near Dolius their father.
While they were thus busy getting their dinner ready, Rumour went round the town, and noised abroad the terrible fate that had befallen the suitors; as soon, therefore, as the people heard of it they gathered from every quarter, groaning and hooting before the house of Ulysses.
They took the dead away, buried every man his own, and put the bodies of those who came from elsewhere on board the fishing vessels, for the fishermen to take each of them to his own place.
They then met angrily in the place of assembly, and when they were got together Eupeithes rose to speak.
He was overwhelmed with grief for the death of his son Antinous, who had been the first man killed by Ulysses, so he said, weeping bitterly," My friends, this man has done the Achaeans great wrong.
He took many of our best men away with him in his fleet, and he has lost both ships and men; now, moreover, on his return he has been killing all the foremost men among the Cephallenians.
Let us be up and doing before he can get away to Pylos or to Elis where the Epeans rule, or we shall be ashamed of ourselves for ever afterwards.
It will be an everlasting disgrace to us if we do not avenge the murder of our sons and brothers.
For my own part I should have no more pleasure in life, but had rather die at once.
Let us be up, then, and after them, before they can cross over to the main land."
He wept as he spoke and every one pitied him.
But Medon and the bard Phemius had now woke up, and came to them from the house of Ulysses.
Every one was astonished at seeing them, but they stood in the middle of the assembly, and Medon said," Hear me, men of Ithaca.
Ulysses did not do these things against the will of heaven.
I myself saw an immortal god take the form of Mentor and stand beside him.
This god appeared, now in front of him encouraging him, and now going furiously about the court and attacking the suitors whereon they fell thick on one another."
On this pale fear laid hold of them, and old Halitherses, son of Mastor, rose to speak, for he was the only man among them who knew both past and future; so he spoke to them plainly and in all honesty, saying, "Men of Ithaca, it is all your own fault that things have turned out as they have; you would not listen to me, nor yet to Mentor, when we bade you check the folly of your sons who were doing much wrong in the wantonness of their hearts— wasting the substance and dishonouring the wife of a chieftain who they thought would not return.
Now, however, let it be as I say, and do as I tell you.
Do not go out against Ulysses, or you may find that you have been drawing down evil on your own heads."
This was what he said, and more than half raised a loud shout, and at once left the assembly.
But the rest stayed where they were, for the speech of Halitherses displeased them, and they sided with Eupeithes; they therefore hurried off for their armour, and when they had armed themselves, they met together in front of the city, and Eupeithes led them on in their folly.
He thought he was going to avenge the murder of his son, whereas in truth he was never to return, but was himself to perish in his attempt.
Then Minerva said to Jove," Father, son of Saturn, king of kings, answer me this question— What do you propose to do?
Will you set them fighting still further, or will you make peace between them?"
And Jove answered," My child, why should you ask me?
Was it not by your own arrangement that Ulysses came home and took his revenge upon the suitors?
Do whatever you like, but I will tell you what I think will be most reasonable arrangement.
Now that Ulysses is revenged, let them swear to a solemn covenant, in virtue of which he shall continue to rule, while we cause the others to forgive and forget the massacre of their sons and brothers.
Let them then all become friends as heretofore, and let peace and plenty reign."
This was what Minerva was already eager to bring about, so down she darted from off the topmost summits of Olympus.
Now when Laertes and the others had done dinner, Ulysses began by saying," Some of you go out and see if they are not getting close up to us."
So one of Dolius 's sons went as he was bid.
Standing on the threshold he could see them all quite near, and said to Ulysses," Here they are, let us put on our armour at once."
They put on their armour as fast as they could— that is to say Ulysses, his three men, and the six sons of Dolius.
Laertes also and Dolius did the same— warriors by necessity in spite of their grey hair.
When they had all put on their armour, they opened the gate and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way.
Then Jove 's daughter Minerva came up to them, having assumed the form and voice of Mentor.
Ulysses was glad when he saw her, and said to his son Telemachus," Telemachus, now that you are about to fight in an engagement, which will show every man 's mettle, be sure not to disgrace your ancestors, who were eminent for their strength and courage all the world over."
"You say truly, my dear father," answered Telemachus," and you shall see, if you will, that I am in no mind to disgrace your family."
Laertes was delighted when he heard this."
Good heavens," he exclaimed," what a day I am enjoying: I do indeed rejoice at it.
My son and grandson are vying with one another in the matter of valour."
On this Minerva came close up to him and said," Son of Arceisius—-best friend I have in the world— pray to the blueeyed damsel, and to Jove her father; then poise your spear and hurl it."
As she spoke she infused fresh vigour into him, and when he had prayed to her he poised his spear and hurled it.
He hit Eupeithes ' helmet, and the spear went right through it, for the helmet stayed it not, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Meantime Ulysses and his son fell upon the front line of the foe and smote them with their swords and spears; indeed, they would have killed every one of them, and prevented them from ever getting home again, only Minerva raised her voice aloud, and made every one pause."
Men of Ithaca," she cried," cease this dreadful war, and settle the matter at once without further bloodshed."
On this pale fear seized every one; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess ' voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives.
But Ulysses gave a great cry, and gathering himself together swooped down like a soaring eagle.
Then the son of Saturn sent a thunderbolt of fire that fell just in front of Minerva, so she said to Ulysses," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, stop this warful strife, or Jove will be angry with you."
Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly.
Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.
Ulysses and Diomed go out as spies, and meet Dolon, who gives them information: they then kill him, and profiting by what he had told them, kill Rhesus king of the Thracians and take his horses.
Now the other princes of the Achaeans slept soundly the whole night through, but Agamemnon son of Atreus was troubled, so that he could get no rest.
As when fair Juno 's lord flashes his lightning in token of great rain or hail or snow when the snowflakes whiten the ground, or again as a sign that he will open the wide jaws of hungry war, even so did Agamemnon heave many a heavy sigh, for his soul trembled within him.
When he looked upon the plain of Troy he marvelled at the many watchfires burning in front of Ilius, and at the sound of pipes and flutes and of the hum of men, but when presently he turned towards the ships and hosts of the Achaeans, he tore his hair by handfuls before Jove on high, and groaned aloud for the very disquietness of his soul.
In the end he deemed it best to go at once to Nestor son of Neleus, and see if between them they could find any way of the Achaeans from destruction.
He therefore rose, put on his shirt, bound his sandals about his comely feet, flung the skin of a huge tawny lion over his shoulders— a skin that reached his feet— and took his spear in his hand.
Neither could Menelaus sleep, for he, too, boded ill for the Argives who for his sake had sailed from far over the seas to fight the Trojans.
He covered his broad back with the skin of a spotted panther, put a casque of bronze upon his head, and took his spear in his brawny hand.
Then he went to rouse his brother, who was by far the most powerful of the Achaeans, and was honoured by the people as though he were a god.
He found him by the stern of his ship already putting his goodly array about his shoulders, and right glad was he that his brother had come.
Menelaus spoke first.
"Why," said he," my dear brother, are you thus arming?
Are you going to send any of our comrades to exploit the Trojans?
I greatly fear that no one will do you this service, and spy upon the enemy alone in the dead of night.
It will be a deed of great daring."
And King Agamemnon answered," Menelaus, we both of us need shrewd counsel to save the Argives and our ships, for Jove has changed his mind, and inclines towards Hector 's sacrifices rather than ours.
I never saw nor heard tell of any man as having wrought such ruin in one day as Hector has now wrought against the sons of the Achaeans— and that too of his own unaided self, for he is son neither to god nor goddess.
The Argives will rue it long and deeply.
Run, therefore, with all speed by the line of the ships, and call Ajax and Idomeneus.
Meanwhile I will go to Nestor, and bid him rise and go about among the companies of our sentinels to give them their instructions; they will listen to him sooner than to any man, for his own son, and Meriones brother in arms to Idomeneus, are captains over them.
It was to them more particularly that we gave this charge."
Menelaus replied," How do I take your meaning?
Am I to stay with them and wait your coming, or shall I return here as soon as I have given your orders?"
"Wait," answered King Agamemnon," for there are so many paths about the camp that we might miss one another.
Call every man on your way, and bid him be stirring; name him by his lineage and by his father 's name, give each all titular observance, and stand not too much upon your own dignity; we must take our full share of toil, for at our birth Jove laid this heavy burden upon us."
With these instructions he sent his brother on his way, and went on to Nestor shepherd of his people.
He found him sleeping in his tent hard by his own ship; his goodly armour lay beside him— his shield, his two spears and his helmet; beside him also lay the gleaming girdle with which the old man girded himself when he armed to lead his people into battle— for his age stayed him not.
He raised himself on his elbow and looked up at Agamemnon.
"Who is it," said he," that goes thus about the host and the ships alone and in the dead of night, when men are sleeping?
Are you looking for one of your mules or for some comrade?
Do not stand there and say nothing, but speak.
What is your business?"
And Agamemnon answered," Nestor, son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, it is I, Agamemnon son of Atreus, on whom Jove has laid labour and sorrow so long as there is breath in my body and my limbs carry me.
I am thus abroad because sleep sits not upon my eyelids, but my heart is big with war and with the jeopardy of the Achaeans.
I am in great fear for the Danaans.
I am at sea, and without sure counsel; my heart beats as though it would leap out of my body, and my limbs fail me.
If then you can do anything— for you too can not sleep— let us go the round of the watch, and see whether they are drowsy with toil and sleeping to the neglect of their duty.
The enemy is encamped hard and we know not but he may attack us by night."
Nestor replied," Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, Jove will not do all for Hector that Hector thinks he will; he will have troubles yet in plenty if Achilles will lay aside his anger.
I will go with you, and we will rouse others, either the son of Tydeus, or Ulysses, or fleet Ajax and the valiant son of Phyleus.
Some one had also better go and call Ajax and King Idomeneus, for their ships are not near at hand but the farthest of all.
I can not however refrain from blaming Menelaus, much as I love him and respect him— and I will say so plainly, even at the risk of offending you— for sleeping and leaving all this trouble to yourself.
He ought to be going about imploring aid from all the princes of the Achaeans, for we are in extreme danger."
And Agamemnon answered," Sir, you may sometimes blame him justly, for he is often remiss and unwilling to exert himself— not indeed from sloth, nor yet heedlessness, but because he looks to me and expects me to take the lead.
On this occasion, however, he was awake before I was, and came to me of his own accord.
I have already sent him to call the very men whom you have named.
And now let us be going.
We shall find them with the watch outside the gates, for it was there I said that we would meet them."
"In that case," answered Nestor," the Argives will not blame him nor disobey his orders when he urges them to fight or gives them instructions."
With this he put on his shirt, and bound his sandals about his comely feet.
He buckled on his purple coat, of two thicknesses, large, and of a rough shaggy texture, grasped his redoubtable bronzeshod spear, and wended his way along the line of the Achaean ships.
First he called loudly to Ulysses peer of gods in counsel and woke him, for he was soon roused by the sound of the battlecry.
He came outside his tent and said," Why do you go thus alone about the host, and along the line of the ships in the stillness of the night?
What is it that you find so urgent?"
And Nestor knight of Gerene answered," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, take it not amiss, for the Achaeans are in great straits.
Come with me and let us wake some other, who may advise well with us whether we shall fight or fly."
On this Ulysses went at once into his tent, put his shield about his shoulders and came out with them.
First they went to Diomed son of Tydeus, and found him outside his tent clad in his armour with his comrades sleeping round him and using their shields as pillows; as for their spears, they stood upright on the spikes of their butts that were driven into the ground, and the burnished bronze flashed afar like the lightning of father Jove.
The hero was sleeping upon the skin of an ox, with a piece of fine carpet under his head; Nestor went up to him and stirred him with his heel to rouse him, upbraiding him and urging him to bestir himself. "
Wake up," he exclaimed," son of Tydeus.
How can you sleep on in this way?
Can you not see that the Trojans are encamped on the brow of the plain hard by our ships, with but a little space between us and them?"
On these words Diomed leaped up instantly and said," Old man, your heart is of iron; you rest not one moment from your labours.
Are there no younger men among the Achaeans who could go about to rouse the princes?
There is no tiring you."
And Nestor knight of Gerene made answer," My son, all that you have said is true.
I have good sons, and also much people who might call the chieftains, but the Achaeans are in the gravest danger; life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor.
Go then, for you are younger than I, and of your courtesy rouse Ajax and the fleet son of Phyleus."
Diomed threw the skin of a great tawny lion about his shoulders— a skin that reached his feet— and grasped his spear.
When he had roused the heroes, he brought them back with him; they then went the round of those who were on guard, and found the captains not sleeping at their posts but wakeful and sitting with their arms about them.
As sheep dogs that watch their flocks when they are yarded, and hear a wild beast coming through the mountain forest towards them— forthwith there is a hue and cry of dogs and men, and slumber is broken— even so was sleep chased from the eyes of the Achaeans as they kept the watches of the wicked night, for they turned constantly towards the plain whenever they heard any stir among the Trojans.
The old man was glad and bade them be of good cheer.
"Watch on, my children," said he," and let not sleep get hold upon you, lest our enemies triumph over us."
With this he passed the trench, and with him the other chiefs of the Achaeans who had been called to the council.
Meriones and the brave son of Nestor went also, for the princes bade them.
When they were beyond the trench that was dug round the wall they held their meeting on the open ground where there was a space clear of corpses, for it was here that when night fell Hector had turned back from his onslaught on the Argives.
They sat down, therefore, and held debate with one another.
Nestor spoke first. "
My friends," said he," is there any man bold enough to venture among the Trojans, and cut off some straggler, or bring us news of what the enemy mean to do whether they will stay here by the ships away from the city, or whether, now that they have worsted the Achaeans, they will retire within their walls.
If he could learn all this and come back safely here, his fame would be high as heaven in the mouths of all men, and he would be rewarded richly; for the chiefs from all our ships would each of them give him a black ewe with her lamb— which is a present of surpassing value— and he would be asked as a guest to all feasts and clangatherings."
They all held their peace, but Diomed of the loud warcry spoke saying," Nestor, gladly will I visit the host of the Trojans over against us, but if another will go with me I shall do so in greater confidence and comfort.
When two men are together, one of them may see some opportunity which the other has not caught sight of; if a man is alone he is less full of resource, and his wit is weaker."
On this several offered to go with Diomed.
The two Ajaxes, servants of Mars, Meriones, and the son of Nestor all wanted to go, so did Menelaus son of Atreus; Ulysses also wished to go among the host of the Trojans, for he was ever full of daring, and thereon Agamemnon king of men spoke thus:" Diomed," said he," son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, choose your comrade for yourself— take the best man of those that have offered, for many would now go with you.
Do not through delicacy reject the better man, and take the worst out of respect for his lineage, because he is of more royal blood."
He said this because he feared for Menelaus.
Diomed answered," If you bid me take the man of my own choice, how in that case can I fail to think of Ulysses, than whom there is no man more eager to face all kinds of danger— and Pallas Minerva loves him well?
If he were to go with me we should pass safely through fire itself, for he is quick to see and understand."
"Son of Tydeus," replied Ulysses," say neither good nor ill about me, for you are among Argives who know me well.
Let us be going, for the night wanes and dawn is at hand.
The stars have gone forward, twothirds of the night are already spent, and the third is alone left us."
They then put on their armour.
Brave Thrasymedes provided the son of Tydeus with a sword and a shield( for he had left his own at his ship) and on his head he set a helmet of bull 's hide without either peak or crest; it is called a skullcap and is a common headgear.
Meriones found a bow and quiver for Ulysses, and on his head he set a leathern helmet that was lined with a strong plaiting of leathern thongs, while on the outside it was thickly studded with boar 's teeth, well and skilfully set into it; next the head there was an inner lining of felt.
This helmet had been stolen by Autolycus out of Eleon when he broke into the house of Amyntor son of Ormenus.
He gave it to Amphidamas of Cythera to take to Scandea, and Amphidamas gave it as a guestgift to Molus, who gave it to his son Meriones; and now it was set upon the head of Ulysses.
When the pair had armed, they set out, and left the other chieftains behind them.
Pallas Minerva sent them a heron by the wayside upon their right hands; they could not see it for the darkness, but they heard its cry.
Ulysses was glad when he heard it and prayed to Minerva:" Hear me," he cried," daughter of aegisbearing Jove, you who spy out all my ways and who are with me in all my hardships; befriend me in this mine hour, and grant that we may return to the ships covered with glory after having achieved some mighty exploit that shall bring sorrow to the Trojans."
Then Diomed of the loud warcry also prayed:" Hear me too," said he," daughter of Jove, unweariable; be with me even as you were with my noble father Tydeus when he went to Thebes as envoy sent by the Achaeans.
He left the Achaeans by the banks of the river Aesopus, and went to the city bearing a message of peace to the Cadmeians; on his return thence, with your help, goddess, he did great deeds of daring, for you were his ready helper.
Even so guide me and guard me now, and in return I will offer you in sacrifice a broadbrowed heifer of a year old, unbroken, and never yet brought by man under the yoke.
I will gild her horns and will offer her up to you in sacrifice."
Thus they prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard their prayer.
When they had done praying to the daughter of great Jove, they went their way like two lions prowling by night amid the armour and bloodstained bodies of them that had fallen.
Neither again did Hector let the Trojans sleep; for he too called the princes and councillors of the Trojans that he might set his counsel before them. "
Is there one," said he," who for a great reward will do me the service of which I will tell you?
He shall be well paid if he will.
I will give him a chariot and a couple of horses, the fleetest that can be found at the ships of the Achaeans, if he will dare this thing; and he will win infinite honour to boot; he must go to the ships and find out whether they are still guarded as heretofore, or whether now that we have beaten them the Achaeans design to fly, and through sheer exhaustion are neglecting to keep their watches."
They all held their peace; but there was among the Trojans a certain man named Dolon, son of Eumedes, the famous herald— a man rich in gold and bronze.
He was illfavoured, but a good runner, and was an only son among five sisters.
He it was that now addressed the Trojans.
"I, Hector," said he," Will to the ships and will exploit them.
But first hold up your sceptre and swear that you will give me the chariot, bedight with bronze, and the horses that now carry the noble son of Peleus.
I will make you a good scout, and will not fail you.
I will go through the host from one end to the other till I come to the ship of Agamemnon, where I take it the princes of the Achaeans are now consulting whether they shall fight or fly."
When he had done speaking Hector held up his sceptre, and swore him his oath saying," May Jove the thundering husband of Juno bear witness that no other Trojan but yourself shall mount those steeds, and that you shall have your will with them for ever."
The oath he swore was bootless, but it made Dolon more keen on going.
He hung his bow over his shoulder, and as an overall he wore the skin of a grey wolf, while on his head he set a cap of ferret skin.
Then he took a pointed javelin, and left the camp for the ships, but he was not to return with any news for Hector.
When he had left the horses and the troops behind him, he made all speed on his way, but Ulysses perceived his coming and said to Diomed," Diomed, here is some one from the camp; I am not sure whether he is a spy, or whether it is some thief who would plunder the bodies of the dead; let him get a little past us, we can then spring upon him and take him.
If, however, he is too quick for us, go after him with your spear and hem him in towards the ships away from the Trojan camp, to prevent his getting back to the town."
With this they turned out of their way and lay down among the corpses.
Dolon suspected nothing and soon passed them, but when he had got about as far as the distance by which a muleplowed furrow exceeds one that has been ploughed by oxen( for mules can plow fallow land quicker than oxen) they ran after him, and when he heard their footsteps he stood still, for he made sure they were friends from the Trojan camp come by Hector 's orders to bid him return; when, however, they were only a spear 's cast, or less, away from him, he saw that they were enemies and ran as fast as his legs could take him.
The others gave chase at once, and as a couple of welltrained hounds press forward after a doe or hare that runs screaming in front of them, even so did the son of Tydeus and Ulysses pursue Dolon and cut him off from his own people.
But when he had fled so far towards the ships that he would soon have fallen in with the outposts, Minerva infused fresh strength into the son of Tydeus for fear some other of the Achaeans might have the glory of being first to hit him, and he might himself be only second; he therefore sprang forward with his spear and said," Stand, or I shall throw my spear, and in that case I shall soon make an end of you."
He threw as he spoke, but missed his aim on purpose.
The dart flew over the man 's right shoulder, and then stuck in the ground.
He stood stock still, trembling and in great fear; his teeth chattered, and he turned pale with fear.
The two came breathless up to him and seized his hands, whereon he began to weep and said," Take me alive; I will ransom myself; we have great store of gold, bronze, and wrought iron, and from this my father will satisfy you with a very large ransom, should he hear of my being alive at the ships of the Achaeans."
"Fear not," replied Ulysses," let no thought of death be in your mind; but tell me, and tell me true, why are you thus going about alone in the dead of night away from your camp and towards the ships, while other men are sleeping?
Is it to plunder the bodies of the slain, or did Hector send you to spy out what was going on at the ships?
Or did you come here of your own mere notion?"
Dolon answered, his limbs trembling beneath him:" Hector, with his vain flattering promises, lured me from my better judgement.
He said he would give me the horses of the noble son of Peleus and his bronzebedizened chariot; he bade me go through the darkness of the flying night, get close to the enemy, and find out whether the ships are still guarded as heretofore, or whether, now that we have beaten them, the Achaeans design to fly, and through sheer exhaustion are neglecting to keep their watches."
Ulysses smiled at him and answered," You had indeed set your heart upon a great reward, but the horses of the descendant of Aeacus are hardly to be kept in hand or driven by any other mortal man than Achilles himself, whose mother was an immortal.
But tell me, and tell me true, where did you leave Hector when you started?
Where lies his armour and his horses?
How, too, are the watches and sleepingground of the Trojans ordered?
What are their plans?
Will they stay here by the ships and away from the city, or now that they have worsted the Achaeans, will they retire within their walls?"
And Dolon answered," I will tell you truly all.
Hector and the other councillors are now holding conference by the monument of great Ilus, away from the general tumult; as for the guards about which you ask me, there is no chosen watch to keep guard over the host.
The Trojans have their watchfires, for they are bound to have them; they, therefore, are awake and keep each other to their duty as sentinels; but the allies who have come from other places are asleep and leave it to the Trojans to keep guard, for their wives and children are not here."
Ulysses then said," Now tell me; are they sleeping among the Trojan troops, or do they lie apart?
Explain this that I may understand it."
"I will tell you truly all," replied Dolon."
To the seaward lie the Carians, the Paeonian bowmen, the Leleges, the Cauconians, and the noble Pelasgi.
The Lysians and proud Mysians, with the Phrygians and Meonians, have their place on the side towards Thymbra; but why ask about all this?
If you want to find your way into the host of the Trojans, there are the Thracians, who have lately come here and lie apart from the others at the far end of the camp; and they have Rhesus son of Eioneus for their king.
His horses are the finest and strongest that I have ever seen, they are whiter than snow and fleeter than any wind that blows.
His chariot is bedight with silver and gold, and he has brought his marvellous golden armour, of the rarest workmanship— too splendid for any mortal man to carry, and meet only for the gods.
Now, therefore, take me to the ships or bind me securely here, until you come back and have proved my words whether they be false or true."
Diomed looked sternly at him and answered," Think not, Dolon, for all the good information you have given us, that you shall escape now you are in our hands, for if we ransom you or let you go, you will come some second time to the ships of the Achaeans either as a spy or as an open enemy, but if I kill you and an end of you, you will give no more trouble."
On this Dolon would have caught him by the beard to beseech him further, but Diomed struck him in the middle of his neck with his sword and cut through both sinews so that his head fell rolling in the dust while he was yet speaking.
They took the ferretskin cap from his head, and also the wolfskin, the bow, and his long spear.
Ulysses hung them up aloft in honour of Minerva the goddess of plunder, and prayed saying," Accept these, goddess, for we give them to you in preference to all the gods in Olympus: therefore speed us still further towards the horses and sleepingground of the Thracians."
With these words he took the spoils and set them upon a tamarisk tree, and they marked the place by pulling up reeds and gathering boughs of tamarisk that they might not miss it as they came back through the flying hours of darkness.
The two then went onwards amid the fallen armour and the blood, and came presently to the company of Thracian soldiers, who were sleeping, tired out with their day 's toil; their goodly armour was lying on the ground beside them all orderly in three rows, and each man had his yoke of horses beside him.
Rhesus was sleeping in the middle, and hard by him his horses were made fast to the topmost rim of his chariot.
Ulysses from some way off saw him and said," This, Diomed, is the man, and these are the horses about which Dolon whom we killed told us.
Do your very utmost; dally not about your armour, but loose the horses at once— or else kill the men yourself, while I see to the horses."
Thereon Minerva put courage into the heart of Diomed, and he smote them right and left.
They made a hideous groaning as they were being hacked about, and the earth was red with their blood.
As a lion springs furiously upon a flock of sheep or goats when he finds them without their shepherd, so did the son of Tydeus set upon the Thracian soldiers till he had killed twelve.
As he killed them Ulysses came and drew them aside by their feet one by one, that the horses might go forward freely without being frightened as they passed over the dead bodies, for they were not yet used to them.
When the son of Tydeus came to the king, he killed him too( which made thirteen), as he was breathing hard, for by the counsel of Minerva an evil dream, the seed of Oeneus, hovered that night over his head.
Meanwhile Ulysses untied the horses, made them fast one to another and drove them off, striking them with his bow, for he had forgotten to take the whip from the chariot.
Then he whistled as a sign to Diomed.
But Diomed stayed where he was, thinking what other daring deed he might accomplish.
He was doubting whether to take the chariot in which the king 's armour was lying, and draw it out by the pole, or to lift the armour out and carry it off; or whether again, he should not kill some more Thracians.
While he was thus hesitating Minerva came up to him and said," Get back, Diomed, to the ships or you may be driven thither, should some other god rouse the Trojans."
Diomed knew that it was the goddess, and at once sprang upon the horses.
Ulysses beat them with his bow and they flew onward to the ships of the Achaeans.
But Apollo kept no blind lookout when he saw Minerva with the son of Tydeus.
He was angry with her, and coming to the host of the Trojans he roused Hippocoon, a counsellor of the Thracians and a noble kinsman of Rhesus.
He started up out of his sleep and saw that the horses were no longer in their place, and that the men were gasping in their deathagony; on this he groaned aloud, and called upon his friend by name.
Then the whole Trojan camp was in an uproar as the people kept hurrying together, and they marvelled at the deeds of the heroes who had now got away towards the ships.
When they reached the place where they had killed Hector 's scout, Ulysses stayed his horses, and the son of Tydeus, leaping to the ground, placed the bloodstained spoils in the hands of Ulysses and remounted: then he lashed the horses onwards, and they flew forward nothing loth towards the ships as though of their own free will.
Nestor was first to hear the tramp of their feet. "
My friends," said he," princes and counsellors of the Argives, shall I guess right or wrong?—but I must say what I think: there is a sound in my ears as of the tramp of horses.
I hope it may be Diomed and Ulysses driving in horses from the Trojans, but I much fear that the bravest of the Argives may have come to some harm at their hands."
He had hardly done speaking when the two men came in and dismounted, whereon the others shook hands right gladly with them and congratulated them.
Nestor knight of Gerene was first to question them. "
Tell me," said he," renowned Ulysses, how did you two come by these horses?
Did you steal in among the Trojan forces, or did some god meet you and give them to you?
They are like sunbeams.
I am well conversant with the Trojans, for old warrior though I am I never hold back by the ships, but I never yet saw or heard of such horses as these are.
Surely some god must have met you and given them to you, for you are both of you dear to Jove, and to Jove 's daughter Minerva."
And Ulysses answered," Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, heaven, if it so will, can give us even better horses than these, for the gods are far mightier than we are.
These horses, however, about which you ask me, are freshly come from Thrace.
Diomed killed their king with the twelve bravest of his companions.
Hard by the ships we took a thirteenth man— a scout whom Hector and the other Trojans had sent as a spy upon our ships."
He laughed as he spoke and drove the horses over the ditch, while the other Achaeans followed him gladly.
When they reached the strongly built quarters of the son of Tydeus, they tied the horses with thongs of leather to the manger, where the steeds of Diomed stood eating their sweet corn, but Ulysses hung the bloodstained spoils of Dolon at the stern of his ship, that they might prepare a sacred offering to Minerva.
As for themselves, they went into the sea and washed the sweat from their bodies, and from their necks and thighs.
When the seawater had taken all the sweat from off them, and had refreshed them, they went into the baths and washed themselves.
After they had so done and had anointed themselves with oil, they sat down to table, and drawing from a full mixingbowl, made a drinkoffering of wine to Minerva.
CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn.
No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present.
In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed.
It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade.
Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of.
So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off.
Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come?
They could go there again with them in the autumn.
It was settled that they should go to Box Hill.
That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another.
Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection.
Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party!
Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.
"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would.
Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers.
One cannot have too large a party.
A large party secures its own amusement.
And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out."
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty.
It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation.
Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack.
"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?"
she cried.--"And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious.
What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."
"You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley.
"That may be done without horses.
Come, and eat my strawberries.
They are ripening fast."
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh!
I should like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner.
Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.
She promised him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.
"You may depend upon me," said she.
"I certainly will come.
Name your day, and I will come.
You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?"
"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you."
"Oh!
leave all that to me.
Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know.
It is my party.
I will bring friends with me."
"I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations."
"Oh!
now you are looking very sly.
But consider--you need not be afraid of delegating power to me.
I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised.
It is my party.
Leave it all to me.
I will invite your guests."
"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is--" "--Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.
"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself."
"Ah!
you are an odd creature!"
she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
Quite a humourist.
Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you.
I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family.
Don't scruple.
I know you are attached to them."
"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home."
"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like.
It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing.
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm.
Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon.
Nothing can be more simple, you see.
And Jane will have such another.
There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party.
We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know.
Every thing as natural and simple as possible.
Is not that your idea?"
"Not quite.
My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room.
The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors.
When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."
"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out.
And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be sincere, Knightley.
If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything--" "I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."
"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever."
"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body's assistance."
"I wish we had a donkey.
The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by.
I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey.
In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt."
"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury.
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry.
Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it.
You can borrow Mrs. Cole's.
I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible."
"That I am sure you would.
Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart.
As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme.
You have hit upon the very thing to please me."
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade.
He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith.
No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity.
He did consent.
He had not been at Donwell for two years.
"Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens.
He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day.
He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning.
He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining out."
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence.
The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.--Mr.
Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing exactly right.
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.--Mrs.
Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably.
She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush.
These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning decidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy infinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys very scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price of strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly different--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their way--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior to cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no longer--must go and sit in the shade."
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--She had some fears of his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question.
Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures.
It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.--Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.--"Should not they walk?
Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent."
--The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.--It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had been there.
Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind.
English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony.
Now they seemed in pleasant conversation.
There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not.
It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around.
He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc.
and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, "These are my own concerns.
I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin."
--She did not suspect him.
It was too old a story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They took a few turns together along the walk.--The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come.
Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain.
His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare.
He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty.
"His aunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."--Mrs.
Churchill's state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.--Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's entertainment.
Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered.
Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them all to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical.--Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.--Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any body.
It would only be giving trouble and distress.
Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?"
"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?"
"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast.
I shall be at home in twenty minutes."
"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone.
Let my father's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage.
It can be round in five minutes."
"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--And for me to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to guard others!"
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, "That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now.
I must order the carriage.
The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued already."
"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits.
Mine, I confess, are exhausted.
The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary."
Emma had not another word to oppose.
She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend.
Her parting look was grateful--and her parting words, "Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!"
--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.
"Such a home, indeed!
such an aunt!"
said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again.
"I do pity you.
And the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you."
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room.
Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him.
Mrs. Weston would be at ease.
The black mare was blameless; they were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.
He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming, till very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come at all.
The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing like it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him like heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.
"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.
"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again.
I could very ill be spared--but such a point had been made of my coming!
You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up.
I met one as I came--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!"
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour.
Some people were always cross when they were hot.
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.
"No--he should not eat.
He was not hungry; it would only make him hotter."
In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off.
Emma returned all her attention to her father, saying in secret-"I am glad I have done being in love with him.
I should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning.
Harriet's sweet easy temper will not mind it."
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably.
They were looking over views in Swisserland.
"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he.
"I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places.
You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my poem.
I shall do something to expose myself."
"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland.
You will never go to Swisserland.
Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England."
"They may be induced to go too.
A warm climate may be prescribed for her.
I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad.
I assure you I have.
I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad.
I ought to travel.
I am tired of doing nothing.
I want a change.
I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy--I am sick of England--and would leave it to-morrow, if I could."
"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence.
Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"
"I sick of prosperity and indulgence!
You are quite mistaken.
I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged.
I am thwarted in every thing material.
I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person."
"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came.
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well.
Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us."
"No--I shall not stir.
I shall sit by you.
You are my best cure."
"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us.
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change.
You will stay, and go with us?"
"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening."
"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning."
"No--It will not be worth while.
If I come, I shall be cross."
"Then pray stay at Richmond."
"But if I do, I shall be crosser still.
I can never bear to think of you all there without me."
"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself.
Chuse your own degree of crossness.
I shall press you no more."
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained.
That it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted.
Frank Churchill's little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were, "Well;--if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will."
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
CHAPTER VII They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party.
Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time.
Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.
Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.
There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over.
They separated too much into parties.
The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better.
It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.
Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma.
She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid.
He said nothing worth hearing--looked without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing what she said.
While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.
To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe.
"Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively."
They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected.
She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart.
She still intended him for her friend.
"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come to-day!--If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party.
I had quite determined to go away again."
"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries.
I was a kinder friend than you deserved.
But you were humble.
You begged hard to be commanded to come."
"Don't say I was cross.
I was fatigued.
The heat overcame me."
"It is hotter to-day."
"Not to my feelings.
I am perfectly comfortable to-day."
"You are comfortable because you are under command."
"Your command?--Yes."
"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command.
You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine."
"It comes to the same thing.
I can have no self-command without a motive.
You order me, whether you speak or not.
And you can be always with me.
You are always with me."
"Dating from three o'clock yesterday.
My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before."
"Three o'clock yesterday!
That is your date.
I thought I had seen you first in February."
"Your gallantry is really unanswerable.
But (lowering her voice)--nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."
"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence.
"I saw you first in February.
Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can.
Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other.
I saw you first in February."
And then whispering--"Our companions are excessively stupid.
What shall we do to rouse them?
Any nonsense will serve.
They shall talk.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?"
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly.
Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct.
"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?"
"Oh!
no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--"Upon no account in the world.
It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now.
Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of.
I will not say quite all.
There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing."
"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into.
Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party--I never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--" Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply, "Very true, my love, very true.
Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of--but some ladies say any thing.
Better pass it off as a joke.
Every body knows what is due to you."
"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them affronted.
I will attack them with more address.
Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way.
Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all."
"Oh!
very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
'Three things very dull indeed.'
That will just do for me, you know.
I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?
(looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"
Emma could not resist.
"Ah!
ma'am, but there may be a difficulty.
Pardon me--but you will be limited as to number--only three at once."
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
"Ah!--well--to be sure.
Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue.
I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."
"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston.
"Agreed, agreed.
I will do my best.
I am making a conundrum.
How will a conundrum reckon?"
"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."
"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low.
A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour.
Come, sir, pray let me hear it."
"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston.
"It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?"
"What two letters!--express perfection!
I am sure I do not know."
"Ah!
you will never guess.
You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never guess.--I will tell you.--M.
and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"
Understanding and gratification came together.
It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, "This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else.
Perfection should not have come quite so soon."
"Oh!
for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "I really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing.
I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with.
I knew who it came from.
An abominable puppy!--You know who I mean (nodding to her husband).
These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.
Miss Woodhouse must excuse me.
I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service.
I do not pretend to be a wit.
I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue.
Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill.
Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself.
We have nothing clever to say--not one of us.
"Yes, yes, pray pass me," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; "I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady.
An old married man--quite good for nothing.
Shall we walk, Augusta?"
"With all my heart.
I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm."
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
"Happy couple!"
said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!
Peculiarly lucky!--for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge.
It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment.
Short of that, it is all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck.
How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!"
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now.
"Such things do occur, undoubtedly."
--She was stopped by a cough.
Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
"You were speaking," said he, gravely.
She recovered her voice.
"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent.
A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards.
I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever."
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, "Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me.
Will you?
(turning to Emma.)
Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you.
You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father).
Find some body for me.
I am in no hurry.
Adopt her, educate her."
"And make her like myself."
"By all means, if you can."
"Very well.
I undertake the commission.
You shall have a charming wife."
"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes.
I care for nothing else.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife.
Remember."
Emma was in no danger of forgetting.
It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling.
Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?
Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs.
Elton?"
"If you please, my dear.
With all my heart.
I am quite ready.
I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well.
We shall soon overtake her.
There she is--no, that's somebody else.
That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I declare--" They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley.
Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant.
Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her.
The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure.
Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side.
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said, "Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it.
I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance.
How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates?
How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought it possible."
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad.
I dare say she did not understand me."
"I assure you she did.
She felt your full meaning.
She has talked of it since.
I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what candour and generosity.
I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome."
"Oh!"
cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her."
"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good.
Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner.
Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.
She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more.
Her situation should secure your compassion.
It was badly done, indeed!
You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her--and before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now."
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in.
He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless.
They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern.
She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late.
He had turned away, and the horses were in motion.
She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind.
She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed--almost beyond what she could conceal.
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life.
She was most forcibly struck.
The truth of this representation there was no denying.
She felt it at her heart.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!
How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her.
As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more.
She never had been so depressed.
Happily it was not necessary to speak.
There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
CHAPTER FORMER INHABITANTS; AND WINTER VISITORS.
I WEATHERED some merry snow-storms, and spent some cheerful winter evenings by my fireside, while the snow whirled wildly without, and even the hooting of the owl was hushed.
For many weeks I met no one in my walks but those who came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the village.
The elements, however, abetted me in making a path through the deepest snow in the woods, for when I had once gone through the wind blew the oak leaves into my tracks, where they lodged, and by absorbing the rays of the sun melted the snow, and so not only made a my bed for my feet, but in the night their dark line was my guide.
For human society I was obliged to conjure up the former occupants of these woods.
Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my house stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods which border it were notched and dotted here and there with their little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the forest than now.
In some places, within my own remembrance, the pines would scrape both sides of a chaise at once, and women and children who were compelled to go this way to Lincoln alone and on foot did it with fear, and often ran a good part of the distance.
Though mainly but a humble route to neighboring villages, or for the woodman's team, it once amused the traveller more than now by its variety, and lingered longer in his memory.
Where now firm open fields stretch from the village to the woods, it then ran through a maple swamp on a foundation of logs, the remnants of which, doubtless, still underlie the present dusty highway, from the Stratton, now the Alms-House, Farm, to Brister's Hill.
East of my bean-field, across the road, lived Cato Ingraham, slave of Duncan Ingraham, Esquire, gentleman, of Concord village, who built his slave a house, and gave him permission to live in Walden Woods;Cato, not Uticensis, but Concordiensis.
Some say that he was a Guinea Negro.
There are a few who remember his little patch among the walnuts, which he let row up till he should be old and need them; but a younger and whiter speculator got them at last.
He too, however, occupies an equally narrow house at present.
Cato's half-obliterated cellar-hole still remains, though known to few, being concealed from the traveller by a fringe of pines.
It is now filled with the smooth sumach (Rhus glabra), and one of the earliest species of goldenrod (Solidago stricta) grows there luxuriantly.
Here, by the very corner of my field, still nearer to town, Zilpha, a colored woman, had her little house, where she spun linen for the townsfolk, making the Walden Woods ring with her shrill singing, for she had a loud and notable voice.
At length, in the war of 1812, her dwelling was set on fire by English soldiers, prisoners on parole, when she was away, and her cat and dog and hens were all burned up together.
She led a hard life, and somewhat inhumane.
One old frequenter of these woods remembers, that as he passed her house one noon he heard her muttering to herself over her gurgling pot"Ye are all bones, bones!"
I have seen bricks amid the oak copse there.
Down the road, on the right hand, on Brister's Hill, lived Brister Freeman, "a handy Negro," slave of Squire Cummings once-there where grow still the apple trees which Brister planted and tended; large old trees now, but their fruit still wild and ciderish to my taste.
Not long since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln burying-ground, a little on one side, near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell in the retreat from Concordwhere he is styled "Sippio Brister"Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called"a man of color," as if he were discolored.
It also told me, with staring emphasis, when he died; which was but an indirect way of informing me that he ever lived.
With him dwelt Fenda, his hospitable wife, who told fortunes, yet pleasantly-large, round, and black, blacker than any of the children of night, such a dusky orb as never rose on Concord before or since.
Farther down the hill, on the left, on the old road in the woods, are marks of some homestead of the Stratton family; whose orchard once covered all the slope of Brister's Hill, but was long since killed out by pitch pines, excepting a few stumps, whose old roots furnish still the wild stocks of many a thrifty village tree.
Nearer yet to town, you come to Breed's location, on the other side of the way, just on the edge of the wood; ground famous for the pranks of a demon not distinctly named in old mythology, who has acted a prominent and astounding part in our New England life, and deserves, as much as any mythological character, to have his biography written one day; who first comes in the guise of a friend or hired man, and then robs and murders the whole familyNew-England Rum.
But history must not yet tell the tragedies enacted here; let time intervene in some measure to assuage and lend an azure tint to them.
Here the most indistinct and dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood; the well the same, which tempered the traveller's beverage and refreshed his steed.
Here then men saluted one another, and heard and told the news, and went their ways again.
Breed's hut was standing only a dozen years ago, though it had long been unoccupied.
It was about the size of mine.
It was set on fire by mischievous boys, one Election night, if I do not mistake.
I lived on the edge of the village then, and had just lost myself over Davenant's "Gondibert," that winter that I labored with a lethargywhich, by the way, I never knew whether to regard as a family complaint, having an uncle who goes to sleep shaving himself, and is obliged to sprout potatoes in a cellar Sundays, in order to keep awake and keep the Sabbath, or as the consequence of my attempt to read Chalmers' collection of English poetry without skipping.
It fairly overcame my Nervii.
I had just sunk my head on this when the bells rung fire, and in hot haste the engines rolled that way, led by a straggling troop of men and boys, and I among the foremost, for I had leaped the brook.
We thought it was far south over the woodswe who had run to fires beforebarn, shop, or dwelling-house, or all together.
"It's Baker's barn," cried one.
"It is the Codman place," affirmed another.
And then fresh sparks went up above the wood, as if the roof fell in, and we all shouted "Concord to the rescue!"
Wagons shot past with furious speed and crushing loads, bearing, perchance, among the rest, the agent of the Insurance Company, who was bound to go however far; and ever and anon the engine bell tinkled behind, more slow and sure; and rearmost of all, as it was afterward whispered, came they who set the fire and gave the alarm.
Thus we kept on like true idealists, rejecting the evidence of our senses, until at a turn in the road we heard the crackling and actually felt the heat of the fire from over the wall, and realized, alas!
that we were there.
The very nearness of the fire but cooled our ardor.
At first we thought to throw a frog-pond on to it; but concluded to let it burn, it was so far gone and so worthless.
So we stood round our engine, jostled one another, expressed our sentiments through speaking-trumpets, or in lower tone referred to the great conflagrations which the world has witnessed, including Bascom's shop, and, between ourselves, we thought that, were we there in season with our "tub," and a full frog-pond by, we could turn that threatened last and universal one into another flood.
We finally retreated without doing any mischiefreturned to sleep and "Gondibert."
But as for "Gondibert," I would except that passage in the preface about wit being the soul's powder"but most of mankind are strangers to wit, as Indians are to powder."
It chanced that I walked that way across the fields the following night, about the same hour, and hearing a low moaning at this spot, I drew near in the dark, and discovered the only survivor of the family that I know, the heir of both its virtues and its vices, who alone was interested in this burning, lying on his stomach and looking over the cellar wall at the still smouldering cinders beneath, muttering to himself, as is his wont.
He had been working far off in the river meadows all day, and had improved the first moments that he could call his own to visit the home of his fathers and his youth.
He gazed into the cellar from all sides and points of view by turns, always lying down to it, as if there was some treasure, which he remembered, concealed between the stones, where there was absolutely nothing but a heap of bricks and ashes.
The house being gone, he looked at what there was left.
He was soothed by the sympathy which my mere presence, implied, and showed me, as well as the darkness permitted, where the well was covered up; which, thank Heaven, could never be burned; and he groped long about the wall to find the well-sweep which his father had cut and mounted, feeling for the iron hook or staple by which a burden had been fastened to the heavy endall that he could now cling toto convince me that it was no common "rider."
I felt it, and still remark it almost daily in my walks, for by it hangs the history of a family.
Once more, on the left, where are seen the well and lilac bushes by the wall, in the now open field, lived Nutting and Le Grosse.
But to return toward Lincoln.
Farther in the woods than any of these, where the road approaches nearest to the pond, Wyman the potter squatted, and furnished his townsmen with earthenware, and left descendants to succeed him.
Neither were they rich in worldly goods, holding the land by sufferance while they lived; and there often the sheriff came in vain to collect the taxes, and "attached a chip," for form's sake, as I have read in his accounts, there being nothing else that he could lay his hands on.
One day in midsummer, when I was hoeing, a man who was carrying a load of pottery to market stopped his horse against my field and inquired concerning Wyman the younger.
He had long ago bought a potter's wheel of him, and wished to know what had become of him.
I had read of the potter's clay and wheel in Scripture, but it had never occurred to me that the pots we use were not such as had come down unbroken from those days, or grown on trees like gourds somewhere, and I was pleased to hear that so fictile an art was ever practiced in my neighborhood.
The last inhabitant of these woods before me was an Irishman, Hugh Quoil (if I have spelt his name with coil enough), who occupied Wyman's tenementCol. Quoil, he was called.
Rumor said that he had been a soldier at Waterloo.
If he had lived I should have made him fight his battles over again.
His trade here was that of a ditcher.
Napoleon went to St. Helena; Quoil came to Walden Woods.
All I know of him is tragic.
He was a man of manners, like one who had seen the world, and was capable of more civil speech than you could well attend to.
He wore a greatcoat in midsummer, being affected with the trembling delirium, and his face was the color of carmine.
He died in the road at the foot of Brister's Hill shortly after I came to the woods, so that I have not remembered him as a neighbor.
Before his house was pulled down, when his comrades avoided it as "an unlucky castle," I visited it.
There lay his old clothes curled up by use, as if they were himself, upon his raised plank bed.
His pipe lay broken on the hearth, instead of a bowl broken at the fountain.
The last could never have been the symbol of his death, for he confessed to me that, though he had heard of Brister's Spring, he had never seen it; and soiled cards, kings of diamonds, spades, and hearts, were scattered over the floor.
One black chicken which the administrator could not catch, black as night and as silent, not even croaking, awaiting Reynard, still went to roost in the next apartment.
In the rear there was the dim outline of a garden, which had been planted but had never received its first hoeing, owing to those terrible shaking fits, though it was now harvest time.
It was overrun with Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks, which last stuck to my clothes for all fruit.
The skin of a woodchuck was freshly stretched upon the back of the house, a trophy of his last Waterloo; but no warm cap or mittens would he want more.
Now only a dent in the earth marks the site of these dwellings, with buried cellar stones, and strawberries, raspberries, thimbleberries, hazel-bushes, and sumachs growing in the sunny sward there; some pitch pine or gnarled oak occupies what was the chimney nook, and a sweet-scented black birch, perhaps, waves where the door-stone was.
Sometimes the well dent is visible, where once a spring oozed; now dry and tearless grass; or it was covered deepnot to be discovered till some late daywith a flat stone under the sod, when the last of the race departed.
What a sorrowful act must that bethe covering up of wells!
coincident with the opening of wells of tears.
These cellar dents, like deserted fox burrows, old holes, are all that is left where once were the stir and bustle of human life, and "fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute," in some form and dialect or other were by turns discussed.
But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to just this, that "Cato and Brister pulled wool"; which is about as edifying as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.
Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring, to be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and tended once by children's hands, hi front-yard plotsnow standing by wallsides in retired pastures, and giving place to newrising forests;the last of that stirp, sole survivor of that family.
Little did the dusky children think that the puny slip with its two eyes only, which they stuck in the ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered, would root itself so, and outlive them, and house itself in the rear that shaded it, and grown man's garden and orchard, and tell their story faintly to the lone wanderer a half-century after they had grown up and diedblossoming as fair, and smelling as sweet, as in that first spring.
I mark its still tender, civil, cheerful lilac colors.
But this small village, germ of something more, why did it fail while Concord keeps its ground?
Were there no natural advantagesno water privileges, forsooth?
Ay, the deep Walden Pond and cool Brister's Springprivilege to drink long and healthy draughts at these, all unimproved by these men but to dilute their glass.
They were universally a thirsty race.
Might not the basket, stable-broom, mat-making, corn-parching, linen-spinning, and pottery business have thrived here, making the wilderness to blossom like the rose, and a numerous posterity have inherited the land of their fathers?
The sterile soil would at least have been proof against a lowland degeneracy.
Alas!
how little does the memory of these human inhabitants enhance the beauty of the landscape!
Again, perhaps, Nature will try, with me for a first settler, and my house raised last spring to be the oldest in the hamlet.
I am not aware that any man has ever built on the spot which I occupy.
Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city, whose materials are ruins, whose gardens cemeteries.
The soil is blanched and accursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be destroyed.
With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods and lulled myself asleep.
At this season I seldom had a visitor.
When the snow lay deepest no wanderer ventured near my house for a week or fortnight at a time, but there I lived as snug as a meadow mouse, or as cattle and poultry which are said to have survived for a long time buried in drifts, even without food; or like that early settler's family in the town of Sutton, in this State, whose cottage was completely covered by the great snow of 1717 when he was absent, and an Indian found it only by the hole which the chimney's breath made in the drift, and so relieved the family.
But no friendly Indian concerned himself about me; nor needed he, for the master of the house was at home.
The Great Snow!
How cheerful it is to hear of!
When the farmers could not get to the woods and swamps with their teams, and were obliged to cut down the shade trees before their houses, and, when the crust was harder, cut off the trees in the swamps, ten feet from the ground, as it appeared the next spring.
In the deepest snows, the path which I used from the highway to my house, about half a mile long, might have been represented by a meandering dotted line, with wide intervals between the dots.
For a week of even weather I took exactly the same number of steps, and of the same length, coming and going, stepping deliberately and with the precision of a pair of dividers in my own deep tracksto such routine the winter reduces usyet often they were filled with heaven's own blue.
But no weather interfered fatally with my walks, or rather my going abroad, for I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines; when the ice and snow causing their limbs to droop, and so sharpening their tops, had changed the pines into fir trees; wading to the tops of the highest bills when the show was nearly two feet deep on a level, and shaking down another snow-storm on my head at every step; or sometimes creeping and floundering thither on my hands and knees, when the hunters had gone into winter quarters.
One afternoon I amused myself by watching a barred owl (Strix nebulosa) sitting on one of the lower dead limbs of a white pine, close to the trunk, in broad daylight, I standing within a rod of him.
He could hear me when I moved and cronched the snow with my feet, but could not plainly see me.
When I made most noise he would stretch out his neck, and erect his neck feathers, and open his eyes wide; but their lids soon fell again, and he began to nod.
I too felt a slumberous influence after watching him half an hour, as he sat thus with his eyes half open, like a cat, winged brother of the cat.
There was only a narrow slit left between their lids, by which be preserved a pennisular relation to me; thus, with half-shut eyes, looking out from the land of dreams, and endeavoring to realize me, vague object or mote that interrupted his visions.
At length, on some louder noise or my nearer approach, he would grow uneasy and sluggishly turn about on his perch, as if impatient at having his dreams disturbed; and when he launched himself off and flapped through the pines, spreading his wings to unexpected breadth, I could not hear the slightest sound from them.
Thus, guided amid the pine boughs rather by a delicate sense of their neighborhood than by sight, feeling his twilight way, as it were, with his sensitive pinions, he found a new perch, where he might in peace await the dawning of his day.
As I walked over the long causeway made for the railroad through the meadows, I encountered many a blustering and nipping wind, for nowhere has it freer play; and when the frost had smitten me on one cheek, heathen as I was, I turned to it the other also.
Nor was it much better by the carriage road from Brister's Hill.
For I came to town still, like a friendly Indian, when the contents of the broad open fields were all piled up between the walls of the Walden road, and half an hour sufficed to obliterate the tracks of the last traveller.
And when I returned new drifts would have formed, through which I floundered, where the busy northwest wind had been depositing the powdery snow round a sharp angle in the road, and not a rabbit's track, nor even the fine print, the small type, of a meadow mouse was to be seen.
Yet I rarely failed to find, even in midwinter, some warm and springly swamp where the grass and the skunk-cabbage still put forth with perennial verdure, and some hardier bird occasionally awaited the return of spring.
Sometimes, notwithstanding the snow, when I returned from my walk at evening I crossed the deep tracks of a woodchopper leading from my door, and found his pile of whittlings on the hearth, and my house filled with the odor of his pipe.
Or on a Sunday afternoon, if I chanced to be at home, I heard the cronching of the snow made by the step of a long-headed farmer, who from far through the woods sought my house, to have a social "crack"; one of the few of his vocation who are "men on their farms"; who donned a frock instead of a professor's gown, and is as ready to extract the moral out of church or state as to haul a load of manure from his barn-yard.
We talked of rude and simple times, when men sat about large fires in cold, bracing weather, with clear heads; and when other dessert failed, we tried our teeth on many a nut which wise squirrels have long since abandoned, for those which have the thickest shells are commonly empty.
The one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and most dismal tempests, was a poet.
A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love.
Who can predict his comings and goings?
His business calls him out at all hours, even when doctors sleep.
We made that small house ring with boisterous mirth and resound with the murmur of much sober talk, making amends then to Walden vale for the long silences.
Broadway was still and deserted in comparison.
At suitable intervals there were regular salutes of laughter, which might have been referred indifferently to the last-uttered or the forth-coming jest.
We made many a "bran new" theory of life over a thin dish of gruel, which combined the advantages of conviviality with the clear-headedness which philosophy requires.
I should not forget that during my last winter at the pond there was another welcome visitor, who at one time came through the village, through snow and rain and darkness, till he saw my lamp through the trees, and shared with me some long winter evenings.
One of the last of the philosophersConnecticut gave him to the worldhe peddled first her wares, afterwards, as he declares, his brains.
These he peddles still, prompting God and disgracing man, bearing for fruit his brain only, like the nut its kernel.
I think that he must be the man of the most faith of any alive.
His words and attitude always suppose a better state of things than other men are acquainted with, and he will be the last man to be disappointed as the ages revolve.
He has no venture in the present.
But though comparatively disregarded now, when his day comes, laws unsuspected by most will take effect, and masters of families and rulers will come to him for advice.
"How blind that cannot see serenity!"
A true friend of man; almost the only friend of human progress.
An Old Mortality, say rather an Immortality, with unwearied patience and faith making plain the image engraven in men's bodies, the God of whom they are but defaced and leaning monuments.
With his hospitable intellect he embraces children, beggars, insane, and scholars, and entertains the thought of all, adding to it commonly some breadth and elegance.
I think that he should keep a caravansary on the world's highway, where philosophers of all nations might put up, and on his sign should be printed, "Entertainment for man, but not for his beast.
Enter ye that have leisure and a quiet mind, who earnestly seek the right road."
He is perhaps the sanest man and has the fewest crotchets of any I chance to know; the same yesterday and tomorrow.
Of yore we had sauntered and talked, and effectually put the world behind us; for he was pledged to no institution in it, freeborn, ingenuus.
Whichever way we turned, it seemed that the heavens and the earth had met together, since he enhanced the beauty of the landscape.
A blue-robed man, whose fittest roof is the overarching sky which reflects his serenity.
I do not see how he can ever die; Nature cannot spare him.
Having each some shingles of thought well dried, we sat and whittled them, trying our knives, and admiring the clear yellowish grain of the pumpkin pine.
We waded so gently and reverently, or we pulled together so smoothly, that the fishes of thought were not seared from the stream, nor feared any angler on the bank, but came and went grandly, like the clouds which float through the western sky, and the mother-o'-pearl flocks which sometimes form and dissolve there.
There we worked, revising mythology, rounding a fable here and there, and building castles in the air for which earth offered no worthy foundation.
Great Looker!
Great Expecter!
to converse with whom was a New England Night's Entertainment.
Ah!
such discourse we had, hermit and philosopher, and the old settler I have spoken ofwe threeit expanded and racked my little house; I should not dare to say how many pounds' weight there was above the atmospheric pressure on every circular inch; it opened its seams so that they had to be calked with much dulness thereafter to stop the consequent leak;but I had enough of that kind of oakum already picked.
There was one other with whom I had "solid seasons," long to be remembered, at his house in the village, and who looked in upon me from time to time; but I had no more for society there.
There too, as everywhere, I sometimes expected the Visitor who never comes.
The Vishnu Purana says, "The house-holder is to remain at eventide in his courtyard as long as it takes to milk a cow, or longer if he pleases, to await the arrival of a guest."
I often performed this duty of hospitality, waited long enough to milk a whole herd of cows, but did not see the man approaching from the town.
CHAPTER HOUSE-WARMING.
IN OCTOBER I went a-graping to the river meadows, and loaded myself with clusters more precious for their beauty and fragrance than for food.
There, too, I admired, though I did not gather, the cranberries, small waxen gems, pendants of the meadow grass, pearly and red, which the farmer plucks with an ugly rake, leaving the smooth meadow in a snarl, heedlessly measuring them by the bushel and the dollar only, and sells the spoils of the meads to Boston and New York; destined to be jammed, to satisfy the tastes of lovers of Nature there.
So butchers rake the tongues of bison out of the prairie grass, regardless of the torn and drooping plant.
The barberry's brilliant fruit was likewise food for my eyes merely; but I collected a small store of wild apples for coddling, which the proprietor and travellers had overlooked.
When chestnuts were ripe I laid up half a bushel for winter.
It was very exciting at that season to roam the then boundless chestnut woods of Lincolnthey now sleep their long sleep under the railroadwith a bag on my shoulder, and a stick to open burs with in my hand, for I did not always wait for the frost, amid the rustling of leaves and the loud reproofs of the red squirrels and the jays, whose half-consumed nuts I sometimes stole, for the burs which they had selected were sure to contain sound ones.
Occasionally I climbed and shook the trees.
They grew also behind my house, and one large tree, which almost overshadowed it, was, when in flower, a bouquet which scented the whole neighborhood, but the squirrels and the jays got most of its fruit; the last coming in flocks early in the morning and picking the nuts out of the burs before they fell, I relinquished these trees to them and visited the more distant woods composed wholly of chestnut.
These nuts, as far as they went, were a good substitute for bread.
Many other substitutes might, perhaps, be found.
Digging one day for fishworms, I discovered the groundnut (Apios tuberosa) on its string, the potato of the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt if I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not dreamed it.
I had often since seen its crumpled red velvety blossom supported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the same.
Cultivation has well-nigh exterminated it.
It has a sweetish taste, much like that of a frost-bitten potato, and I found it better boiled than roasted.
This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature to rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future period.
In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this humble root, which was once the totem of an Indian tribe, is quite forgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature reign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will probably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man the crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great cornfield of the Indian's God in the southwest, whence he is said to have brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will perhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove itself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the diet of the hunter tribe.
Some Indian Ceres or Minerva must have been the inventor and bestower of it; and when the reign of poetry commences here, its leaves and string of nuts may be represented on our works of art.
Already, by the first of September, I had seen two or three small maples turned scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of three aspens diverged, at the point of a promontory, next the water.
Ah, many a tale their color told!
Arid gradually from week to week the character of each tree came out, and it admired itself reflected in the smooth mirror of the lake.
Each morning the manager of this gallery substituted some new picture, distinguished by more brilliant or harmonious coloring, for the old upon the walls.
The wasps came by thousands to my lodge in October, as to winter quarters, and settled on my windows within and on the walls overhead, sometimes deterring visitors from entering.
Each morning, when they were numbed with cold, I swept some of them out, but I did not trouble myself much to get rid of them; I even felt complimented by their regarding my house as a desirable shelter.
They never molested me seriously, though they bedded with me; and they gradually disappeared, into what crevices I do not know, avoiding winter and unspeakable cold.
Like the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November, I used to resort to the northeast side of Walden, which the sun, reflected from the pitch pine woods and the stony shore, made the fireside of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be warmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire.
I thus warmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a departed hunter, had left.
When I came to build my chimney I studied masonry.
My bricks, being second-hand ones, required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I learned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels.
The mortar on them was fifty years old, and was said to be still growing harder; but this is one of those sayings which men love to repeat whether they are true or not.
Such sayings themselves grow harder and adhere more firmly with age, and it would take many blows with a trowel to clean an old wiseacre of them.
Many of the villages of Mesopotamia are built of secondhand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from the ruins of Babylon, and the cement on them is older and probably harder still.
However that may be, I was struck by the peculiar toughness of the steel which bore so many violent blows without being worn out.
As my bricks had been in a chimney before, though I did not read the name of Nebuchadnezzar on them, I picked out its many fireplace bricks as I could find, to save work and waste, and I filled the spaces between the bricks about the fireplace with stones from the pond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same place.
I lingered most about the fireplace, as the most vital part of the house.
Indeed, I worked so deliberately, that though I commenced at the ground in the morning, a course of bricks raised a few inches above the floor served for my pillow at night; yet I did not get a stiff neck for it that I remember; my stiff neck is of older date.
I took a poet to board for a fortnight about those times, which caused me to be put to it for room.
He brought his own knife, though I had two, and we used to scour them by thrusting them into the earth.
He shared with me the labors of cooking.
I was pleased to see my work rising so square and solid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was calculated to endure a long time.
The chimney is to some extent an independent structure, standing on the ground, and rising through the house to the heavens; even after the house is burned it still stands sometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent.
This was toward the end of summer.
It was now November.
The north wind had already begun to cool the pond, though it took many weeks of steady blowing to accomplish it, it is so deep.
When I began to have a fire at evening, before I plastered my house, the chimney carried smoke particularly well, because of the numerous chinks between the boards.
Yet I passed some cheerful evenings in that cool and airy apartment, surrounded by the rough brown boards full of knots, and rafters with the bark on high overhead.
My house never pleased my eye so much after it was plastered, though I was obliged to confess that it was more comfortable.
Should not every apartment in which man dwells be lofty enough to create some obscurity overhead, where flickering shadows may play at evening about the rafters?
These forms are more agreeable to the fancy and imagination than fresco paintings or other the most expensive furniture.
I now first began to inhabit my house, I may say, when I began to use it for warmth as well as shelter.
I had got a couple of old fire-dogs to keep the wood from the hearth, and it did me good to see the soot form on the back of the chimney which I had built, and I poked the fire with more right and more satisfaction than usual.
My dwelling was small, and I could hardly entertain an echo in it; but it seemed larger for being a single apartment and remote from neighbors.
All the attractions of a house were concentrated in one room; it was kitchen, chamber, parlor, and keeping-room; and whatever satisfaction parent or child, master or servant, derive from living in a house, I enjoyed it all.
Cato says, the master of a family (patremfamilias) must have in his rustic villa "cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriae erit," that is, "an oil and wine cellar, many casks, so that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his advantage, and virtue, and glory."
I had in my cellar a firkin of potatoes, about two quarts of peas with the weevil in them, and on my shelf a little rice, a jug of molasses, and of rye and Indian meal a peck each.
I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread work, which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one's head-useful to keep off rain and snow, where the king and queen posts stand out to receive your homage, when you have done reverence to the prostrate Saturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill; a cavernous house, wherein you must reach up a torch upon a pole to see the roof; where some may live in the fireplace, some in the recess of a window, and some on settles, some at one end of the hall, some at another, and some aloft on rafters with the spiders, if they choose; a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping; where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg, that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, storehouse, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thin, as a barrel or a ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner, and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments; where the washing is not put out, nor the fire, nor the mistress, and perhaps you are sometimes requested to move from off the trapdoor, when the cook would descend into the cellar, and so learn whether the ground is solid or hollow beneath you without stamping.
A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird's nest, and you cannot go in at the front door and out at the back without seeing some of its inhabitants; where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home therein solitary confinement.
Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance.
There is as much secrecy about the cooking as if he had a design to poison you.
I am aware that I have been on many a man's premises, and might have been legally ordered off, but I am not aware that I have been in many men's houses.
I might visit in my old clothes a king and queen who lived simply in such a house as I have described, if I were going their way; but backing out of a modern palace will be all that I shall desire to learn, if ever I am caught in one.
It would seem as if the very language of our parlors would lose all its nerve and degenerate into palaver wholly, our lives pass at such remoteness from its symbols, and its metaphors and tropes are necessarily so far fetched, through slides and dumbwaiters, as it were; in other words, the parlor is so far from the kitchen and workshop.
The dinner even is only the parable of a dinner, commonly.
As if only the savage dwelt near enough to Nature and Truth to borrow a trope from them.
How can the scholar, who dwells away in the North West Territory or the Isle of Man, tell what is parliamentary in the kitchen?
However, only one or two of my guests were ever bold enough to stay and eat a hasty-pudding with me; but when they saw that crisis approaching they beat a hasty retreat rather, as if it would shake the house to its foundations.
Nevertheless, it stood through a great many hasty-puddings.
I did not plaster till it was freezing weather.
I brought over some whiter and cleaner sand for this purpose from the opposite shore of the pond in a boat, a sort of conveyance which would have tempted me to go much farther if necessary.
My house had in the meanwhile been shingled down to the ground on every side.
In lathing I was pleased to be able to send home each nail with a single blow of the hammer, and it was my ambition to transfer the plaster from the board to the wall neatly and rapidly.
I remembered the story of a conceited fellow, who, in fine clothes, was wont to lounge about the village once, giving advice to workmen.
Venturing one day to substitute deeds for words, he turned up his cuffs, seized a plasterer's board, and having loaded his trowel without mishap, with a complacent look toward the lathing overhead, made a bold gesture thitherward; and straightway, to his complete discomfiture, received the whole contents in his ruffled bosom.
I admired anew the economy and convenience of plastering, which so effectually shuts out the cold and takes a handsome finish, and I learned the various casualties to which the plasterer is liable.
I was surprised to see how thirsty the bricks were which drank up all the moisture in my plaster before I had smoothed it, and how many pailfuls of water it takes to christen a new hearth.
I had the previous winter made a small quantity of lime by burning the shells of the Unio fluviatilis, which our river affords, for the sake of the experiment; so that I knew where my materials came from.
I might have got good limestone within a mile or two and burned it myself, if I had cared to do so.
The pond had in the meanwhile skimmed over in the shadiest and shallowest coves, some days or even weeks before the general freezing.
The first ice is especially interesting and perfect, being hard, dark, and transparent, and affords the best opportunity that ever offers for examining the bottom where it is shallow; for you can lie at your length on ice only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the surface of the water, and study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three inches distant, like a picture behind a glass, and the water is necessarily always smooth then.
There are many furrows in the sand where some creature has travelled about and doubled on its tracks; and, for wrecks, it is strewn with the cases of caddis-worms made of minute grains of white quartz.
Perhaps these have creased it, for you find some of their cases in the furrows, though they are deep and broad for them to make.
But the ice itself is the object of most interest, though you must improve the earliest opportunity to study it.
If you examine it closely the morning after it freezes, you find that the greater part of the bubbles, which at first appeared to be within it, are against its under surface, and that more are continually rising from the bottom; while the ice is as yet comparatively solid and dark, that is, you see the water through it.
These bubbles are from an eightieth to an eighth of an inch in diameter, very clear and beautiful, and you see your face reflected in them through the ice.
There may be thirty or forty of them to a square inch.
There are also already within the ice narrow oblong perpendicular bubbles about half an inch long, sharp cones with the apex upward; or oftener, if the ice is quite fresh, minute spherical bubbles one directly above another, like a string of beads.
But these within the ice are not so numerous nor obvious as those beneath.
I sometimes used to cast on stones to try the strength of the ice, and those which broke through carried in air with them, which formed very large and conspicuous white bubbles beneath.
One day when I came to the same place forty-eight hours afterward, I found that those large bubbles were still perfect, though an inch more of ice had formed, as I could see distinctly by the seam in the edge of a cake.
But as the last two days had been very warm, like an Indian summer, the ice was not now transparent, showing the dark green color of the water, and the bottom, but opaque and whitish or gray, and though twice as thick was hardly stronger than before, for the air bubbles had greatly expanded under this heat and run together, and lost their regularity; they were no longer one directly over another, but often like silvery coins poured from a bag, one overlapping another, or in thin flakes, as if occupying slight cleavages.
The beauty of the ice was gone, and it was too late to study the bottom.
Being curious to know what position my great bubbles occupied with regard to the new ice, I broke out a cake containing a middling sized one, and turned it bottom upward.
The new ice had formed around and under the bubble, so that it was included between the two ices.
It was wholly in the lower ice, but close against the upper, and was flattish, or perhaps slightly lenticular, with a rounded edge, a quarter of an inch deep by four inches in diameter; and I was surprised to find that directly under the bubble the ice was melted with great regularity in the form of a saucer reversed, to the height of five eighths of an inch in the middle, leaving a thin partition there between the water and the bubble, hardly an eighth of an inch thick; and in many places the small bubbles in this partition had burst out downward, and probably there was no ice at all under the largest bubbles, which were a foot in diameter.
I inferred that the infinite number of minute bubbles which I had first seen against the under surface of the ice were now frozen in likewise, and that each, in its degree, had operated like a burning-glass on the ice beneath to melt and rot it.
These are the little air-guns which contribute to make the ice crack and whoop.
At length the winter set in good earnest, just as I had finished plastering, and the wind began to howl around the house as if it had not had permission to do so till then.
Night after night the geese came lumbering in the dark with a clangor and a whistling of wings, even after the ground was covered with snow, some to alight in Walden, and some flying low over the woods toward Fair Haven, bound for Mexico.
Several times, when returning from the village at ten or eleven o'clock at night, I heard the tread of a flock of geese, or else ducks, on the dry leaves in the woods by a pond-hole behind my dwelling, where they had come up to feed, and the faint honk or quack of their leader as they hurried off.
In 1845 Walden froze entirely over for the first time on the night of the 22d of December, Flint's and other shallower ponds and the river having been frozen ten days or more; in '46, the 16th; in '49, about the 31st; and in '50, about the 27th of December; in '52, the 5th of January; in '53, the 31st of December.
The snow had already covered the ground since the 25th of November, and surrounded me suddenly with the scenery of winter.
I withdrew yet farther into my shell, and endeavored to keep a bright fire both within my house and within my breast.
My employment out of doors now was to collect the dead wood in the forest, bringing it in my hands or on my shoulders, or sometimes trailing a dead pine tree under each arm to my shed.
An old forest fence which had seen its best days was a great haul for me.
I sacrificed it to Vulcan, for it was past serving the god Terminus.
How much more interesting an event is that man's supper who has just been forth in the snow to hunt, nay, you might say, steal, the fuel to cook it with!
His bread and meat are sweet.
There are enough fagots and waste wood of all kinds in the forests of most of our towns to support many fires, but which at present warm none, and, some think, hinder the growth of the young wood.
There was also the driftwood of the pond.
In the course of the summer I had discovered a raft of pitch pine logs with the bark on, pinned together by the Irish when the railroad was built.
This I hauled up partly on the shore.
After soaking two years and then lying high six months it was perfectly sound, though waterlogged past drying.
I amused myself one winter day with sliding this piecemeal across the pond, nearly half a mile, skating behind with one end of a log fifteen feet long on my shoulder, and the other on the ice; or I tied several logs together with a birch withe, and then, with a longer birch or alder which had a book at the end, dragged them across.
Though completely waterlogged and almost as heavy as lead, they not only burned long, but made a very hot fire; nay, I thought that they burned better for the soaking, as if the pitch, being confined by the water, burned longer, as in a lamp.
Gilpin, in his account of the forest borderers of England, says that "the encroachments of trespassers, and the houses and fences thus raised on the borders of the forest," were "considered as great nuisances by the old forest law, and were severely punished under the name of purprestures, as tending ad terrorem ferarumad nocumentum forestae, etc.," to the frightening of the game and the detriment of the forest.
But I was interested in the preservation of the venison and the vert more than the hunters or woodchoppers, and as much as though I had been the Lord Warden himself; and if any part was burned, though I burned it myself by accident, I grieved with a grief that lasted longer and was more inconsolable than that of the proprietors; nay, I grieved when it was cut down by the proprietors themselves.
I would that our farmers when they cut down a forest felt some of that awe which the old Romans did when they came to thin, or let in the light to, a consecrated grove (lucum conlucare), that is, would believe that it is sacred to some god.
The Roman made an expiatory offering, and prayed, Whatever god or goddess thou art to whom this grove is sacred, be propitious to me, my family, and children, etc.
It is remarkable what a value is still put upon wood even in this age and in this new country, a value more permanent and universal than that of gold.
After all our discoveries and inventions no man will go by a pile of wood.
It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors.
If they made their bows of it, we make our gun-stocks of it.
Michaux, more than thirty years ago, says that the price of wood for fuel in New York and Philadelphia "nearly equals, and sometimes exceeds, that of the best wood in Paris, though this immense capital annually requires more than three hundred thousand cords, and is surrounded to the distance of three hundred miles by cultivated plains."
In this town the price of wood rises almost steadily, and the only question is, how much higher it is to be this year than it was the last.
Mechanics and tradesmen who come in person to the forest on no other errand, are sure to attend the wood auction, and even pay a high price for the privilege of gleaning after the woodchopper.
It is now many years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the materials of the arts: the New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robin Hood, Goody Blake and Harry Gill; in most parts of the world the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the forest to warm them and cook their food.
Neither could I do without them.
Every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection.
I love to have mine before my window, and the more chips the better to remind me of my pleasing work.
I had an old axe which nobody claimed, with which by spells in winter days, on the sunny side of the house, I played about the stumps which I had got out of my bean-field.
As my driver prophesied when I was plowing, they warmed me twiceonce while I was splitting them, and again when they were on the fire, so that no fuel could give out more heat.
As for the axe, I was advised to get the village blacksmith to "jump" it; but I jumped him, and, putting a hickory helve from the woods into it, made it do.
If it was dull, it was at least hung true.
A few pieces of fat pine were a great treasure.
It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the bowels of the earth.
In previous years I had often gone prospecting over some bare hillside, where a pitch pine wood had formerly stood, and got out the fat pine roots.
They are almost indestructible.
Stumps thirty or forty years old, at least, will still be sound at the core, though the sapwood has all become vegetable mould, as appears by the scales of the thick bark forming a ring level with the earth four or five inches distant from the heart.
With axe and shovel you explore this mine, and follow the marrowy store, yellow as beef tallow, or as if you had struck on a vein of gold, deep into the earth.
But commonly I kindled my fire with the dry leaves of the forest, which I had stored up in my shed before the snow came.
Green hickory finely split makes the woodchopper's kindlings, when he has a camp in the woods.
Once in a while I got a little of this.
When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.
Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
Hard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my purpose better than any other.
I sometimes left a good fire when I went to take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or four hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing.
My house was not empty though I was gone.
It was as if I had left a cheerful housekeeper behind.
It was I and Fire that lived there; and commonly my housekeeper proved trustworthy.
One day, however, as I was splitting wood, I thought that I would just look in at the window and see if the house was not on fire; it was the only time I remember to have been particularly anxious on this score; so I looked and saw that a spark had caught my bed, and I went in and extinguished it when it had burned a place as big as my hand.
But my house occupied so sunny and sheltered a position, and its roof was so low, that I could afford to let the fire go out in the middle of almost any winter day.
The moles nested in my cellar, nibbling every third potato, and making a snug bed even there of some hair left after plastering and of brown paper; for even the wildest animals love comfort and warmth as well as man, and they survive the winter only because they are so careful to secure them.
Some of my friends spoke as if I was coming to the woods on purpose to freeze myself.
The animal merely makes a bed, which he warms with his body, in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered fire, boxes up some air in a spacious apartment, and warms that, instead of robbing himself, makes that his bed, in which he can move about divested of more cumbrous clothing, maintain a kind of summer in the midst of winter, and by means of windows even admit the light, and with a lamp lengthen out the day.
Thus he goes a step or two beyond instinct, and saves a little time for the fine arts.
Though, when I had been exposed to the rudest blasts a long time, my whole body began to grow torpid, when I reached the genial atmosphere of my house I soon recovered my faculties and prolonged my life.
But the most luxuriously housed has little to boast of in this respect, nor need we trouble ourselves to speculate how the human race may be at last destroyed.
It would be easy to cut their threads any time with a little sharper blast from the north.
We go on dating from Cold Fridays and Great Snows; but a little colder Friday, or greater snow would put a period to man's existence on the globe.
The next winter I used a small cooking-stove for economy, since I did not own the forest; but it did not keep fire so well as the open fireplace.
Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer a poetic, but merely a chemic process.
It will soon be forgotten, in these days of stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, after the Indian fashion.
The stove not only took up room and scented the house, but it concealed the fire, and I felt as if I had lost a companion.
You can always see a face in the fire.
The laborer, looking into it at evening, pulifies his thoughts of the dross and earthiness which they have accumulated during the day.
But I could no longer sit and look into the fire, and the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with new force.
"Never, bright flame, may be denied to me Thy dear, life imaging, close sympathy.
What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright?
What but my fortunes sunk so low in night?
Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall, Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all?
Was thy existence then too fanciful For our life's common light, who are so dull?
Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold With our congenial souls?
secrets too bold?
Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit, Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire Warms feet and handsnor does to more aspire; By whose compact utilitarian heap The present may sit down and go to sleep, Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked, And with us by the unequal light of the old wood fire talked."
The Embassy to Achilles.
Thus did the Trojans watch.
But Panic, comrade of bloodstained Rout, had taken fast hold of the Achaeans, and their princes were all of them in despair.
As when the two winds that blow from Thrace— the north and the northwest— spring up of a sudden and rouse the fury of the main— in a moment the dark waves uprear their heads and scatter their seawrack in all directions— even thus troubled were the hearts of the Achaeans.
The son of Atreus in dismay bade the heralds call the people to a council man by man, but not to cry the matter aloud; he made haste also himself to call them, and they sat sorry at heart in their assembly.
Agamemnon shed tears as it were a running stream or cataract on the side of some sheer cliff; and thus, with many a heavy sigh he spoke to the Achaeans. "
My friends," said he," princes and councillors of the Argives, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of Troy before returning, but he has played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people.
Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say and sail back to our own country, for we shall not take Troy."
Thus he spoke, and the sons of the Achaeans for a long while sat sorrowful there, but they all held their peace, till at last Diomed of the loud battlecry made answer saying," Son of Atreus, I will chide your folly, as is my right in council.
Be not then aggrieved that I should do so.
In the first place you attacked me before all the Danaans and said that I was a coward and no soldier.
The Argives young and old know that you did so.
But the son of scheming Saturn endowed you by halves only.
He gave you honour as the chief ruler over us, but valour, which is the highest both right and might he did not give you.
Sir, think you that the sons of the Achaeans are indeed as unwarlike and cowardly as you say they are?
If your own mind is set upon going home— go— the way is open to you; the many ships that followed you from Mycene stand ranged upon the seashore; but the rest of us stay here till we have sacked Troy.
Nay though these too should turn homeward with their ships, Sthenelus and myself will still fight on till we reach the goal of Ilius, for heaven was with us when we came."
The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words of Diomed, and presently Nestor rose to speak."
Son of Tydeus," said he," in war your prowess is beyond question, and in council you excel all who are of your own years; no one of the Achaeans can make light of what you say nor gainsay it, but you have not yet come to the end of the whole matter.
You are still young— you might be the youngest of my own children— still you have spoken wisely and have counselled the chief of the Achaeans not without discretion; nevertheless I am older than you and I will tell you everything; therefore let no man, not even King Agamemnon, disregard my saying, for he that foments civil discord is a clanless, hearthless outlaw.
"Now, however, let us obey the behests of night and get our suppers, but let the sentinels every man of them camp by the trench that is without the wall.
I am giving these instructions to the young men; when they have been attended to, do you, son of Atreus, give your orders, for you are the most royal among us all.
Prepare a feast for your councillors; it is right and reasonable that you should do so; there is abundance of wine in your tents, which the ships of the Achaeans bring from Thrace daily.
You have everything at your disposal wherewith to entertain guests, and you have many subjects.
When many are got together, you can be guided by him whose counsel is wisest— and sorely do we need shrewd and prudent counsel, for the foe has lit his watchfires hard by our ships.
Who can be other than dismayed?
This night will either be the ruin of our host, or save it."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
The sentinels went out in their armour under command of Nestor 's son Thrasymedes, a captain of the host, and of the bold warriors Ascalaphus and Ialmenus: there were also Meriones, Aphareus and Deipyrus, and the son of Creion, noble Lycomedes.
There were seven captains of the sentinels, and with each there went a hundred youths armed with long spears: they took their places midway between the trench and the wall, and when they had done so they lit their fires and got every man his supper.
The son of Atreus then bade many councillors of the Achaeans to his quarters and prepared a great feast in their honour.
They laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had enough to eat and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel was ever truest, was the first to lay his mind before them.
He, therefore, with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus.
"With yourself, most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, will I both begin my speech and end it, for you are king over much people.
Jove, moreover, has vouchsafed you to wield the sceptre and to uphold righteousness, that you may take thought for your people under you; therefore it behooves you above all others both to speak and to give ear, and to out the counsel of another who shall have been minded to speak wisely.
All turns on you and on your commands, therefore I will say what I think will be best.
No man will be of a truer mind than that which has been mine from the hour when you, sir, angered Achilles by taking the girl Briseis from his tent against my judgment.
I urged you not to do so, but you yielded to your own pride, and dishonoured a hero whom heaven itself had honoured— for you still hold the prize that had been awarded to him.
Now, however, let us think how we may appease him, both with presents and fair speeches that may conciliate him."
And King Agamemnon answered," Sir, you have reproved my folly justly.
I was wrong.
I own it.
One whom heaven befriends is in himself a host, and Jove has shown that he befriends this man by destroying much people of the Achaeans.
I was blinded with passion and yielded to my worser mind; therefore I will make amends, and will give him great gifts by way of atonement.
I will tell them in the presence of you all.
I will give him seven tripods that have never yet been on the fire, and ten talents of gold.
I will give him twenty iron cauldrons and twelve strong horses that have won races and carried off prizes.
Rich, indeed, both in land and gold is he that has as many prizes as my horses have won me.
I will give him seven excellent workwomen, Lesbians, whom I chose for myself when he took Lesbos— all of surpassing beauty.
I will give him these, and with them her whom I erewhile took from him, the daughter of Briseus; and I swear a great oath that I never went up into her couch, nor have been with her after the manner of men and women.
"All these things will I give him now, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe me to sack the city of Priam, let him come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load his ship with gold and bronze to his liking; furthermore let him take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself.
Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, he shall be my soninlaw and I will show him like honour with my own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance.
I have three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa, let him take the one of his choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; I will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give him seven well established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire, where there is grass; holy Pherae and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vineclad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos.
The men that dwell there are rich in cattle and sheep; they will honour him with gifts as though he were a god, and be obedient to his comfortable ordinances.
All this will I do if he will now forgo his anger.
Let him then yield; it is only Hades who is utterly ruthless and unyielding— and hence he is of all gods the one most hateful to mankind.
Moreover I am older and more royal than himself.
Therefore, let him now obey me."
Then Nestor answered," Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon.
The gifts you offer are no small ones, let us then send chosen messengers, who may go to the tent of Achilles son of Peleus without delay.
Let those go whom I shall name.
Let Phoenix, dear to Jove, lead the way; let Ajax and Ulysses follow, and let the heralds Odius and Eurybates go with them.
Now bring water for our hands, and bid all keep silence while we pray to Jove the son of Saturn, if so be that he may have mercy upon us."
Thus did he speak, and his saying pleased them well.
Menservants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixingbowls with wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drinkoffering; then, when they had made their offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, the envoys set out from the tent of Agamemnon son of Atreus; and Nestor, looking first to one and then to another, but most especially at Ulysses, was instant with them that they should prevail with the noble son of Peleus.
They went their way by the shore of the sounding sea, and prayed earnestly to earthencircling Neptune that the high spirit of the son of Aeacus might incline favourably towards them.
When they reached the ships and tents of the Myrmidons, they found Achilles playing on a lyre, fair, of cunning workmanship, and its cross bar was of silver.
It was part of the spoils which he had taken when he sacked the city of Eetion, and he was now diverting himself with it and singing the feats of heroes.
He was alone with Patroclus, who sat opposite to him and said nothing, waiting till he should cease singing.
Ulysses and Ajax now came in— Ulysses leading the way— and stood before him.
Achilles sprang from his seat with the lyre still in his hand, and Patroclus, when he saw the strangers, rose also.
Achilles then greeted them saying," All hail and welcome— you must come upon some great matter, you, who for all my anger are still dearest to me of the Achaeans."
With this he led them forward, and bade them sit on seats covered with purple rugs; then he said to Patroclus who was close by him," Son of Menoetius, set a larger bowl upon the table, mix less water with the wine, and give every man his cup, for these are very dear friends, who are now under my roof."
Patroclus did as his comrade bade him; he set the choppingblock in front of the fire, and on it he laid the loin of a sheep, the loin also of a goat, and the chine of a fat hog.
Automedon held the meat while Achilles chopped it; he then sliced the pieces and put them on spits while the son of Menoetius made the fire burn high.
When the flame had died down, he spread the embers, laid the spits on top of them, lifting them up and setting them upon the spitracks; and he sprinkled them with salt.
When the meat was roasted, he set it on platters, and handed bread round the table in fair baskets, while Achilles dealt them their portions.
Then Achilles took his seat facing Ulysses against the opposite wall, and bade his comrade Patroclus offer sacrifice to the gods; so he cast the offerings into the fire, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Ajax made a sign to Phoenix, and when he saw this, Ulysses filled his cup with wine and pledged Achilles.
"Hail," said he," Achilles, we have had no scant of good cheer, neither in the tent of Agamemnon, nor yet here; there has been plenty to eat and drink, but our thought turns upon no such matter.
Sir, we are in the face of great disaster, and without your help know not whether we shall save our fleet or lose it.
The Trojans and their allies have camped hard by our ships and by the wall; they have lit watchfires throughout their host and deem that nothing can now prevent them from falling on our fleet.
Jove, moreover, has sent his lightnings on their right; Hector, in all his glory, rages like a maniac; confident that Jove is with him he fears neither god nor man, but is gone raving mad, and prays for the approach of day.
He vows that he will hew the high sterns of our ships in pieces, set fire to their hulls, and make havoc of the Achaeans while they are dazed and smothered in smoke; I much fear that heaven will make good his boasting, and it will prove our lot to perish at Troy far from our home in Argos.
Up, then, and late though it be, save the sons of the Achaeans who faint before the fury of the Trojans.
You will repent bitterly hereafter if you do not, for when the harm is done there will be no curing it; consider ere it be too late, and save the Danaans from destruction.
"My good friend, when your father Peleus sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon, did he not charge you saying,' Son, Minerva and Juno will make you strong if they choose, but check your high temper, for the better part is in goodwill.
Eschew vain quarrelling, and the Achaeans old and young will respect you more for doing so.'
These were his words, but you have forgotten them.
Even now, however, be appeased, and put away your anger from you.
Agamemnon will make you great amends if you will forgive him; listen, and I will tell you what he has said in his tent that he will give you.
He will give you seven tripods that have never yet been on the fire, and ten talents of gold; twenty iron cauldrons, and twelve strong horses that have won races and carried off prizes.
Rich indeed both in land and gold is he who has as many prizes as these horses have won for Agamemnon.
Moreover he will give you seven excellent workwomen, Lesbians, whom he chose for himself, when you took Lesbos— all of surpassing beauty.
He will give you these, and with them her whom he erewhile took from you, the daughter of Briseus, and he will swear a great oath, he has never gone up into her couch nor been with her after the manner of men and women.
All these things will he give you now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship with gold and bronze to your liking.
You can take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself.
Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his soninlaw, and he will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance.
Agamemnon has three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give you seven wellestablished cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vineclad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos.
The men that dwell there are rich in cattle and sheep; they will honour you with gifts as though were a god, and be obedient to your comfortable ordinances.
All this will he do if you will now forgo your anger.
Moreover, though you hate both him and his gifts with all your heart, yet pity the rest of the Achaeans who are being harassed in all their host; they will honour you as a god, and you will earn great glory at their hands.
You might even kill Hector; he will come within your reach, for he is infatuated, and declares that not a Danaan whom the ships have brought can hold his own against him."
Achilles answered," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, I should give you formal notice plainly and in all fixity of purpose that there be no more of this cajoling, from whatsoever quarter it may come.
Him do I hate even as the gates of hell who says one thing while he hides another in his heart; therefore I will say what I mean.
I will be appeased neither by Agamemnon son of Atreus nor by any other of the Danaans, for I see that I have no thanks for all my fighting.
He that fights fares no better than he that does not; coward and hero are held in equal honour, and death deals like measure to him who works and him who is idle.
I have taken nothing by all my hardships— with my life ever in my hand; as a bird when she has found a morsel takes it to her nestlings, and herself fares hardly ,even so many a long night have I been wakeful, and many a bloody battle have I waged by day against those who were fighting for their women.
With my ships I have taken twelve cities, and eleven round about Troy have I stormed with my men by land; I took great store of wealth from every one of them, but I gave all up to Agamemnon son of Atreus.
He stayed where he was by his ships, yet of what came to him he gave little, and kept much himself.
"Nevertheless he did distribute some meeds of honour among the chieftains and kings, and these have them still; from me alone of the Achaeans did he take the woman in whom I delighted— let him keep her and sleep with her.
Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans?
What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them?
Was it not for the sake of Helen?
Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives?
Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart, though she was but a fruitling of my spear.
Agamemnon has taken her from me; he has played me false; I know him; let him tempt me no further, for he shall not move me.
Let him look to you, Ulysses, and to the other princes to save his ships from burning.
He has done much without me already.
He has built a wall; he has dug a trench deep and wide all round it, and he has planted it within with stakes; but even so he stays not the murderous might of Hector.
So long as I fought the Achaeans Hector suffered not the battle range far from the city walls; he would come to the Scaean gates and to the oak tree, but no further.
Once he stayed to meet me and hardly did he escape my onset: now, however, since I am in no mood to fight him, I will tomorrow offer sacrifice to Jove and to all the gods; I will draw my ships into the water and then victual them duly; tomorrow morning, if you care to look, you will see my ships on the Hellespont, and my men rowing out to sea with might and main.
If great Neptune vouchsafes me a fair passage, in three days I shall be in Phthia.
I have much there that I left behind me when I came here to my sorrow, and I shall bring back still further store of gold, of red copper, of fair women, and of iron, my share of the spoils that we have taken; but one prize, he who gave has insolently taken away.
Tell him all as I now bid you, and tell him in public that the Achaeans may hate him and beware of him should he think that he can yet dupe others for his effrontery never fails him.
"As for me, hound that he is, he dares not look me in the face.
I will take no counsel with him, and will undertake nothing in common with him.
He has wronged me and deceived me enough, he shall not cozen me further; let him go his own way, for Jove has robbed him of his reason.
I loathe his presents, and for himself care not one straw.
He may offer me ten or even twenty times what he has now done, nay— not though it be all that he has in the world, both now or ever shall have; he may promise me the wealth of Orchomenus or of Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world, for it has a hundred gates through each of which two hundred men may drive at once with their chariots and horses; he may offer me gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multitude, but even so he shall not move me till I have been revenged in full for the bitter wrong he has done me.
I will not marry his daughter; she may be fair as Venus, and skilful as Minerva, but I will have none of her: let another take her, who may be a good match for her and who rules a larger kingdom.
If the gods spare me to return home, Peleus will find me a wife; there are Achaean women in Hellas and Phthia, daughters of kings that have cities under them; of these I can take whom I will and marry her.
Many a time was I minded when at home in Phthia to woo and we d a woman who would make me a suitable wife, and to enjoy the riches of my old father Peleus.
My life is more to me than all the wealth of Ilius while it was yet at peace before the Achaeans went there, or than all the treasure that lies on the stone floor of Apollo 's temple beneath the cliffs of Pytho.
Cattle and sheep are to be had for harrying, and a man buy both tripods and horses if he wants them, but when his life has once left him it can neither be bought nor harried back again.
"My mother Thetis tells me that there are two ways in which I may meet my end.
If I stay here and fight, I shall not return alive but my name will live for ever: whereas if I go home my name will die, but it will be long ere death shall take me.
To the rest of you, then, I say,' Go home, for you will not take Ilius.'
Jove has held his hand over her to protect her, and her people have taken heart.
Go, therefore, as in duty bound, and tell the princes of the Achaeans the message that I have sent them; tell them to find some other plan for the saving of their ships and people, for so long as my displeasure lasts the one that they have now hit upon may not be.
As for Phoenix, let him sleep here that he may sail with me in the morning if he so will.
But I will not take him by force."
They all held their peace, dismayed at the sternness with which he had denied them, till presently the old knight Phoenix in his great fear for the ships of the Achaeans, burst into tears and said," Noble Achilles, if you are now minded to return, and in the fierceness of your anger will do nothing to save the ships from burning, how, my son, can I remain here without you?
Your father Peleus bade me go with you when he sent you as a mere lad from Phthia to Agamemnon.
You knew nothing neither of war nor of the arts whereby men make their mark in council, and he sent me with you to train you in all excellence of speech and action.
Therefore, my son, I will not stay here without you— no, not though heaven itself vouchsafe to strip my years from off me, and make me young as I was when I first left Hellas the land of fair women.
I was then flying the anger of father Amyntor, son of Ormenus, who was furious with me in the matter of his concubine, of whom he was enamoured to the wronging of his wife my mother.
My mother, therefore, prayed me without ceasing to lie with the woman myself, that so she hate my father, and in the course of time I yielded.
But my father soon came to know, and cursed me bitterly, calling the dread Erinyes to witness.
He prayed that no son of mine might ever sit upon knees— and the gods, Jove of the world below and awful Proserpine, fulfilled his curse.
I took counsel to kill him, but some god stayed my rashness and bade me think on men 's evil tongues and how I should be branded as the murderer of my father ;nevertheless I could not bear to stay in my father 's house with him so bitter against me.
My cousins and clansmen came about me, and pressed me sorely to remain; many a sheep and many an ox did they slaughter, and many a fat hog did they set down to roast before the fire; many a jar, too, did they broach of my father 's wine.
Nine whole nights did they set a guard over me taking it in turns to watch, and they kept a fire always burning, both in the cloister of the outer court and in the inner court at the doors of the room wherein I lay; but when the darkness of the tenth night came, I broke through the closed doors of my room, and climbed the wall of the outer court after passing quickly and unperceived through the men on guard and the women servants.
I then fled through Hellas till I came to fertile Phthia, mother of sheep, and to King Peleus, who made me welcome and treated me as a father treats an only son who will be heir to all his wealth.
He made me rich and set me over much people, establishing me on the borders of Phthia where I was chief ruler over the Dolopians.
"It was I, Achilles, who had the making of you; I loved you with all my heart: for you would eat neither at home nor when you had gone out elsewhere, till I had first set you upon my knees, cut up the dainty morsel that you were to eat, and held the winecup to your lips.
Many a time have you slobbered your wine in baby helplessness over my shirt; I had infinite trouble with you, but I knew that heaven had vouchsafed me no offspring of my own, and I made a son of you, Achilles, that in my hour of need you might protect me.
Now, therefore, I say battle with your pride and beat it; cherish not your anger for ever; the might and majesty of heaven are more than ours, but even heaven may be appeased; and if a man has sinned he prays the gods, and reconciles them to himself by his piteous cries and by frankincense, with drinkofferings and the savour of burnt sacrifice.
For prayers are as daughters to great Jove; halt, wrinkled, with eyes askance, they follow in the footsteps of sin, who, being fierce and fleet of foot, leaves them far behind him, and ever baneful to mankind outstrips them even to the ends of the world; but nevertheless the prayers come hobbling and healing after.
If a man has pity upon these daughters of Jove when they draw near him, they will bless him and hear him too when he is praying; but if he deny them and will not listen to them, they go to Jove the son of Saturn and pray that he may presently fall into sin— to his ruing bitterly hereafter.
Therefore, Achilles, give these daughters of Jove due reverence, and bow before them as all good men will bow.
Were not the son of Atreus offering you gifts and promising others later— if he were still furious and implacable— I am not he that would bid you throw off your anger and help the Achaeans, no matter how great their need; but he is giving much now, and more hereafter; he has sent his captains to urge his suit, and has chosen those who of all the Argives are most acceptable to you; make not then their words and their coming to be of none effect.
Your anger has been righteous so far.
We have heard in song how heroes of old time quarrelled when they were roused to fury, but still they could be won by gifts, and fair words could soothe them.
"I have an old story in my mind— a very old one— but you are all friends and I will tell it.
The Curetes and the Aetolians were fighting and killing one another round Calydon— the Aetolians defending the city and the Curetes trying to destroy it.
For Diana of the golden throne was angry and did them hurt because Oeneus had not offered her his harvest firstfruits.
The other gods had all been feasted with hecatombs, but to the daughter of great Jove alone he had made no sacrifice.
He had forgotten her, or somehow or other it had escaped him, and this was a grievous sin.
Thereon the archer goddess in her displeasure sent a prodigious creature against him— a savage wild boar with great white tusks that did much harm to his orchard lands, uprooting appletrees in full bloom and throwing them to the ground.
But Meleager son of Oeneus got huntsmen and hounds from many cities and killed it— for it was so monstrous that not a few were needed, and many a man did it stretch upon his funeral pyre.
On this the goddess set the Curetes and the Aetolians fighting furiously about the head and skin of the boar.
"So long as Meleager was in the field things went badly with the Curetes, and for all their numbers they could not hold their ground under the city walls; but in the course of time Meleager was angered as even a wise man will sometimes be.
He was incensed with his mother Althaea, and therefore stayed at home with his wedded wife fair Cleopatra, who was daughter of Marpessa daughter of Euenus, and of Ides the man then living.
He it was who took his bow and faced King Apollo himself for fair Marpessa 's sake; her father and mother then named her Alcyone, because her mother had mourned with the plaintive strains of the halcyonbird when Phoebus Apollo had carried her off.
Meleager, then, stayed at home with Cleopatra, nursing the anger which he felt by reason of his mother 's curses.
His mother, grieving for the death of her brother, prayed the gods, and beat the earth with her hands, calling upon Hades and on awful Proserpine; she went down upon her knees and her bosom was wet with tears as she prayed that they would kill her son— and Erinys that walks in darkness and knows no ruth heard her from Erebus.
"Then was heard the din of battle about the gates of Calydon, and the dull thump of the battering against their walls.
Thereon the elders of the Aetolians besought Meleager; they sent the chiefest of their priests, and begged him to come out and help them, promising him a great reward.
They bade him choose fifty ploughgates, the most fertile in the plain of Calydon, the onehalf vineyard and the other open ploughland.
The old warrior Oeneus implored him, standing at the threshold of his room and beating the doors in supplication.
His sisters and his mother herself besought him sore, but he the more refused them; those of his comrades who were nearest and dearest to him also prayed him, but they could not move him till the foe was battering at the very doors of his chamber, and the Curetes had scaled the walls and were setting fire to the city.
Then at last his sorrowing wife detailed the horrors that befall those whose city is taken; she reminded him how the men are slain, and the city is given over to the flames, while the women and children are carried into captivity; when he heard all this, his heart was touched, and he donned his armour to go forth.
Thus of his own inward motion he saved the city of the Aetolians; but they now gave him nothing of those rich rewards that they had offered earlier, and though he saved the city he took nothing by it.
Be not then, my son, thus minded; let not heaven lure you into any such course.
When the ships are burning it will be a harder matter to save them.
Take the gifts, and go, for the Achaeans will then honour you as a god; whereas if you fight without taking them, you may beat the battle back, but you will not be held in like honour."
And Achilles answered," Phoenix, old friend and father, I have no need of such honour.
I have honour from Jove himself, which will abide with me at my ships while I have breath in my body, and my limbs are strong.
I say further— and lay my saying to your heart— vex me no more with this weeping and lamentation, all in the cause of the son of Atreus.
Love him so well, and you may lose the love I bear you.
You ought to help me rather in troubling those that trouble me; be king as much as I am, and share like honour with myself; the others shall take my answer; stay here yourself and sleep comfortably in your bed; at daybreak we will consider whether to remain or go."
On this he nodded quietly to Patroclus as a sign that he was to prepare a bed for Phoenix, and that the others should take their leave.
Ajax son of Telamon then said," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, let us be gone, for I see that our journey is vain.
We must now take our answer, unwelcome though it be, to the Danaans who are waiting to receive it.
Achilles is savage and remorseless; he is cruel, and cares nothing for the love his comrades lavished upon him more than on all the others.
He is implacable— and yet if a man 's brother or son has been slain he will accept a fine by way of amends from him that killed him, and the wrongdoer having paid in full remains in peace among his own people; but as for you, Achilles, the gods have put a wicked unforgiving spirit in your heart, and this, all about one single girl, whereas we now offer you the seven best we have, and much else into the bargain.
Be then of a more gracious mind, respect the hospitality of your own roof.
We are with you as messengers from the host of the Danaans, and would fain he held nearest and dearest to yourself of all the Achaeans."
"Ajax," replied Achilles," noble son of Telamon, you have spoken much to my liking, but my blood boils when I think it all over, and remember how the son of Atreus treated me with contumely as though I were some vile tramp, and that too in the presence of the Argives.
Go, then, and deliver your message; say that I will have no concern with fighting till Hector, son of noble Priam, reaches the tents of the Myrmidons in his murderous course, and flings fire upon their ships.
For all his lust of battle, I take it he will be held in check when he is at my own tent and ship."
On this they took every man his double cup, made their drinkofferings, and went back to the ships, Ulysses leading the way.
But Patroclus told his men and the maidservants to make ready a comfortable bed for Phoenix; they therefore did so with sheepskins, a rug, and a sheet of fine linen.
The old man then laid himself down and waited till morning came.
But Achilles slept in an inner room, and beside him the daughter of Phorbas lovely Diomede, whom he had carried off from Lesbos.
Patroclus lay on the other side of the room, and with him fair Iphis whom Achilles had given him when he took Scyros the city of Enyeus.
When the envoys reached the tents of the son of Atreus, the Achaeans rose, pledged them in cups of gold, and began to question them.
King Agamemnon was the first to do so.
"Tell me, Ulysses," said he," will he save the ships from burning, or did he refuse, and is he still furious?"
Ulysses answered," Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, Achilles will not be calmed, but is more fiercely angry than ever, and spurns both you and your gifts.
He bids you take counsel with the Achaeans to save the ships and host as you best may; as for himself, he said that at daybreak he should draw his ships into the water.
He said further that he should advise every one to sail home likewise, for that you will not reach the goal of Ilius.'
Jove,' he said,' has laid his hand over the city to protect it, and the people have taken heart.'
This is what he said, and the others who were with me can tell you the same story— Ajax and the two heralds, men, both of them, who may be trusted.
The old man Phoenix stayed where he was to sleep, for so Achilles would have it, that he might go home with him in the morning if he so would; but he will not take him by force."
They all held their peace, sitting for a long time silent and dejected, by reason of the sternness with which Achilles had refused them, till presently Diomed said," Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, you ought not to have sued the son of Peleus nor offered him gifts.
He is proud enough as it is, and you have encouraged him in his pride still further.
Let him stay or go as he will.
He will fight later when he is in the humour, and heaven puts it in his mind to do so.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; we have eaten and drunk our fill, let us then take our rest, for in rest there is both strength and stay.
But when fair rosyfingered morn appears, forthwith bring out your host and your horsemen in front of the ships, urging them on, and yourself fighting among the foremost."
Thus he spoke, and the other chieftains approved his words.
They then made their drinkofferings and went every man to his own tent, where they laid down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
Achilles is reconciled with Agamemnon, puts on the armour which Vulcan had made him, and goes out to fight.
Now when Dawn in robe of saffron was hasting from the streams of Oceanus, to bring light to mortals and immortals, Thetis reached the ships with the armour that the god had given her.
She found her son fallen about the body of Patroclus and weeping bitterly.
Many also of his followers were weeping round him, but when the goddess came among them she clasped his hand in her own, saying," My son, grieve as we may we must let this man lie, for it is by heaven 's will that he has fallen; now, therefore, accept from Vulcan this rich and goodly armour, which no man has ever yet borne upon his shoulders."
As she spoke she set the armour before Achilles, and it rang out bravely as she did so.
The Myrmidons were struck with awe, and none dared look full at it, for they were afraid; but Achilles was roused to still greater fury, and his eyes gleamed with a fierce light, for he was glad when he handled the splendid present which the god had made him.
Then, as soon as he had satisfied himself with looking at it, he said to his mother," Mother, the god has given me armour, meet handiwork for an immortal and such as noone living could have fashioned; I will now arm, but I much fear that flies will settle upon the son of Menoetius and breed worms about his wounds, so that his body, now he is dead, will be disfigured and the flesh will rot."
Silverfooted Thetis answered," My son, be not disquieted about this matter.
I will find means to protect him from the swarms of noisome flies that prey on the bodies of men who have been killed in battle.
He may lie for a whole year, and his flesh shall still be as sound as ever, or even sounder.
Call, therefore, the Achaean heroes in assembly; unsay your anger against Agamemnon; arm at once, and fight with might and main."
As she spoke she put strength and courage into his heart, and she then dropped ambrosia and red nectar into the wounds of Patroclus, that his body might suffer no change.
Then Achilles went out upon the seashore, and with a loud cry called on the Achaean heroes.
On this even those who as yet had stayed always at the ships, the pilots and helmsmen, and even the stewards who were about the ships and served out rations, all came to the place of assembly because Achilles had shown himself after having held aloof so long from fighting.
Two sons of Mars, Ulysses and the son of Tydeus, came limping, for their wounds still pained them; nevertheless they came, and took their seats in the front row of the assembly.
Last of all came Agamemnon, king of men, he too wounded, for Coon son of Antenor had struck him with a spear in battle.
When the Achaeans were got together Achilles rose and said," Son of Atreus, surely it would have been better alike for both you and me, when we two were in such high anger about Briseis, surely it would have been better, had Diana 's arrow slain her at the ships on the day when I took her after having sacked Lyrnessus.
For so, many an Achaean the less would have bitten dust before the foe in the days of my anger.
It has been well for Hector and the Trojans, but the Achaeans will long indeed remember our quarrel.
Now, however, let it be, for it is over.
If we have been angry, necessity has schooled our anger.
I put it from me: I dare not nurse it for ever; therefore, bid the Achaeans arm forthwith that I may go out against the Trojans, and learn whether they will be in a mind to sleep by the ships or no.
Glad, I ween, will he be to rest his knees who may fly my spear when I wield it."
Thus did he speak, and the Achaeans rejoiced in that he had put away his anger.
Then Agamemnon spoke, rising in his place, and not going into the middle of the assembly."
Danaan heroes," said he," servants of Mars, it is well to listen when a man stands up to speak, and it is not seemly to interrupt him, or it will go hard even with a practised speaker.
Who can either hear or speak in an uproar?
Even the finest orator will be disconcerted by it.
I will expound to the son of Peleus, and do you other Achaeans heed me and mark me well.
Often have the Achaeans spoken to me of this matter and upbraided me, but it was not I that did it: Jove, and Fate, and Erinys that walks in darkness struck me mad when we were assembled on the day that I took from Achilles the meed that had been awarded to him.
What could I do?
All things are in the hand of heaven, and Folly, eldest of Jove 's daughters, shuts men 's eyes to their destruction.
She walks delicately, not on the solid earth, but hovers over the heads of men to make them stumble or to ensnare them.
"Time was when she fooled Jove himself, who they say is greatest whether of gods or men; for Juno, woman though she was, beguiled him on the day when Alcmena was to bring forth mighty Hercules in the fair city of Thebes.
He told it out among the gods saying,' Hear me, all gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as I am minded; this day shall an Ilithuia, helper of women who are in labour, bring a man child into the world who shall be lord over all that dwell about him who are of my blood and lineage.'
Then said Juno all crafty and full of guile,' You will play false, and will not hold to your word.
Swear me, O Olympian, swear me a great oath, that he who shall this day fall between the feet of a woman, shall be lord over all that dwell about him who are of your blood and lineage.'
"Thus she spoke, and Jove suspected her not, but swore the great oath, to his much ruing thereafter.
For Juno darted down from the high summit of Olympus, and went in haste to Achaean Argos where she knew that the noble wife of Sthenelus son of Perseus then was.
She being with child and in her seventh month, Juno brought the child to birth though there was a month still wanting, but she stayed the offspring of Alcmena, and kept back the Ilithuiae.
Then she went to tell Jove the son of Saturn, and said,' Father Jove, lord of the lightning— I have a word for your ear.
There is a fine child born this day, Eurystheus, son to Sthenelus the son of Perseus; he is of your lineage; it is well, therefore, that he should reign over the Argives.'
"On this Jove was stung to the very quick, and in his rage he caught Folly by the hair, and swore a great oath that never should she again invade starry heaven and Olympus, for she was the bane of all.
Then he whirled her round with a twist of his hand, and flung her down from heaven so that she fell on to the fields of mortal men; and he was ever angry with her when he saw his son groaning under the cruel labours that Eurystheus laid upon him.
Even so did I grieve when mighty Hector was killing the Argives at their ships, and all the time I kept thinking of Folly who had so baned me.
I was blind, and Jove robbed me of my reason; I will now make atonement, and will add much treasure by way of amends.
Go, therefore, into battle, you and your people with you.
I will give you all that Ulysses offered you yesterday in your tents: or if it so please you, wait, though you would fain fight at once, and my squires shall bring the gifts from my ship, that you may see whether what I give you is enough."
And Achilles answered," Son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, you can give such gifts as you think proper, or you can withhold them: it is in your own hands.
Let us now set battle in array; it is not well to tarry talking about trifles, for there is a deed which is as yet to do.
Achilles shall again be seen fighting among the foremost, and laying low the ranks of the Trojans: bear this in mind each one of you when he is fighting."
Then Ulysses said," Achilles, godlike and brave, send not the Achaeans thus against Ilius to fight the Trojans fasting, for the battle will be no brief one, when it is once begun, and heaven has filled both sides with fury; bid them first take food both bread and wine by the ships, for in this there is strength and stay.
No man can do battle the livelong day to the going down of the sun if he is without food; however much he may want to fight his strength will fail him before he knows it; hunger and thirst will find him out, and his limbs will grow weary under him.
But a man can fight all day if he is full fed with meat and wine; his heart beats high, and his strength will stay till he has routed all his foes; therefore, send the people away and bid them prepare their meal; King Agamemnon will bring out the gifts in presence of the assembly, that all may see them and you may be satisfied.
Moreover let him swear an oath before the Argives that he has never gone up into the couch of Briseis, nor been with her after the manner of men and women; and do you, too, show yourself of a gracious mind; let Agamemnon entertain you in his tents with a feast of reconciliation, that so you may have had your dues in full.
As for you, son of Atreus, treat people more righteously in future; it is no disgrace even to a king that he should make amends if he was wrong in the first instance."
And King Agamemnon answered," Son of Laertes, your words please me well, for throughout you have spoken wisely.
I will swear as you would have me do; I do so of my own free will, neither shall I take the name of heaven in vain.
Let, then, Achilles wait, though he would fain fight at once, and do you others wait also, till the gifts come from my tent and we ratify the oath with sacrifice.
Thus, then, do I charge you: take some noble young Achaeans with you, and bring from my tents the gifts that I promised yesterday to Achilles, and bring the women also; furthermore let Talthybius find me a boar from those that are with the host, and make it ready for sacrifice to Jove and to the sun."
Then said Achilles," Son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, see to these matters at some other season, when there is breathing time and when I am calmer.
Would you have men eat while the bodies of those whom Hector son of Priam slew are still lying mangled upon the plain?
Let the sons of the Achaeans, say I, fight fasting and without food, till we have avenged them; afterwards at the going down of the sun let them eat their fill.
As for me, Patroclus is lying dead in my tent, all hacked and hewn, with his feet to the door, and his comrades are mourning round him.
Therefore I can take thought of nothing save only slaughter and blood and the rattle in the throat of the dying."
Ulysses answered," Achilles, son of Peleus, mightiest of all the Achaeans, in battle you are better than I, and that more than a little, but in counsel I am much before you, for I am older and of greater knowledge.
Therefore be patient under my words.
Fighting is a thing of which men soon surfeit, and when Jove, who is war 's steward, weighs the upshot, it may well prove that the straw which our sickles have reaped is far heavier than the grain.
It may not be that the Achaeans should mourn the dead with their bellies; day by day men fall thick and threefold continually; when should we have respite from our sorrow?
Let us mourn our dead for a day and bury them out of sight and mind, but let those of us who are left eat and drink that we may arm and fight our foes more fiercely.
In that hour let no man hold back, waiting for a second summons; such summons shall bode ill for him who is found lagging behind at our ships; let us rather sally as one man and loose the fury of war upon the Trojans."
When he had thus spoken he took with him the sons of Nestor, with Meges son of Phyleus, Thoas, Meriones, Lycomedes son of Creontes, and Melanippus, and went to the tent of Agamemnon son of Atreus.
The word was not sooner said than the deed was done: they brought out the seven tripods which Agamemnon had promised, with the twenty metal cauldrons and the twelve horses; they also brought the women skilled in useful arts, seven in number, with Briseis, which made eight.
Ulysses weighed out the ten talents of gold and then led the way back, while the young Achaeans brought the rest of the gifts, and laid them in the middle of the assembly.
Agamemnon then rose, and Talthybius whose voice was like that of a god came to him with the boar.
The son of Atreus drew the knife which he wore by the scabbard of his mighty sword, and began by cutting off some bristles from the boar, lifting up his hands in prayer as he did so.
The other Achaeans sat where they were all silent and orderly to hear the king, and Agamemnon looked into the vault of heaven and prayed saying," I call Jove the first and mightiest of all gods to witness, I call also Earth and Sun and the Erinyes who dwell below and take vengeance on him who shall swear falsely, that I have laid no hand upon the girl Briseis, neither to take her to my bed nor otherwise, but that she has remained in my tents inviolate.
If I swear falsely may heaven visit me with all the penalties which it metes out to those who perjure themselves."
He cut the boar 's throat as he spoke, whereon Talthybius whirled it round his head, and flung it into the wide sea to feed the fishes.
Then Achilles also rose and said to the Argives," Father Jove, of a truth you blind men 's eyes and bane them.
The son of Atreus had not else stirred me to so fierce an anger, nor so stubbornly taken Briseis from me against my will.
Surely Jove must have counselled the destruction of many an Argive.
Go, now, and take your food that we may begin fighting."
On this he broke up the assembly, and every man went back to his own ship.
The Myrmidons attended to the presents and took them away to the ship of Achilles.
They placed them in his tents, while the stablemen drove the horses in among the others.
Briseis, fair as Venus, when she saw the mangled body of Patroclus, flung herself upon it and cried aloud, tearing her breast, her neck, and her lovely face with both her hands.
Beautiful as a goddess she wept and said," Patroclus, dearest friend, when I went hence I left you living; I return, O prince, to find you dead; thus do fresh sorrows multiply upon me one after the other.
I saw him to whom my father and mother married me, cut down before our city, and my three own dear brothers perished with him on the selfsame day; but you, Patroclus, even when Achilles slew my husband and sacked the city of noble Mynes, told me that I was not to weep, for you said you would make Achilles marry me, and take me back with him to Phthia, we should have a wedding feast among the Myrmidons.
You were always kind to me and I shall never cease to grieve for you."
She wept as she spoke, and the women joined in her lamentmaking as though their tears were for Patroclus, but in truth each was weeping for her own sorrows.
The elders of the Achaeans gathered round Achilles and prayed him to take food, but he groaned and would not do so.
"I pray you," said he," if any comrade will hear me, bid me neither eat nor drink, for I am in great heaviness, and will stay fasting even to the going down of the sun."
On this he sent the other princes away, save only the two sons of Atreus and Ulysses, Nestor, Idomeneus, and the knight Phoenix, who stayed behind and tried to comfort him in the bitterness of his sorrow: but he would not be comforted till he should have flung himself into the jaws of battle, and he fetched sigh on sigh, thinking ever of Patroclus.
Then he said— "Hapless and dearest comrade, you it was who would get a good dinner ready for me at once and without delay when the Achaeans were hasting to fight the Trojans; now, therefore, though I have meat and drink in my tents, yet will I fast for sorrow.
Grief greater than this I could not know, not even though I were to hear of the death of my father, who is now in Phthia weeping for the loss of me his son, who am here fighting the Trojans in a strange land for the accursed sake of Helen, nor yet though I should hear that my son is no more— he who is being brought up in Scyros— if indeed Neoptolemus is still living.
Till now I made sure that I alone was to fall here at Troy away from Argos, while you were to return to Phthia, bring back my son with you in your own ship, and show him all my property, my bondsmen, and the greatness of my house— for Peleus must surely be either dead, or what little life remains to him is oppressed alike with the infirmities of age and ever present fear lest he should hear the sad tidings of my death."
He wept as he spoke, and the elders sighed in concert as each thought on what he had left at home behind him.
The son of Saturn looked down with pity upon them, and said presently to Minerva," My child, you have quite deserted your hero; is he then gone so clean out of your recollection?
There he sits by the ships all desolate for the loss of his dear comrade, and though the others are gone to their dinner he will neither eat nor drink.
Go then and drop nectar and ambrosia into his breast, that he may know no hunger."
With these words he urged Minerva, who was already of the same mind.
She darted down from heaven into the air like some falcon sailing on his broad wings and screaming.
Meanwhile the Achaeans were arming throughout the host, and when Minerva had dropped nectar and ambrosia into Achilles so that no cruel hunger should cause his limbs to fail him, she went back to the house of her mighty father.
Thick as the chill snowflakes shed from the hand of Jove and borne on the keen blasts of the north wind, even so thick did the gleaming helmets, the bossed shields, the strongly plated breastplates, and the ashen spears stream from the ships.
The sheen pierced the sky, the whole land was radiant with their flashing armour, and the sound of the tramp of their treading rose from under their feet.
In the midst of them all Achilles put on his armour; he gnashed his teeth, his eyes gleamed like fire, for his grief was greater than he could bear.
Thus, then, full of fury against the Trojans, did he don the gift of the god, the armour that Vulcan had made him.
First he put on the goodly greaves fitted with ancleclasps, and next he did on the breastplate about his chest.
He slung the silverstudded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then took up the shield so great and strong that shone afar with a splendour as of the moon.
As the light seen by sailors from out at sea, when men have lit a fire in their homestead high up among the mountains, but the sailors are carried out to sea by wind and storm far from the haven where they would be— even so did the gleam of Achilles ' wondrous shield strike up into the heavens.
He lifted the redoubtable helmet, and set it upon his head, from whence it shone like a star, and the golden plumes which Vulcan had set thick about the ridge of the helmet, waved all around it.
Then Achilles made trial of himself in his armour to see whether it fitted him, so that his limbs could play freely under it, and it seemed to buoy him up as though it had been wings.
He also drew his father 's spear out of the spearstand, a spear so great and heavy and strong that none of the Achaeans save only Achilles had strength to wield it; this was the spear of Pelian ash from the topmost ridges of Mt.
Pelion, which Chiron had once given to Peleus, fraught with the death of heroes.
Automedon and Alcimus busied themselves with the harnessing of his horses; they made the bands fast about them, and put the bit in their mouths, drawing the reins back towards the chariot.
Automedon, whip in hand, sprang up behind the horses, and after him Achilles mounted in full armour, resplendent as the sungod Hyperion.
Then with a loud voice he chided with his father 's horses saying," Xanthus and Balius, famed offspring of Podarge— this time when we have done fighting be sure and bring your driver safely back to the host of the Achaeans, and do not leave him dead on the plain as you did Patroclus."
Then fleet Xanthus answered under the yoke— for whitearmed Juno had endowed him with human speech— and he bowed his head till his mane touched the ground as it hung down from under the yokeband."
Dread Achilles," said he," we will indeed save you now, but the day of your death is near, and the blame will not be ours, for it will be heaven and stern fate that will destroy you.
Neither was it through any sloth or slackness on our part that the Trojans stripped Patroclus of his armour; it was the mighty god whom lovely Leto bore that slew him as he fought among the foremost, and vouchsafed a triumph to Hector .
We two can fly as swiftly as Zephyrus who they say is fleetest of all winds; nevertheless it is your doom to fall by the hand of a man and of a god."
When he had thus said the Erinyes stayed his speech, and Achilles answered him in great sadness, saying," Why, O Xanthus, do you thus foretell my death?
You need not do so, for I well know that I am to fall here, far from my dear father and mother; none the more, however, shall I stay my hand till I have given the Trojans their fill of fighting."
So saying, with a loud cry he drove his horses to the front.
CHAPTER XII Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella.
She had herself been first with him for many years past.
She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared.
In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?--When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them.
Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.
She could not.
She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to her.
She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.--How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates!
How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for her.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life.
Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her.
It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him.
Nothing should separate her from her father.
She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every day.
The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.
In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence.
To talk would be only to irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she objected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related.
Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about."
Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so.
They had gone, in short--and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady.
She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness.
The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene.
They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them.
Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.
Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement.
Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic.
This was one of her expressions.
'I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart."
"Poor girl!"
said Emma.
"She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?"
"Wrong!
No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself.
'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought.
But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
Pain is no expiation.
I never can be blameless.
I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.'
'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was taught wrong.
Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up.
The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'"
"Poor girl!"
said Emma again.
"She loves him then excessively, I suppose.
It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement.
Her affection must have overpowered her judgment."
"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."
"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy."
"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done.
But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before.
One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her unreasonable.
The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for him to bear.
'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.'
She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every wish and every endeavour to do her good.
She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself."
"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh!
Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten.
You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars.
They shew her to the greatest advantage.
I am sure she is very good--I hope she will be very happy.
It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers."
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston.
She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest.
She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
"Are you well, my Emma?"
was Mrs. Weston's parting question.
"Oh!
perfectly.
I am always well, you know.
Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible."
Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax.
She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.
Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what was she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this important matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's.
Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.
She must have been a perpetual enemy.
They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom.
A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before.
It reminded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy.
Alas!
such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over.
The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction.
The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that might not be even partially brightened.
If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.
They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury.
They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe.
All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach?
Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!--How was it to be endured?
And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.
CHAPTER XIII The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again.
With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible.
Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her.
She longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.--There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.--It was the first intimation of his being returned from London.
She had been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.--There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind.
She must be collected and calm.
In half a minute they were together.
The "How d'ye do's" were quiet and constrained on each side.
She asked after their mutual friends; they were all well.--When had he left them?--Only that morning.
He must have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with her, she found.
"He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred being out of doors."
--She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.
They walked together.
He was silent.
She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give.
And this belief produced another dread.
Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subject.
He must do it all himself.
Yet she could not bear this silence.
With him it was most unnatural.
She considered--resolved--and, trying to smile, began-"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprize you."
"Have I?"
said he quietly, and looking at her; "of what nature?"
"Oh!
the best nature in the world--a wedding."
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he replied, "If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already."
"How is it possible?"
cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.
"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure, "You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have had your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low, "Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent sense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow yourself--."
Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest friendship--Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!"
--And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon be gone.
They will soon be in Yorkshire.
I am sorry for her.
She deserves a better fate."
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied, "You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.-I am not in want of that sort of compassion.
My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."
"Emma!"
cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are you, indeed?"
--but checking himself--"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased that you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed!
and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.--Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled!--I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt--I could only be certain that there was a preference--and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.--He is a disgrace to the name of man.--And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?--Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature."
"Mr. Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused--"I am in a very extraordinary situation.
I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.--But I never have."
He listened in perfect silence.
She wished him to speak, but he would not.
She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion.
She went on, however.
"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.--An old story, probably--a common case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding.
Many circumstances assisted the temptation.
He was the son of Mr. Weston--he was continually here--I always found him very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last--my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions.
Latterly, however--for some time, indeed--I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.--I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.
He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me.
I have never been attached to him.
And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour.
He never wished to attach me.
It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.--It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself--except that I was not blinded--that it was my good fortune--that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him."
She had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought.
At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said, "I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him.
My acquaintance with him has been but trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no motive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well."
"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."
"He is a most fortunate man!"
returned Mr. Knightley, with energy.
"So early in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize!
What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,--equality of situation--I mean, as far as regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one--and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.--A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune.
Every thing turns out for his good.--He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His aunt dies.--He has only to speak.--His friends are eager to promote his happiness.--He had used every body ill--and they are all delighted to forgive him.--He is a fortunate man indeed!"
"You speak as if you envied him."
"And I do envy him, Emma.
In one respect he is the object of my envy."
Emma could say no more.
They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible.
She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying, "You will not ask me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.--You are wise--but I cannot be wise.
Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment."
"Oh!
then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried.
"Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself."
"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain.
He was wishing to confide in her--perhaps to consult her;--cost her what it would, she would listen.
She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.--They had reached the house.
"You are going in, I suppose?"
said he.
"No,"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spoke--"I should like to take another turn.
Mr. Perry is not gone."
And, after proceeding a few steps, she added--"I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.--But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation--as a friend, indeed, you may command me.--I will hear whatever you like.
I will tell you exactly what I think."
"As a friend!"
--repeated Mr.
Knightley.--"Emma, that I fear is a word--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?--I have gone too far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your offer--Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.--Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.
"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma--tell me at once.
Say 'No,' if it is to be said."
--She could really say nothing.--"You are silent," he cried, with great animation; "absolutely silent!
at present I ask no more."
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment.
The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.--"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.
But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.--Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them.
The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them.
God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.--But you understand me.--Yes, you see, you understand my feelings--and will return them if you can.
At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."
While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word--to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself.--And not only was there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two--or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not.
She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain.
She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading.
Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.--She spoke then, on being so entreated.--What did she say?--Just what she ought, of course.
A lady always does.--She said enough to shew there need not be despair--and to invite him to say more himself.
He had despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;--she had begun by refusing to hear him.--The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;--her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!--She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.--Mr.
Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence.
He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it.
He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.
The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;--but it had been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.--The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.--The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!--Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.
Her change was equal.--This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other.
It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country.--The Box Hill party had decided him on going away.
He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.--He had gone to learn to be indifferent.--But he had gone to a wrong place.
There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.--He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day--till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer.
He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill was a villain.-He heard her declare that she had never loved him.
Frank Churchill's character was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.
ASSEMBLY OF THE PEOPLE OF ITHACA—SPEECHES OF TELEMACHUS AND OF THE SUITORS—TELEMACHUS MAKES HIS PREPARATIONS AND STARTS FOR PYLOS WITH MINERVA DISGUISED AS MENTOR.
Now when the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared Telemachus rose and dressed himself.
He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulder, and left his room looking like an immortal god.
He at once sent the criers round to call the people in assembly, so they called them and the people gathered thereon; then, when they were got together, he went to the place of assembly spear in hand— not alone, for his two hounds went with him.
Minerva endowed him with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as he went by, and when he took his place in his father 's seat even the oldest councillors made way for him.
Aegyptius, a man bent double with age, and of infinite experience, was the first to speak.
His son Antiphus had gone with Ulysses to Ilius, land of noble steeds, but the savage Cyclops had killed him when they were all shut up in the cave, and had cooked his last dinner for him.
He had three sons left, of whom two still worked on their father 's land, while the third, Eurynomus, was one of the suitors; nevertheless their father could not get over the loss of Antiphus, and was still weeping for him when he began his speech.
"Men of Ithaca," he said," hear my words.
From the day Ulysses left us there has been no meeting of our councillors until now; who then can it be, whether old or young, that finds it so necessary to convene us?
Has he got wind of some host approaching, and does he wish to warn us, or would he speak upon some other matter of public moment?
I am sure he is an excellent person, and I hope Jove will grant him his heart 's desire."
Telemachus took this speech as of good omen and rose at once, for he was bursting with what he had to say.
He stood in the middle of the assembly and the good herald Pisenor brought him his staff.
Then, turning to Aegyptius," Sir," said he," it is I, as you will shortly learn, who have convened you, for it is I who am the most aggrieved.
I have not got wind of any host approaching about which I would warn you, nor is there any matter of public moment on which I would speak.
My grievance is purely personal, and turns on two great misfortunes which have fallen upon my house.
The first of these is the loss of my excellent father, who was chief among all you here present, and was like a father to every one of you; the second is much more serious, and ere long will be the utter ruin of my estate.
The sons of all the chief men among you are pestering my mother to marry them against her will.
They are afraid to go to her father Icarius, asking him to choose the one he likes best, and to provide marriage gifts for his daughter, but day by day they keep hanging about my father 's house, sacrificing our oxen, sheep, and fat goats for their banquets, and never giving so much as a thought to the quantity of wine they drink.
No estate can stand such recklessness; we have now no Ulysses to ward off harm from our doors, and I can not hold my own against them.
I shall never all my days be as good a man as he was, still I would indeed defend myself if I had power to do so, for I can not stand such treatment any longer; my house is being disgraced and ruined.
Have respect, therefore, to your own consciences and to public opinion.
Fear, too, the wrath of heaven, lest the gods should be displeased and turn upon you.
I pray you by Jove and Themis, who is the beginning and the end of councils,[ do not] hold back, my friends, and leave me singlehanded— unless it be that my brave father Ulysses did some wrong to the Achaeans which you would now avenge on me, by aiding and abetting these suitors.
Moreover, if I am to be eaten out of house and home at all, I had rather you did the eating yourselves, for I could then take action against you to some purpose, and serve you with notices from house to house till I got paid in full, whereas now I have no remedy."
With this Telemachus dashed his staff to the ground and burst into tears.
Every one was very sorry for him, but they all sat still and no one ventured to make him an angry answer, save only Antinous, who spoke thus: "Telemachus, insolent braggart that you are, how dare you try to throw the blame upon us suitors?
It is your mother 's fault not ours, for she is a very artful woman.
This three years past, and close on four, she had been driving us out of our minds, by encouraging each one of us, and sending him messages without meaning one word of what she says.
And then there was that other trick she played us.
She set up a great tambour frame in her room, and began to work on an enormous piece of fine needlework.'
Sweet hearts,' said she,' Ulysses is indeed dead, still do not press me to marry again immediately, wait— for I would not have skill in needlework perish unrecorded— till I have completed a pall for the hero Laertes, to be in readiness against the time when death shall take him.
He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.'
"This was what she said, and we assented; whereon we could see her working on her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight.
She fooled us in this way for three years and we never found her out, but as time wore on and she was now in her fourth year, one of her maids who knew what she was doing told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it whether she would or no.
The suitors, therefore, make you this answer, that both you and the Achaeans may understand—'Send your mother away, and bid her marry the man of her own and of her father 's choice'; for I do not know what will happen if she goes on plaguing us much longer with the airs she gives herself on the score of the accomplishments Minerva has taught her, and because she is so clever.
We never yet heard of such a woman; we know all about Tyro, Alcmena, Mycene, and the famous women of old, but they were nothing to your mother any one of them.
It was not fair of her to treat us in that way, and as long as she continues in the mind with which heaven has now endowed her, so long shall we go on eating up your estate; and I do not see why she should change ,for she gets all the honour and glory, and it is you who pay for it, not she.
Understand, then, that we will not go back to our lands, neither here nor elsewhere, till she has made her choice and married some one or other of us."
Telemachus answered," Antinous, how can I drive the mother who bore me from my father 's house?
My father is abroad and we do not know whether he is alive or dead.
It will be hard on me if I have to pay Icarius the large sum which I must give him if I insist on sending his daughter back to him.
Not only will he deal rigorously with me, but heaven will also punish me; for my mother when she leaves the house will call on the Erinyes to avenge her; besides, it would not be a creditable thing to do, and I will have nothing to say to it.
If you choose to take offence at this, leave the house and feast elsewhere at one another 's houses at your own cost turn and turn about.
If, on the other hand, you elect to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father 's house there shall be no man to avenge you."
As he spoke Jove sent two eagles from the top of the mountain, and they flew on and on with the wind, sailing side by side in their own lordly flight.
When they were right over the middle of the assembly they wheeled and circled about, beating the air with their wings and glaring death into the eyes of them that were below; then, fighting fiercely and tearing at one another, they flew off towards the right over the town.
The people wondered as they saw them, and asked each other what all this might be; whereon Halitherses, who was the best prophet and reader of omens among them, spoke to them plainly and in all honesty, saying: "Hear me, men of Ithaca, and I speak more particularly to the suitors, for I see mischief brewing for them.
Ulysses is not going to be away much longer; indeed he is close at hand to deal out death and destruction, not on them alone, but on many another of us who live in Ithaca.
Let us then be wise in time, and put a stop to this wickedness before he comes.
Let the suitors do so of their own accord; it will be better for them, for I am not prophesying without due knowledge; everything has happened to Ulysses as I foretold when the Argives set out for Troy, and he with them.
I said that after going through much hardship and losing all his men he should come home again in the twentieth year and that no one would know him; and now all this is coming true."
Eurymachus son of Polybus then said," Go home, old man, and prophesy to your own children, or it may be worse for them.
I can read these omens myself much better than you can; birds are always flying about in the sunshine somewhere or other, but they seldom mean anything.
Ulysses has died in a far country, and it is a pity you are not dead along with him, instead of prating here about omens and adding fuel to the anger of Telemachus which is fierce enough as it is.
I suppose you think he will give you something for your family, but I tell you— and it shall surely be— when an old man like you, who should know better, talks a young one over till he becomes troublesome, in the first place his young friend will only fare so much the worse— he will take nothing by it, for the suitors will prevent this— and in the next, we will lay a heavier fine, sir, upon yourself than you will at all like paying, for it will bear hardly upon you.
As for Telemachus, I warn him in the presence of you all to send his mother back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts so dear a daughter may expect.
Till then we shall go on harassing him with our suit; for we fear no man, and care neither for him, with all his fine speeches, nor for any fortunetelling of yours.
You may preach as much as you please, but we shall only hate you the more.
We shall go back and continue to eat up Telemachus 's estate without paying him, till such time as his mother leaves off tormenting us by keeping us day after day on the tiptoe of expectation, each vying with the other in his suit for a prize of such rare perfection.
Besides we can not go after the other women whom we should marry in due course, but for the way in which she treats us."
Then Telemachus said," Eurymachus, and you other suitors, I shall say no more, and entreat you no further, for the gods and the people of Ithaca now know my story.
Give me, then, a ship and a crew of twenty men to take me hither and thither, and I will go to Sparta and to Pylos in quest of my father who has so long been missing.
Some one may tell me something, or( and people often hear things in this way) some heavensent message may direct me.
If I can hear of him as alive and on his way home I will put up with the waste you suitors will make for yet another twelve months.
If on the other hand I hear of his death, I will return at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make my mother marry again."
With these words he sat down, and Mentor who had been a friend of Ulysses, and had been left in charge of everything with full authority over the servants, rose to speak.
He, then, plainly and in all honesty addressed them thus: "Hear me, men of Ithaca, I hope that you may never have a kind and welldisposed ruler any more, nor one who will govern you equitably; I hope that all your chiefs henceforward may be cruel and unjust, for there is not one of you but has forgotten Ulysses, who ruled you as though he were your father.
I am not half so angry with the suitors, for if they choose to do violence in the naughtiness of their hearts, and wager their heads that Ulysses will not return, they can take the high hand and eat up his estate, but as for you others I am shocked at the way in which you all sit still without even trying to stop such scandalous goings on— which you could do if you chose, for you are many and they are few."
Leiocritus, son of Evenor, answered him saying," Mentor, what folly is all this, that you should set the people to stay us?
It is a hard thing for one man to fight with many about his victuals.
Even though Ulysses himself were to set upon us while we are feasting in his house, and do his best to oust us, his wife, who wants him back so very badly, would have small cause for rejoicing, and his blood would be upon his own head if he fought against such great odds.
There is no sense in what you have been saying.
Now, therefore, do you people go about your business, and let his father 's old friends, Mentor and Halitherses, speed this boy on his journey, if he goes at all— which I do not think he will, for he is more likely to stay where he is till some one comes and tells him something."
On this he broke up the assembly, and every man went back to his own abode, while the suitors returned to the house of Ulysses.
Then Telemachus went all alone by the sea side, washed his hands in the grey waves, and prayed to Minerva.
"Hear me," he cried," you god who visited me yesterday, and bade me sail the seas in search of my father who has so long been missing.
I would obey you, but the Achaeans, and more particularly the wicked suitors, are hindering me that I can not do so."
As he thus prayed, Minerva came close up to him in the likeness and with the voice of Mentor. "
Telemachus," said she," if you are made of the same stuff as your father you will be neither fool nor coward henceforward, for Ulysses never broke his word nor left his work half done.
If, then, you take after him, your voyage will not be fruitless, but unless you have the blood of Ulysses and of Penelope in your veins I see no likelihood of your succeeding.
Sons are seldom as good men as their fathers; they are generally worse, not better; still, as you are not going to be either fool or coward henceforward, and are not entirely without some share of your father 's wise discernment, I look with hope upon your undertaking.
But mind you never make common cause with any of those foolish suitors, for they have neither sense nor virtue, and give no thought to death and to the doom that will shortly fall on one and all of them, so that they shall perish on the same day.
As for your voyage, it shall not be long delayed; your father was such an old friend of mine that I will find you a ship, and will come with you myself.
Now, however, return home, and go about among the suitors; begin getting provisions ready for your voyage; see everything well stowed, the wine in jars, and the barley meal, which is the staff of life, in leathern bags, while I go round the town and beat up volunteers at once.
There are many ships in Ithaca both old and new; I will run my eye over them for you and will choose the best; we will get her ready and will put out to sea without delay."
Thus spoke Minerva daughter of Jove, and Telemachus lost no time in doing as the goddess told him.
He went moodily home, and found the suitors flaying goats and singeing pigs in the outer court.
Antinous came up to him at once and laughed as he took his hand in his own, saying," Telemachus, my fine fireeater, bear no more ill blood neither in word nor deed, but eat and drink with us as you used to do.
The Achaeans will find you in everything— a ship and a picked crew to boot— so that you can set sail for Pylos at once and get news of your noble father."
"Antinous," answered Telemachus," I can not eat in peace, nor take pleasure of any kind with such men as you are.
Was it not enough that you should waste so much good property of mine while I was yet a boy?
Now that I am older and know more about it, I am also stronger, and whether here among this people, or by going to Pylos, I will do you all the harm I can.
I shall go, and my going will not be in vain— though, thanks to you suitors ,I have neither ship nor crew of my own, and must be passenger not captain."
As he spoke he snatched his hand from that of Antinous.
Meanwhile the others went on getting dinner ready about the buildings jeering at him tauntingly as they did so.
"Telemachus," said one youngster," means to be the death of us; I suppose he thinks he can bring friends to help him from Pylos, or again from Sparta, where he seems bent on going.
Or will he go to Ephyra as well, for poison to put in our wine and kill us?"
Another said," Perhaps if Telemachus goes on board ship, he will be like his father and perish far from his friends.
In this case we should have plenty to do, for we could then divide up his property amongst us: as for the house we can let his mother and the man who marries her have that."
This was how they talked.
But Telemachus went down into the lofty and spacious storeroom where his father 's treasure of gold and bronze lay heaped up upon the floor, and where the linen and spare clothes were kept in open chests.
Here, too, there was a store of fragrant olive oil, while casks of old, wellripened wine, unblended and fit for a god to drink, were ranged against the wall in case Ulysses should come home again after all.
The room was closed with wellmade doors opening in the middle; moreover the faithful old housekeeper Euryclea, daughter of Ops the son of Pisenor, was in charge of everything both night and day.
Telemachus called her to the storeroom and said: "Nurse, draw me off some of the best wine you have, after what you are keeping for my father 's own drinking, in case, poor man, he should escape death, and find his way home again after all.
Let me have twelve jars, and see that they all have lids; also fill me some wellsewn leathern bags with barley meal— about twenty measures in all.
Get these things put together at once, and say nothing about it.
I will take everything away this evening as soon as my mother has gone upstairs for the night.
I am going to Sparta and to Pylos to see if I can hear anything about the return of my dear father."
When Euryclea heard this she began to cry, and spoke fondly to him, saying," My dear child, what ever can have put such notion as that into your head?
Where in the world do you want to go to— you, who are the one hope of the house?
Your poor father is dead and gone in some foreign country nobody knows where, and as soon as your back is turned these wicked ones here will be scheming to get you put out of the way, and will share all your possessions among themselves; stay where you are among your own people, and do not go wandering and worrying your life out on the barren ocean."
"Fear not, nurse," answered Telemachus," my scheme is not without heaven 's sanction; but swear that you will say nothing about all this to my mother, till I have been away some ten or twelve days, unless she hears of my having gone, and asks you; for I do not want her to spoil her beauty by crying."
The old woman swore most solemnly that she would not, and when she had completed her oath, she began drawing off the wine into jars, and getting the barley meal into the bags, while Telemachus went back to the suitors.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter.
She took his shape, and went round the town to each one of the crew, telling them to meet at the ship by sundown.
She went also to Noemon son of Phronius, and asked him to let her have a ship— which he was very ready to do.
When the sun had set and darkness was over all the land, she got the ship into the water, put all the tackle on board her that ships generally carry, and stationed her at the end of the harbour.
Presently the crew came up, and the goddess spoke encouragingly to each of them.
Furthermore she went to the house of Ulysses, and threw the suitors into a deep slumber.
She caused their drink to fuddle them, and made them drop their cups from their hands, so that instead of sitting over their wine, they went back into the town to sleep, with their eyes heavy and full of drowsiness.
Then she took the form and voice of Mentor, and called Telemachus to come outside.
"Telemachus," said she," the men are on board and at their oars, waiting for you to give your orders, so make haste and let us be off."
On this she led the way, while Telemachus followed in her steps.
When they got to the ship they found the crew waiting by the water side, and Telemachus said," Now my men, help me to get the stores on board; they are all put together in the cloister, and my mother does not know anything about it, nor any of the maid servants except one."
With these words he led the way and the others followed after.
When they had brought the things as he told them, Telemachus went on board, Minerva going before him and taking her seat in the stern of the vessel, while Telemachus sat beside her.
Then the men loosed the hawsers and took their places on the benches.
Minerva sent them a fair wind from the West that whistled over the deep blue waves whereon Telemachus told them to catch hold of the ropes and hoist sail, and they did as he told them.
They set the mast in its socket in the cross plank, raised it, and made it fast with the forestays; then they hoisted their white sails aloft with ropes of twisted ox hide.
As the sail bellied out with the wind, the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward.
Then they made all fast throughout the ship, filled the mixing bowls to the brim, and made drink offerings to the immortal gods that are from everlasting, but more particularly to the greyeyed daughter of Jove.
Thus, then, the ship sped on her way through the watches of the night from dark till dawn,
THE SIRENS, SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS, THE CATTLE OF THE SUN.
"After we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into the open sea, we went on till we reached the Aeaean island where there is dawn and sunrise as in other places.
We then drew our ship on to the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep and waited till day should break.
"Then, when the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, I sent some men to Circe 's house to fetch the body of Elpenor.
We cut firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral rites.
When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the oar that he had been used to row with.
"While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread, meat, and wine.
Then she stood in the midst of us and said,' You have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades, and you will have died twice, to other people 's once; now, then, stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning.
In the meantime I will tell Ulysses about your course, and will explain everything to him so as to prevent your suffering from misadventure either by land or sea.'
"We agreed to do as she had said, and feasted through the livelong day to the going down of the sun, but when the sun had set and it came on dark, the men laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables of the ship.
Then Circe took me by the hand and bade me be seated away from the others, while she reclined by my side and asked me all about our adventures.
"'So far so good,' said she, when I had ended my story,' and now pay attention to what I am about to tell you— heaven itself, indeed, will recall it to your recollection.
First you will come to the Sirens who enchant all who come near them.
If any one unwarily draws in too close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children will never welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and warble him to death with the sweetness of their song.
There is a great heap of dead men 's bones lying all around, with the flesh still rotting off them.
Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your men 's ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you stand upright on a cross piece half way up the mast and they must lash the rope 's ends to the mast itself, that you may have the pleasure of listening.
If you beg and pray the men to unloose you, then they must bind you faster.
"'When your crew have taken you past these Sirens, I can not give you coherent directions as to which of two courses you are to take; I will lay the two alternatives before you, and you must consider them for yourself.
On the one hand there are some overhanging rocks against which the deep blue waves of Amphitrite beat with terrific fury; the blessed gods call these rocks the Wanderers.
Here not even a bird may pass, no, not even the timid doves that bring ambrosia to Father Jove, but the sheer rock always carries off one of them, and Father Jove has to send another to make up their number; no ship that ever yet came to these rocks has got away again, but the waves and whirlwinds of fire are freighted with wreckage and with the bodies of dead men.
The only vessel that ever sailed and got through, was the famous Argo on her way from the house of Aetes, and she too would have gone against these great rocks, only that Juno piloted her past them for the love she bore to Jason.
"'Of these two rocks the one reaches heaven and its peak is lost in a dark cloud.
This never leaves it, so that the top is never clear not even in summer and early autumn.
No man though he had twenty hands and twenty feet could get a foothold on it and climb it, for it runs sheer up, as smooth as though it had been polished.
In the middle of it there is a large cavern, looking West and turned towards Erebus; you must take your ship this way, but the cave is so high up that not even the stoutest archer could send an arrow into it.
Inside it Scylla sits and yelps with a voice that you might take to be that of a young hound, but in truth she is a dreadful monster and no one— not even a god— could face her without being terrorstruck.
She has twelve misshapen feet, and six necks of the most prodigious length; and at the end of each neck she has a frightful head with three rows of teeth in each, all set very close together, so that they would crunch any one to death in a moment, and she sits deep within her shady cell thrusting out her heads and peering all round the rock, fishing for dolphins or dogfish or any larger monster that she can catch, of the thousands with which Amphitrite teems.
No ship ever yet got past her without losing some men, for she shoots out all her heads at once, and carries off a man in each mouth.
"'You will find the other rock lie lower, but they are so close together that there is not more than a bowshot between them.
[A large fig tree in full leaf grows upon it], and under it lies the sucking whirlpool of Charybdis.
Three times in the day does she vomit forth her waters, and three times she sucks them down again; see that you be not there when she is sucking, for if you are ,Neptune himself could not save you; you must hug the Scylla side and drive ship by as fast as you can, for you had better lose six men than your whole crew.'
"'Is there no way,' said I,' of escaping Charybdis, and at the same time keeping Scylla off when she is trying to harm my men?'
"'You dare devil,' replied the goddess,' you are always wanting to fight somebody or something; you will not let yourself be beaten even by the immortals.
For Scylla is not mortal; moreover she is savage, extreme, rude, cruel and invincible.
There is no help for it; your best chance will be to get by her as fast as ever you can, for if you dawdle about her rock while you are putting on your armour, she may catch you with a second cast of her six heads, and snap up another half dozen of your men; so drive your ship past her at full speed, and roar out lustily to Crataiis who is Scylla 's dam, bad luck to her; she will then stop her from making a second raid upon you.'
"'You will now come to the Thrinacian island, and here you will see many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep belonging to the sungod— seven herds of cattle and seven flocks of sheep, with fifty head in each flock.
They do not breed, nor do they become fewer in number, and they are tended by the goddesses Phaethusa and Lampetie, who are children of the sungod Hyperion by Neaera.
Their mother when she had borne them and had done suckling them sent them to the Thrinacian island, which was a long way off, to live there and look after their father 's flocks and herds.
If you leave these flocks unharmed, and think of nothing but getting home, you may yet after much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm them, then I forewarn you of the destruction both of your ship and of your comrades; and even though you may yourself escape, you will return late, in bad plight, after losing all your men.'
"Here she ended, and dawn enthroned in gold began to show in heaven, whereon she returned inland.
I then went on board and told my men to loose the ship from her moorings; so they at once got into her, took their places, and began to smite the grey sea with their oars.
Presently the great and cunning goddess Circe befriended us with a fair wind that blew dead aft, and staid steadily with us, keeping our sails well filled, so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship 's gear, and let her go as wind and helmsman headed her.
"Then, being much troubled in mind, I said to my men,' My friends, it is not right that one or two of us alone should know the prophecies that Circe has made me, I will therefore tell you about them, so that whether we live or die we may do so with our eyes open.
First she said we were to keep clear of the Sirens, who sit and sing most beautifully in a field of flowers; but she said I might hear them myself so long as no one else did.
Therefore, take me and bind me to the crosspiece half way up the mast; bind me as I stand upright, with a bond so fast that I can not possibly break away, and lash the rope 's ends to the mast itself.
If I beg and pray you to set me free, then bind me more tightly still.'
"I had hardly finished telling everything to the men before we reached the island of the two Sirens for the wind had been very favourable.
Then all of a sudden it fell dead calm; there was not a breath of wind nor a ripple upon the water, so the men furled the sails and stowed them; then taking to their oars they whitened the water with the foam they raised in rowing.
Meanwhile I look a large wheel of wax and cut it up small with my sword.
Then I kneaded the wax in my strong hands till it became soft, which it soon did between the kneading and the rays of the sungod son of Hyperion.
Then I stopped the ears of all my men, and they bound me hands and feet to the mast as I stood upright on the cross piece; but they went on rowing themselves.
When we had got within earshot of the land, and the ship was going at a good rate, the Sirens saw that we were getting in shore and began with their singing.
"'Come here,' they sang,' renowned Ulysses, honour to the Achaean name, and listen to our two voices.
No one ever sailed past us without staying to hear the enchanting sweetness of our song— and he who listens will go on his way not only charmed, but wiser, for we know all the ills that the gods laid upon the Argives and Trojans before Troy, and can tell you everything that is going to happen over the whole world.'
"They sang these words most musically, and as I longed to hear them further I made signs by frowning to my men that they should set me free; but they quickened their stroke, and Eurylochus and Perimedes bound me with still stronger bonds till we had got out of hearing of the Sirens ' voices.
Then my men took the wax from their ears and unbound me.
"Immediately after we had got past the island I saw a great wave from which spray was rising, and I heard a loud roaring sound.
The men were so frightened that they loosed hold of their oars, for the whole sea resounded with the rushing of the waters but the ship stayed where it was, for the men had left off rowing.
I went round, therefore, and exhorted them man by man not to lose heart.
"'My friends,' said I,' this is not the first time that we have been in danger, and we are in nothing like so bad a case as when the Cyclops shut us up in his cave; nevertheless, my courage and wise counsel saved us then, and we shall live to look back on all this as well.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say, trust in Jove and row on with might and main.
As for you, coxswain, these are your orders; attend to them, for the ship is in your hands; turn her head away from these steaming rapids and hug the rock, or she will give you the slip and be over yonder before you know where you are, and you will be the death of us.'
"So they did as I told them; but I said nothing about the awful monster Scylla, for I knew the men would not go on rowing if I did, but would huddle together in the hold.
In one thing only did I disobey Circe 's strict instructions— I put on my armour.
Then seizing two strong spears I took my stand on the ship 's bows, for it was there that I expected first to see the monster of the rock, who was to do my men so much harm; but I could not make her out anywhere, though I strained my eyes with looking the gloomy rock all over and over.
"Then we entered the Straits in great fear of mind, for on the one hand was Scylla, and on the other dread Charybdis kept sucking up the salt water.
As she vomited it up, it was like the water in a cauldron when it is boiling over upon a great fire, and the spray reached the top of the rocks on either side.
When she began to suck again, we could see the water all inside whirling round and round, and it made a deafening sound as it broke against the rocks.
We could see the bottom of the whirlpool all black with sand and mud, and the men were at their wits ends for fear.
While we were taken up with this, and were expecting each moment to be our last, Scylla pounced down suddenly upon us and snatched up my six best men.
I was looking at once after both ship and men, and in a moment I saw their hands and feet ever so high above me, struggling in the air as Scylla was carrying them off, and I heard them call out my name in one last despairing cry.
As a fisherman, seated, spear in hand, upon some jutting rock throws bait into the water to deceive the poor little fishes, and spears them with the ox 's horn with which his spear is shod, throwing them gasping on to the land as he catches them one by one— even so did Scylla land these panting creatures on her rock and munch them up at the mouth of her den, while they screamed and stretched out their hands to me in their mortal agony.
This was the most sickening sight that I saw throughout all my voyages.
"When we had passed the[ Wandering] rocks, with Scylla and terrible Charybdis, we reached the noble island of the sungod, where were the goodly cattle and sheep belonging to the sun Hyperion.
While still at sea in my ship I could bear the cattle lowing as they came home to the yards, and the sheep bleating.
Then I remembered what the blind Theban prophet Teiresias had told me, and how carefully Aeaean Circe had warned me to shun the island of the blessed sungod.
So being much troubled I said to the men,' My men, I know you are hard pressed, but listen while I tell you the prophecy that Teiresias made me, and how carefully Aeaean Circe warned me to shun the island of the blessed sungod, for it was here, she said, that our worst danger would lie.
Head the ship, therefore, away from the island.'
"The men were in despair at this, and Eurylochus at once gave me an insolent answer.'
Ulysses,' said he,' you are cruel; you are very strong yourself and never get worn out; you seem to be made of iron, and now, though your men are exhausted with toil and want of sleep, you will not let them land and cook themselves a good supper upon this island, but bid them put out to sea and go faring fruitlessly on through the watches of the flying night.
It is by night that the winds blow hardest and do so much damage; how can we escape should one of those sudden squalls spring up from South West or West, which so often wreck a vessel when our lords the gods are unpropitious?
Now, therefore, let us obey the behests of night and prepare our supper here hard by the ship; tomorrow morning we will go on board again and put out to sea.'
"Thus spoke Eurylochus, and the men approved his words.
I saw that heaven meant us a mischief and said,' You force me to yield, for you are many against one, but at any rate each one of you must take his solemn oath that if he meet with a herd of cattle or a large flock of sheep, he will not be so mad as to kill a single head of either, but will be satisfied with the food that Circe has given us.'
"They all swore as I bade them, and when they had completed their oath we made the ship fast in a harbour that was near a stream of fresh water, and the men went ashore and cooked their suppers.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, they began talking about their poor comrades whom Scylla had snatched up and eaten; this set them weeping and they went on crying till they fell off into a sound sleep.
"In the third watch of the night when the stars had shifted their places, Jove raised a great gale of wind that flew a hurricane so that land and sea were covered with thick clouds, and night sprang forth out of the heavens.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, we brought the ship to land and drew her into a cave wherein the seanymphs hold their courts and dances, and I called the men together in council.
"'My friends,' said I,' we have meat and drink in the ship, let us mind, therefore, and not touch the cattle, or we shall suffer for it; for these cattle and sheep belong to the mighty sun, who sees and gives ear to everything.'
And again they promised that they would obey.
"For a whole month the wind blew steadily from the South, and there was no other wind, but only South and East.
As long as corn and wine held out the men did not touch the cattle when they were hungry; when, however, they had eaten all there was in the ship, they were forced to go further afield, with hook and line, catching birds, and taking whatever they could lay their hands on; for they were starving.
One day, therefore, I went up inland that I might pray heaven to show me some means of getting away.
When I had gone far enough to be clear of all my men, and had found a place that was well sheltered from the wind, I washed my hands and prayed to all the gods in Olympus till by and by they sent me off into a sweet sleep.
"Meanwhile Eurylochus had been giving evil counsel to the men,' Listen to me,' said he,' my poor comrades.
All deaths are bad enough but there is none so bad as famine.
Why should not we drive in the best of these cows and offer them in sacrifice to the immortal gods?
If we ever get back to Ithaca, we can build a fine temple to the sungod and enrich it with every kind of ornament; if, however, he is determined to sink our ship out of revenge for these homed cattle, and the other gods are of the same mind, I for one would rather drink salt water once for all and have done with it, than be starved to death by inches in such a desert island as this is.'
"Thus spoke Eurylochus, and the men approved his words.
Now the cattle, so fair and goodly, were feeding not far from the ship; the men, therefore, drove in the best of them, and they all stood round them saying their prayers, and using young oakshoots instead of barleymeal, for there was no barley left.
When they had done praying they killed the cows and dressed their carcasses; they cut out the thigh bones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set some pieces of raw meat on top of them.
They had no wine with which to make drinkofferings over the sacrifice while it was cooking, so they kept pouring on a little water from time to time while the inward meats were being grilled; then, when the thigh bones were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small and put the pieces upon the spits.
"By this time my deep sleep had left me, and I turned back to the ship and to the sea shore.
As I drew near I began to smell hot roast meat, so I groaned out a prayer to the immortal gods.'
Father Jove,' I exclaimed,' and all you other gods who live in everlasting bliss ,you have done me a cruel mischief by the sleep into which you have sent me; see what fine work these men of mine have been making in my absence.'
"Meanwhile Lampetie went straight off to the sun and told him we had been killing his cows, whereon he flew into a great rage, and said to the immortals,' Father Jove, and all you other gods who live in everlasting bliss, I must have vengeance on the crew of Ulysses ' ship: they have had the insolence to kill my cows, which were the one thing I loved to look upon, whether I was going up heaven or down again.
If they do not square accounts with me about my cows, I will go down to Hades and shine there among the dead.'
"'Sun,' said Jove,' go on shining upon us gods and upon mankind over the fruitful earth.
I will shiver their ship into little pieces with a bolt of white lightning as soon as they get out to sea.'
"I was told all this by Calypso, who said she had heard it from the mouth of Mercury.
"As soon as I got down to my ship and to the sea shore I rebuked each one of the men separately, but we could see no way out of it, for the cows were dead already.
And indeed the gods began at once to show signs and wonders among us, for the hides of the cattle crawled about, and the joints upon the spits began to low like cows, and the meat, whether cooked or raw, kept on making a noise just as cows do.
"For six days my men kept driving in the best cows and feasting upon them, but when Jove the son of Saturn had added a seventh day, the fury of the gale abated; we therefore went on board, raised our masts, spread sail, and put out to sea.
As soon as we were well away from the island, and could see nothing but sky and sea, the son of Saturn raised a black cloud over our ship, and the sea grew dark beneath it.
We did not get on much further, for in another moment we were caught by a terrific squall from the West that snapped the forestays of the mast so that it fell aft, while all the ship 's gear tumbled about at the bottom of the vessel.
The mast fell upon the head of the helmsman in the ship 's stern, so that the bones of his head were crushed to pieces, and he fell overboard as though he were diving, with no more life left in him.
"Then Jove let fly with his thunderbolts, and the ship went round and round, and was filled with fire and brimstone as the lightning struck it.
The men all fell into the sea; they were carried about in the water round the ship, looking like so many seagulls, but the god presently deprived them of all chance of getting home again.
"I stuck to the ship till the sea knocked her sides from her keel( which drifted about by itself) and struck the mast out of her in the direction of the keel; but there was a backstay of stout oxthong still hanging about it, and with this I lashed the mast and keel together, and getting astride of them was carried wherever the winds chose to take me.
"[The gale from the West had now spent its force, and the wind got into the South again, which frightened me lest I should be taken back to the terrible whirlpool of Charybdis.
This indeed was what actually happened, for I was borne along by the waves all night, and by sunrise had reached the rock of Scylla, and the whirlpool.
She was then sucking down the salt sea water but I was carried aloft toward the fig tree, which I caught hold of and clung on to like a bat.
I could not plant my feet anywhere so as to stand securely, for the roots were a long way off and the boughs that overshadowed the whole pool were too high, too vast, and too far apart for me to reach them; so I hung patiently on, waiting till the pool should discharge my mast and raft again— and a very long while it seemed.
A juryman is not more glad to get home to supper, after having been long detained in court by troublesome cases, than I was to see my raft beginning to work its way out of the whirlpool again.
At last I let go with my hands and feet, and fell heavily into the sea, hard by my raft on to which I then got, and began to row with my hands.
As for Scylla, the father of gods and men would not let her get further sight of me— otherwise I should have certainly been lost.
"Hence I was carried along for nine days till on the tenth night the gods stranded me on the Ogygian island, where dwells the great and powerful goddess Calypso.
She took me in and was kind to me, but I need say no more about this, for I told you and your noble wife all about it yesterday, and I hate saying the same thing over and over again."
CHAPTER I Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period.
Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters.
Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments.
The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married.
It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief.
It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening.
Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend.
Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.
The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.
She recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood.
A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.
She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude.
She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.
He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals.
The Woodhouses were first in consequence there.
All looked up to them.
She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day.
It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful.
His spirits required support.
He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield.
Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner, "Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again.
What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"
"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.
Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?"
"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?
This is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my dear."
"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We shall be always meeting!
We must begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon."
"My dear, how am I to get so far?
Randalls is such a distance.
I could not walk half so far."
"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking.
We must go in the carriage, to be sure."
"The carriage!
But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?"
"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa.
You know we have settled all that already.
We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night.
And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.
I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else.
That was your doing, papa.
You got Hannah that good place.
Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"
"I am very glad I did think of her.
It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her.
Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it.
I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see.
Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us.
He will be able to tell her how we all are."
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own.
The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband.
He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London.
He had returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square.
It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.
Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily.
When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.
I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."
"Not at all, sir.
It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire."
"But you must have found it very damp and dirty.
I wish you may not catch cold."
"Dirty, sir!
Look at my shoes.
Not a speck on them."
"Well!
that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here.
It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast.
I wanted them to put off the wedding."
"By the bye--I have not wished you joy.
Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well.
How did you all behave?
Who cried most?"
"Ah!
poor Miss Taylor!
'Tis a sad business."
"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say 'poor Miss Taylor.'
I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two."
"Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!"
said Emma playfully.
"That is what you have in your head, I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."
"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh.
"I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."
"My dearest papa!
You do not think I could mean you, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you.
What a horrible idea!
Oh no!
I meant only myself.
Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a joke--it is all a joke.
We always say what we like to one another."
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body.
"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no reflection on any body.
Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one.
The chances are that she must be a gainer."
"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--"you want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly.
Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.
Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father.
"But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for."
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.
"It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr. Knightley.
"We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure.
Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."
"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself.
I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing."
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her.
Her father fondly replied, "Ah!
my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass.
Pray do not make any more matches."
"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people.
It is the greatest amusement in the world!
And after such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again.
Oh dear, no!
Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it.
Oh no!
Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again.
Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him.
All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject.
I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."
"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour.
Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage.
A worthy employment for a young lady's mind!
But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success?
Where is your merit?
What are you proud of?
You made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said."
"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck.
There is always some talent in it.
And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it.
You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all.
If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all.
I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that."
"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns.
You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference."
"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part.
"But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously."
"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton.
Poor Mr. Elton!
You like Mr. Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him.
There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him!
I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service."
"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him.
But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.
That will be a much better thing.
I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him."
"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley, laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better thing.
Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife.
Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."
The funeral of Patroclus, and the funeral games.
Thus did they make their moan throughout the city, while the Achaeans when they reached the Hellespont went back every man to his own ship.
But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke to his brave comrades saying," Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my own trusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horse and chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honour to the dead.
When we have had full comfort of lamentation we will unyoke our horses and take supper all of us here."
On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them in their lament.
Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing round the body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning.
The sands of the seashore and the men 's armour were wet with their weeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost.
Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid his bloodstained hand on the breast of his friend."
Fare well ,"he cried," Patroclus, even in the house of Hades.
I will now do all that I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogs devour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay before your pyre to avenge you."
As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely, laying it at full length in the dust beside the bier of Patroclus.
The others then put off every man his armour, took the horses from their chariots, and seated themselves in great multitude by the ship of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, who thereon feasted them with an abundant funeral banquet.
Many a goodly ox, with many a sheep and bleating goat did they butcher and cut up; many a tusked boar moreover, fat and wellfed, did they singe and set to roast in the flames of Vulcan; and rivulets of blood flowed all round the place where the body was lying.
Then the princes of the Achaeans took the son of Peleus to Agamemnon, but hardly could they persuade him to come with them, so wroth was he for the death of his comrade.
As soon as they reached Agamemnon 's tent they told the servingmen to set a large tripod over the fire in case they might persuade the son of Peleus to wash the clotted gore from this body, but he denied them sternly, and swore it with a solemn oath, saying," Nay, by King Jove, first and mightiest of all gods, it is not meet that water should touch my body, till I have laid Patroclus on the flames, have built him a barrow, and shaved my head— for so long as I live no such second sorrow shall ever draw nigh me.
Now, therefore, let us do all that this sad festival demands, but at break of day, King Agamemnon, bid your men bring wood, and provide all else that the dead may duly take into the realm of darkness; the fire shall thus burn him out of our sight the sooner, and the people shall turn again to their own labours."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
They made haste to prepare the meal, they ate, and every man had his full share so that all were satisfied.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, the others went to their rest each in his own tent, but the son of Peleus lay grieving among his Myrmidons by the shore of the sounding sea, in an open place where the waves came surging in one after another.
Here a very deep slumber took hold upon him and eased the burden of his sorrows, for his limbs were weary with chasing Hector round windy Ilius.
Presently the sad spirit of Patroclus drew near him, like what he had been in stature, voice, and the light of his beaming eyes, clad, too, as he had been clad in life.
The spirit hovered over his head and said— "You sleep, Achilles, and have forgotten me; you loved me living, but now that I am dead you think for me no further.
Bury me with all speed that I may pass the gates of Hades; the ghosts, vain shadows of men that can labour no more, drive me away from them; they will not yet suffer me to join those that are beyond the river, and I wander all desolate by the wide gates of the house of Hades.
Give me now your hand I pray you, for when you have once given me my dues of fire, never shall I again come forth out of the house of Hades.
Nevermore shall we sit apart and take sweet counsel among the living; the cruel fate which was my birthright has yawned its wide jaws around me— nay, you too Achilles, peer of gods, are doomed to die beneath the wall of the noble Trojans.
"One prayer more will I make you, if you will grant it; let not my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with them; even as we were brought up together in your own home, what time Menoetius brought me to you as a child from Opoeis because by a sad spite I had killed the son of Amphidamas— not of set purpose, but in childish quarrel over the dice.
The knight Peleus took me into his house, entreated me kindly, and named me to be your squire; therefore let our bones lie in but a single urn, the twohandled golden vase given to you by your mother."
And Achilles answered," Why, true heart, are you come hither to lay these charges upon me?
I will of my own self do all as you have bidden me.
Draw closer to me, let us once more throw our arms around one another, and find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows."
He opened his arms towards him as he spoke and would have clasped him in them, but there was nothing, and the spirit vanished as a vapour, gibbering and whining into the earth.
Achilles sprang to his feet, smote his two hands, and made lamentation saying," Of a truth even in the house of Hades there are ghosts and phantoms that have no life in them; all night long the sad spirit of Patroclus has hovered over head making piteous moan, telling me what I am to do for him, and looking wondrously like himself."
Thus did he speak and his words set them all weeping and mourning about the poor dumb dead, till rosyfingered morn appeared.
Then King Agamemnon sent men and mules from all parts of the camp, to bring wood, and Meriones, squire to Idomeneus, was in charge over them.
They went out with woodmen 's axes and strong ropes in their hands, and before them went the mules.
Up hill and down dale did they go, by straight ways and crooked, and when they reached the heights of manyfountained Ida, they laid their axes to the roots of many a tall branching oak that came thundering down as they felled it.
They split the trees and bound them behind the mules, which then wended their way as they best could through the thick brushwood on to the plain.
All who had been cutting wood bore logs, for so Meriones squire to Idomeneus had bidden them, and they threw them down in a line upon the seashore at the place where Achilles would make a mighty monument for Patroclus and for himself.
When they had thrown down their great logs of wood over the whole ground, they stayed all of them where they were, but Achilles ordered his brave Myrmidons to gird on their armour, and to yoke each man his horses; they therefore rose, girded on their armour and mounted each his chariot— they and their charioteers with them.
The chariots went before, and they that were on foot followed as a cloud in their tens of thousands after.
In the midst of them his comrades bore Patroclus and covered him with the locks of their hair which they cut off and threw upon his body.
Last came Achilles with his head bowed for sorrow, so noble a comrade was he taking to the house of Hades.
When they came to the place of which Achilles had told them they laid the body down and built up the wood.
Achilles then bethought him of another matter.
He went a space away from the pyre, and cut off the yellow lock which he had let grow for the river Spercheius.
He looked all sorrowfully out upon the dark sea, and said," Spercheius, in vain did my father Peleus vow to you that when I returned home to my loved native land I should cut off this lock and offer you a holy hecatomb; fifty shegoats was I to sacrifice to you there at your springs, where is your grove and your altar fragrant with burntofferings.
Thus did my father vow, but you have not fulfilled his prayer; now, therefore, that I shall see my home no more ,I give this lock as a keepsake to the hero Patroclus."
As he spoke he placed the lock in the hands of his dear comrade, and all who stood by were filled with yearning and lamentation.
The sun would have gone down upon their mourning had not Achilles presently said to Agamemnon," Son of Atreus, for it is to you that the people will give ear, there is a time to mourn and a time to cease from mourning; bid the people now leave the pyre and set about getting their dinners: we, to whom the dead is dearest, will see to what is wanted here, and let the other princes also stay by me."
When King Agamemnon heard this he dismissed the people to their ships, but those who were about the dead heaped up wood and built a pyre a hundred feet this way and that; then they laid the dead all sorrowfully upon the top of it.
They flayed and dressed many fat sheep and oxen before the pyre, and Achilles took fat from all of them and wrapped the body therein from head to foot, heaping the flayed carcases all round it.
Against the bier he leaned twohandled jars of honey and unguents; four proud horses did he then cast upon the pyre, groaning the while he did so.
The dead hero had had housedogs; two of them did Achilles slay and threw upon the pyre; he also put twelve brave sons of noble Trojans to the sword and laid them with the rest, for he was full of bitterness and fury.
Then he committed all to the resistless and devouring might of the fire; he groaned aloud and called on his dead comrade by name."
Fare well ,"he cried," Patroclus, even in the house of Hades; I am now doing all that I have promised you.
Twelve brave sons of noble Trojans shall the flames consume along with yourself, but dogs, not fire, shall devour the flesh of Hector son of Priam."
Thus did he vaunt, but the dogs came not about the body of Hector, for Jove 's daughter Venus kept them off him night and day, and anointed him with ambrosial oil of roses that his flesh might not be torn when Achilles was dragging him about.
Phoebus Apollo moreover sent a dark cloud from heaven to earth, which gave shade to the whole place where Hector lay, that the heat of the sun might not parch his body.
Now the pyre about dead Patroclus would not kindle.
Achilles therefore bethought him of another matter; he went apart and prayed to the two winds Boreas and Zephyrus vowing them goodly offerings.
He made them many drinkofferings from the golden cup and besought them to come and help him that the wood might make haste to kindle and the dead bodies be consumed.
Fleet Iris heard him praying and started off to fetch the winds.
They were holding high feast in the house of boisterous Zephyrus when Iris came running up to the stone threshold of the house and stood there, but as soon as they set eyes on her they all came towards her and each of them called her to him, but Iris would not sit down.
"I can not stay," she said," I must go back to the streams of Oceanus and the land of the Ethiopians who are offering hecatombs to the immortals, and I would have my share; but Achilles prays that Boreas and shrill Zephyrus will come to him, and he vows them goodly offerings; he would have you blow upon the pyre of Patroclus for whom all the Achaeans are lamenting."
With this she left them, and the two winds rose with a cry that rent the air and swept the clouds before them.
They blew on and on until they came to the sea, and the waves rose high beneath them, but when they reached Troy they fell upon the pyre till the mighty flames roared under the blast that they blew.
All night long did they blow hard and beat upon the fire, and all night long did Achilles grasp his double cup, drawing wine from a mixingbowl of gold, and calling upon the spirit of dead Patroclus as he poured it upon the ground until the earth was drenched.
As a father mourns when he is burning the bones of his bridegroom son whose death has wrung the hearts of his parents, even so did Achilles mourn while burning the body of his comrade, pacing round the bier with piteous groaning and lamentation.
At length as the Morning Star was beginning to herald the light which saffronmantled Dawn was soon to suffuse over the sea, the flames fell and the fire began to die.
The winds then went home beyond the Thracian sea, which roared and boiled as they swept over it.
The son of Peleus now turned away from the pyre and lay down, overcome with toil, till he fell into a sweet slumber.
Presently they who were about the son of Atreus drew near in a body, and roused him with the noise and tramp of their coming.
He sat upright and said," Son of Atreus, and all other princes of the Achaeans, first pour red wine everywhere upon the fire and quench it; let us then gather the bones of Patroclus son of Menoetius, singling them out with care; they are easily found, for they lie in the middle of the pyre, while all else, both men and horses, has been thrown in a heap and burned at the outer edge.
We will lay the bones in a golden urn, in two layers of fat, against the time when I shall myself go down into the house of Hades.
As for the barrow, labour not to raise a great one now, but such as is reasonable.
Afterwards, let those Achaeans who may be left at the ships when I am gone, build it both broad and high."
Thus he spoke and they obeyed the word of the son of Peleus.
First they poured red wine upon the thick layer of ashes and quenched the fire.
With many tears they singled out the whitened bones of their loved comrade and laid them within a golden urn in two layers of fat: they then covered the urn with a linen cloth and took it inside the tent.
They marked off the circle where the barrow should be, made a foundation for it about the pyre, and forthwith heaped up the earth.
When they had thus raised a mound they were going away, but Achilles stayed the people and made them sit in assembly.
He brought prizes from the ships— cauldrons, tripods, horses and mules, noble oxen, women with fair girdles, and swart iron.
The first prize he offered was for the chariot races— a woman skilled in all useful arts, and a threelegged cauldron that had ears for handles, and would hold twentytwo measures.
This was for the man who came in first.
For the second there was a sixyear old mare, unbroken, and in foal to a heass; the third was to have a goodly cauldron that had never yet been on the fire; it was still bright as when it left the maker, and would hold four measures.
The fourth prize was two talents of gold, and the fifth a twohandled urn as yet unsoiled by smoke.
Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives saying— "Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, these are the prizes that lie waiting the winners of the chariot races.
At any other time I should carry off the first prize and take it to my own tent; you know how far my steeds excel all others— for they are immortal; Neptune gave them to my father Peleus, who in his turn gave them to myself; but I shall hold aloof, I and my steeds that have lost their brave and kind driver, who many a time has washed them in clear water and anointed their manes with oil.
See how they stand weeping here, with their manes trailing on the ground in the extremity of their sorrow.
But do you others set yourselves in order throughout the host, whosoever has confidence in his horses and in the strength of his chariot."
Thus spoke the son of Peleus and the drivers of chariots bestirred themselves.
First among them all uprose Eumelus, king of men, son of Admetus, a man excellent in horsemanship.
Next to him rose mighty Diomed son of Tydeus; he yoked the Trojan horses which he had taken from Aeneas, when Apollo bore him out of the fight.
Next to him, yellowhaired Menelaus son of Atreus rose and yoked his fleet horses, Agamemnon 's mare Aethe, and his own horse Podargus.
The mare had been given to Agamemnon by Echepolus son of Anchises, that he might not have to follow him to Ilius, but might stay at home and take his ease; for Jove had endowed him with great wealth and he lived in spacious Sicyon.
This mare, all eager for the race, did Menelaus put under the yoke.
Fourth in order Antilochus, son to noble Nestor son of Neleus, made ready his horses.
These were bred in Pylos, and his father came up to him to give him good advice of which, however, he stood in but little need. "
Antilochus," said Nestor," you are young, but Jove and Neptune have loved you well, and have made you an excellent horseman.
I need not therefore say much by way of instruction.
You are skilful at wheeling your horses round the post, but the horses themselves are very slow, and it is this that will, I fear, mar your chances.
The other drivers know less than you do, but their horses are fleeter; therefore, my dear son, see if you can not hit upon some artifice whereby you may insure that the prize shall not slip through your fingers.
The woodman does more by skill than by brute force; by skill the pilot guides his stormtossed barque over the sea, and so by skill one driver can beat another.
If a man go wide in rounding this way and that, whereas a man who knows what he is doing may have worse horses, but he will keep them well in hand when he sees the doublingpost; he knows the precise moment at which to pull the rein, and keeps his eye well on the man in front of him.
I will give you this certain token which can not escape your notice.
There is a stump of a dead tree— oak or pine as it may be— some six feet above the ground, and not yet rotted away by rain; it stands at the fork of the road; it has two white stones set one on each side, and there is a clear course all round it.
It may have been a monument to some one long since dead, or it may have been used as a doublingpost in days gone by; now, however, it has been fixed on by Achilles as the mark round which the chariots shall turn; hug it as close as you can, but as you stand in your chariot lean over a little to the left; urge on your righthand horse with voice and lash, and give him a loose rein, but let the lefthand horse keep so close in, that the nave of your wheel shall almost graze the post; but mind the stone, or you will wound your horses and break your chariot in pieces, which would be sport for others but confusion for yourself.
Therefore, my dear son, mind well what you are about, for if you can be first to round the post there is no chance of any one giving you the goby later, not even though you had Adrestus 's horse Arion behind you— a horse which is of divine race— or those of Laomedon, which are the noblest in this country."
When Nestor had made an end of counselling his son he sat down in his place, and fifth in order Meriones got ready his horses.
They then all mounted their chariots and cast lots.
Achilles shook the helmet, and the lot of Antilochus son of Nestor fell out first; next came that of King Eumelus, and after his, those of Menelaus son of Atreus and of Meriones.
The last place fell to the lot of Diomed son of Tydeus, who was the best man of them all.
They took their places in line; Achilles showed them the doublingpost round which they were to turn, some way off upon the plain; here he stationed his father 's follower Phoenix as umpire, to note the running, and report truly.
At the same instant they all of them lashed their horses, struck them with the reins, and shouted at them with all their might.
They flew full speed over the plain away from the ships, the dust rose from under them as it were a cloud or whirlwind, and their manes were all flying in the wind.
At one moment the chariots seemed to touch the ground, and then again they bounded into the air; the drivers stood erect, and their hearts beat fast and furious in their lust of victory.
Each kept calling on his horses, and the horses scoured the plain amid the clouds of dust that they raised.
It was when they were doing the last part of the course on their way back towards the sea that their pace was strained to the utmost and it was seen what each could do.
The horses of the descendant of Pheres now took the lead, and close behind them came the Trojan stallions of Diomed.
They seemed as if about to mount Eumelus 's chariot, and he could feel their warm breath on his back and on his broad shoulders, for their heads were close to him as they flew over the course.
Diomed would have now passed him, or there would have been a dead heat, but Phoebus Apollo to spite him made him drop his whip.
Tears of anger fell from his eyes as he saw the mares going on faster than ever, while his own horses lost ground through his having no whip.
Minerva saw the trick which Apollo had played the son of Tydeus, so she brought him his whip and put spirit into his horses; moreover she went after the son of Admetus in a rage and broke his yoke for him; the mares went one to one side of the course, and the other to the other, and the pole was broken against the ground.
Eumelus was thrown from his chariot close to the wheel; his elbows, mouth, and nostrils were all torn, and his forehead was bruised above his eyebrows; his eyes filled with tears and he could find no utterance.
But the son of Tydeus turned his horses aside and shot far ahead, for Minerva put fresh strength into them and covered Diomed himself with glory.
Menelaus son of Atreus came next behind him, but Antilochus called to his father 's horses.
"On with you both," he cried," and do your very utmost.
I do not bid you try to beat the steeds of the son of Tydeus, for Minerva has put running into them, and has covered Diomed with glory; but you must overtake the horses of the son of Atreus and not be left behind, or Aethe who is so fleet will taunt you.
Why, my good fellows, are you lagging?
I tell you, and it shall surely be— Nestor will keep neither of you, but will put both of you to the sword, if we win any the worse a prize through your carelessness.
Fly after them at your utmost speed; I will hit on a plan for passing them in a narrow part of the way, and it shall not fail me."
They feared the rebuke of their master, and for a short space went quicker.
Presently Antilochus saw a narrow place where the road had sunk.
The ground was broken, for the winter 's rain had gathered and had worn the road so that the whole place was deepened.
Menelaus was making towards it so as to get there first, for fear of a foul, but Antilochus turned his horses out of the way, and followed him a little on one side.
The son of Atreus was afraid and shouted out," Antilochus, you are driving recklessly; rein in your horses; the road is too narrow here, it will be wider soon, and you can pass me then; if you foul my chariot you may bring both of us to a mischief."
But Antilochus plied his whip, and drove faster, as though he had not heard him.
They went side by side for about as far as a young man can hurl a disc from his shoulder when he is trying his strength, and then Menelaus 's mares drew behind, for he left off driving for fear the horses should foul one another and upset the chariots; thus, while pressing on in quest of victory, they might both come headlong to the ground.
Menelaus then upbraided Antilochus and said," There is no greater trickster living than you are; go, and bad luck go with you; the Achaeans say not well that you have understanding, and come what may you shall not bear away the prize without sworn protest on my part."
Then he called on his horses and said to them," Keep your pace, and slacken not; the limbs of the other horses will weary sooner than yours ,for they are neither of them young."
The horses feared the rebuke of their master, and went faster, so that they were soon nearly up with the others.
Meanwhile the Achaeans from their seats were watching how the horses went, as they scoured the plain amid clouds of their own dust.
Idomeneus captain of the Cretans was first to make out the running, for he was not in the thick of the crowd, but stood on the most commanding part of the ground.
The driver was a long way off, but Idomeneus could hear him shouting, and could see the foremost horse quite plainly— a chestnut with a round white star, like the moon, on its forehead.
He stood up and said among the Argives," My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, can you see the running as well as I can?
There seems to be another pair in front now, and another driver; those that led off at the start must have been disabled out on the plain.
I saw them at first making their way round the doublingpost, but now, though I search the plain of Troy, I can not find them.
Perhaps the reins fell from the driver 's hand so that he lost command of his horses at the doublingpost, and could not turn it.
I suppose he must have been thrown out there, and broken his chariot, while his mares have left the course and gone off wildly in a panic.
Come up and see for yourselves, I can not make out for certain, but the driver seems an Aetolian by descent, ruler over the Argives, brave Diomed the son of Tydeus."
Ajax the son of Oileus took him up rudely and said," Idomeneus, why should you be in such a hurry to tell us all about it, when the mares are still so far out upon the plain?
You are none of the youngest, nor your eyes none of the sharpest, but you are always laying down the law.
You have no right to do so, for there are better men here than you are.
Eumelus 's horses are in front now, as they always have been, and he is on the chariot holding the reins."
The captain of the Cretans was angry, and answered," Ajax you are an excellent railer, but you have no judgement, and are wanting in much else as well, for you have a vile temper.
I will wager you a tripod or cauldron, and Agamemnon son of Atreus shall decide whose horses are first.
You will then know to your cost."
Ajax son of Oileus was for making him an angry answer, and there would have been yet further brawling between them, had not Achilles risen in his place and said," Cease your railing, Ajax and Idomeneus; it is not seemly; you would be scandalised if you saw any one else do the like: sit down and keep your eyes on the horses; they are speeding towards the winningpost and will be here directly.
You will then both of you know whose horses are first, and whose come after."
As he was speaking, the son of Tydeus came driving in, plying his whip lustily from his shoulder, and his horses stepping high as they flew over the course.
The sand and grit rained thick on the driver, and the chariot inlaid with gold and tin ran close behind his fleet horses.
There was little trace of wheelmarks in the fine dust, and the horses came flying in at their utmost speed.
Diomed stayed them in the middle of the crowd, and the sweat from their manes and chests fell in streams on to the ground.
Forthwith he sprang from his goodly chariot, and leaned his whip against his horses ' yoke; brave Sthenelus now lost no time, but at once brought on the prize, and gave the woman and the earhandled cauldron to his comrades to take away.
Then he unyoked the horses.
Next after him came in Antilochus of the race of Neleus, who had passed Menelaus by a trick and not by the fleetness of his horses; but even so Menelaus came in as close behind him as the wheel is to the horse that draws both the chariot and its master.
The end hairs of a horse 's tail touch the tyre of the wheel, and there is never much space between wheel and horse when the chariot is going; Menelaus was no further than this behind Antilochus, though at first he had been a full disc 's throw behind him.
He had soon caught him up again, for Agamemnon 's mare Aethe kept pulling stronger and stronger, so that if the course had been longer he would have passed him, and there would not even have been a dead heat.
Idomeneus 's brave squire Meriones was about a spear 's cast behind Menelaus.
His horses were slowest of all, and he was the worst driver.
Last of them all came the son of Admetus, dragging his chariot and driving his horses on in front.
When Achilles saw him he was sorry, and stood up among the Argives saying," The best man is coming in last.
Let us give him a prize for it is reasonable.
He shall have the second, but the first must go to the son of Tydeus."
Thus did he speak and the others all of them applauded his saying, and were for doing as he had said, but Nestor 's son Antilochus stood up and claimed his rights from the son of Peleus."
Achilles," said he," I shall take it much amiss if you do this thing; you would rob me of my prize, because you think Eumelus 's chariot and horses were thrown out, and himself too, good man that he is.
He should have prayed duly to the immortals; he would not have come in last if he had done so.
If you are sorry for him and so choose, you have much gold in your tents, with bronze, sheep, cattle and horses.
Take something from this store if you would have the Achaeans speak well of you, and give him a better prize even than that which you have now offered; but I will not give up the mare, and he that will fight me for her, let him come on."
Achilles smiled as he heard this, and was pleased with Antilochus, who was one of his dearest comrades.
So he said— "Antilochus, if you would have me find Eumelus another prize, I will give him the bronze breastplate with a rim of tin running all round it which I took from Asteropaeus.
It will be worth much money to him."
He bade his comrade Automedon bring the breastplate from his tent, and he did so.
Achilles then gave it over to Eumelus, who received it gladly.
But Menelaus got up in a rage, furiously angry with Antilochus.
An attendant placed his staff in his hands and bade the Argives keep silence: the hero then addressed them. "
Antilochus," said he," what is this from you who have been so far blameless?
You have made me cut a poor figure and baulked my horses by flinging your own in front of them, though yours are much worse than mine are; therefore, O princes and counsellors of the Argives, judge between us and show no favour, lest one of the Achaeans say,' Menelaus has got the mare through lying and corruption; his horses were far inferior to Antilochus 's, but he has greater weight and influence.'
Nay, I will determine the matter myself, and no man will blame me, for I shall do what is just.
Come here, Antilochus, and stand, as our custom is, whip in hand before your chariot and horses; lay your hand on your steeds, and swear by earthencircling Neptune that you did not purposely and guilefully get in the way of my horses."
And Antilochus answered," Forgive me; I am much younger, King Menelaus, than you are; you stand higher than I do and are the better man of the two; you know how easily young men are betrayed into indiscretion; their tempers are more hasty and they have less judgement; make due allowances therefore, and bear with me; I will of my own accord give up the mare that I have won, and if you claim any further chattel from my own possessions, I would rather yield it to you, at once, than fall from your good graces henceforth, and do wrong in the sight of heaven."
The son of Nestor then took the mare and gave her over to Menelaus, whose anger was thus appeased; as when dew falls upon a field of ripening corn, and the lands are bristling with the harvest— even so, O Menelaus, was your heart made glad within you.
He turned to Antilochus and said," Now, Antilochus, angry though I have been, I can give way to you of my own free will; you have never been headstrong nor illdisposed hitherto, but this time your youth has got the better of your judgement; be careful how you outwit your betters in future; no one else could have brought me round so easily, but your good father, your brother, and yourself have all of you had infinite trouble on my behalf; I therefore yield to your entreaty, and will give up the mare to you, mine though it indeed be; the people will thus see that I am neither harsh nor vindictive."
With this he gave the mare over to Antilochus 's comrade Noemon, and then took the cauldron.
Meriones, who had come in fourth, carried off the two talents of gold, and the fifth prize, the twohandled urn, being unawarded, Achilles gave it to Nestor, going up to him among the assembled Argives and saying," Take this, my good old friend, as an heirloom and memorial of the funeral of Patroclus— for you shall see him no more among the Argives.
I give you this prize though you can not win one; you can now neither wrestle nor fight, and can not enter for the javelinmatch nor footraces ,for the hand of age has been laid heavily upon you."
So saying he gave the urn over to Nestor, who received it gladly and answered," My son, all that you have said is true; there is no strength now in my legs and feet, nor can I hit out with my hands from either shoulder.
Would that I were still young and strong as when the Epeans were burying King Amarynceus in Buprasium, and his sons offered prizes in his honour.
There was then none that could vie with me neither of the Epeans nor the Pylians themselves nor the Aetolians.
In boxing I overcame Clytomedes son of Enops, and in wrestling, Ancaeus of Pleuron who had come forward against me.
Iphiclus was a good runner, but I beat him, and threw farther with my spear than either Phyleus or Polydorus.
In chariotracing alone did the two sons of Actor surpass me by crowding their horses in front of me, for they were angry at the way victory had gone, and at the greater part of the prizes remaining in the place in which they had been offered.
They were twins, and the one kept on holding the reins, and holding the reins, while the other plied the whip.
Such was I then, but now I must leave these matters to younger men; I must bow before the weight of years, but in those days I was eminent among heroes.
And now, sir, go on with the funeral contests in honour of your comrade: gladly do I accept this urn, and my heart rejoices that you do not forget me but are ever mindful of my goodwill towards you, and of the respect due to me from the Achaeans.
For all which may the grace of heaven be vouchsafed you in great abundance."
Thereon the son of Peleus, when he had listened to all the thanks of Nestor, went about among the concourse of the Achaeans, and presently offered prizes for skill in the painful art of boxing.
He brought out a strong mule, and made it fast in the middle of the crowd— a shemule never yet broken, but six years old— when it is hardest of all to break them: this was for the victor, and for the vanquished he offered a double cup.
Then he stood up and said among the Argives," Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, I invite our two champion boxers to lay about them lustily and compete for these prizes.
He to whom Apollo vouchsafes the greater endurance, and whom the Achaeans acknowledge as victor, shall take the mule back with him to his own tent, while he that is vanquished shall have the double cup."
As he spoke there stood up a champion both brave and of great stature, a skilful boxer, Epeus, son of Panopeus.
He laid his hand on the mule and said," Let the man who is to have the cup come hither, for none but myself will take the mule.
I am the best boxer of all here present, and none can beat me.
Is it not enough that I should fall short of you in actual fighting?
Still, no man can be good at everything.
I tell you plainly, and it shall come true; if any man will box with me I will bruise his body and break his bones; therefore let his friends stay here in a body and be at hand to take him away when I have done with him."
They all held their peace, and no man rose save Euryalus son of Mecisteus, who was son of Talaus.
Mecisteus went once to Thebes after the fall of Oedipus, to attend his funeral, and he beat all the people of Cadmus.
The son of Tydeus was Euryalus 's second, cheering him on and hoping heartily that he would win.
First he put a waistband round him and then he gave him some wellcut thongs of oxhide; the two men being now girt went into the middle of the ring, and immediately fell to; heavily indeed did they punish one another and lay about them with their brawny fists.
One could hear the horrid crashing of their jaws, and they sweated from every pore of their skin.
Presently Epeus came on and gave Euryalus a blow on the jaw as he was looking round; Euryalus could not keep his legs; they gave way under him in a moment and he sprang up with a bound, as a fish leaps into the air near some shore that is all bestrewn with seawrack, when Boreas furs the top of the waves, and then falls back into deep water.
But noble Epeus caught hold of him and raised him up; his comrades also came round him and led him from the ring, unsteady in his gait, his head hanging on one side, and spitting great clots of gore.
They set him down in a swoon and then went to fetch the double cup.
The son of Peleus now brought out the prizes for the third contest and showed them to the Argives.
These were for the painful art of wrestling.
For the winner there was a great tripod ready for setting upon the fire, and the Achaeans valued it among themselves at twelve oxen.
For the loser he brought out a woman skilled in all manner of arts, and they valued her at four oxen.
He rose and said among the Argives," Stand forward, you who will essay this contest."
Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, and crafty Ulysses, full of wiles, rose also.
The two girded themselves and went into the middle of the ring.
They gripped each other in their strong hands like the rafters which some masterbuilder frames for the roof of a high house to keep the wind out.
Their backbones cracked as they tugged at one another with their mighty arms— and sweat rained from them in torrents.
Many a bloody weal sprang up on their sides and shoulders, but they kept on striving with might and main for victory and to win the tripod.
Ulysses could not throw Ajax, nor Ajax him; Ulysses was too strong for him; but when the Achaeans began to tire of watching them, Ajax said to Ulysses," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, you shall either lift me, or I you, and let Jove settle it between us."
He lifted him from the ground as he spoke, but Ulysses did not forget his cunning.
He hit Ajax in the hollow at back of his knee, so that he could not keep his feet, but fell on his back with Ulysses lying upon his chest, and all who saw it marvelled.
Then Ulysses in turn lifted Ajax and stirred him a little from the ground but could not lift him right off it, his knee sank under him, and the two fell side by side on the ground and were all begrimed with dust.
They now sprang towards one another and were for wrestling yet a third time, but Achilles rose and stayed them."
Put not each other further," said he," to such cruel suffering; the victory is with both alike, take each of you an equal prize, and let the other Achaeans now compete."
Thus did he speak and they did even as he had said, and put on their shirts again after wiping the dust from off their bodies.
The son of Peleus then offered prizes for speed in running— a mixingbowl beautifully wrought, of pure silver.
It would hold six measures, and far exceeded all others in the whole world for beauty; it was the work of cunning artificers in Sidon, and had been brought into port by Phoenicians from beyond the sea, who had made a present of it to Thoas.
Eueneus son of Jason had given it to Patroclus in ransom of Priam 's son Lycaon, and Achilles now offered it as a prize in honour of his comrade to him who should be the swiftest runner.
For the second prize he offered a large ox, well fattened, while for the last there was to be half a talent of gold.
He then rose and said among the Argives," Stand forward, you who will essay this contest."
Forthwith uprose fleet Ajax son of Oileus, with cunning Ulysses, and Nestor 's son Antilochus, the fastest runner among all the youth of his time.
They stood side by side and Achilles showed them the goal.
The course was set out for them from the startingpost, and the son of Oileus took the lead at once, with Ulysses as close behind him as the shuttle is to a woman 's bosom when she throws the woof across the warp and holds it close up to her; even so close behind him was Ulysses— treading in his footprints before the dust could settle there, and Ajax could feel his breath on the back of his head as he ran swiftly on.
The Achaeans all shouted applause as they saw him straining his utmost, and cheered him as he shot past them; but when they were now nearing the end of the course Ulysses prayed inwardly to Minerva."
Hear me," he cried," and help my feet, O goddess."
Thus did he pray, and Pallas Minerva heard his prayer; she made his hands and his feet feel light, and when the runners were at the point of pouncing upon the prize, Ajax, through Minerva 's spite slipped upon some offal that was lying there from the cattle which Achilles had slaughtered in honour of Patroclus, and his mouth and nostrils were all filled with cow dung.
Ulysses therefore carried off the mixingbowl, for he got before Ajax and came in first.
But Ajax took the ox and stood with his hand on one of its horns, spitting the dung out of his mouth.
Then he said to the Argives," Alas, the goddess has spoiled my running; she watches over Ulysses and stands by him as though she were his own mother."
Thus did he speak and they all of them laughed heartily.
Antilochus carried off the last prize and smiled as he said to the bystanders," You all see, my friends, that now too the gods have shown their respect for seniority.
Ajax is somewhat older than I am, and as for Ulysses, he belongs to an earlier generation, but he is hale in spite of his years, and no man of the Achaeans can run against him save only Achilles."
He said this to pay a compliment to the son of Peleus, and Achilles answered," Antilochus, you shall not have praised me to no purpose; I shall give you an additional half talent of gold."
He then gave the half talent to Antilochus, who received it gladly.
Then the son of Peleus brought out the spear, helmet and shield that had been borne by Sarpedon, and were taken from him by Patroclus.
He stood up and said among the Argives," We bid two champions put on their armour, take their keen blades, and make trial of one another in the presence of the multitude; whichever of them can first wound the flesh of the other, cut through his armour, and draw blood, to him will I give this goodly Thracian sword inlaid with silver, which I took from Asteropaeus, but the armour let both hold in partnership, and I will give each of them a hearty meal in my own tent."
Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, as also mighty Diomed son of Tydeus.
When they had put on their armour each on his own side of the ring, they both went into the middle eager to engage, and with fire flashing from their eyes.
The Achaeans marvelled as they beheld them, and when the two were now close up with one another, thrice did they spring forward and thrice try to strike each other in close combat.
Ajax pierced Diomed 's round shield, but did not draw blood, for the cuirass beneath the shield protected him; thereon the son of Tydeus from over his huge shield kept aiming continually at Ajax 's neck with the point of his spear, and the Achaeans alarmed for his safety bade them leave off fighting and divide the prize between them.
Achilles then gave the great sword to the son of Tydeus, with its scabbard, and the leathern belt with which to hang it.
Achilles next offered the massive iron quoit which mighty Eetion had erewhile been used to hurl, until Achilles had slain him and carried it off in his ships along with other spoils.
He stood up and said among the Argives," Stand forward, you who would essay this contest.
He who wins it will have a store of iron that will last him five years as they go rolling round, and if his fair fields lie far from a town his shepherd or ploughman will not have to make a journey to buy iron, for he will have a stock of it on his own premises."
Then uprose the two mighty men Polypoetes and Leonteus, with Ajax son of Telamon and noble Epeus.
They stood up one after the other and Epeus took the quoit, whirled it, and flung it from him, which set all the Achaeans laughing.
After him threw Leonteus of the race of Mars.
Ajax son of Telamon threw third, and sent the quoit beyond any mark that had been made yet, but when mighty Polypoetes took the quoit he hurled it as though it had been a stockman 's stick which he sends flying about among his cattle when he is driving them, so far did his throw outdistance those of the others.
All who saw it roared applause, and his comrades carried the prize for him and set it on board his ship.
Achilles next offered a prize of iron for archery— ten doubleedged axes and ten with single edges: he set up a ship 's mast, some way off upon the sands, and with a fine string tied a pigeon to it by the foot; this was what they were to aim at.
"Whoever," he said," can hit the pigeon shall have all the axes and take them away with him; he who hits the string without hitting the bird will have taken a worse aim and shall have the singleedged axes."
Then uprose King Teucer, and Meriones the stalwart squire of Idomeneus rose also, They cast lots in a bronze helmet and the lot of Teucer fell first.
He let fly with his arrow forthwith, but he did not promise hecatombs of firstling lambs to King Apollo, and missed his bird, for Apollo foiled his aim; but he hit the string with which the bird was tied, near its foot; the arrow cut the string clean through so that it hung down towards the ground, while the bird flew up into the sky, and the Achaeans shouted applause.
Meriones, who had his arrow ready while Teucer was aiming, snatched the bow out of his hand, and at once promised that he would sacrifice a hecatomb of firstling lambs to Apollo lord of the bow; then espying the pigeon high up under the clouds, he hit her in the middle of the wing as she was circling upwards; the arrow went clean through the wing and fixed itself in the ground at Meriones ' feet, but the bird perched on the ship 's mast hanging her head and with all her feathers drooping; the life went out of her, and she fell heavily from the mast.
Meriones, therefore, took all ten doubleedged axes, while Teucer bore off the singleedged ones to his ships.
Then the son of Peleus brought in a spear and a cauldron that had never been on the fire; it was worth an ox, and was chased with a pattern of flowers; and those that throw the javelin stood up— to wit the son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, and Meriones, stalwart squire of Idomeneus.
But Achilles spoke saying," Son of Atreus, we know how far you excel all others both in power and in throwing the javelin; take the cauldron back with you to your ships, but if it so please you, let us give the spear to Meriones; this at least is what I should myself wish."
King Agamemnon assented.
So he gave the bronze spear to Meriones, and handed the goodly cauldron to Talthybius his esquire.
TELEMACHUS AND HIS MOTHER MEET—ULYSSES AND EUMAEUS COME DOWN TO THE TOWN, AND ULYSSES IS INSULTED BY MELANTHIUS—HE IS RECOGNISED BY THE DOG ARGOS—HE IS INSULTED AND PRESENTLY STRUCK BY ANTINOUS WITH A STOOL—PENELOPE DESIRES THAT HE SHALL BE SENT TO HER.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, Telemachus bound on his sandals and took a strong spear that suited his hands, for he wanted to go into the city. "
Old friend," said he to the swineherd," I will now go to the town and show myself to my mother, for she will never leave off grieving till she has seen me.
As for this unfortunate stranger, take him to the town and let him beg there of any one who will give him a drink and a piece of bread.
I have trouble enough of my own, and can not be burdened with other people.
If this makes him angry so much the worse for him, but I like to say what I mean."
Then Ulysses said," Sir, I do not want to stay here; a beggar can always do better in town than country, for any one who likes can give him something.
I am too old to care about remaining here at the beck and call of a master.
Therefore let this man do as you have just told him, and take me to the town as soon as I have had a warm by the fire, and the day has got a little heat in it.
My clothes are wretchedly thin, and this frosty morning I shall be perished with cold, for you say the city is some way off."
On this Telemachus strode off through the yards, brooding his revenge upon the suitors.
When he reached home he stood his spear against a bearingpost of the cloister, crossed the stone floor of the cloister itself, and went inside.
Nurse Euryclea saw him long before any one else did.
She was putting the fleeces on to the seats, and she burst out crying as she ran up to him; all the other maids came up too, and covered his head and shoulders with their kisses.
Penelope came out of her room looking like Diana or Venus, and wept as she flung her arms about her son.
She kissed his forehead and both his beautiful eyes," Light of my eyes," she cried as she spoke fondly to him," so you are come home again; I made sure I was never going to see you any more.
To think of your having gone off to Pylos without saying anything about it or obtaining my consent.
But come, tell me what you saw."
"Do not scold me, mother," answered Telemachus," nor vex me, seeing what a narrow escape I have had, but wash your face, change your dress, go upstairs with your maids, and promise full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if Jove will only grant us our revenge upon the suitors.
I must now go to the place of assembly to invite a stranger who has come back with me from Pylos.
I sent him on with my crew, and told Piraeus to take him home and look after him till I could come for him myself."
She heeded her son 's words, washed her face, changed her dress, and vowed full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if they would only vouchsafe her revenge upon the suitors.
Telemachus went through, and out of, the cloisters spear in hand— not alone, for his two fleet dogs went with him.
Minerva endowed him with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as he went by, and the suitors gathered round him with fair words in their mouths and malice in their hearts; but he avoided them, and went to sit with Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses, old friends of his father 's house, and they made him tell them all that had happened to him.
Then Piraeus came up with Theoclymenus, whom he had escorted through the town to the place of assembly, whereon Telemachus at once joined them.
Piraeus was first to speak:" Telemachus," said he," I wish you would send some of your women to my house to take away the presents Menelaus gave you."
"We do not know, Piraeus," answered Telemachus," what may happen.
If the suitors kill me in my own house and divide my property among them, I would rather you had the presents than that any of those people should get hold of them.
If on the other hand I managed to kill them, I shall be much obliged if you will kindly bring me my presents."
With these words he took Theoclymenus to his own house.
When they got there they laid their cloaks on the benches and seats, went into the baths, and washed themselves.
When the maids had washed and anointed them, and had given them cloaks and shirts, they took their seats at table.
A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them.
An upper servant brought them bread and offered them many good things of what there was in the house.
Opposite them sat Penelope, reclining on a couch by one of the bearingposts of the cloister, and spinning.
Then they laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Penelope said: "Telemachus, I shall go upstairs and lie down on that sad couch, which I have not ceased to water with my tears, from the day Ulysses set out for Troy with the sons of Atreus.
You failed, however, to make it clear to me before the suitors came back to the house, whether or no you had been able to hear anything about the return of your father."
"I will tell you then truth," replied her son.
"We went to Pylos and saw Nestor, who took me to his house and treated me as hospitably as though I were a son of his own who had just returned after a long absence; so also did his sons; but he said he had not heard a word from any human being about Ulysses, whether he was alive or dead.
He sent me, therefore, with a chariot and horses to Menelaus.
There I saw Helen, for whose sake so many, both Argives and Trojans, were in heaven 's wisdom doomed to suffer.
Menelaus asked me what it was that had brought me to Lacedaemon, and I told him the whole truth, whereon he said,' So, then, these cowards would usurp a brave man 's bed?
A hind might as well lay her newborn young in the lair of a lion, and then go off to feed in the forest or in some grassy dell.
The lion, when he comes back to his lair, will make short work with the pair of them, and so will Ulysses with these suitors.
By father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, if Ulysses is still the man that he was when he wrestled with Philomeleides in Lesbos, and threw him so heavily that all the Greeks cheered him— if he is still such, and were to come near these suitors, they would have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
As regards your question, however, I will not prevaricate nor deceive you, but what the old man of the sea told me, so much will I tell you in full.
He said he could see Ulysses on an island sorrowing bitterly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who was keeping him prisoner, and he could not reach his home, for he had no ships nor sailors to take him over the sea.'
This was what Menelaus told me, and when I had heard his story I came away; the gods then gave me a fair wind and soon brought me safe home again."
With these words he moved the heart of Penelope.
Then Theoclymenus said to her: "Madam, wife of Ulysses, Telemachus does not understand these things; listen therefore to me, for I can divine them surely, and will hide nothing from you.
May Jove the king of heaven be my witness, and the rites of hospitality, with that hearth of Ulysses to which I now come, that Ulysses himself is even now in Ithaca, and, either going about the country or staying in one place, is enquiring into all these evil deeds and preparing a day of reckoning for the suitors.
I saw an omen when I was on the ship which meant this, and I told Telemachus about it."
"May it be even so," answered Penelope;" if your words come true, you shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who see you shall congratulate you."
Thus did they converse.
Meanwhile the suitors were throwing discs, or aiming with spears at a mark on the levelled ground in front of the house, and behaving with all their old insolence.
But when it was now time for dinner, and the flock of sheep and goats had come into the town from all the country round, with their shepherds as usual, then Medon, who was their favourite servant, and who waited upon them at table, said," Now then, my young masters, you have had enough sport, so come inside that we may get dinner ready.
Dinner is not a bad thing, at dinner time."
They left their sports as he told them, and when they were within the house, they laid their cloaks on the benches and seats inside, and then sacrificed some sheep, goats, pigs, and a heifer, all of them fat and well grown.
Thus they made ready for their meal.
In the meantime Ulysses and the swineherd were about starting for the town, and the swineherd said," Stranger, I suppose you still want to go to town today, as my master said you were to do; for my own part I should have liked you to stay here as a station hand, but I must do as my master tells me, or he will scold me later on, and a scolding from one 's master is a very serious thing.
Let us then be off, for it is now broad day; it will be night again directly and then you will find it colder."
"I know, and understand you," replied Ulysses;" you need say no more.
Let us be going, but if you have a stick ready cut, let me have it to walk with, for you say the road is a very rough one."
As he spoke he threw his shabby old tattered wallet over his shoulders, by the cord from which it hung, and Eumaeus gave him a stick to his liking.
The two then started, leaving the station in charge of the dogs and herdsmen who remained behind; the swineherd led the way and his master followed after, looking like some broken down old tramp as he leaned upon his staff, and his clothes were all in rags.
When they had got over the rough steep ground and were nearing the city, they reached the fountain from which the citizens drew their water.
This had been made by Ithacus, Neritus, and Polyctor.
There was a grove of waterloving poplars planted in a circle all round it, and the clear cold water came down to it from a rock high up while above the fountain there was an altar to the nymphs, at which all wayfarers used to sacrifice.
Here Melanthius son of Dolius overtook them as he was driving down some goats, the best in his flock, for the suitors ' dinner, and there were two shepherds with him.
When he saw Eumaeus and Ulysses he reviled them with outrageous and unseemly language, which made Ulysses very angry.
"There you go," cried he," and a precious pair you are.
See how heaven brings birds of the same feather to one another.
Where, pray, master swineherd, are you taking this poor miserable object?
It would make any one sick to see such a creature at table.
A fellow like this never won a prize for anything in his life, but will go about rubbing his shoulders against every man 's door post, and begging, not for swords and cauldrons like a man, but only for a few scraps not worth begging for.
If you would give him to me for a hand on my station, he might do to clean out the folds, or bring a bit of sweet feed to the kids, and he could fatten his thighs as much as he pleased on whey; but he has taken to bad ways and will not go about any kind of work; he will do nothing but beg victuals all the town over, to feed his insatiable belly.
I say, therefore— and it shall surely be— if he goes near Ulysses ' house he will get his head broken by the stools they will fling at him, till they turn him out."
On this, as he passed, he gave Ulysses a kick on the hip out of pure wantonness, but Ulysses stood firm, and did not budge from the path.
For a moment he doubted whether or no to fly at Melanthius and kill him with his staff, or fling him to the ground and beat his brains out; he resolved, however, to endure it and keep himself in check, but the swineherd looked straight at Melanthius and rebuked him, lifting up his hands and praying to heaven as he did so.
"Fountain nymphs," he cried," children of Jove, if ever Ulysses burned you thigh bones covered with fat whether of lambs or kids, grant my prayer that heaven may send him home.
He would soon put an end to the swaggering threats with which such men as you go about insulting people— gadding all over the town while your flocks are going to ruin through bad shepherding."
Then Melanthius the goatherd answered," You ill conditioned cur, what are you talking about?
Some day or other I will put you on board ship and take you to a foreign country, where I can sell you and pocket the money you will fetch.
I wish I were as sure that Apollo would strike Telemachus dead this very day, or that the suitors would kill him, as I am that Ulysses will never come home again."
With this he left them to come on at their leisure, while he went quickly forward and soon reached the house of his master.
When he got there he went in and took his seat among the suitors opposite Eurymachus, who liked him better than any of the others.
The servants brought him a portion of meat, and an upper woman servant set bread before him that he might eat.
Presently Ulysses and the swineherd came up to the house and stood by it, amid a sound of music, for Phemius was just beginning to sing to the suitors.
Then Ulysses took hold of the swineherd 's hand, and said: "Eumaeus, this house of Ulysses is a very fine place.
No matter how far you go, you will find few like it.
One building keeps following on after another.
The outer court has a wall with battlements all round it; the doors are double folding, and of good workmanship; it would be a hard matter to take it by force of arms.
I perceive, too, that there are many people banqueting within it, for there is a smell of roast meat, and I hear a sound of music, which the gods have made to go along with feasting."
Then Eumaeus said," You have perceived aright, as indeed you generally do; but let us think what will be our best course.
Will you go inside first and join the suitors, leaving me here behind you, or will you wait here and let me go in first?
But do not wait long, or some one may see you loitering about outside, and throw something at you.
Consider this matter I pray you."
And Ulysses answered," I understand and heed.
Go in first and leave me here where I am.
I am quite used to being beaten and having things thrown at me.
I have been so much buffeted about in war and by sea that I am casehardened, and this too may go with the rest.
But a man can not hide away the cravings of a hungry belly; this is an enemy which gives much trouble to all men; it is because of this that ships are fitted out to sail the seas, and to make war upon other people."
As they were thus talking, a dog that had been lying asleep raised his head and pricked up his ears.
This was Argos, whom Ulysses had bred before setting out for Troy, but he had never had any work out of him.
In the old days he used to be taken out by the young men when they went hunting wild goats, or deer, or hares, but now that his master was gone he was lying neglected on the heaps of mule and cow dung that lay in front of the stable doors till the men should come and draw it away to manure the great close; and he was full of fleas.
As soon as he saw Ulysses standing there, he dropped his ears and wagged his tail, but he could not get close up to his master.
When Ulysses saw the dog on the other side of the yard, he dashed a tear from his eyes without Eumaeus seeing it, and said: "Eumaeus, what a noble hound that is over yonder on the manure heap: his build is splendid; is he as fine a fellow as he looks, or is he only one of those dogs that come begging about a table, and are kept merely for show?"
"This hound," answered Eumaeus," belonged to him who has died in a far country.
If he were what he was when Ulysses left for Troy, he would soon show you what he could do.
There was not a wild beast in the forest that could get away from him when he was once on its tracks.
But now he has fallen on evil times, for his master is dead and gone, and the women take no care of him.
Servants never do their work when their master 's hand is no longer over them, for Jove takes half the goodness out of a man when he makes a slave of him."
As he spoke he went inside the buildings to the cloister where the suitors were, but Argos died as soon as he had recognised his master.
Telemachus saw Eumaeus long before any one else did, and beckoned him to come and sit beside him; so he looked about and saw a seat lying near where the carver sat serving out their portions to the suitors; he picked it up, brought it to Telemachus 's table, and sat down opposite him.
Then the servant brought him his portion, and gave him bread from the breadbasket.
Immediately afterwards Ulysses came inside, looking like a poor miserable old beggar, leaning on his staff and with his clothes all in rags.
He sat down upon the threshold of ashwood just inside the doors leading from the outer to the inner court, and against a bearingpost of cypresswood which the carpenter had skilfully planed, and had made to join truly with rule and line.
Telemachus took a whole loaf from the breadbasket, with as much meat as he could hold in his two hands, and said to Eumaeus," Take this to the stranger, and tell him to go the round of the suitors, and beg from them; a beggar must not be shamefaced."
So Eumaeus went up to him and said," Stranger, Telemachus sends you this, and says you are to go the round of the suitors begging, for beggars must not be shamefaced."
Ulysses answered," May King Jove grant all happiness to Telemachus, and fulfil the desire of his heart."
Then with both hands he took what Telemachus had sent him, and laid it on the dirty old wallet at his feet.
He went on eating it while the bard was singing, and had just finished his dinner as he left off.
The suitors applauded the bard, whereon Minerva went up to Ulysses and prompted him to beg pieces of bread from each one of the suitors, that he might see what kind of people they were, and tell the good from the bad; but come what might she was not going to save a single one of them.
Ulysses, therefore, went on his round, going from left to right, and stretched out his hands to beg as though he were a real beggar.
Some of them pitied him, and were curious about him, asking one another who he was and where he came from; whereon the goatherd Melanthius said," Suitors of my noble mistress, I can tell you something about him, for I have seen him before.
The swineherd brought him here, but I know nothing about the man himself, nor where he comes from."
On this Antinous began to abuse the swineherd.
"You precious idiot," he cried," what have you brought this man to town for?
Have we not tramps and beggars enough already to pester us as we sit at meat?
Do you think it a small thing that such people gather here to waste your master 's property— and must you needs bring this man as well?"
And Eumaeus answered," Antinous, your birth is good but your words evil.
It was no doing of mine that he came here.
Who is likely to invite a stranger from a foreign country, unless it be one of those who can do public service as a seer, a healer of hurts, a carpenter, or a bard who can charm us with his singing?
Such men are welcome all the world over, but no one is likely to ask a beggar who will only worry him.
You are always harder on Ulysses ' servants than any of the other suitors are, and above all on me, but I do not care so long as Telemachus and Penelope are alive and here."
But Telemachus said," Hush, do not answer him; Antinous has the bitterest tongue of all the suitors, and he makes the others worse."
Then turning to Antinous he said," Antinous, you take as much care of my interests as though I were your son.
Why should you want to see this stranger turned out of the house?
Heaven forbid; take something and give it him yourself; I do not grudge it; I bid you take it.
Never mind my mother, nor any of the other servants in the house; but I know you will not do what I say, for you are more fond of eating things yourself than of giving them to other people."
"What do you mean, Telemachus," replied Antinous," by this swaggering talk?
If all the suitors were to give him as much as I will, he would not come here again for another three months."
As he spoke he drew the stool on which he rested his dainty feet from under the table, and made as though he would throw it at Ulysses, but the other suitors all gave him something, and filled his wallet with bread and meat; he was about, therefore, to go back to the threshold and eat what the suitors had given him, but he first went up to Antinous and said: "Sir, give me something; you are not, surely, the poorest man here; you seem to be a chief, foremost among them all; therefore you should be the better giver, and I will tell far and wide of your bounty.
I too was a rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to many a tramp such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he wanted.
I had any number of servants, and all the other things which people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased Jove to take all away from me.
He sent me with a band of roving robbers to Egypt; it was a long voyage and I was undone by it.
I stationed my ships in the river Aegyptus, and bade my men stay by them and keep guard over them, while I sent out scouts to reconnoitre from every point of vantage.
"But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men, and taking their wives and children captives.
The alarm was soon carried to the city, and when they heard the warcry, the people came out at daybreak till the plain was filled with soldiers horse and foot, and with the gleam of armour.
Then Jove spread panic among my men, and they would no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded.
The Egyptians killed many of us, and took the rest alive to do forced labour for them; as for myself, they gave me to a friend who met them, to take to Cyprus, Dmetor by name, son of Iasus, who was a great man in Cyprus.
Thence I am come hither in a state of great misery."
Then Antinous said," What god can have sent such a pestilence to plague us during our dinner?
Get out, into the open part of the court or I will give you Egypt and Cyprus over again for your insolence and importunity; you have begged of all the others, and they have given you lavishly, for they have abundance round them, and it is easy to be free with other people 's property when there is plenty of it."
On this Ulysses began to move off, and said," Your looks, my fine sir, are better than your breeding; if you were in your own house you would not spare a poor man so much as a pinch of salt, for though you are in another man 's, and surrounded with abundance, you can not find it in you to give him even a piece of bread."
This made Antinous very angry, and he scowled at him saying," You shall pay for this before you get clear of the court."
With these words he threw a footstool at him, and hit him on the right shoulder blade near the top of his back.
Ulysses stood firm as a rock and the blow did not even stagger him, but he shook his head in silence as he brooded on his revenge.
Then he went back to the threshold and sat down there, laying his well filled wallet at his feet.
"Listen to me," he cried," you suitors of Queen Penelope, that I may speak even as I am minded.
A man knows neither ache nor pain if he gets hit while fighting for his money, or for his sheep or his cattle; and even so Antinous has hit me while in the service of my miserable belly, which is always getting people into trouble.
Still, if the poor have gods and avenging deities at all, I pray them that Antinous may come to a bad end before his marriage."
"Sit where you are, and eat your victuals in silence, or be off elsewhere," shouted Antinous.
"If you say more I will have you dragged hand and foot through the courts, and the servants shall flay you alive."
The other suitors were much displeased at this, and one of the young men said," Antinous, you did ill in striking that poor wretch of a tramp: it will be worse for you if he should turn out to be some god— and we know the gods go about disguised in all sorts of ways as people from foreign countries, and travel about the world to see who do amiss and who righteously."
Thus said the suitors, but Antinous paid them no heed.
Meanwhile Telemachus was furious about the blow that had been given to his father, and though no tear fell from him, he shook his head in silence and brooded on his revenge.
Now when Penelope heard that the beggar had been struck in the banquetingcloister, she said before her maids," Would that Apollo would so strike you, Antinous," and her waiting woman Eurynome answered," If our prayers were answered not one of the suitors would ever again see the sun rise."
Then Penelope said," Nurse I hate every single one of them, for they mean nothing but mischief, but I hate Antinous like the darkness of death itself.
A poor unfortunate tramp has come begging about the house for sheer want.
Every one else has given him something to put in his wallet, but Antinous has hit him on the right shoulderblade with a footstool."
Thus did she talk with her maids as she sat in her own room, and in the meantime Ulysses was getting his dinner.
Then she called for the swineherd and said," Eumaeus, go and tell the stranger to come here, I want to see him and ask him some questions.
He seems to have travelled much, and he may have seen or heard something of my unhappy husband."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," If these Achaeans, Madam, would only keep quiet, you would be charmed with the history of his adventures.
I had him three days and three nights with me in my hut, which was the first place he reached after running away from his ship, and he has not yet completed the story of his misfortunes.
If he had been the most heaventaught minstrel in the whole world, on whose lips all hearers hang entranced, I could not have been more charmed as I sat in my hut and listened to him.
He says there is an old friendship between his house and that of Ulysses, and that he comes from Crete where the descendants of Minos live, after having been driven hither and thither by every kind of misfortune; he also declares that he has heard of Ulysses as being alive and near at hand among the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing great wealth home with him."
"Call him here, then," said Penelope," that I too may hear his story.
As for the suitors, let them take their pleasure indoors or out as they will, for they have nothing to fret about.
Their corn and wine remain unwasted in their houses with none but servants to consume them, while they keep hanging about our house day after day sacrificing our oxen, sheep, and fat goats for their banquets, and never giving so much as a thought to the quantity of wine they drink.
No estate can stand such recklessness, for we have now no Ulysses to protect us.
If he were to come again, he and his son would soon have their revenge."
As she spoke Telemachus sneezed so loudly that the whole house resounded with it.
Penelope laughed when she heard this, and said to Eumaeus," Go and call the stranger; did you not hear how my son sneezed just as I was speaking?
This can only mean that all the suitors are going to be killed, and that not one of them shall escape.
Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart: if I am satisfied that the stranger is speaking the truth I shall give him a shirt and cloak of good wear."
When Eumaeus heard this he went straight to Ulysses and said," Father stranger, my mistress Penelope, mother of Telemachus, has sent for you; she is in great grief, but she wishes to hear anything you can tell her about her husband, and if she is satisfied that you are speaking the truth, she will give you a shirt and cloak, which are the very things that you are most in want of.
As for bread, you can get enough of that to fill your belly, by begging about the town, and letting those give that will."
"I will tell Penelope," answered Ulysses," nothing but what is strictly true.
I know all about her husband, and have been partner with him in affliction, but I am afraid of passing through this crowd of cruel suitors, for their pride and insolence reach heaven.
Just now, moreover, as I was going about the house without doing any harm, a man gave me a blow that hurt me very much, but neither Telemachus nor any one else defended me.
Tell Penelope, therefore, to be patient and wait till sundown.
Let her give me a seat close up to the fire, for my clothes are worn very thin— you know they are, for you have seen them ever since I first asked you to help me —she can then ask me about the return of her husband."
The swineherd went back when he heard this, and Penelope said as she saw him cross the threshold," Why do you not bring him here, Eumaeus?
Is he afraid that some one will illtreat him, or is he shy of coming inside the house at all?
Beggars should not be shamefaced."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," The stranger is quite reasonable.
He is avoiding the suitors, and is only doing what any one else would do.
He asks you to wait till sundown, and it will be much better, madam, that you should have him all to yourself, when you can hear him and talk to him as you will."
"The man is no fool," answered Penelope," it would very likely be as he says, for there are no such abominable people in the whole world as these men are."
When she had done speaking Eumaeus went back to the suitors, for he had explained everything.
Then he went up to Telemachus and said in his ear so that none could overhear him," My dear sir, I will now go back to the pigs, to see after your property and my own business.
You will look to what is going on here, but above all be careful to keep out of danger, for there are many who bear you ill will.
May Jove bring them to a bad end before they do us a mischief."
"Very well," replied Telemachus," go home when you have had your dinner, and in the morning come here with the victims we are to sacrifice for the day.
Leave the rest to heaven and me."
On this Eumaeus took his seat again, and when he had finished his dinner he left the courts and the cloister with the men at table, and went back to his pigs.
As for the suitors, they presently began to amuse themselves with singing and dancing, for it was now getting on towards evening.
CHAPTER SOLITUDE.
THIS IS A delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore.
I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself.
As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually congenial to me.
The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-will is borne on the rippling wind from over the water.
Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled.
These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm as the smooth reflecting surface.
Though it is now dark, the mind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes.
The repose is never complete.
The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods without fear.
They are Nature's watchmenlinks which connect the days of animated life.
When I return to my house I find that visitors have been there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or a chip.
They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to play with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally.
One has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table.
I could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe.
Nay, I was frequently notified of the passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by the scent of his pipe.
There is commonly sufficient space about us.
Our horizon is never quite at our elbows.
The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature.
For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men?
My nearest neighbor is a mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own.
I have my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts the woodland road on the other.
But for the most part it is as solitary where I live as on the prairies.
It is as much Asia or Africa as New England.
I have, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little world all to myself.
At night there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if I were the first or last man; unless it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for poutsthey plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with darknessbut they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world to darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood.
I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.
Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man.
There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of nature and has his senses still.
There was never yet such a storm but it was Aeolian music to a healthy and innocent ear.
Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar sadness.
While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me.
The gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps me in the house today is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too.
Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing.
If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me.
Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and were especially guided and guarded.
I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me.
I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life.
To be alone was something unpleasant.
But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery.
In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since.
Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me.
I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.
"Mourning untimely consumes the sad; Few are their days in the land of the living, Beautiful daughter of Toscar."
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves.
In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection.
In one heavy thunder-shower the lightning struck a large pitch pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick.
I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago.
Men frequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially."
I am tempted to reply to suchThis whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space.
How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments?
Why should I feel lonely?
is not our planet in the Milky Way?
This which you put seems to me not to be the most important question.
What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary?
I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another.
What do we want most to dwell near to?
Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction.
This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar....
I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called "a handsome property"though I never got a fair view of iton the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life.
I answered that I was very sure I liked it passably well; I was not joking.
And so I went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the mud to Brightonor Bright-townwhich place he would reach some time in the morning.
Any prospect of awakening or coming to life to a dead man makes indifferent all times and places.
The place where that may occur is always the same, and indescribably pleasant to all our senses.
For the most part we allow only outlying and transient circumstances to make our occasions.
They are, in fact, the cause of our distraction.
Nearest to all things is that power which fashions their being.
Next to us the grandest laws are continually being executed.
Next to us is not the workman whom we have hired, with whom we love so well to talk, but the workman whose work we are.
"How vast and profound is the influence of the subtile powers of Heaven and of Earth!"
"We seek to perceive them, and we do not see them; we seek to hear them, and we do not hear them; identified with the substance of things, they cannot be separated from them."
"They cause that in all the universe men purify and sanctify their hearts, and clothe themselves in their holiday garments to offer sacrifices and oblations to their ancestors.
It is an ocean of subtile intelligences.
They are everywhere, above us, on our left, on our right; they environ us on all sides."
We are the subjects of an experiment which is not a little interesting to me.
Can we not do without the society of our gossips a little while under these circumstanceshave our own thoughts to cheer us?
Confucius says truly, "Virtue does not remain as an abandoned orphan; it must of necessity have neighbors."
With thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense.
By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent.
We are not wholly involved in Nature.
I may be either the driftwood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it.
I may be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I may not be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more.
I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another.
However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more I than it is you.
When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way.
It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned.
This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.
I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time.
To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating.
I love to be alone.
I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.
We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers.
A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will.
Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.
The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervis in the desert.
The farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can "see the folks," and recreate, and, as he thinks, remunerate himself for his day's solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and "the blues"; but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.
Society is commonly too cheap.
We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other.
We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.
We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war.
We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another.
Certainly less frequency would suffice for all important and hearty communications.
Consider the girls in a factorynever alone, hardly in their dreams.
It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.
The value of a man is not in his skin, that we should touch him.
I have heard of a man lost in the woods and dying of famine and exhaustion at the foot of a tree, whose loneliness was relieved by the grotesque visions with which, owing to bodily weakness, his diseased imagination surrounded him, and which he believed to be real.
So also, owing to bodily and mental health and strength, we may be continually cheered by a like but more normal and natural society, and come to know that we are never alone.
I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls.
Let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation.
I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself.
What company has that lonely lake, I pray?
And yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters.
The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun.
God is alonebut the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion.
I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a bumblebee.
I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the north star, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.
I have occasional visits in the long winter evenings, when the snow falls fast and the wind howls in the wood, from an old settler and original proprietor, who is reported to have dug Walden Pond, and stoned it, and fringed it with pine woods; who tells me stories of old time and of new eternity; and between us we manage to pass a cheerful evening with social mirth and pleasant views of things, even without apples or cidera most wise and humorous friend, whom I love much, who keeps himself more secret than ever did Goffe or Whalley; and though he is thought to be dead, none can show where he is buried.
An elderly dame, too, dwells in my neighborhood, invisible to most persons, in whose odorous herb garden I love to stroll sometimes, gathering simples and listening to her fables; for she has a genius of unequalled fertility, and her memory runs back farther than mythology, and she can tell me the original of every fable, and on what fact every one is founded, for the incidents occurred when she was young.
A ruddy and lusty old dame, who delights in all weathers and seasons, and is likely to outlive all her children yet.
The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Natureof sun and wind and rain, of summer and wintersuch health, such cheer, they afford forever!
and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all Nature would be affected, and the sun's brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause grieve.
Shall I not have intelligence with the earth?
Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?
What is the pill which will keep us well, serene, contented?
Not my or thy great-grandfather's, but our great-grandmother Nature's universal, vegetable, botanic medicines, by which she has kept herself young always, outlived so many old Parrs in her day, and fed her health with their decaying fatness.
For my panacea, instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from Acheron and the Dead Sea, which come out of those long shallow black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air.
Morning air!
If men will not drink of this at the fountainhead of the day, why, then, we must even bottle up some and sell it in the shops, for the benefit of those who have lost their subscription ticket to morning time in this world.
But remember, it will not keep quite till noonday even in the coolest cellar, but drive out the stopples long ere that and follow westward the steps of Aurora.
I am no worshipper of Hygeia, who was the daughter of that old herb-doctor Esculapius, and who is represented on monuments holding a serpent in one hand, and in the other a cup out of which the serpent sometimes drinks; but rather of Hebe, cup-bearer to Jupiter, who was the daughter of Juno and wild lettuce, and who had the power of restoring gods and men to the vigor of youth.
She was probably the only thoroughly sound-conditioned, healthy, and robust young lady that ever walked the globe, and wherever she came it was spring.
VISITORS
RECEPTION OF ULYSSES AT THE PALACE OF KING ALCINOUS.
Thus, then, did Ulysses wait and pray; but the girl drove on to the town.
When she reached her father 's house she drew up at the gateway, and her brothers— comely as the gods— gathered round her, took the mules out of the waggon, and carried the clothes into the house, while she went to her own room, where an old servant, Eurymedusa of Apeira, lit the fire for her.
This old woman had been brought by sea from Apeira, and had been chosen as a prize for Alcinous because he was king over the Phaeacians, and the people obeyed him as though he were a god.
She had been nurse to Nausicaa, and had now lit the fire for her, and brought her supper for her into her own room.
Presently Ulysses got up to go towards the town; and Minerva shed a thick mist all round him to hide him in case any of the proud Phaeacians who met him should be rude to him, or ask him who he was.
Then, as he was just entering the town, she came towards him in the likeness of a little girl carrying a pitcher.
She stood right in front of him, and Ulysses said: "My dear, will you be so kind as to show me the house of king Alcinous?
I am an unfortunate foreigner in distress, and do not know one in your town and country."
Then Minerva said," Yes, father stranger, I will show you the house you want, for Alcinous lives quite close to my own father.
I will go before you and show the way, but say not a word as you go, and do not look at any man, nor ask him questions; for the people here can not abide strangers, and do not like men who come from some other place.
They are a seafaring folk, and sail the seas by the grace of Neptune in ships that glide along like thought, or as a bird in the air."
On this she led the way, and Ulysses followed in her steps; but not one of the Phaeacians could see him as he passed through the city in the midst of them; for the great goddess Minerva in her good will towards him had hidden him in a thick cloud of darkness.
He admired their harbours, ships, places of assembly, and the lofty walls of the city, which, with the palisade on top of them, were very striking, and when they reached the king 's house Minerva said: "This is the house, father stranger, which you would have me show you.
You will find a number of great people sitting at table, but do not be afraid; go straight in, for the bolder a man is the more likely he is to carry his point, even though he is a stranger.
First find the queen.
Her name is Arete, and she comes of the same family as her husband Alcinous.
They both descend originally from Neptune, who was father to Nausithous by Periboea, a woman of great beauty.
Periboea was the youngest daughter of Eurymedon, who at one time reigned over the giants, but he ruined his illfated people and lost his own life to boot.
"Neptune, however, lay with his daughter, and she had a son by him, the great Nausithous, who reigned over the Phaeacians.
Nausithous had two sons Rhexenor and Alcinous; Apollo killed the first of them while he was still a bridegroom and without male issue; but he left a daughter Arete, whom Alcinous married, and honours as no other woman is honoured of all those that keep house along with their husbands.
"Thus she both was, and still is, respected beyond measure by her children, by Alcinous himself, and by the whole people, who look upon her as a goddess, and greet her whenever she goes about the city, for she is a thoroughly good woman both in head and heart, and when any women are friends of hers, she will help their husbands also to settle their disputes.
If you can gain her good will, you may have every hope of seeing your friends again, and getting safely back to your home and country."
Then Minerva left Scheria and went away over the sea.
She went to Marathon and to the spacious streets of Athens, where she entered the abode of Erechtheus; but Ulysses went on to the house of Alcinous, and he pondered much as he paused a while before reaching the threshold of bronze, for the splendour of the palace was like that of the sun or moon.
The walls on either side were of bronze from end to end, and the cornice was of blue enamel.
The doors were gold, and hung on pillars of silver that rose from a floor of bronze, while the lintel was silver and the hook of the door was of gold.
On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs which Vulcan, with his consummate skill, had fashioned expressly to keep watch over the palace of king Alcinous; so they were immortal and could never grow old.
Seats were ranged all along the wall, here and there from one end to the other, with coverings of fine woven work which the women of the house had made.
Here the chief persons of the Phaeacians used to sit and eat and drink, for there was abundance at all seasons; and there were golden figures of young men with lighted torches in their hands, raised on pedestals, to give light by night to those who were at table.
There are fifty maid servants in the house, some of whom are always grinding rich yellow grain at the mill, while others work at the loom, or sit and spin, and their shuttles go backwards and forwards like the fluttering of aspen leaves, while the linen is so closely woven that it will turn oil.
As the Phaeacians are the best sailors in the world, so their women excel all others in weaving, for Minerva has taught them all manner of useful arts, and they are very intelligent.
Outside the gate of the outer court there is a large garden of about four acres with a wall all round it.
It is full of beautiful trees— pears, pomegranates, and the most delicious apples.
There are luscious figs also, and olives in full growth.
The fruits never rot nor fail all the year round, neither winter nor summer, for the air is so soft that a new crop ripens before the old has dropped.
Pear grows on pear, apple on apple, and fig on fig, and so also with the grapes, for there is an excellent vineyard: on the level ground of a part of this, the grapes are being made into raisins; in another part they are being gathered; some are being trodden in the wine tubs, others further on have shed their blossom and are beginning to show fruit, others again are just changing colour.
In the furthest part of the ground there are beautifully arranged beds of flowers that are in bloom all the year round.
Two streams go through it, the one turned in ducts throughout the whole garden, while the other is carried under the ground of the outer court to the house itself, and the town 's people draw water from it.
Such, then, were the splendours with which the gods had endowed the house of king Alcinous.
So here Ulysses stood for a while and looked about him, but when he had looked long enough he crossed the threshold and went within the precincts of the house.
There he found all the chief people among the Phaeacians making their drink offerings to Mercury, which they always did the last thing before going away for the night.
He went straight through the court, still hidden by the cloak of darkness in which Minerva had enveloped him, till he reached Arete and King Alcinous; then he laid his hands upon the knees of the queen, and at that moment the miraculous darkness fell away from him and he became visible.
Every one was speechless with surprise at seeing a man there, but Ulysses began at once with his petition.
"Queen Arete," he exclaimed," daughter of great Rhexenor, in my distress I humbly pray you, as also your husband and these your guests( whom may heaven prosper with long life and happiness, and may they leave their possessions to their children, and all the honours conferred upon them by the state) to help me home to my own country as soon as possible; for I have been long in trouble and away from my friends."
Then he sat down on the hearth among the ashes and they all held their peace, till presently the old hero Echeneus, who was an excellent speaker and an elder among the Phaeacians, plainly and in all honesty addressed them thus: "Alcinous," said he," it is not creditable to you that a stranger should be seen sitting among the ashes of your hearth; every one is waiting to hear what you are about to say; tell him, then, to rise and take a seat on a stool inlaid with silver, and bid your servants mix some wine and water that we may make a drink offering to Jove the lord of thunder, who takes all well disposed suppliants under his protection; and let the housekeeper give him some supper, of whatever there may be in the house."
When Alcinous heard this he took Ulysses by the hand, raised him from the hearth, and bade him take the seat of Laodamas, who had been sitting beside him, and was his favourite son.
A maid servant then brought him water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for him to wash his hands, and she drew a clean table beside him; an upper servant brought him bread and offered him many good things of what there was in the house, and Ulysses ate and drank.
Then Alcinous said to one of the servants," Pontonous, mix a cup of wine and hand it round that we may make drinkofferings to Jove the lord of thunder, who is the protector of all welldisposed suppliants."
Pontonous then mixed wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drinkoffering.
When they had made their offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Alcinous said: "Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, hear my words.
You have had your supper, so now go home to bed.
Tomorrow morning I shall invite a still larger number of aldermen, and will give a sacrificial banquet in honour of our guest; we can then discuss the question of his escort, and consider how we may at once send him back rejoicing to his own country without trouble or inconvenience to himself, no matter how distant it may be.
We must see that he comes to no harm while on his homeward journey, but when he is once at home he will have to take the luck he was born with for better or worse like other people.
It is possible, however, that the stranger is one of the immortals who has come down from heaven to visit us; but in this case the gods are departing from their usual practice, for hitherto they have made themselves perfectly clear to us when we have been offering them hecatombs.
They come and sit at our feasts just like one of our selves, and if any solitary wayfarer happens to stumble upon some one or other of them, they affect no concealment, for we are as near of kin to the gods as the Cyclopes and the savage giants are."
Then Ulysses said:" Pray, Alcinous, do not take any such notion into your head.
I have nothing of the immortal about me, neither in body nor mind, and most resemble those among you who are the most afflicted.
Indeed, were I to tell you all that heaven has seen fit to lay upon me, you would say that I was still worse off than they are.
Nevertheless, let me sup in spite of sorrow, for an empty stomach is a very importunate thing, and thrusts itself on a man 's notice no matter how dire is his distress.
I am in great trouble, yet it insists that I shall eat and drink, bids me lay aside all memory of my sorrows and dwell only on the due replenishing of itself.
As for yourselves, do as you propose, and at break of day set about helping me to get home.
I shall be content to die if I may first once more behold my property, my bondsmen, and all the greatness of my house."
Thus did he speak.
Every one approved his saying, and agreed that he should have his escort inasmuch as he had spoken reasonably.
Then when they had made their drink offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded they went home to bed every man in his own abode, leaving Ulysses in the cloister with Arete and Alcinous while the servants were taking the things away after supper.
Arete was the first to speak, for she recognised the shirt, cloak, and good clothes that Ulysses was wearing, as the work of herself and of her maids; so she said," Stranger, before we go any further, there is a question I should like to ask you.
Who, and whence are you, and who gave you those clothes?
Did you not say you had come here from beyond the sea?"
And Ulysses answered," It would be a long story Madam, were I to relate in full the tale of my misfortunes, for the hand of heaven has been laid heavy upon me; but as regards your question, there is an island far away in the sea which is called' the Ogygian.'
Here dwells the cunning and powerful goddess Calypso, daughter of Atlas.
She lives by herself far from all neighbours human or divine.
Fortune, however, brought me to her hearth all desolate and alone, for Jove struck my ship with his thunderbolts, and broke it up in mid ocean.
My brave comrades were drowned every man of them, but I stuck to the keel and was carried hither and thither for the space of nine days, till at last during the darkness of the tenth night the gods brought me to the Ogygian island where the great goddess Calypso lives.
She took me in and treated me with the utmost kindness; indeed she wanted to make me immortal that I might never grow old, but she could not persuade me to let her do so.
"I stayed with Calypso seven years straight on end, and watered the good clothes she gave me with my tears during the whole time; but at last when the eighth year came round she bade me depart of her own free will, either because Jove had told her she must, or because she had changed her mind.
She sent me from her island on a raft, which she provisioned with abundance of bread and wine.
Moreover she gave me good stout clothing, and sent me a wind that blew both warm and fair.
Days seven and ten did I sail over the sea, and on the eighteenth I caught sight of the first outlines of the mountains upon your coast— and glad indeed was I to set eyes upon them.
Nevertheless there was still much trouble in store for me ,for at this point Neptune would let me go no further, and raised a great storm against me; the sea was so terribly high that I could no longer keep to my raft, which went to pieces under the fury of the gale, and I had to swim for it, till wind and current brought me to your shores.
"There I tried to land, but could not, for it was a bad place and the waves dashed me against the rocks, so I again took to the sea and swam on till I came to a river that seemed the most likely landing place, for there were no rocks and it was sheltered from the wind.
Here, then, I got out of the water and gathered my senses together again.
Night was coming on, so I left the river, and went into a thicket, where I covered myself all over with leaves, and presently heaven sent me off into a very deep sleep.
Sick and sorry as I was I slept among the leaves all night, and through the next day till afternoon, when I woke as the sun was westering, and saw your daughter 's maid servants playing upon the beach, and your daughter among them looking like a goddess.
I besought her aid, and she proved to be of an excellent disposition, much more so than could be expected from so young a person— for young people are apt to be thoughtless.
She gave me plenty of bread and wine, and when she had had me washed in the river she also gave me the clothes in which you see me.
Now, therefore, though it has pained me to do so, I have told you the whole truth."
Then Alcinous said," Stranger, it was very wrong of my daughter not to bring you on at once to my house along with the maids, seeing that she was the first person whose aid you asked."
"Pray do not scold her," replied Ulysses;" she is not to blame.
She did tell me to follow along with the maids, but I was ashamed and afraid, for I thought you might perhaps be displeased if you saw me.
Every human being is sometimes a little suspicious and irritable."
"Stranger," replied Alcinous," I am not the kind of man to get angry about nothing; it is always better to be reasonable; but by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, now that I see what kind of person you are, and how much you think as I do, I wish you would stay here, marry my daughter, and become my soninlaw.
If you will stay I will give you a house and an estate, but no one( heaven forbid) shall keep you here against your own wish, and that you may be sure of this I will attend tomorrow to the matter of your escort.
You can sleep during the whole voyage if you like, and the men shall sail you over smooth waters either to your own home, or wherever you please, even though it be a long way further off than Euboea, which those of my people who saw it when they took yellowhaired Rhadamanthus to see Tityus the son of Gaia, tell me is the furthest of any place— and yet they did the whole voyage in a single day without distressing themselves, and came back again afterwards.
You will thus see how much my ships excel all others, and what magnificent oarsmen my sailors are."
Then was Ulysses glad and prayed aloud saying," Father Jove, grant that Alcinous may do all as he has said, for so he will win an imperishable name among mankind, and at the same time I shall return to my country."
Thus did they converse.
Then Arete told her maids to set a bed in the room that was in the gatehouse, and make it with good red rugs, and to spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for Ulysses to wear.
The maids thereon went out with torches in their hands, and when they had made the bed they came up to Ulysses and said," Rise, sir stranger, and come with us for your bed is ready," and glad indeed was he to go to his rest.
So Ulysses slept in a bed placed in a room over the echoing gateway; but Alcinous lay in the inner part of the house, with the queen his wife by his side.
CHAPTER VISITORS.
I THINK THAT I love society as much as most, and am ready enough to fasten myself like a bloodsucker for the time to any full-blooded man that comes in my way.
I am naturally no hermit, but might possibly sit out the sturdiest frequenter of the bar-room, if my business called me thither.
I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.
When visitors came in larger and unexpected numbers there was but the third chair for them all, but they generally economized the room by standing up.
It is surprising how many great men and women a small house will contain.
I have had twenty-five or thirty souls, with their bodies, at once under my roof, and yet we often parted without being aware that we had come very near to one another.
Many of our houses, both public and private, with their almost innumerable apartments, their huge halls and their cellars for the storage of wines and other munitions of peace, appear to be extravagantly large for their inhabitants.
They are so vast and magnificent that the latter seem to be only vermin which infest them.
I am surprised when the herald blows his summons before some Tremont or Astor or Middlesex House, to see come creeping out over the piazza for all inhabitants a ridiculous mouse, which soon again slinks into some hole in the pavement.
One inconvenience I sometimes experienced in so small a house, the difficulty of getting to a sufficient distance from my guest when we began to utter the big thoughts in big words.
You want room for your thoughts to get into sailing trim and run a course or two before they make their port.
The bullet of your thought must have overcome its lateral and ricochet motion and fallen into its last and steady course before it reaches the ear of the bearer, else it may plow out again through the side of his head.
Also, our sentences wanted room to unfold and form their columns in the interval.
Individuals, like nations, must have suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral ground, between them.
I have found it a singular luxury to talk across the pond to a companion on the opposite side.
In my house we were so near that we could not begin to bearwe could not speak low enough to be heard; as when you throw two stones into calm water so near that they break each other's undulations.
If we are merely loquacious and loud talkers, then we can afford to stand very near together, cheek by jowl, and feel each other's breath; but if we speak reservedly and thoughtfully, we want to be farther apart, that all animal heat and moisture may have a chance to evaporate.
If we would enjoy the most intimate society with that in each of us which is without, or above, being spoken to, we must not only be silent, but commonly so far apart bodily that we cannot possibly hear each other's voice in any case.
Referred to this standard, speech is for the convenience of those who are hard of hearing; but there are many fine things which we cannot say if we have to shout.
As the conversation began to assume a loftier and grander tone, we gradually shoved our chairs farther apart till they touched the wall in opposite corners, and then commonly there was not room enough.
My "best" room, however, my withdrawing room, always ready for company, on whose carpet the sun rarely fell, was the pine wood behind my house.
Thither in summer days, when distinguished guests came, I took them, and a priceless domestic swept the floor and dusted the furniture and kept the things in order.
If one guest came he sometimes partook of my frugal meal, and it was no interruption to conversation to be stirring a hasty-pudding, or watching the rising and maturing of a loaf of bread in the ashes, in the meanwhile.
But if twenty came and sat in my house there was nothing said about dinner, though there might be bread enough for two, more than if eating were a forsaken habit; but we naturally practised abstinence; and this was never felt to be an offence against hospitality, but the most proper and considerate course.
The waste and decay of physical life, which so often needs repair, seemed miraculously retarded in such a case, and the vital vigor stood its ground.
I could entertain thus a thousand as well as twenty; and if any ever went away disappointed or hungry from my house when they found me at home, they may depend upon it that I sympathized with them at least.
So easy is it, though many housekeepers doubt it, to establish new and better customs in the place of the old.
You need not rest your reputation on the dinners you give.
For my own part, I was never so effectually deterred from frequenting a man's house, by any kind of Cerberus whatever, as by the parade one made about dining me, which I took to be a very polite and roundabout hint never to trouble him so again.
I think I shall never revisit those scenes.
I should be proud to have for the motto of my cabin those lines of Spenser which one of my visitors inscribed on a yellow walnut leaf for a card: "Arrived there, the little house they fill, Ne looke for entertainment where none was; Rest is their feast, and all things at their will: The noblest mind the best contentment has."
When Winslow, afterward governor of the Plymouth Colony, went with a companion on a visit of ceremony to Massasoit on foot through the woods, and arrived tired and hungry at his lodge, they were well received by the king, but nothing was said about eating that day.
When the night arrived, to quote their own words"He laid us on the bed with himself and his wife, they at the one end and we at the other, it being only planks laid a foot from the ground and a thin mat upon them.
Two more of his chief men, for want of room, pressed by and upon us; so that we were worse weary of our lodging than of our journey."
At one o'clock the next day Massasoit "brought two fishes that he had shot," about thrice as big as a bream.
"These being boiled, there were at least forty looked for a share in them; the most eat of them.
This meal only we had in two nights and a day; and had not one of us bought a partridge, we had taken our journey fasting."
Fearing that they would be light-headed for want of food and also sleep, owing to "the savages' barbarous singing, (for they use to sing themselves asleep,)" and that they might get home while they had strength to travel, they departed.
As for lodging, it is true they were but poorly entertained, though what they found an inconvenience was no doubt intended for an honor; but as far as eating was concerned, I do not see how the Indians could have done better.
They had nothing to eat themselves, and they were wiser than to think that apologies could supply the place of food to their guests; so they drew their belts tighter and said nothing about it.
Another time when Winslow visited them, it being a season of plenty with them, there was no deficiency in this respect.
As for men, they will hardly fail one anywhere.
I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life; I mean that I had some.
I met several there under more favorable circumstances than I could anywhere else.
But fewer came to see me on trivial business.
In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town.
I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me.
Beside, there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side.
Who should come to my lodge this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian manhe had so suitable and poetic a name that I am sorry I cannot print it herea Canadian, a woodchopper and post-maker, who can hole fifty posts in a day, who made his last supper on a woodchuck which his dog caught.
He, too, has heard of Homer, and, "if it were not for books," would "not know what to do rainy days," though perhaps he has not read one wholly through for many rainy seasons.
Some priest who could pronounce the Greek itself taught him to read his verse in the Testament in his native parish far away; and now I must translate to him, while he holds the book, Achilles' reproof to Patroclus for his sad countenance."Why are you in tears, Patroclus, like a young girl?"
"Or have you alone heard some news from Phthia?
They say that Menoetius lives yet, son of Actor, And Peleus lives, son of Aeacus, among the Myrmidons, Either of whom having died, we should greatly grieve."
He says, "That's good."
He has a great bundle of white oak bark under his arm for a sick man, gathered this Sunday morning.I suppose there's no harm in going after such a thing today," says he.
To him Homer was a great writer, though what his writing was about he did not know.
A more simple and natural man it would be hard to find.
Vice and disease, which cast such a sombre moral hue over the world, seemed to have hardly any existance for him.
He was about twenty-eight years old, and had left Canada and his father's house a dozen years before to work in the States, and earn money to buy a farm with at last, perhaps in his native country.
He was cast in the coarsest mould; a stout but sluggish body, yet gracefully carried, with a thick sunburnt neck, dark bushy hair, and dull sleepy blue eyes, which were occasionally lit up with expression.
He wore a flat gray cloth cap, a dingy wool-colored greatcoat, and cowhide boots.
He was a great consumer of meat, usually carrying his dinner to his work a couple of miles past my housefor he chopped all summerin a tin pail; cold meats, often cold woodchucks, and coffee in a stone bottle which dangled by a string from his belt; and sometimes he offered me a drink.
He came along early, crossing my bean-field, though without anxiety or haste to get to his work, such as Yankees exhibit.
He wasn't a-going to hurt himself.
He didn't care if he only earned his board.
Frequently he would leave his dinner in the bushes, when his dog had caught a woodchuck by the way, and go back a mile and a half to dress it and leave it in the cellar of the house where he boarded, after deliberating first for half an hour whether he could not sink it in the pond safely till nightfallloving to dwell long upon these themes.
He would say, as he went by in the morning, "How thick the pigeons are!
If working every day were not my trade, I could get all the meat I should want by hunting-pigeons, woodchucks, rabbits, partridgesby gosh!
I could get all I should want for a week in one day."
He was a skilful chopper, and indulged in some flourishes and ornaments in his art.
He cut his trees level and close to the ground, that the sprouts which came up afterward might be more vigorous and a sled might slide over the stumps; and instead of leaving a whole tree to support his corded wood, he would pare it away to a slender stake or splinter which you could break off with your hand at last.
He interested me because he was so quiet and solitary and so happy withal; a well of good humor and contentment which overflowed at his eyes.
His mirth was without alloy.
Sometimes I saw him at his work in the woods, felling trees, and he would greet me with a laugh of inexpressible satisfaction, and a salutation in Canadian French, though he spoke English as well.
When I approached him he would suspend his work, and with half-suppressed mirth lie along the trunk of a pine which he had felled, and, peeling off the inner bark, roll it up into a ball and chew it while he laughed and talked.
Such an exuberance of animal spirits had he that he sometimes tumbled down and rolled on the ground with laughter at anything which made him think and tickled him.
Looking round upon the trees he would exclaim "By George!
I can enjoy myself well enough here chopping; I want no better sport."
Sometimes, when at leisure, he amused himself all day in the woods with a pocket pistol, firing salutes to himself at regular intervals as he walked.
In the winter he had a fire by which at noon he warmed his coffee in a kettle; and as he sat on a log to eat his dinner the chickadees would sometimes come round and alight on his arm and peck at the potato in his fingers; and he said that he "liked to have the little fellers about him."
In him the animal man chiefly was developed.
In physical endurance and contentment he was cousin to the pine and the rock.
I asked him once if he was not sometimes tired at night, after working all day; and he answered, with a sincere and serious look, "Gorrappit, I never was tired in my life."
But the intellectual and what is called spiritual man in him were slumbering as in an infant.
He had been instructed only in that innocent and ineffectual way in which the Catholic priests teach the aborigines, by which the pupil is never educated to the degree of consciousness, but only to the degree of trust and reverence, and a child is not made a man, but kept a child.
When Nature made him, she gave him a strong body and contentment for his portion, and propped him on every side with reverence and reliance, that he might live out his threescore years and ten a child.
He was so genuine and unsophisticated that no introduction would serve to introduce him, more than if you introduced a woodchuck to your neighbor.
He had got to find him out as you did.
He would not play any part.
Men paid him wages for work, and so helped to feed and clothe him; but he never exchanged opinions with them.
He was so simply and naturally humbleif he can be called humble who never aspiresthat humility was no distinct quality in him, nor could he conceive of it.
Wiser men were demigods to him.
If you told him that such a one was coming, he did as if he thought that anything so grand would expect nothing of himself, but take all the responsibility on itself, and let him be forgotten still.
He never heard the sound of praise.
He particularly reverenced the writer and the preacher.
Their performances were miracles.
When I told him that I wrote considerably, he thought for a long time that it was merely the handwriting which I meant, for he could write a remarkably good hand himself.
I sometimes found the name of his native parish handsomely written in the snow by the highway, with the proper French accent, and knew that he had passed.
I asked him if he ever wished to write his thoughts.
He said that he had read and written letters for those who could not, but he never tried to write thoughtsno, he could not, he could not tell what to put first, it would kill him, and then there was spelling to be attended to at the same time!
I heard that a distinguished wise man and reformer asked him if he did not want the world to be changed; but he answered with a chuckle of surprise in his Canadian accent, not knowing that the question had ever been entertained before, "No, I like it well enough."
It would have suggested many things to a philosopher to have dealings with him.
To a stranger he appeared to know nothing of things in general; yet I sometimes saw in him a man whom I had not seen before, and I did not know whether he was as wise as Shakespeare or as simply ignorant as a child, whether to suspect him of a fine poetic consciousness or of stupidity.
A townsman told me that when he met him sauntering through the village in his small close-fitting cap, and whistling to himself, he reminded him of a prince in disguise.
His only books were an almanac and an arithmetic, in which last he was considerably expert.
The former was a sort of cyclopaedia to him, which he supposed to contain an abstract of human knowledge, as indeed it does to a considerable extent.
I loved to sound him on the various reforms of the day, and he never failed to look at them in the most simple and practical light.
He had never heard of such things before.
Could he do without factories?
I asked.
He had worn the home-made Vermont gray, he said, and that was good.
Could he dispense with tea and coffee?
Did this country afford any beverage beside water?
He had soaked hemlock leaves in water and drank it, and thought that was better than water in warm weather.
When I asked him if he could do without money, he showed the convenience of money in such a way as to suggest and coincide with the most philosophical accounts of the origin of this institution, and the very derivation of the word pecunia.
If an ox were his property, and he wished to get needles and thread at the store, he thought it would be inconvenient and impossible soon to go on mortgaging some portion of the creature each time to that amount.
He could defend many institutions better than any philosopher, because, in describing them as they concerned him, he gave the true reason for their prevalence, and speculation had not suggested to him any other.
At another time, hearing Plato's definition of a mana biped without feathersand that one exhibited a cock plucked and called it Plato's man, he thought it an important difference that the knees bent the wrong way.
He would sometimes exclaim, "How I love to talk!
By George, I could talk all day!"
I asked him once, when I had not seen him for many months, if he had got a new idea this summer.
"Good Lord"said he, "a man that has to work as I do, if he does not forget the ideas he has had, he will do well.
May he the man you hoe with is inclined to race; then, by gorry, your mind must be there; you think of weeds."
He would sometimes ask me first on such occasions, if I had made any improvement.
One winter day I asked him if he was always satisfied with himself, wishing to suggest a substitute within him for the priest without, and some higher motive for living.
"Satisfied!"
said he; "some men are satisfied with one thing, and some with another.
One man, perhaps, if he has got enough, will be satisfied to sit all day with his back to the fire and his belly to the table, by George!"
Yet I never, by any manoeuvring, could get him to take the spiritual view of things; the highest that he appeared to conceive of was a simple expediency, such as you might expect an animal to appreciate; and this, practically, is true of most men.
If I suggested any improvement in his mode of life, he merely answered, without expressing any regret, that it was too late.
Yet he thoroughly believed in honesty and the like virtues.
There was a certain positive originality, however slight, to be detected in him, and I occasionally observed that he was thinking for himself and expressing his own opinion, a phenomenon so rare that I would any day walk ten miles to observe it, and it amounted to the re-origination of many of the institutions of society.
Though he hesitated, and perhaps failed to express himself distinctly, he always had a presentable thought behind.
Yet his thinking was so primitive and immersed in his animal life, that, though more promising than a merely learned man's, it rarely ripened to anything which can be reported.
He suggested that there might be men of genius in the lowest grades of life, however permanently humble and illiterate, who take their own view always, or do not pretend to see at all; who are as bottomless even as Walden Pond was thought to be, though they may be dark and muddy.
Many a traveller came out of his way to see me and the inside of my house, and, as an excuse for calling, asked for a glass of water.
I told them that I drank at the pond, and pointed thither, offering to lend them a dipper.
Far off as I lived, I was not exempted from the annual visitation which occurs, methinks, about the first of April, when everybody is on the move; and I had my share of good luck, though there were some curious specimens among my visitors.
Half-witted men from the almshouse and elsewhere came to see me; but I endeavored to make them exercise all the wit they had, and make their confessions to me; in such cases making wit the theme of our conversation; and so was compensated.
Indeed, I found some of them to be wiser than the so-called overseers of the poor and selectmen of the town, and thought it was time that the tables were turned.
With respect to wit, I learned that there was not much difference between the half and the whole.
One day, in particular, an inoffensive, simpleminded pauper, whom with others I had often seen used as fencing stuff, standing or sitting on a bushel in the fields to keep cattle and himself from straying, visited me, and expressed a wish to live as I did.
He told me, with the utmost simplicity and truth, quite superior, or rather inferior, to anything that is called humility, that he was "deficient in intellect."
These were his words.
The Lord had made him so, yet he supposed the Lord cared as much for him as for another.
"I have always been so," said he, "from my childhood; I never had much mind; I was not like other children; I am weak in the head.
It was the Lord's will, I suppose."
And there he was to prove the truth of his words.
He was a metaphysical puzzle to me.
I have rarely met a fellow-man on such promising groundit was so simple and sincere and so true all that he said.
And, true enough, in proportion as he appeared to humble himself was he exalted.
I did not know at first but it was the result of a wise policy.
It seemed that from such a basis of truth and frankness as the poor weak-headed pauper had laid, our intercourse might go forward to something better than the intercourse of sages.
I had some guests from those not reckoned commonly among the town's poor, but who should be; who are among the world's poor, at any rate; guests who appeal, not to your hospitality, but to your hospitality; who earnestly wish to be helped, and preface their appeal with the information that they are resolved, for one thing, never to help themselves.
I require of a visitor that he be not actually starving, though he may have the very best appetite in the world, however he got it.
Objects of charity are not guests.
Men who did not know when their visit had terminated, though I went about my business again, answering them from greater and greater remoteness.
Men of almost every degree of wit called on me in the migrating season.
Some who had more wits than they knew what to do with; runaway slaves with plantation manners, who listened from time to time, like the fox in the fable, as if they heard the hounds a-baying on their track, and looked at me beseechingly, as much as to say, "O Christian, will you send me back?
One real runaway slave, among the rest, whom I helped to forward toward the north star.
Men of one idea, like a hen with one chicken, and that a duckling; men of a thousand ideas, and unkempt heads, like those hens which are made to take charge of a hundred chickens, all in pursuit of one bug, a score of them lost in every morning's dewand become frizzled and mangy in consequence; men of ideas instead of legs, a sort of intellectual centipede that made you crawl all over.
One man proposed a book in which visitors should write their names, as at the White Mountains; but, alas!
I have too good a memory to make that necessary.
I could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors.
Girls and boys and young women generally seemed glad to be in the woods.
They looked in the pond and at the flowers, and improved their time.
Men of business, even farmers, thought only of solitude and employment, and of the great distance at which I dwelt from something or other; and though they said that they loved a ramble in the woods occasionally, it was obvious that they did not.
Restless committed men, whose time was an taken up in getting a living or keeping it; ministers who spoke of God as if they enjoyed a monopoly of the subject, who could not bear all kinds of opinions; doctors, lawyers, uneasy housekeepers who pried into my cupboard and bed when I was outhow came Mrs.to know that my sheets were not as clean as hers?young men who had ceased to be young, and had concluded that it was safest to follow the beaten track of the professionsall these generally said that it was not possible to do so much good in my position.
Ay!
there was the rub.
The old and infirm and the timid, of whatever age or sex, thought most of sickness, and sudden accident and death; to them life seemed full of dangerwhat danger is there if you don't think of any?and they thought that a prudent man would carefully select the safest position, where Dr. B. might be on hand at a moment's warning.
To them the village was literally a com-munity, a league for mutual defence, and you would suppose that they would not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest.
The amount of it is, if a man is alive, there is always danger that he may die, though the danger must be allowed to be less in proportion as he is dead-and-alive to begin with.
A man sits as many risks as he runs.
Finally, there were the self-styled reformers, the greatest bores of all, who thought that I was forever singing, This is the house that I built; This is the man that lives in the house that I built; but they did not know that the third line was, These are the folks that worry the man That lives in the house that I built.
I did not fear the hen-harriers, for I kept no chickens; but I feared the men-harriers rather.
I had more cheering visitors than the last.
Children come a-berrying, railroad men taking a Sunday morning walk in clean shirts, fishermen and hunters, poets and philosophers; in short, all honest pilgrims, who came out to the woods for freedom's sake, and really left the village behind, I was ready to greet with"Welcome, Englishmen!
welcome, Englishmen!"
for I had had communication with that race.
CHAPTER XII Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella's first day.
Emma's sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again.
She thought it was time to make up.
Making-up indeed would not do.
She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had.
Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children with her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt's arms.
It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity.
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby, "What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."
"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike."
"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong."
"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good.
I was sixteen years old when you were born."
"A material difference then," she replied--"and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?"
"Yes--a good deal nearer."
"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently."
"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child.
Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it.
Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."
"That's true," she cried--"very true.
Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt.
Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done.
As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong.
I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed."
"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.
"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?"
and "John, how are you?"
succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker.
As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong.
The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
And how tired you must be after your journey!
You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel."
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered.
After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here.
I never had much opinion of the sea air."
"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone.
He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing."
"Ah!
my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body.
I am sure it almost killed me once."
"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea.
It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it!
South End is prohibited, if you please.
My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you."
"Oh!
good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"
"Why, pretty well; but not quite well.
Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country.
I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere.
But then there is not so clever a man any where."
"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they?
do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry.
I hope he will be calling soon.
He will be so pleased to see my little ones."
"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence.
And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."
"Oh!
my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it.
Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August."
"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to-"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them."
"Oh!
the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters.
I hope they are quite well.
Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?"
"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole.
But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago."
"How sorry I am!
But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn.
Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."
"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention.
Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November.
Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season."
"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except-"Ah!
my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season.
Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.
It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there!
so far off!--and the air so bad!"
"No, indeed--we are not at all in a bad air.
Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir.
The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest.
We are so very airy!
I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but we are so remarkably airy!--Mr.
Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."
"Ah!
my dear, it is not like Hartfield.
You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same.
Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming.
I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case.
I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you.
I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well."
"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?"
cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued.
I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home."
"My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern yourself about my looks.
Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse."
"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate.
What will it answer?
Will not the old prejudice be too strong?"
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.
"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!"
said Mrs. John Knightley.--"It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town!
What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them!
I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all.
She would be such a delightful companion for Emma."
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, "Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person.
You will like Harriet.
Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet."
"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation.
The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerably;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin.
Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable.
Here was a dangerous opening.
"Ah!"
said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah!
there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End.
It does not bear talking of."
And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel.
After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with, "I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here."
"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a great deal of good."
"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to South End.
South End is an unhealthy place.
Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End."
"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly."
"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places.
A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air.
And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable.
You should have consulted Perry."
"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty."
"Ah!
my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air.
This is just what Perry said.
It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure."
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's breaking out.
"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for.
Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr.
Perry.--I want his directions no more than his drugs."
He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself."
"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--"very true.
That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty.
I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path....
The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps.
I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion."
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
CHAPTER XIII There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister.
She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
It was a delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas.
Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house.
Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls.
She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.
She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for.
They joined company and proceeded together.
Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them."
Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, "A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious.
I hope not of a putrid infectious sort.
Has Perry seen her?
Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend.
Let me entreat you to run no risks.
Why does not Perry see her?"
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject, "It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.
But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself.
You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night."
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being "very cold, certainly very cold," and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.
"You do quite right," said she;--"we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs.
Weston."
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction.
It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.
"Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked.
What a strange thing love is!
he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her."
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with-"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton.
It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned.
With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works."
"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal.
Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority.
There is such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value."
"Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you."
"Me!"
she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object?"
"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now."
"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!"
"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly.
I think your manners to him encouraging.
I speak as a friend, Emma.
You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do."
"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken.
Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel.
He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it.
The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour.
The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent.
"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him.
He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing.
It is the greatest absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at home when they can!
If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home."
Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my love," which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all.
She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence.
She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly.
Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject.
Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her.
She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--not better."
"My report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was my answer."
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered.
"Oh!
no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse.
Very much grieved and concerned--I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning."
Emma smiled and answered--"My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed.
Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard."
"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report.
But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness.
Such a sad loss to our party to-day!"
"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment."
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer.
Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages.
How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions.
The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete.
One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted.
Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence.
It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha!
snows a little I see."
"Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."
"Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton.
"Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence.
This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings.
At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather.
I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week.
Nothing could be pleasanter.
I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight."
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls."
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings.
Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort.
Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two.
I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings."
"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body."
"Indeed!
(in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery.
Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."
"My first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again."
CHAPTER VIII Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done.
He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.
He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:-"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It depends upon the character of those who handle it.
Mr. Knightley, he is not a trifling, silly young man.
If he were, he would have done this differently.
He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it.
There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly."
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
"This is coming as you should do," said she; "like a gentleman.--I am quite glad to see you."
He thanked her, observing, "How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment!
for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner."
"Yes I should, I am sure I should.
There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them.
You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances.
Now you have nothing to try for.
You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed.
You are not striving to look taller than any body else.
Now I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you."
"Nonsensical girl!"
was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley.
She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.
When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury.
The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour.
The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting.
She listened, and found it well worth listening to.
That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply.
Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
"One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt.
But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present.
They might chuse to surprize her."
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole.
"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument.
It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away.
This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure!
and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening."
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill.
"Why do you smile?"
said she.
"Nay, why do you?"
"Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal.--It is a handsome present."
"Very."
"I rather wonder that it was never made before."
"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."
"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."
"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house."
"You may say what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much like mine."
"I do not know.
I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve.
I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question.
If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?"
"What do you say to Mrs.
Dixon?"
"Mrs. Dixon!
very true indeed.
I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon.
She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's.
It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say.
I told you that your suspicions would guide mine."
"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend Mr. Dixon in them."
"Mr.
Dixon.--Very well.
Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.
We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance."
"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side.
One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland.
Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment.
As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March?
Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's.
I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are."
"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability.
Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided."
"And then, he saved her life.
Did you ever hear of that?--A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard.
He caught her."
"He did.
I was there--one of the party."
"Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries."
"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.--It was the work of a moment.
And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable.
I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries."
The conversation was here interrupted.
They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, "The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me.
I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough.
Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs.
Dixon."
"And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells."
"No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells.
Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first.
She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them.
I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business."
"Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced.
Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely.
At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.
And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love."
There was no occasion to press the matter farther.
The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it.
She said no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived.
Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection.
There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding?
To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour.
Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel Campbell."
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine's countenance.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill.
In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all.
Emma divined what every body present must be thinking.
She was his object, and every body must perceive it.
She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other.
"He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete."
And she, "Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr.
Elton."
Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated sitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it so abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much.
She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without considerable address at times, that he could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked.
His importance at Enscombe was very evident.
He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could with time persuade her to any thing.
One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned.
He had wanted very much to go abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she would not hear of it.
This had happened the year before.
Now, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.
"I have made a most wretched discovery," said he, after a short pause.-"I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time.
I never knew days fly so fast.
A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself.
But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the recollection."
"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut."
"No," said he, smiling, "that is no subject of regret at all.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen."
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
"What is the matter?"
said she.
He started.
"Thank you for rousing me," he replied.
"I believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her.
I never saw any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own.
I see nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion.
Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you shall see how she takes it;--whether she colours."
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
"This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near every body, and say every thing.
My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you.
I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh.
Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?"
"How?--They were invited, were not they?"
"Oh!
yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their coming?"
"They walked, I conclude.
How else could they come?"
"Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now.
And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold.
Poor girl!
I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage.
You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once.
Good soul!
she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure.
'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'
--but with many, many thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.'
I was quite surprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing that so few men would think of.
And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all.
I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them."
"Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely.
I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent.
He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley.
I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray."
"Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again.
The more I think of it, the more probable it appears.
In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax.
See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to it?"
"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!"
exclaimed Emma.
"Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?--Mr.
Knightley!--Mr.
Knightley must not marry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh!
no, no, Henry must have Donwell.
I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely.
I am amazed that you should think of such a thing."
"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it.
I do not want the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?"
"Yes, I would.
I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr.
Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.
And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!"
"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well know."
"But the imprudence of such a match!"
"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability."
"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than what you mention.
His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses.
He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to shew them attention.
My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.
You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh!
no, no;--every feeling revolts.
For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing."
"Imprudent, if you please--but not mad.
Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable."
"But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry.
I am sure he has not the least idea of it.
Do not put it into his head.
Why should he marry?--He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother's children.
He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart."
"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Fairfax--" "Nonsense!
He does not care about Jane Fairfax.
In the way of love, I am sure he does not.
He would do any good to her, or her family; but--" "Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home."
"If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion.
How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'
And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old petticoat.
'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.'"
"For shame, Emma!
Do not mimic her.
You divert me against my conscience.
And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates.
Little things do not irritate him.
She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice.
But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does.
I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax!
The interest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that she should have no happier prospect!
I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice!
I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever.
Oh!
and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley?
I cannot help suspecting him.
I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love."
"Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love.
But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do.
Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously."
"I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him."
"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so."
"There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma.
I have a very strong notion that it comes from him.
I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner."
"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing.
I see no sign of attachment--I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax."
They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it.
Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well.
One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill.
Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed.
He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted.
They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen.
Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth.
But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions.
Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside.
She could see nothing but evil in it.
It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella.
A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey.
A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr.
Knightley must never marry.
Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance.
His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her.
As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.
"I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions.
It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose."
"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--"but you must often wish it, I am sure."
And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.
"This present from the Campbells," said she--"this pianoforte is very kindly given."
"Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it.
Surprizes are foolish things.
The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument.
But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful.
Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick.
"That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--"you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet."
Another song, however, was soon begged for.
"One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more."
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling.
The strength of the song falls on the second."
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
"That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice.
This must not be."
And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner?
Go, and interfere.
They have no mercy on her."
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing.
Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space.
Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial.
He was no dancer in general.
If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something.
There was no immediate appearance.
No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment.
Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner.
They were a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed.
It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account.
After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.
"Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage.
"I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours."
CHAPTER IX Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles.
The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity.
She must have delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a name behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy.
She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill.
It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt.
She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing.
She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
"Oh!
if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!"
"Don't class us together, Harriet.
My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine."
"Oh!
dear--I think you play the best of the two.
I think you play quite as well as she does.
I am sure I had much rather hear you.
Every body last night said how well you played."
"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference.
The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it."
"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out.
Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution."
"Ah!
but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet."
"Are you sure?
I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste.
Nobody talked about it.
And I hate Italian singing.--There is no understanding a word of it.
Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach.
The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family.
How did you think the Coxes looked?"
"Just as they always do--very vulgar."
"They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is nothing of any consequence."
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday."
"Oh!"
"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner."
"Oh!"
"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox.
I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer."
"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be."
"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there.
He sat by her at dinner.
Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him."
"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury."
Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with her.
Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door.
A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road.
The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;--to Hartfield of course.
They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting.
Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
"For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning.
I was not aware of it myself.
I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now."
"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if you are going home."
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
"I thought you meant to go with me.
They would be very much pleased."
"Me!
I should be quite in the way.
But, perhaps--I may be equally in the way here.
Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me.
My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping.
She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
What am I to do?"
"I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend.
She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.
But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument."
"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say?
I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston.
She might do very well by herself.
A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood."
"I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent.
Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night."
"Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you.
It need not detain us long.
We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield.
I really wish you to call with me.
It will be felt so great an attention!
and I always thought you meant it."
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door.
Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern.
At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?"
asked Mrs.
Ford.--"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's.
Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield.
No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please.
But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day.
But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon.
You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?"
"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels."
"No more it is."
"No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford.
"Oh!
but indeed I would much rather have it only in one.
Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night.
What do you advise?"
"That you do not give another half-second to the subject.
To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs.
Ford."
"Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs.
Goddard's."
Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
"My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith.
How do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding."
"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--" "Very well, I am much obliged to you.
My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night.
How is Mr.
Woodhouse?--I am so glad to hear such a good account.
Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--Oh!
then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' said Mr. Frank Churchill, 'Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'
--But, said I, I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' said he, 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;'--For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had no use of her spectacles--could not put them on.
And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed.
Jane said so.
I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know.
At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping.
Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me.
Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out.
Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them.
And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?
Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it.
I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off.
But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street.
Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple.
I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome.
We have apple-dumplings, however, very often.
Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling.
Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us."
Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than, "How do you do, Mrs. Ford?
I beg your pardon.
I did not see you before.
I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town.
Jane came back delighted yesterday.
Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in."
"What was I talking of?"
said she, beginning again when they were all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh!
my mother's spectacles.
So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!
'Oh!'
said he, 'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.'
--Which you know shewed him to be so very....
Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing....
I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly.
He seems every thing the fondest parent could....
'Oh!'
said he, 'I can fasten the rivet.
I like a job of that sort excessively.'
I never shall forget his manner.
And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some, 'Oh!'
said he directly, 'there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.'
That, you know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment.
Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it.
The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr. Knightley's most liberal supply.
He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees--I believe there is two of them.
My mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days.
But I was really quite shocked the other day--for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock.
'I am sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use.
William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year.
I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.'
So I begged he would not--for really as to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great many left--it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same.
And when he was gone, she almost quarrelled with me--No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a great many left.
Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.
However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.
William Larkins is such an old acquaintance!
I am always glad to see him.
But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of that sort his master had; he had brought them all--and now his master had not one left to bake or boil.
William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away.
She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring.
He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder.
And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed!
I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for the world!
He would be so very....
I wanted to keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware."
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning.
Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather darker and narrower than one could wish.
Miss Smith, pray take care.
Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot.
Miss Smith, the step at the turning."
CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings.
She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold.
As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment.
She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it.
She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct.
"I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long.
I will take it home with me at night."
But that would not do.
Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him.
"I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done."
He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference."
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph!
a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way.
One man's style must not be the rule of another's.
We will not be severe."
"It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read.
By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all.
I should wish it."
Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.
"He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation.
He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his father.
Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."
"And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would.
You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right."
"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had you not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him."
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game.
Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret.
Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding!
My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.
"You had better go on," said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte!
Ah!
That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure.
A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could."
After this, he made some progress without any pause.
Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
"I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark.
"You did behave very shamefully.
You never wrote a truer line."
And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could.
He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable.
We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment."
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable.
Her own behaviour had been so very improper!
She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look.
It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers."
"I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter.
"'Smallridge!'
--What does this mean?
What is all this?"
"She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?"
"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton.
Only one page more.
I shall soon have done.
What a letter the man writes!"
"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him."
"Well, there is feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her.
'Dearer, much dearer than ever.'
I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I deserve.'
Come, he knows himself there.
'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.'
--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-And a fine ending--and there is the letter.
The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?"
"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it.
I hope it does him some service with you."
"Yes, certainly it does.
He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants.
And now, let me talk to you of something else.
I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.
Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject."
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father.
Emma's answer was ready at the first word.
"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her.
She could never quit him."
Part only of this answer, however, was admitted.
The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to.
He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded.
Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted.
But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts.
Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her.
She was sensible of all the affection it evinced.
She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with.
She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject.
He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
"Ah!
there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma.
"I am sure William Larkins will not like it.
You must get his consent before you ask mine."
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.
Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback.
Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy!
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield.
The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from.
She would be a loser in every way.
Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment.
In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early.
Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not like Mr. Elton.
Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than three men in one year.
CHAPTER XIV What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often it had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and subdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some alloy.
Her father--and Harriet.
She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question.
With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered.
She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought.
While he lived, it must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.--How to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;--how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?--On these subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great--and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it.--She could only resolve at last, that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme more--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.--She did not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.--At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.--She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must be waded through, however.
She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the enclosed.
I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We are quite well.--This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east wind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill. "Yours ever, "A. W." [To Mrs.
Weston.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM, "If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence.--You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.--But I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent.
My courage rises while I write.
It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.
I have already met with such success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards.
This was the fact.
My right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.
I shall not discuss it here.
For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury.
I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.--Had she refused, I should have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?--To any thing, every thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness.
Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence.
If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid.
You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you.
My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point.
And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation.
With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.--A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.--Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.
We seemed to understand each other.
From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some degree.--She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part.
I cannot doubt it.
You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize.
She frequently gave me hints of it.
I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.--I hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss.
While you considered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either.
Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.--Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to.
My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.--Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.--The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to.
You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.--No description can describe her.
She must tell you herself what she is--yet not by word, for never was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from her.--She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend.
I want to have your opinion of her looks.
I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit.
Perhaps it is paid already.
Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars.
Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery.
When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger.
If I could but see her again!--But I must not propose it yet.
My uncle has been too good for me to encroach.--I must still add to this long letter.
You have not heard all that you ought to hear.
I could not give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose.
I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement.--But I had no choice.
The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman--Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me.
I behaved shamefully.
And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable.
She disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.--She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold.
But she was always right.
If I had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We quarrelled.-Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--There every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis.
I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it.
She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable.
Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion.
While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.--I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted her affection.
I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.--In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible.
Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party.
Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again.
Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred.
I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known.--'Jane,' indeed!--You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.
Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.
Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.--She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.--This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death.
I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?--too cheerful in my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face.
I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing.
It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy.
For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.--What was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle.
Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man!
with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her.
Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey.
A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away.
But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again.
Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before.
A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune.
I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
THE TRIAL OF THE AXES, DURING WHICH ULYSSES REVEALS HIMSELF TO EUMAEUS AND PHILOETIUS Minerva now put it in Penelope 's mind to make the suitors try their skill with the bow and with the iron axes, in contest among themselves, as a means of bringing about their destruction.
She went upstairs and got the storeroom key, which was made of bronze and had a handle of ivory; she then went with her maidens into the storeroom at the end of the house, where her husband 's treasures of gold, bronze, and wrought iron were kept, and where was also his bow, and the quiver full of deadly arrows that had been given him by a friend whom he had met in Lacedaemon— Iphitus the son of Eurytus.
The two fell in with one another in Messene at the house of Ortilochus, where Ulysses was staying in order to recover a debt that was owing from the whole people; for the Messenians had carried off three hundred sheep from Ithaca, and had sailed away with them and with their shepherds.
In quest of these Ulysses took a long journey while still quite young, for his father and the other chieftains sent him on a mission to recover them.
Iphitus had gone there also to try and get back twelve brood mares that he had lost, and the mule foals that were running with them.
These mares were the death of him in the end, for when he went to the house of Jove 's son, mighty Hercules, who performed such prodigies of valour, Hercules to his shame killed him, though he was his guest, for he feared not heaven 's vengeance, nor yet respected his own table which he had set before Iphitus, but killed him in spite of everything, and kept the mares himself.
It was when claiming these that Iphitus met Ulysses, and gave him the bow which mighty Eurytus had been used to carry, and which on his death had been left by him to his son.
Ulysses gave him in return a sword and a spear, and this was the beginning of a fast friendship, although they never visited at one another 's houses, for Jove 's son Hercules killed Iphitus ere they could do so.
This bow, then, given him by Iphitus, had not been taken with him by Ulysses when he sailed for Troy; he had used it so long as he had been at home, but had left it behind as having been a keepsake from a valued friend.
Penelope presently reached the oak threshold of the storeroom; the carpenter had planed this duly, and had drawn a line on it so as to get it quite straight; he had then set the door posts into it and hung the doors.
She loosed the strap from the handle of the door, put in the key, and drove it straight home to shoot back the bolts that held the doors; these flew open with a noise like a bull bellowing in a meadow, and Penelope stepped upon the raised platform, where the chests stood in which the fair linen and clothes were laid by along with fragrant herbs: reaching thence, she took down the bow with its bow case from the peg on which it hung.
She sat down with it on her knees, weeping bitterly as she took the bow out of its case, and when her tears had relieved her, she went to the cloister where the suitors were, carrying the bow and the quiver, with the many deadly arrows that were inside it.
Along with her came her maidens, bearing a chest that contained much iron and bronze which her husband had won as prizes.
When she reached the suitors, she stood by one of the bearingposts supporting the roof of the cloister, holding a veil before her face, and with a maid on either side of her.
Then she said: "Listen to me you suitors, who persist in abusing the hospitality of this house because its owner has been long absent, and without other pretext than that you want to marry me; this, then, being the prize that you are contending for, I will bring out the mighty bow of Ulysses, and whomsoever of you shall string it most easily and send his arrow through each one of twelve axes, him will I follow and quit this house of my lawful husband, so goodly, and so abounding in wealth.
But even so I doubt not that I shall remember it in my dreams."
As she spoke, she told Eumaeus to set the bow and the pieces of iron before the suitors, and Eumaeus wept as he took them to do as she had bidden him.
Hard by, the stockman wept also when he saw his master 's bow, but Antinous scolded them.
"You country louts," said he," silly simpletons; why should you add to the sorrows of your mistress by crying in this way?
She has enough to grieve her in the loss of her husband; sit still, therefore, and eat your dinners in silence, or go outside if you want to cry, and leave the bow behind you.
We suitors shall have to contend for it with might and main, for we shall find it no light matter to string such a bow as this is.
There is not a man of us all who is such another as Ulysses; for I have seen him and remember him, though I was then only a child."
This was what he said, but all the time he was expecting to be able to string the bow and shoot through the iron, whereas in fact he was to be the first that should taste of the arrows from the hands of Ulysses, whom he was dishonouring in his own house— egging the others on to do so also.
Then Telemachus spoke."
Great heavens!"
he exclaimed," Jove must have robbed me of my senses.
Here is my dear and excellent mother saying she will quit this house and marry again, yet I am laughing and enjoying myself as though there were nothing happening.
But, suitors, as the contest has been agreed upon, let it go forward.
It is for a woman whose peer is not to be found in Pylos, Argos, or Mycene, nor yet in Ithaca nor on the mainland.
You know this as well as I do; what need have I to speak in praise of my mother?
Come on, then, make no excuses for delay, but let us see whether you can string the bow or no.
I too will make trial of it, for if I can string it and shoot through the iron, I shall not suffer my mother to quit this house with a stranger, not if I can win the prizes which my father won before me."
As he spoke he sprang from his seat, threw his crimson cloak from him, and took his sword from his shoulder.
First he set the axes in a row, in a long groove which he had dug for them, and had made straight by line.
Then he stamped the earth tight round them, and everyone was surprised when they saw him set them up so orderly, though he had never seen anything of the kind before.
This done, he went on to the pavement to make trial of the bow; thrice did he tug at it, trying with all his might to draw the string, and thrice he had to leave off, though he had hoped to string the bow and shoot through the iron.
He was trying for the fourth time, and would have strung it had not Ulysses made a sign to check him in spite of all his eagerness.
So he said: "Alas!
I shall either be always feeble and of no prowess, or I am too young, and have not yet reached my full strength so as to be able to hold my own if any one attacks me.
You others, therefore, who are stronger than I, make trial of the bow and get this contest settled."
On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door[ that led into the house] with the arrow standing against the top of the bow.
Then he sat down on the seat from which he had risen, and Antinous said: "Come on each of you in his turn, going towards the right from the place at which the cupbearer begins when he is handing round the wine."
The rest agreed, and Leiodes son of Oenops was the first to rise.
He was sacrificial priest to the suitors, and sat in the corner near the mixingbowl.
He was the only man who hated their evil deeds and was indignant with the others.
He was now the first to take the bow and arrow, so he went on to the pavement to make his trial, but he could not string the bow, for his hands were weak and unused to hard work, they therefore soon grew tired, and he said to the suitors," My friends, I can not string it; let another have it, this bow shall take the life and soul out of many a chief among us, for it is better to die than to live after having missed the prize that we have so long striven for, and which has brought us so long together.
Some one of us is even now hoping and praying that he may marry Penelope, but when he has seen this bow and tried it, let him woo and make bridal offerings to some other woman, and let Penelope marry whoever makes her the best offer and whose lot it is to win her."
On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door with the arrow standing against the tip of the bow.
Then he took his seat again on the seat from which he had risen; and Antinous rebuked him saying: "Leiodes, what are you talking about?
Your words are monstrous and intolerable; it makes me angry to listen to you.
Shall, then, this bow take the life of many a chief among us, merely because you can not bend it yourself?
True, you were not born to be an archer, but there are others who will soon string it."
Then he said to Melanthius the goatherd," Look sharp, light a fire in the court, and set a seat hard by with a sheep skin on it; bring us also a large ball of lard, from what they have in the house.
Let us warm the bow and grease it— we will then make trial of it again, and bring the contest to an end."
Melanthius lit the fire, and set a seat covered with sheep skins beside it.
He also brought a great ball of lard from what they had in the house, and the suitors warmed the bow and again made trial of it, but they were none of them nearly strong enough to string it.
Nevertheless there still remained Antinous and Eurymachus, who were the ringleaders among the suitors and much the foremost among them all.
Then the swineherd and the stockman left the cloisters together, and Ulysses followed them.
When they had got outside the gates and the outer yard, Ulysses said to them quietly: "Stockman, and you swineherd, I have something in my mind which I am in doubt whether to say or no; but I think I will say it.
What manner of men would you be to stand by Ulysses, if some god should bring him back here all of a sudden?
Say which you are disposed to do— to side with the suitors, or with Ulysses?"
"Father Jove," answered the stockman," would indeed that you might so ordain it.
If some god were but to bring Ulysses back, you should see with what might and main I would fight for him."
In like words Eumaeus prayed to all the gods that Ulysses might return; when, therefore, he saw for certain what mind they were of, Ulysses said," It is I, Ulysses, who am here.
I have suffered much, but at last, in the twentieth year, I am come back to my own country.
I find that you two alone of all my servants are glad that I should do so, for I have not heard any of the others praying for my return.
To you two, therefore, will I unfold the truth as it shall be.
If heaven shall deliver the suitors into my hands, I will find wives for both of you, will give you house and holding close to my own, and you shall be to me as though you were brothers and friends of Telemachus.
I will now give you convincing proofs that you may know me and be assured.
See, here is the scar from the boar 's tooth that ripped me when I was out hunting on Mt.
Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus."
As he spoke he drew his rags aside from the great scar, and when they had examined it thoroughly, they both of them wept about Ulysses, threw their arms round him, and kissed his head and shoulders, while Ulysses kissed their hands and faces in return.
The sun would have gone down upon their mourning if Ulysses had not checked them and said: "Cease your weeping, lest some one should come outside and see us, and tell those who are within.
When you go in, do so separately, not both together; I will go first, and do you follow afterwards; let this moreover be the token between us; the suitors will all of them try to prevent me from getting hold of the bow and quiver; do you, therefore, Eumaeus, place it in my hands when you are carrying it about, and tell the women to close the doors of their apartment.
If they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting about the house, they must not come out; they must keep quiet, and stay where they are at their work.
And I charge you, Philoetius, to make fast the doors of the outer court, and to bind them securely at once."
When he had thus spoken, he went back to the house and took the seat that he had left.
Presently, his two servants followed him inside.
At this moment the bow was in the hands of Eurymachus, who was warming it by the fire, but even so he could not string it, and he was greatly grieved.
He heaved a deep sigh and said," I grieve for myself and for us all; I grieve that I shall have to forgo the marriage, but I do not care nearly so much about this, for there are plenty of other women in Ithaca and elsewhere; what I feel most is the fact of our being so inferior to Ulysses in strength that we can not string his bow.
This will disgrace us in the eyes of those who are yet unborn."
"It shall not be so, Eurymachus," said Antinous," and you know it yourself.
Today is the feast of Apollo throughout all the land; who can string a bow on such a day as this?
Put it on one side— as for the axes they can stay where they are, for no one is likely to come to the house and take them away: let the cupbearer go round with his cups, that we may make our drinkofferings and drop this matter of the bow; we will tell Melanthius to bring us in some goats tomorrow— the best he has; we can then offer thigh bones to Apollo the mighty archer, and again make trial of the bow, so as to bring the contest to an end."
The rest approved his words, and thereon men servants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixingbowls with wine and water and handed it round after giving every man his drinkoffering.
Then, when they had made their offerings and had drunk each as much as he desired, Ulysses craftily said:— "Suitors of the illustrious queen, listen that I may speak even as I am minded.
I appeal more especially to Eurymachus, and to Antinous who has just spoken with so much reason.
Cease shooting for the present and leave the matter to the gods, but in the morning let heaven give victory to whom it will.
For the moment, however, give me the bow that I may prove the power of my hands among you all, and see whether I still have as much strength as I used to have, or whether travel and neglect have made an end of it."
This made them all very angry, for they feared he might string the bow, Antinous therefore rebuked him fiercely saying," Wretched creature, you have not so much as a grain of sense in your whole body; you ought to think yourself lucky in being allowed to dine unharmed among your betters, without having any smaller portion served you than we others have had, and in being allowed to hear our conversation.
No other beggar or stranger has been allowed to hear what we say among ourselves; the wine must have been doing you a mischief, as it does with all those who drink immoderately.
It was wine that inflamed the Centaur Eurytion when he was staying with Peirithous among the Lapithae.
When the wine had got into his head, he went mad and did ill deeds about the house of Peirithous; this angered the heroes who were there assembled, so they rushed at him and cut off his ears and nostrils; then they dragged him through the doorway out of the house, so he went away crazed, and bore the burden of his crime, bereft of understanding.
Henceforth, therefore, there was war between mankind and the centaurs, but he brought it upon himself through his own drunkenness.
In like manner I can tell you that it will go hardly with you if you string the bow: you will find no mercy from any one here, for we shall at once ship you off to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him: you will never get away alive, so drink and keep quiet without getting into a quarrel with men younger than yourself."
Penelope then spoke to him. "
Antinous," said she," it is not right that you should illtreat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house.
If the stranger should prove strong enough to string the mighty bow of Ulysses, can you suppose that he would take me home with him and make me his wife?
Even the man himself can have no such idea in his mind: none of you need let that disturb his feasting; it would be out of all reason."
"Queen Penelope," answered Eurymachus," we do not suppose that this man will take you away with him; it is impossible; but we are afraid lest some of the baser sort, men or women among the Achaeans, should go gossiping about and say,' These suitors are a feeble folk; they are paying court to the wife of a brave man whose bow not one of them was able to string, and yet a beggarly tramp who came to the house strung it at once and sent an arrow through the iron.'
This is what will be said, and it will be a scandal against us."
"Eurymachus," Penelope answered," people who persist in eating up the estate of a great chieftain and dishonouring his house must not expect others to think well of them.
Why then should you mind if men talk as you think they will?
This stranger is strong and wellbuilt, he says moreover that he is of noble birth.
Give him the bow, and let us see whether he can string it or no.
I say— and it shall surely be— that if Apollo vouchsafes him the glory of stringing it, I will give him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a javelin to keep off dogs and robbers, and a sharp sword.
I will also give him sandals, and will see him sent safely wherever he wants to go."
Then Telemachus said," Mother, I am the only man either in Ithaca or in the islands that are over against Elis who has the right to let any one have the bow or to refuse it.
No one shall force me one way or the other, not even though I choose to make the stranger a present of the bow outright, and let him take it away with him.
Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants.
This bow is a man 's matter, and mine above all others, for it is I who am master here."
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son 's saying in her heart.
Then going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva sent sweet sleep over her eyelids.
The swineherd now took up the bow and was for taking it to Ulysses, but the suitors clamoured at him from all parts of the cloisters, and one of them said," You idiot, where are you taking the bow to?
Are you out of your wits?
If Apollo and the other gods will grant our prayer, your own boarhounds shall get you into some quiet little place, and worry you to death."
Eumaeus was frightened at the outcry they all raised, so he put the bow down then and there, but Telemachus shouted out at him from the other side of the cloisters, and threatened him saying," Father Eumaeus, bring the bow on in spite of them, or young as I am I will pelt you with stones back to the country, for I am the better man of the two.
I wish I was as much stronger than all the other suitors in the house as I am than you ,I would soon send some of them off sick and sorry, for they mean mischief."
Thus did he speak, and they all of them laughed heartily, which put them in a better humour with Telemachus; so Eumaeus brought the bow on and placed it in the hands of Ulysses.
When he had done this, he called Euryclea apart and said to her," Euryclea, Telemachus says you are to close the doors of the women 's apartments.
If they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting about the house, they are not to come out, but are to keep quiet and stay where they are at their work."
Euryclea did as she was told and closed the doors of the women 's apartments.
Meanwhile Philoetius slipped quietly out and made fast the gates of the outer court.
There was a ship 's cable of byblus fibre lying in the gatehouse, so he made the gates fast with it and then came in again, resuming the seat that he had left, and keeping an eye on Ulysses, who had now got the bow in his hands, and was turning it every way about, and proving it all over to see whether the worms had been eating into its two horns during his absence.
Then would one turn towards his neighbour saying," This is some tricky old bowfancier; either he has got one like it at home, or he wants to make one, in such workmanlike style does the old vagabond handle it."
Another said," I hope he may be no more successful in other things than he is likely to be in stringing this bow."
But Ulysses, when he had taken it up and examined it all over, strung it as easily as a skilled bard strings a new peg of his lyre and makes the twisted gut fast at both ends.
Then he took it in his right hand to prove the string, and it sang sweetly under his touch like the twittering of a swallow.
The suitors were dismayed, and turned colour as they heard it; at that moment, moreover, Jove thundered loudly as a sign, and the heart of Ulysses rejoiced as he heard the omen that the son of scheming Saturn had sent him.
He took an arrow that was lying upon the table— for those which the Achaeans were so shortly about to taste were all inside the quiver— he laid it on the centrepiece of the bow, and drew the notch of the arrow and the string toward him, still seated on his seat.
When he had taken aim he let fly, and his arrow pierced every one of the handleholes of the axes from the first onwards till it had gone right through them, and into the outer courtyard.
Then he said to Telemachus: "Your guest has not disgraced you, Telemachus.
I did not miss what I aimed at, and I was not long in stringing my bow.
I am still strong, and not as the suitors twit me with being.
Now, however, it is time for the Achaeans to prepare supper while there is still daylight, and then otherwise to disport themselves with song and dance which are the crowning ornaments of a banquet."
As he spoke he made a sign with his eyebrows, and Telemachus girded on his sword, grasped his spear, and stood armed beside his father 's seat.
CHAPTER XVIII Mr. Frank Churchill did not come.
When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse.
For the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period."
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression.
It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again.
For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls.
The acquaintance at present had no charm for her.
She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away.
She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself.
"The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but I dare say he might come if he would."
"I do not know why you should say so.
He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him."
"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it.
It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof."
"How odd you are!
What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?"
"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it.
It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too.
If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January.
A man at his age--what is he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that.
It is impossible."
"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your own master.
You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence.
You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage."
"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount.
He cannot want money--he cannot want leisure.
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom.
We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other.
A little while ago, he was at Weymouth.
This proves that he can leave the Churchills."
"Yes, sometimes he can."
"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure."
"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation.
Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.
We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do.
He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others."
"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution.
It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father.
He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done.
A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately.
I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion.
I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'
--If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going."
"No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again.
Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible.
But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own.
Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?"
"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.
He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do.
Respect would be added to affection.
They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.
Respect for right conduct is felt by every body.
If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his."
"I rather doubt that.
You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones.
I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect.
The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.
To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought.
He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it."
"Then it would not be so strong a sense.
If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction."
"Oh, the difference of situation and habit!
I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life."
"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others.
It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency.
I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man.
As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority.
He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father.
Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now."
"We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing extraordinary.
I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not.
Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection.
I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others."
"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it.
He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain.
His letters disgust me."
"Your feelings are singular.
They seem to satisfy every body else."
"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston.
They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her.
It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission.
Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no.
Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations?
Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself?
No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English.
He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him."
"You seem determined to think ill of him."
"Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not want to think ill of him.
I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners."
"Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury.
We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable.
We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain.
Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will produce?
There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else."
"You will excuse my being so much over-powered.
If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts."
"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable.
To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him."
"And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing!
What!
at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself!
My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point."
"I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to evil.
We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here."
"Prejudiced!
I am not prejudiced."
"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it.
My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour."
"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry.
To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another.
CHAPTER I Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day.
She could not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive--"Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!"
she found something else must be done.
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers.
There was always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart, as to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near them.
But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
The house belonged to people in business.
Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from the beaufet--"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and she had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too."
The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away.
Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word.
This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties.
She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.
"Oh!
yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there.
Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can.
And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, 'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body more surprized.
'Have you, upon your honour?'
said she; 'well, that is quite unexpected.
Do let me hear what she says.'"
Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest-"Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately?
I am extremely happy.
I hope she is well?"
"Thank you.
You are so kind!"
replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh!
here it is.
I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table.
I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you see--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half.
My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
She often says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you, ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word.
And, indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God!
with the help of spectacles.
It is such a blessing!
My mother's are really very good indeed.
Jane often says, when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I only wish my eyes may last me as well.'"
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's handwriting.
"You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself.
I am sure there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.
My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
Ma'am," addressing her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane's handwriting?"
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it.
She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
"My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all.
By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice.
But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
Jane speaks so distinct!
However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here.
We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now."
"Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?"
"Oh yes; next week."
"Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure."
"Thank you.
You are very kind.
Yes, next week.
Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things.
I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her.
Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days.
So very good of them to send her the whole way!
But they always do, you know.
Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next.
That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday."
"Yes, so I imagined.
I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day."
"So obliging of you!
No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon.
My mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at least.
Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you.
The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland.
Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy.
Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself.
He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe.
Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things."
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery, "You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time.
Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell."
"Very true, very true, indeed.
The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was to happen.
But you see, every thing turns out for the best.
They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their joint invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention.
He is a most charming young man.
Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit-(I can never think of it without trembling!)
--But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr.
Dixon!"
"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs.
Bates?"
"Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly wish her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately."
"I am concerned to hear of it.
I think they judge wisely.
But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed.
Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax."
"Oh!
no.
You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them.
Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain--but extremely elegant and amiable."
"Yes, that of course."
"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing!
so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since.
A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her?
She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us.
Just like her!
so considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell.
Nobody could nurse her, as we should do."
"It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world."
"And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will find from Jane's letter.
So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in!
If it was not for the drawback of her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly.
I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that.
I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her.
Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me!
poor Jane is ill!'
--which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at.
However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it.
But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard.
If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry.
The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know.
He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time.
Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her."
"I am afraid we must be running away," said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise--"My father will be expecting us.
I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house.
I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained!
Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning."
And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded.
She regained the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
The exploits of Diomed, who, though wounded by Pandarus, continues fighting—He kills Pandarus and wounds AEneas—Venus rescues AEneas, but being wounded by Diomed, commits him to the care of Apollo and goes to Olympus, where she is tended by her mother Dione—Mars encourages the Trojans, and AEneas returns to the fight cured of his wound—Minerva and Juno help the Achaeans, and by the advice of the former Diomed wounds Mars, who returns to Olympus to get cured.
Then Pallas Minerva put valour into the heart of Diomed, son of Tydeus, that he might excel all the other Argives, and cover himself with glory.
She made a stream of fire flare from his shield and helmet like the star that shines most brilliantly in summer after its bath in the waters of Oceanus— even such a fire did she kindle upon his head and shoulders as she bade him speed into the thickest hurlyburly of the fight.
Now there was a certain rich and honourable man among the Trojans, priest of Vulcan, and his name was Dares.
He had two sons, Phegeus and Idaeus, both of them skilled in all the arts of war.
These two came forward from the main body of Trojans, and set upon Diomed, he being on foot, while they fought from their chariot.
When they were close up to one another, Phegeus took aim first, but his spear went over Diomed 's left shoulder without hitting him.
Diomed then threw, and his spear sped not in vain, for it hit Phegeus on the breast near the nipple, and he fell from his chariot.
Idaeus did not dare to bestride his brother 's body, but sprang from the chariot and took to flight, or he would have shared his brother 's fate; whereon Vulcan saved him by wrapping him in a cloud of darkness, that his old father might not be utterly overwhelmed with grief; but the son of Tydeus drove off with the horses, and bade his followers take them to the ships.
The Trojans were scared when they saw the two sons of Dares, one of them in fright and the other lying dead by his chariot.
Minerva, therefore, took Mars by the hand and said," Mars, Mars, bane of men, bloodstained stormer of cities, may we not now leave the Trojans and Achaeans to fight it out, and see to which of the two Jove will vouchsafe the victory?
Let us go away, and thus avoid his anger."
So saying, she drew Mars out of the battle, and set him down upon the steep banks of the Scamander.
Upon this the Danaans drove the Trojans back, and each one of their chieftains killed his man.
First King Agamemnon flung mighty Odius, captain of the Halizoni, from his chariot.
The spear of Agamemnon caught him on the broad of his back, just as he was turning in flight; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Idomeneus killed Phaesus, son of Borus the Meonian, who had come from Varne.
Mighty Idomeneus speared him on the right shoulder as he was mounting his chariot, and the darkness of death enshrouded him as he fell heavily from the car.
The squires of Idomeneus spoiled him of his armour, while Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed Scamandrius the son of Strophius, a mighty huntsman and keen lover of the chase.
Diana herself had taught him how to kill every kind of wild creature that is bred in mountain forests, but neither she nor his famed skill in archery could now save him, for the spear of Menelaus struck him in the back as he was flying; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, so that he fell headlong and his armour rang rattling round him.
Meriones then killed Phereclus the son of Tecton, who was the son of Hermon, a man whose hand was skilled in all manner of cunning workmanship, for Pallas Minerva had dearly loved him.
He it was that made the ships for Alexandrus, which were the beginning of all mischief, and brought evil alike both on the Trojans and on Alexandrus himself; for he heeded not the decrees of heaven.
Meriones overtook him as he was flying, and struck him on the right buttock.
The point of the spear went through the bone into the bladder, and death came upon him as he cried aloud and fell forward on his knees.
Meges, moreover, slew Pedaeus, son of Antenor, who, though he was a bastard, had been brought up by Theano as one of her own children, for the love she bore her husband.
The son of Phyleus got close up to him and drove a spear into the nape of his neck: it went under his tongue all among his teeth, so he bit the cold bronze, and fell dead in the dust.
And Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, killed Hypsenor, the son of noble Dolopion, who had been made priest of the river Scamander, and was honoured among the people as though he were a god.
Eurypylus gave him chase as he was flying before him, smote him with his sword upon the arm, and lopped his strong hand from off it.
The bloody hand fell to the ground, and the shades of death, with fate that no man can withstand, came over his eyes.
Thus furiously did the battle rage between them.
As for the son of Tydeus, you could not say whether he was more among the Achaeans or the Trojans.
He rushed across the plain like a winter torrent that has burst its barrier in full flood; no dykes, no walls of fruitful vineyards can embank it when it is swollen with rain from heaven, but in a moment it comes tearing onward, and lays many a field waste that many a strong man 's hand has reclaimed— even so were the dense phalanxes of the Trojans driven in rout by the son of Tydeus, and many though they were, they dared not abide his onslaught.
Now when the son of Lycaon saw him scouring the plain and driving the Trojans pellmell before him, he aimed an arrow and hit the front part of his cuirass near the shoulder: the arrow went right through the metal and pierced the flesh, so that the cuirass was covered with blood.
On this the son of Lycaon shouted in triumph," Knights Trojans, come on; the bravest of the Achaeans is wounded, and he will not hold out much longer if King Apollo was indeed with me when I sped from Lycia hither."
Thus did he vaunt; but his arrow had not killed Diomed, who withdrew and made for the chariot and horses of Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus. "
Dear son of Capaneus," said he," come down from your chariot, and draw the arrow out of my shoulder."
Sthenelus sprang from his chariot, and drew the arrow from the wound, whereon the blood came spouting out through the hole that had been made in his shirt.
Then Diomed prayed, saying," Hear me, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, unweariable, if ever you loved my father well and stood by him in the thick of a fight, do the like now by me; grant me to come within a spear 's throw of that man and kill him.
He has been too quick for me and has wounded me; and now he is boasting that I shall not see the light of the sun much longer."
Thus he prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard him; she made his limbs supple and quickened his hands and his feet.
Then she went up close to him and said," Fear not, Diomed, to do battle with the Trojans, for I have set in your heart the spirit of your knightly father Tydeus.
Moreover, I have withdrawn the veil from your eyes, that you know gods and men apart.
If, then, any other god comes here and offers you battle, do not fight him; but should Jove 's daughter Venus come, strike her with your spear and wound her."
When she had said this Minerva went away, and the son of Tydeus again took his place among the foremost fighters, three times more fierce even than he had been before.
He was like a lion that some mountain shepherd has wounded, but not killed, as he is springing over the wall of a sheepyard to attack the sheep.
The shepherd has roused the brute to fury but can not defend his flock, so he takes shelter under cover of the buildings, while the sheep, panicstricken on being deserted, are smothered in heaps one on top of the other, and the angry lion leaps out over the sheepyard wall.
Even thus did Diomed go furiously about among the Trojans.
He killed Astynous, and Hypeiron shepherd of his people, the one with a thrust of his spear, which struck him above the nipple, the other with a swordcut on the collarbone, that severed his shoulder from his neck and back.
He let both of them lie, and went in pursuit of Abas and Polyidus, sons of the old reader of dreams Eurydamas: they never came back for him to read them any more dreams, for mighty Diomed made an end of them.
He then gave chase to Xanthus and Thoon, the two sons of Phaenops, both of them very dear to him, for he was now worn out with age, and begat no more sons to inherit his possessions.
But Diomed took both their lives and left their father sorrowing bitterly, for he nevermore saw them come home from battle alive, and his kinsmen divided his wealth among themselves.
Then he came upon two sons of Priam, Echemmon and Chromius, as they were both in one chariot.
He sprang upon them as a lion fastens on the neck of some cow or heifer when the herd is feeding in a coppice.
For all their vain struggles he flung them both from their chariot and stripped the armour from their bodies.
Then he gave their horses to his comrades to take them back to the ships.
When Aeneas saw him thus making havoc among the ranks, he went through the fight amid the rain of spears to see if he could find Pandarus.
When he had found the brave son of Lycaon he said," Pandarus, where is now your bow, your winged arrows, and your renown as an archer, in respect of which no man here can rival you nor is there any in Lycia that can beat you?
Lift then your hands to Jove and send an arrow at this fellow who is going so masterfully about, and has done such deadly work among the Trojans.
He has killed many a brave man— unless indeed he is some god who is angry with the Trojans about their sacrifices, and and has set his hand against them in his displeasure."
And the son of Lycaon answered," Aeneas, I take him for none other than the son of Tydeus.
I know him by his shield, the visor of his helmet, and by his horses.
It is possible that he may be a god, but if he is the man I say he is, he is not making all this havoc without heaven 's help, but has some god by his side who is shrouded in a cloud of darkness, and who turned my arrow aside when it had hit him.
I have taken aim at him already and hit him on the right shoulder; my arrow went through the breastpiece of his cuirass; and I made sure I should send him hurrying to the world below, but it seems that I have not killed him.
There must be a god who is angry with me.
Moreover I have neither horse nor chariot.
In my father 's stables there are eleven excellent chariots, fresh from the builder, quite new, with cloths spread over them; and by each of them there stand a pair of horses, champing barley and rye; my old father Lycaon urged me again and again when I was at home and on the point of starting, to take chariots and horses with me that I might lead the Trojans in battle, but I would not listen to him; it would have been much better if I had done so, but I was thinking about the horses, which had been used to eat their fill, and I was afraid that in such a great gathering of men they might be illfed, so I left them at home and came on foot to Ilius armed only with my bow and arrows.
These it seems, are of no use, for I have already hit two chieftains, the sons of Atreus and of Tydeus, and though I drew blood surely enough, I have only made them still more furious.
I did ill to take my bow down from its peg on the day I led my band of Trojans to Ilius in Hector 's service, and if ever I get home again to set eyes on my native place, my wife, and the greatness of my house, may some one cut my head off then and there if I do not break the bow and set it on a hot fire— such pranks as it plays me."
Aeneas answered," Say no more.
Things will not mend till we two go against this man with chariot and horses and bring him to a trial of arms.
Mount my chariot, and note how cleverly the horses of Tros can speed hither and thither over the plain in pursuit or flight.
If Jove again vouchsafes glory to the son of Tydeus they will carry us safely back to the city.
Take hold, then, of the whip and reins while I stand upon the car to fight, or else do you wait this man 's onset while I look after the horses."
"Aeneas," replied the son of Lycaon," take the reins and drive; if we have to fly before the son of Tydeus the horses will go better for their own driver.
If they miss the sound of your voice when they expect it they may be frightened, and refuse to take us out of the fight.
The son of Tydeus will then kill both of us and take the horses.
Therefore drive them yourself and I will be ready for him with my spear."
They then mounted the chariot and drove fullspeed towards the son of Tydeus.
Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, saw them coming and said to Diomed," Diomed, son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, I see two heroes speeding towards you, both of them men of might the one a skilful archer, Pandarus son of Lycaon, the other, Aeneas, whose sire is Anchises, while his mother is Venus.
Mount the chariot and let us retreat.
Do not, I pray you, press so furiously forward, or you may get killed."
Diomed looked angrily at him and answered:" Talk not of flight, for I shall not listen to you: I am of a race that knows neither flight nor fear, and my limbs are as yet unwearied.
I am in no mind to mount, but will go against them even as I am; Pallas Minerva bids me be afraid of no man, and even though one of them escape, their steeds shall not take both back again.
I say further, and lay my saying to your heart —if Minerva sees fit to vouchsafe me the glory of killing both, stay your horses here and make the reins fast to the rim of the chariot; then be sure you spring Aeneas ' horses and drive them from the Trojan to the Achaean ranks.
They are of the stock that great Jove gave to Tros in payment for his son Ganymede, and are the finest that live and move under the sun.
King Anchises stole the blood by putting his mares to them without Laomedon 's knowledge, and they bore him six foals.
Four are still in his stables, but he gave the other two to Aeneas.
We shall win great glory if we can take them."
Thus did they converse, but the other two had now driven close up to them, and the son of Lycaon spoke first. "
Great and mighty son," said he," of noble Tydeus, my arrow failed to lay you low, so I will now try with my spear."
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it from him.
It struck the shield of the son of Tydeus; the bronze point pierced it and passed on till it reached the breastplate.
Thereon the son of Lycaon shouted out and said," You are hit clean through the belly; you will not stand out for long, and the glory of the fight is mine."
But Diomed all undismayed made answer," You have missed, not hit, and before you two see the end of this matter one or other of you shall glut toughshielded Mars with his blood."
With this he hurled his spear, and Minerva guided it on to Pandarus 's nose near the eye.
It went crashing in among his white teeth; the bronze point cut through the root of his tongue, coming out under his chin, and his glistening armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
The horses started aside for fear, and he was reft of life and strength.
Aeneas sprang from his chariot armed with shield and spear, fearing lest the Achaeans should carry off the body.
He bestrode it as a lion in the pride of strength, with shield and spear before him and a cry of battle on his lips resolute to kill the first that should dare face him.
But the son of Tydeus caught up a mighty stone, so huge and great that as men now are it would take two to lift it; nevertheless he bore it aloft with ease unaided, and with this he struck Aeneas on the groin where the hip turns in the joint that is called the" cupbone. "
The stone crushed this joint, and broke both the sinews, while its jagged edges tore away all the flesh.
The hero fell on his knees, and propped himself with his hand resting on the ground till the darkness of night fell upon his eyes.
And now Aeneas, king of men, would have perished then and there, had not his mother, Jove 's daughter Venus, who had conceived him by Anchises when he was herding cattle, been quick to mark, and thrown her two white arms about the body of her dear son.
She protected him by covering him with a fold of her own fair garment, lest some Danaan should drive a spear into his breast and kill him.
Thus, then, did she bear her dear son out of the fight.
But the son of Capaneus was not unmindful of the orders that Diomed had given him.
He made his own horses fast, away from the hurlyburly, by binding the reins to the rim of the chariot.
Then he sprang upon Aeneas 's horses and drove them from the Trojan to the Achaean ranks.
When he had so done he gave them over to his chosen comrade Deipylus, whom he valued above all others as the one who was most likeminded with himself, to take them on to the ships.
He then remounted his own chariot, seized the reins, and drove with all speed in search of the son of Tydeus.
Now the son of Tydeus was in pursuit of the Cyprian goddess, spear in hand, for he knew her to be feeble and not one of those goddesses that can lord it among men in battle like Minerva or Enyo the waster of cities, and when at last after a long chase he caught her up, he flew at her and thrust his spear into the flesh of her delicate hand.
The point tore through the ambrosial robe which the Graces had woven for her, and pierced the skin between her wrist and the palm of her hand, so that the immortal blood, or ichor, that flows in the veins of the blessed gods, came pouring from the wound; for the gods do not eat bread nor drink wine, hence they have no blood such as ours, and are immortal.
Venus screamed aloud, and let her son fall, but Phoebus Apollo caught him in his arms, and hid him in a cloud of darkness, lest some Danaan should drive a spear into his breast and kill him; and Diomed shouted out as he left her," Daughter of Jove, leave war and battle alone, can you not be contented with beguiling silly women?
If you meddle with fighting you will get what will make you shudder at the very name of war."
The goddess went dazed and discomfited away, and Iris, fleet as the wind, drew her from the throng, in pain and with her fair skin all besmirched.
She found fierce Mars waiting on the left of the battle, with his spear and his two fleet steeds resting on a cloud; whereon she fell on her knees before her brother and implored him to let her have his horses. "
Dear brother," she cried," save me, and give me your horses to take me to Olympus where the gods dwell.
I am badly wounded by a mortal, the son of Tydeus, who would now fight even with father Jove."
Thus she spoke, and Mars gave her his goldbedizened steeds.
She mounted the chariot sick and sorry at heart, while Iris sat beside her and took the reins in her hand.
She lashed her horses on and they flew forward nothing loth, till in a trice they were at high Olympus, where the gods have their dwelling.
There she stayed them, unloosed them from the chariot, and gave them their ambrosial forage; but Venus flung herself on to the lap of her mother Dione, who threw her arms about her and caressed her, saying," Which of the heavenly beings has been treating you in this way, as though you had been doing something wrong in the face of day?"
And laughterloving Venus answered," Proud Diomed, the son of Tydeus, wounded me because I was bearing my dear son Aeneas, whom I love best of all mankind, out of the fight.
The war is no longer one between Trojans and Achaeans, for the Danaans have now taken to fighting with the immortals."
"Bear it, my child," replied Dione," and make the best of it.
We dwellers in Olympus have to put up with much at the hands of men, and we lay much suffering on one another.
Mars had to suffer when Otus and Ephialtes, children of Aloeus, bound him in cruel bonds, so that he lay thirteen months imprisoned in a vessel of bronze.
Mars would have then perished had not fair Eeriboea, stepmother to the sons of Aloeus, told Mercury, who stole him away when he was already wellnigh worn out by the severity of his bondage.
Juno, again, suffered when the mighty son of Amphitryon wounded her on the right breast with a threebarbed arrow, and nothing could assuage her pain.
So, also, did huge Hades, when this same man, the son of aegisbearing Jove, hit him with an arrow even at the gates of hell, and hurt him badly.
Thereon Hades went to the house of Jove on great Olympus, angry and full of pain; and the arrow in his brawny shoulder caused him great anguish till Paeeon healed him by spreading soothing herbs on the wound, for Hades was not of mortal mould.
Daring, headstrong, evildoer who recked not of his sin in shooting the gods that dwell in Olympus.
And now Minerva has egged this son of Tydeus on against yourself, fool that he is for not reflecting that no man who fights with gods will live long or hear his children prattling about his knees when he returns from battle.
Let, then, the son of Tydeus see that he does not have to fight with one who is stronger than you are.
Then shall his brave wife Aegialeia, daughter of Adrestus, rouse her whole house from sleep, wailing for the loss of her wedded lord, Diomed the bravest of the Achaeans."
So saying, she wiped the ichor from the wrist of her daughter with both hands, whereon the pain left her, and her hand was healed.
But Minerva and Juno, who were looking on, began to taunt Jove with their mocking talk, and Minerva was first to speak. "
Father Jove," said she," do not be angry with me, but I think the Cyprian must have been persuading some one of the Achaean women to go with the Trojans of whom she is so very fond, and while caressing one or other of them she must have torn her delicate hand with the gold pin of the woman 's brooch."
The sire of gods and men smiled, and called golden Venus to his side. "
My child," said he," it has not been given you to be a warrior.
Attend, henceforth, to your own delightful matrimonial duties, and leave all this fighting to Mars and to Minerva."
Thus did they converse.
But Diomed sprang upon Aeneas, though he knew him to be in the very arms of Apollo.
Not one whit did he fear the mighty god ,so set was he on killing Aeneas and stripping him of his armour.
Thrice did he spring forward with might and main to slay him, and thrice did Apollo beat back his gleaming shield.
When he was coming on for the fourth time, as though he were a god, Apollo shouted to him with an awful voice and said," Take heed, son of Tydeus, and draw off; think not to match yourself against gods, for men that walk the earth can not hold their own with the immortals."
The son of Tydeus then gave way for a little space, to avoid the anger of the god, while Apollo took Aeneas out of the crowd and set him in sacred Pergamus, where his temple stood.
There, within the mighty sanctuary, Latona and Diana healed him and made him glorious to behold, while Apollo of the silver bow fashioned a wraith in the likeness of Aeneas, and armed as he was.
Round this the Trojans and Achaeans hacked at the bucklers about one another 's breasts, hewing each other 's round shields and light hidecovered targets.
Then Phoebus Apollo said to Mars," Mars, Mars, bane of men, bloodstained stormer of cities, can you not go to this man, the son of Tydeus, who would now fight even with father Jove, and draw him out of the battle?
He first went up to the Cyprian and wounded her in the hand near her wrist, and afterwards sprang upon me too, as though he were a god."
He then took his seat on the top of Pergamus, while murderous Mars went about among the ranks of the Trojans, cheering them on, in the likeness of fleet Acamas chief of the Thracians."
Sons of Priam," said he," how long will you let your people be thus slaughtered by the Achaeans?
Would you wait till they are at the walls of Troy?
Aeneas the son of Anchises has fallen, he whom we held in as high honour as Hector himself.
Help me, then, to rescue our brave comrade from the stress of the fight."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all.
Then Sarpedon rebuked Hector very sternly. "
Hector," said he," where is your prowess now?
You used to say that though you had neither people nor allies you could hold the town alone with your brothers and brothersinlaw.
I see not one of them here; they cower as hounds before a lion; it is we, your allies, who bear the brunt of the battle.
I have come from afar, even from Lycia and the banks of the river Xanthus, where I have left my wife, my infant son, and much wealth to tempt whoever is needy; nevertheless, I head my Lycian soldiers and stand my ground against any who would fight me though I have nothing here for the Achaeans to plunder, while you look on, without even bidding your men stand firm in defence of their wives.
See that you fall not into the hands of your foes as men caught in the meshes of a net, and they sack your fair city forthwith.
Keep this before your mind night and day, and beseech the captains of your allies to hold on without flinching, and thus put away their reproaches from you."
So spoke Sarpedon, and Hector smarted under his words.
He sprang from his chariot clad in his suit of armour, and went about among the host brandishing his two spears, exhorting the men to fight and raising the terrible cry of battle.
Then they rallied and again faced the Achaeans, but the Argives stood compact and firm, and were not driven back.
As the breezes sport with the chaff upon some goodly threshingfloor, when men are winnowing— while yellow Ceres blows with the wind to sift the chaff from the grain, and the chaffheaps grow whiter and whiter— even so did the Achaeans whiten in the dust which the horses ' hoofs raised to the firmament of heaven, as their drivers turned them back to battle, and they bore down with might upon the foe.
Fierce Mars, to help the Trojans, covered them in a veil of darkness, and went about everywhere among them, inasmuch as Phoebus Apollo had told him that when he saw Pallas Minerva leave the fray he was to put courage into the hearts of the Trojans —for it was she who was helping the Danaans.
Then Apollo sent Aeneas forth from his rich sanctuary, and filled his heart with valour, whereon he took his place among his comrades, who were overjoyed at seeing him alive, sound, and of a good courage; but they could not ask him how it had all happened, for they were too busy with the turmoil raised by Mars and by Strife, who raged insatiably in their midst.
The two Ajaxes, Ulysses and Diomed, cheered the Danaans on, fearless of the fury and onset of the Trojans.
They stood as still as clouds which the son of Saturn has spread upon the mountain tops when there is no air and fierce Boreas sleeps with the other boisterous winds whose shrill blasts scatter the clouds in all directions— even so did the Danaans stand firm and unflinching against the Trojans.
The son of Atreus went about among them and exhorted them. "
My friends," said he," quit yourselves like brave men, and shun dishonour in one another 's eyes amid the stress of battle.
They that shun dishonour more often live than get killed, but they that fly save neither life nor name."
As he spoke he hurled his spear and hit one of those who were in the front rank, the comrade of Aeneas, Deicoon son of Pergasus, whom the Trojans held in no less honour than the sons of Priam, for he was ever quick to place himself among the foremost.
The spear of King Agamemnon struck his shield and went right through it, for the shield stayed it not.
It drove through his belt into the lower part of his belly, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Aeneas killed two champions of the Danaans, Crethon and Orsilochus.
Their father was a rich man who lived in the strong city of Phere and was descended from the river Alpheus, whose broad stream flows through the land of the Pylians.
The river begat Orsilochus, who ruled over much people and was father to Diocles, who in his turn begat twin sons, Crethon and Orsilochus, well skilled in all the arts of war.
These, when they grew up, went to Ilius with the Argive fleet in the cause of Menelaus and Agamemnon sons of Atreus, and there they both of them fell.
As two lions whom their dam has reared in the depths of some mountain forest to plunder homesteads and carry off sheep and cattle till they get killed by the hand of man, so were these two vanquished by Aeneas, and fell like high pinetrees to the ground.
Brave Menelaus pitied them in their fall, and made his way to the front, clad in gleaming bronze and brandishing his spear, for Mars egged him on to do so with intent that he should be killed by Aeneas; but Antilochus the son of Nestor saw him and sprang forward, fearing that the king might come to harm and thus bring all their labour to nothing; when, therefore Aeneas and Menelaus were setting their hands and spears against one another eager to do battle, Antilochus placed himself by the side of Menelaus.
Aeneas, bold though he was, drew back on seeing the two heroes side by side in front of him, so they drew the bodies of Crethon and Orsilochus to the ranks of the Achaeans and committed the two poor fellows into the hands of their comrades.
They then turned back and fought in the front ranks.
They killed Pylaemenes peer of Mars, leader of the Paphlagonian warriors.
Menelaus struck him on the collarbone as he was standing on his chariot, while Antilochus hit his charioteer and squire Mydon, the son of Atymnius, who was turning his horses in flight.
He hit him with a stone upon the elbow, and the reins, enriched with white ivory, fell from his hands into the dust.
Antilochus rushed towards him and struck him on the temples with his sword, whereon he fell head first from the chariot to the ground.
There he stood for a while with his head and shoulders buried deep in the dust— for he had fallen on sandy soil till his horses kicked him and laid him flat on the ground, as Antilochus lashed them and drove them off to the host of the Achaeans.
But Hector marked them from across the ranks, and with a loud cry rushed towards them, followed by the strong battalions of the Trojans.
Mars and dread Enyo led them on, she fraught with ruthless turmoil of battle, while Mars wielded a monstrous spear, and went about, now in front of Hector and now behind him.
Diomed shook with passion as he saw them.
As a man crossing a wide plain is dismayed to find himself on the brink of some great river rolling swiftly to the sea— he sees its boiling waters and starts back in fear— even so did the son of Tydeus give ground.
Then he said to his men," My friends, how can we wonder that Hector wields the spear so well?
Some god is ever by his side to protect him, and now Mars is with him in the likeness of mortal man.
Keep your faces therefore towards the Trojans, but give ground backwards, for we dare not fight with gods."
As he spoke the Trojans drew close up, and Hector killed two men, both in one chariot, Menesthes and Anchialus, heroes well versed in war.
Ajax son of Telamon pitied them in their fall; he came close up and hurled his spear, hitting Amphius the son of Selagus, a man of great wealth who lived in Paesus and owned much corngrowing land, but his lot had led him to come to the aid of Priam and his sons.
Ajax struck him in the belt; the spear pierced the lower part of his belly, and he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Ajax ran towards him to strip him of his armour, but the Trojans rained spears upon him, many of which fell upon his shield.
He planted his heel upon the body and drew out his spear, but the darts pressed so heavily upon him that he could not strip the goodly armour from his shoulders.
The Trojan chieftains, moreover, many and valiant, came about him with their spears, so that he dared not stay; great, brave and valiant though he was, they drove him from them and he was beaten back.
Thus, then, did the battle rage between them.
Presently the strong hand of fate impelled Tlepolemus, the son of Hercules, a man both brave and of great stature, to fight Sarpedon; so the two, son and grandson of great Jove, drew near to one another, and Tlepolemus spoke first.
"Sarpedon," said he," councillor of the Lycians, why should you come skulking here you who are a man of peace?
They lie who call you son of aegisbearing Jove, for you are little like those who were of old his children.
Far other was Hercules, my own brave and lionhearted father, who came here for the horses of Laomedon, and though he had six ships only, and few men to follow him, sacked the city of Ilius and made a wilderness of her highways.
You are a coward, and your people are falling from you.
For all your strength, and all your coming from Lycia, you will be no help to the Trojans but will pass the gates of Hades vanquished by my hand."
And Sarpedon, captain of the Lycians, answered," Tlepolemus, your father overthrew Ilius by reason of Laomedon 's folly in refusing payment to one who had served him well.
He would not give your father the horses which he had come so far to fetch.
As for yourself, you shall meet death by my spear.
You shall yield glory to myself, and your soul to Hades of the noble steeds."
Thus spoke Sarpedon, and Tlepolemus upraised his spear.
They threw at the same moment, and Sarpedon struck his foe in the middle of his throat; the spear went right through, and the darkness of death fell upon his eyes.
Tlepolemus 's spear struck Sarpedon on the left thigh with such force that it tore through the flesh and grazed the bone, but his father as yet warded off destruction from him.
His comrades bore Sarpedon out of the fight, in great pain by the weight of the spear that was dragging from his wound.
They were in such haste and stress as they bore him that no one thought of drawing the spear from his thigh so as to let him walk uprightly.
Meanwhile the Achaeans carried off the body of Tlepolemus, whereon Ulysses was moved to pity, and panted for the fray as he beheld them.
He doubted whether to pursue the son of Jove, or to make slaughter of the Lycian rank and file; it was not decreed, however, that he should slay the son of Jove; Minerva, therefore, turned him against the main body of the Lycians.
He killed Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius, Alcandrus, Halius, Noemon, and Prytanis, and would have slain yet more, had not great Hector marked him, and sped to the front of the fight clad in his suit of mail, filling the Danaans with terror.
Sarpedon was glad when he saw him coming, and besought him, saying," Son of Priam, let me not be here to fall into the hands of the Danaans.
Help me, and since I may not return home to gladden the hearts of my wife and of my infant son, let me die within the walls of your city."
Hector made him no answer, but rushed onward to fall at once upon the Achaeans and kill many among them.
His comrades then bore Sarpedon away and laid him beneath Jove 's spreading oak tree.
Pelagon, his friend and comrade, drew the spear out of his thigh, but Sarpedon fainted and a mist came over his eyes.
Presently he came to himself again, for the breath of the north wind as it played upon him gave him new life, and brought him out of the deep swoon into which he had fallen.
Meanwhile the Argives were neither driven towards their ships by Mars and Hector, nor yet did they attack them; when they knew that Mars was with the Trojans they retreated, but kept their faces still turned towards the foe.
Who, then, was first and who last to be slain by Mars and Hector?
They were valiant Teuthras, and Orestes the renowned charioteer, Trechus the Aetolian warrior, Oenomaus, Helenus the son of Oenops, and Oresbius of the gleaming girdle, who was possessed of great wealth, and dwelt by the Cephisian lake with the other Boeotians who lived near him, owners of a fertile country.
Now when the goddess Juno saw the Argives thus falling, she said to Minerva," Alas, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, unweariable, the promise we made Menelaus that he should not return till he had sacked the city of Ilius will be of no effect if we let Mars rage thus furiously.
Let us go into the fray at once."
Minerva did not gainsay her.
Thereon the august goddess, daughter of great Saturn, began to harness her goldbedizened steeds.
Hebe with all speed fitted on the eightspoked wheels of bronze that were on either side of the iron axletree.
The felloes of the wheels were of gold, imperishable, and over these there was a tire of bronze, wondrous to behold.
The naves of the wheels were silver, turning round the axle upon either side.
The car itself was made with plaited bands of gold and silver, and it had a double toprail running all round it.
From the body of the car there went a pole of silver, on to the end of which she bound the golden yoke, with the bands of gold that were to go under the necks of the horses Then Juno put her steeds under the yoke, eager for battle and the warcry.
Meanwhile Minerva flung her richly embroidered vesture, made with her own hands, on to her father 's threshold, and donned the shirt of Jove, arming herself for battle.
She threw her tasselled aegis about her shoulders, wreathed round with Rout as with a fringe, and on it were Strife, and Strength, and Panic whose blood runs cold; moreover there was the head of the dread monster Gorgon, grim and awful to behold, portent of aegisbearing Jove.
On her head she set her helmet of gold, with four plumes, and coming to a peak both in front and behind— decked with the emblems of a hundred cities; then she stepped into her flaming chariot and grasped the spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, with which she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her.
Juno lashed the horses on, and the gates of heaven bellowed as they flew open of their own accord— gates over which the Hours preside, in whose hands are Heaven and Olympus, either to open the dense cloud that hides them, or to close it.
Through these the goddesses drove their obedient steeds, and found the son of Saturn sitting all alone on the topmost ridges of Olympus.
There Juno stayed her horses, and spoke to Jove the son of Saturn, lord of all."
Father Jove," said she," are you not angry with Mars for these high doings?
how great and goodly a host of the Achaeans he has destroyed to my great grief, and without either right or reason, while the Cyprian and Apollo are enjoying it all at their ease and setting this unrighteous madman on to do further mischief.
I hope, Father Jove, that you will not be angry if I hit Mars hard, and chase him out of the battle."
And Jove answered," Set Minerva on to him, for she punishes him more often than any one else does."
Juno did as he had said.
She lashed her horses, and they flew forward nothing loth midway betwixt earth and sky.
As far as a man can see when he looks out upon the sea from some high beacon, so far can the loudneighing horses of the gods spring at a single bound.
When they reached Troy and the place where its two flowing streams Simois and Scamander meet, there Juno stayed them and took them from the chariot.
She hid them in a thick cloud, and Simois made ambrosia spring up for them to eat; the two goddesses then went on, flying like turtledoves in their eagerness to help the Argives.
When they came to the part where the bravest and most in number were gathered about mighty Diomed, fighting like lions or wild boars of great strength and endurance, there Juno stood still and raised a shout like that of brazenvoiced Stentor, whose cry was as loud as that of fifty men together. "
Argives," she cried;" shame on cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only; as long as Achilles was fighting, if his spear was so deadly that the Trojans dared not show themselves outside the Dardanian gates, but now they sally far from the city and fight even at your ships."
With these words she put heart and soul into them all, while Minerva sprang to the side of the son of Tydeus, whom she found near his chariot and horses, cooling the wound that Pandarus had given him.
For the sweat caused by the hand that bore the weight of his shield irritated the hurt: his arm was weary with pain, and he was lifting up the strap to wipe away the blood.
The goddess laid her hand on the yoke of his horses and said," The son of Tydeus is not such another as his father.
Tydeus was a little man, but he could fight, and rushed madly into the fray even when I told him not to do so.
When he went all unattended as envoy to the city of Thebes among the Cadmeans, I bade him feast in their houses and be at peace; but with that high spirit which was ever present with him, he challenged the youth of the Cadmeans, and at once beat them in all that he attempted, so mightily did I help him.
I stand by you too to protect you, and I bid you be instant in fighting the Trojans; but either you are tired out, or you are afraid and out of heart, and in that case I say that you are no true son of Tydeus the son of Oeneus."
Diomed answered," I know you, goddess, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, and will hide nothing from you.
I am not afraid nor out of heart, nor is there any slackness in me.
I am only following your own instructions; you told me not to fight any of the blessed gods; but if Jove 's daughter Venus came into battle I was to wound her with my spear.
Therefore I am retreating, and bidding the other Argives gather in this place, for I know that Mars is now lording it in the field."
"Diomed, son of Tydeus," replied Minerva," man after my own heart, fear neither Mars nor any other of the immortals, for I will befriend you.
Nay, drive straight at Mars, and smite him in close combat; fear not this raging madman, villain incarnate, first on one side and then on the other.
But now he was holding talk with Juno and myself, saying he would help the Argives and attack the Trojans; nevertheless he is with the Trojans, and has forgotten the Argives."
With this she caught hold of Sthenelus and lifted him off the chariot on to the ground.
In a second he was on the ground, whereupon the goddess mounted the car and placed herself by the side of Diomed.
The oaken axle groaned aloud under the burden of the awful goddess and the hero; Pallas Minerva took the whip and reins, and drove straight at Mars.
He was in the act of stripping huge Periphas, son of Ochesius and bravest of the Aetolians.
Bloody Mars was stripping him of his armour, and Minerva donned the helmet of Hades, that he might not see her ;when, therefore, he saw Diomed, he made straight for him and let Periphas lie where he had fallen.
As soon as they were at close quarters he let fly with his bronze spear over the reins and yoke, thinking to take Diomed 's life, but Minerva caught the spear in her hand and made it fly harmlessly over the chariot.
Diomed then threw, and Pallas Minerva drove the spear into the pit of Mars 's stomach where his undergirdle went round him.
There Diomed wounded him, tearing his fair flesh and then drawing his spear out again.
Mars roared as loudly as nine or ten thousand men in the thick of a fight, and the Achaeans and Trojans were struck with panic, so terrible was the cry he raised.
As a dark cloud in the sky when it comes on to blow after heat, even so did Diomed son of Tydeus see Mars ascend into the broad heavens.
With all speed he reached high Olympus, home of the gods, and in great pain sat down beside Jove the son of Saturn.
He showed Jove the immortal blood that was flowing from his wound, and spoke piteously, saying," Father Jove, are you not angered by such doings?
We gods are continually suffering in the most cruel manner at one another 's hands while helping mortals; and we all owe you a grudge for having begotten that mad termagant of a daughter, who is always committing outrage of some kind.
We other gods must all do as you bid us, but her you neither scold nor punish; you encourage her because the pestilent creature is your daughter.
See how she has been inciting proud Diomed to vent his rage on the immortal gods.
First he went up to the Cyprian and wounded her in the hand near her wrist, and then he sprang upon me too as though he were a god.
Had I not run for it I must either have lain there for long enough in torments among the ghastly corpses, or have been eaten alive with spears till I had no more strength left in me."
Jove looked angrily at him and said," Do not come whining here, Sir Facingbothways.
I hate you worst of all the gods in Olympus, for you are ever fighting and making mischief.
You have the intolerable and stubborn spirit of your mother Juno: it is all I can do to manage her, and it is her doing that you are now in this plight :still, I can not let you remain longer in such great pain; you are my own offspring, and it was by me that your mother conceived you; if, however, you had been the son of any other god, you are so destructive that by this time you should have been lying lower than the Titans."
He then bade Paeeon heal him, whereon Paeeon spread painkilling herbs upon his wound and cured him, for he was not of mortal mould.
As the juice of the figtree curdles milk, and thickens it in a moment though it is liquid, even so instantly did Paeeon cure fierce Mars.
Then Hebe washed him, and clothed him in goodly raiment, and he took his seat by his father Jove all glorious to behold.
But Juno of Argos and Minerva of Alalcomene, now that they had put a stop to the murderous doings of Mars, went back again to the house of Jove.
Jove awakes, tells Apollo to heal Hector, and the Trojans again become victorious.
But when their flight had taken them past the trench and the set stakes, and many had fallen by the hands of the Danaans, the Trojans made a halt on reaching their chariots, routed and pale with fear.
Jove now woke on the crests of Ida, where he was lying with goldenthroned Juno by his side, and starting to his feet he saw the Trojans and Achaeans, the one thrown into confusion, and the others driving them pellmell before them with King Neptune in their midst.
He saw Hector lying on the ground with his comrades gathered round him, gasping for breath, wandering in mind and vomiting blood, for it was not the feeblest of the Achaeans who struck him.
The sire of gods and men had pity on him, and looked fiercely on Juno.
"I see, Juno," said he," you mischiefmaking trickster, that your cunning has stayed Hector from fighting and has caused the rout of his host.
I am in half a mind to thrash you, in which case you will be the first to reap the fruits of your scurvy knavery.
Do you not remember how once upon a time I had you hanged?
I fastened two anvils on to your feet, and bound your hands in a chain of gold which none might break, and you hung in mid air among the clouds.
All the gods in Olympus were in a fury, but they could not reach you to set you free; when I caught any one of them I gripped him and hurled him from the heavenly threshold till he came fainting down to earth; yet even this did not relieve my mind from the incessant anxiety which I felt about noble Hercules whom you and Boreas had spitefully conveyed beyond the seas to Cos, after suborning the tempests; but I rescued him, and notwithstanding all his mighty labours I brought him back again to Argos.
I would remind you of this that you may learn to leave off being so deceitful, and discover how much you are likely to gain by the embraces out of which you have come here to trick me."
Juno trembled as he spoke, and said," May heaven above and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx— and this is the most solemn oath that a blessed god can take— nay, I swear also by your own almighty head and by our bridal bed— things over which I could never possibly perjure myself— that Neptune is not punishing Hector and the Trojans and helping the Achaeans through any doing of mine; it is all of his own mere motion because he was sorry to see the Achaeans hard pressed at their ships: if I were advising him, I should tell him to do as you bid him."
The sire of gods and men smiled and answered," If you, Juno, were always to support me when we sit in council of the gods, Neptune, like it or no, would soon come round to your and my way of thinking.
If, then, you are speaking the truth and mean what you say, go among the rank and file of the gods, and tell Iris and Apollo lord of the bow, that I want them— Iris, that she may go to the Achaean host and tell Neptune to leave off fighting and go home, and Apollo, that he may send Hector again into battle and give him fresh strength; he will thus forget his present sufferings, and drive the Achaeans back in confusion till they fall among the ships of Achilles son of Peleus.
Achilles will then send his comrade Patroclus into battle, and Hector will kill him in front of Ilius after he has slain many warriors, and among them my own noble son Sarpedon.
Achilles will kill Hector to avenge Patroclus, and from that time I will bring it about that the Achaeans shall persistently drive the Trojans back till they fulfil the counsels of Minerva and take Ilius.
But I will not stay my anger, nor permit any god to help the Danaans till I have accomplished the desire of the son of Peleus, according to the promise I made by bowing my head on the day when Thetis touched my knees and besought me to give him honour."
Juno heeded his words and went from the heights of Ida to great Olympus.
Swift as the thought of one whose fancy carries him over vast continents, and he says to himself," Now I will be here, or there," and he would have all manner of things— even so swiftly did Juno wing her way till she came to high Olympus and went in among the gods who were gathered in the house of Jove.
When they saw her they all of them came up to her, and held out their cups to her by way of greeting.
She let the others be, but took the cup offered her by lovely Themis, who was first to come running up to her. "
Juno," said she," why are you here?
And you seem troubled— has your husband the son of Saturn been frightening you?"
And Juno answered," Themis, do not ask me about it.
You know what a proud and cruel disposition my husband has.
Lead the gods to table, where you and all the immortals can hear the wicked designs which he has avowed.
Many a one, mortal and immortal, will be angered by them, however peaceably he may be feasting now."
On this Juno sat down, and the gods were troubled throughout the house of Jove.
Laughter sat on her lips but her brow was furrowed with care, and she spoke up in a rage.
"Fools that we are," she cried," to be thus madly angry with Jove; we keep on wanting to go up to him and stay him by force or by persuasion, but he sits aloof and cares for nobody, for he knows that he is much stronger than any other of the immortals.
Make the best, therefore, of whatever ills he may choose to send each one of you; Mars, I take it, has had a taste of them already, for his son Ascalaphus has fallen in battle— the man whom of all others he loved most dearly and whose father he owns himself to be."
When he heard this Mars smote his two sturdy thighs with the flat of his hands, and said in anger," Do not blame me, you gods that dwell in heaven, if I go to the ships of the Achaeans and avenge the death of my son, even though it end in my being struck by Jove 's lightning and lying in blood and dust among the corpses."
As he spoke he gave orders to yoke his horses Panic and Rout, while he put on his armour.
On this, Jove would have been roused to still more fierce and implacable enmity against the other immortals, had not Minerva, alarmed for the safety of the gods, sprung from her seat and hurried outside.
She tore the helmet from his head and the shield from his shoulders, and she took the bronze spear from his strong hand and set it on one side; then she said to Mars," Madman, you are undone; you have ears that hear not, or you have lost all judgement and understanding; have you not heard what Juno has said on coming straight from the presence of Olympian Jove?
Do you wish to go through all kinds of suffering before you are brought back sick and sorry to Olympus, after having caused infinite mischief to all us others?
Jove would instantly leave the Trojans and Achaeans to themselves; he would come to Olympus to punish us, and would grip us up one after another, guilty or not guilty.
Therefore lay aside your anger for the death of your son; better men than he have either been killed already or will fall hereafter, and one can not protect every one 's whole family."
With these words she took Mars back to his seat.
Meanwhile Juno called Apollo outside, with Iris the messenger of the gods.
"Jove," she said to them," desires you to go to him at once on Mt.
Ida; when you have seen him you are to do as he may then bid you."
Thereon Juno left them and resumed her seat inside, while Iris and Apollo made all haste on their way.
When they reached manyfountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, they found Jove seated on topmost Gargarus with a fragrant cloud encircling his head as with a diadem.
They stood before his presence, and he was pleased with them for having been so quick in obeying the orders his wife had given them.
He spoke to Iris first. "
Go," said he," fleet Iris, tell King Neptune what I now bid you— and tell him true.
Bid him leave off fighting, and either join the company of the gods, or go down into the sea.
If he takes no heed and disobeys me, let him consider well whether he is strong enough to hold his own against me if I attack him.
I am older and much stronger than he is; yet he is not afraid to set himself up as on a level with myself, of whom all the other gods stand in awe."
Iris, fleet as the wind, obeyed him, and as the cold hail or snowflakes that fly from out the clouds before the blast of Boreas, even so did she wing her way till she came close up to the great shaker of the earth.
Then she said," I have come, O darkhaired king that holds the world in his embrace, to bring you a message from Jove.
He bids you leave off fighting, and either join the company of the gods or go down into the sea; if, however, you take no heed and disobey him, he says he will come down here and fight you.
He would have you keep out of his reach, for he is older and much stronger than you are, and yet you are not afraid to set yourself up as on a level with himself, of whom all the other gods stand in awe."
Neptune was very angry and said," Great heavens!
strong as Jove may be, he has said more than he can do if he has threatened violence against me, who am of like honour with himself.
We were three brothers whom Rhea bore to Saturn —Jove, myself, and Hades who rules the world below.
Heaven and earth were divided into three parts, and each of us was to have an equal share.
When we cast lots, it fell to me to have my dwelling in the sea for evermore; Hades took the darkness of the realms under the earth, while air and sky and clouds were the portion that fell to Jove; but earth and great Olympus are the common property of all.
Therefore I will not walk as Jove would have me.
For all his strength, let him keep to his own third share and be contented without threatening to lay hands upon me as though I were nobody.
Let him keep his bragging talk for his own sons and daughters, who must perforce obey him."
Iris fleet as the wind then answered," Am I really, Neptune, to take this daring and unyielding message to Jove, or will you reconsider your answer?
Sensible people are open to argument, and you know that the Erinyes always range themselves on the side of the older person."
Neptune answered," Goddess Iris, your words have been spoken in season.
It is well when a messenger shows so much discretion.
Nevertheless it cuts me to the very heart that any one should rebuke so angrily another who is his own peer, and of like empire with himself.
Now, however, I will give way in spite of my displeasure; furthermore let me tell you, and I mean what I say— if contrary to the desire of myself, Minerva driver of the spoil, Juno, Mercury, and King Vulcan, Jove spares steep Ilius, and will not let the Achaeans have the great triumph of sacking it, let him understand that he will incur our implacable resentment."
Neptune now left the field to go down under the sea, and sorely did the Achaeans miss him.
Then Jove said to Apollo," Go, dear Phoebus, to Hector, for Neptune who holds the earth in his embrace has now gone down under the sea to avoid the severity of my displeasure.
Had he not done so those gods who are below with Saturn would have come to hear of the fight between us.
It is better for both of us that he should have curbed his anger and kept out of my reach, for I should have had much trouble with him.
Take, then, your tasselled aegis, and shake it furiously, so as to set the Achaean heroes in a panic; take, moreover, brave Hector, O FarDarter, into your own care, and rouse him to deeds of daring, till the Achaeans are sent flying back to their ships and to the Hellespont.
From that point I will think it well over, how the Achaeans may have a respite from their troubles."
Apollo obeyed his father 's saying, and left the crests of Ida, flying like a falcon, bane of doves and swiftest of all birds.
He found Hector no longer lying upon the ground, but sitting up, for he had just come to himself again.
He knew those who were about him, and the sweat and hard breathing had left him from the moment when the will of aegisbearing Jove had revived him.
Apollo stood beside him and said," Hector son of Priam, why are you so faint, and why are you here away from the others?
Has any mishap befallen you?"
Hector in a weak voice answered," And which, kind sir, of the gods are you, who now ask me thus?
Do you not know that Ajax struck me on the chest with a stone as I was killing his comrades at the ships of the Achaeans, and compelled me to leave off fighting?
I made sure that this very day I should breathe my last and go down into the house of Hades."
Then King Apollo said to him," Take heart; the son of Saturn has sent you a mighty helper from Ida to stand by you and defend you, even me, Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who have been guardian hitherto not only of yourself but of your city.
Now, therefore, order your horsemen to drive their chariots to the ships in great multitudes.
I will go before your horses to smooth the way for them, and will turn the Achaeans in flight."
As he spoke he infused great strength into the shepherd of his people.
And as a horse, stabled and fullfed, breaks loose and gallops gloriously over the plain to the place where he is wo nt to take his bath in the river— he tosses his head, and his mane streams over his shoulders as in all the pride of his strength he flies full speed to the pastures where the mares are feeding— even so Hector, when he heard what the god said, urged his horsemen on, and sped forward as fast as his limbs could take him.
As country peasants set their hounds on to a homed stag or wild goat— he has taken shelter under rock or thicket, and they can not find him, but, lo, a bearded lion whom their shouts have roused stands in their path, and they are in no further humour for the chase— even so the Achaeans were still charging on in a body, using their swords and spears pointed at both ends, but when they saw Hector going about among his men they were afraid, and their hearts fell down into their feet.
Then spoke Thoas son of Andraemon, leader of the Aetolians, a man who could throw a good throw, and who was staunch also in close fight, while few could surpass him in debate when opinions were divided.
He then with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:" What, in heaven 's name, do I now see?
Is it not Hector come to life again?
Every one made sure he had been killed by Ajax son of Telamon, but it seems that one of the gods has again rescued him.
He has killed many of us Danaans already, and I take it will yet do so, for the hand of Jove must be with him or he would never dare show himself so masterful in the forefront of the battle.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let us order the main body of our forces to fall back upon the ships, but let those of us who profess to be the flower of the army stand firm, and see whether we can not hold Hector back at the point of our spears as soon as he comes near us; I conceive that he will then think better of it before he tries to charge into the press of the Danaans."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
Those who were about Ajax and King Idomeneus, the followers moreover of Teucer, Meriones, and Meges peer of Mars called all their best men about them and sustained the fight against Hector and the Trojans, but the main body fell back upon the ships of the Achaeans.
The Trojans pressed forward in a dense body, with Hector striding on at their head.
Before him went Phoebus Apollo shrouded in cloud about his shoulders.
He bore aloft the terrible aegis with its shaggy fringe, which Vulcan the smith had given Jove to strike terror into the hearts of men.
With this in his hand he led on the Trojans.
The Argives held together and stood their ground.
The cry of battle rose high from either side, and the arrows flew from the bowstrings.
Many a spear sped from strong hands and fastened in the bodies of many a valiant warrior, while others fell to earth midway, before they could taste of man 's fair flesh and glut themselves with blood.
So long as Phoebus Apollo held his aegis quietly and without shaking it, the weapons on either side took effect and the people fell, but when he shook it straight in the face of the Danaans and raised his mighty battlecry their hearts fainted within them and they forgot their former prowess.
As when two wild beasts spring in the dead of night on a herd of cattle or a large flock of sheep when the herdsman is not there— even so were the Danaans struck helpless, for Apollo filled them with panic and gave victory to Hector and the Trojans.
The fight then became more scattered and they killed one another where they best could.
Hector killed Stichius and Arcesilaus, the one, leader of the Boeotians, and the other, friend and comrade of Menestheus.
Aeneas killed Medon and Iasus.
The first was bastard son to Oileus, and brother to Ajax, but he lived in Phylace away from his own country, for he had killed a man, a kinsman of his stepmother Eriopis whom Oileus had married.
Iasus had become a leader of the Athenians, and was son of Sphelus the son of Boucolos.
Polydamas killed Mecisteus, and Polites Echius, in the front of the battle, while Agenor slew Clonius.
Paris struck Deiochus from behind in the lower part of the shoulder, as he was flying among the foremost, and the point of the spear went clean through him.
While they were spoiling these heroes of their armour, the Achaeans were flying pellmell to the trench and the set stakes, and were forced back within their wall.
Hector then cried out to the Trojans," Forward to the ships, and let the spoils be.
If I see any man keeping back on the other side the wall away from the ships I will have him killed: his kinsmen and kinswomen shall not give him his dues of fire, but dogs shall tear him in pieces in front of our city."
As he spoke he laid his whip about his horses ' shoulders and called to the Trojans throughout their ranks; the Trojans shouted with a cry that rent the air, and kept their horses neck and neck with his own.
Phoebus Apollo went before, and kicked down the banks of the deep trench into its middle so as to make a great broad bridge, as broad as the throw of a spear when a man is trying his strength.
The Trojan battalions poured over the bridge, and Apollo with his redoubtable aegis led the way.
He kicked down the wall of the Achaeans as easily as a child who playing on the seashore has built a house of sand and then kicks it down again and destroys it— even so did you, O Apollo, shed toil and trouble upon the Argives, filling them with panic and confusion.
Thus then were the Achaeans hemmed in at their ships, calling out to one another and raising their hands with loud cries every man to heaven.
Nestor of Gerene, tower of strength to the Achaeans, lifted up his hands to the starry firmament of heaven, and prayed more fervently than any of them."
Father Jove," said he," if ever any one in wheatgrowing Argos burned you fat thighbones of sheep or heifer and prayed that he might return safely home, whereon you bowed your head to him in assent, bear it in mind now, and suffer not the Trojans to triumph thus over the Achaeans."
Allcounselling Jove thundered loudly in answer to the prayer of the aged son of Neleus.
When they heard Jove thunder they flung themselves yet more fiercely on the Achaeans.
As a wave breaking over the bulwarks of a ship when the sea runs high before a gale— for it is the force of the wind that makes the waves so great— even so did the Trojans spring over the wall with a shout, and drive their chariots onwards.
The two sides fought with their doublepointed spears in handtohand encounterthe Trojans from their chariots, and the Achaeans climbing up into their ships and wielding the long pikes that were lying on the decks ready for use in a seafight, jointed and shod with bronze.
Now Patroclus, so long as the Achaeans and Trojans were fighting about the wall, but were not yet within it and at the ships, remained sitting in the tent of good Eurypylus, entertaining him with his conversation and spreading herbs over his wound to ease his pain.
When, however, he saw the Trojans swarming through the breach in the wall, while the Achaeans were clamouring and struck with panic, he cried aloud, and smote his two thighs with the flat of his hands. "
Eurypylus," said he in his dismay," I know you want me badly, but I can not stay with you any longer, for there is hard fighting going on; a servant shall take care of you now, for I must make all speed to Achilles, and induce him to fight if I can; who knows but with heaven 's help I may persuade him.
A man does well to listen to the advice of a friend."
When he had thus spoken he went his way.
The Achaeans stood firm and resisted the attack of the Trojans, yet though these were fewer in number, they could not drive them back from the ships, neither could the Trojans break the Achaean ranks and make their way in among the tents and ships.
As a carpenter 's line gives a true edge to a piece of ship 's timber, in the hand of some skilled workman whom Minerva has instructed in all kinds of useful arts— even so level was the issue of the fight between the two sides, as they fought some round one and some round another.
Hector made straight for Ajax, and the two fought fiercely about the same ship.
Hector could not force Ajax back and fire the ship, nor yet could Ajax drive Hector from the spot to which heaven had brought him.
Then Ajax struck Caletor son of Clytius in the chest with a spear as he was bringing fire towards the ship.
He fell heavily to the ground and the torch dropped from his hand.
When Hector saw his cousin fallen in front of the ship he shouted to the Trojans and Lycians saying," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians good in close fight, bate not a jot, but rescue the son of Clytius lest the Achaeans strip him of his armour now that he has fallen."
He then aimed a spear at Ajax, and missed him, but he hit Lycophron a follower of Ajax, who came from Cythera, but was living with Ajax inasmuch as he had killed a man among the Cythereans.
Hector 's spear struck him on the head below the ear, and he fell headlong from the ship 's prow on to the ground with no life left in him.
Ajax shook with rage and said to his brother," Teucer, my good fellow, our trusty comrade the son of Mastor has fallen, he came to live with us from Cythera and whom we honoured as much as our own parents.
Hector has just killed him; fetch your deadly arrows at once and the bow which Phoebus Apollo gave you."
Teucer heard him and hastened towards him with his bow and quiver in his hands.
Forthwith he showered his arrows on the Trojans, and hit Cleitus the son of Pisenor, comrade of Polydamas the noble son of Panthous, with the reins in his hands as he was attending to his horses; he was in the middle of the very thickest part of the fight, doing good service to Hector and the Trojans, but evil had now come upon him, and not one of those who were fain to do so could avert it, for the arrow struck him on the back of the neck.
He fell from his chariot and his horses shook the empty car as they swerved aside.
King Polydamas saw what had happened, and was the first to come up to the horses; he gave them in charge to Astynous son of Protiaon, and ordered him to look on, and to keep the horses near at hand.
He then went back and took his place in the front ranks.
Teucer then aimed another arrow at Hector, and there would have been no more fighting at the ships if he had hit him and killed him then and there: Jove, however, who kept watch over Hector, had his eyes on Teucer, and deprived him of his triumph, by breaking his bowstring for him just as he was drawing it and about to take his aim; on this the arrow went astray and the bow fell from his hands.
Teucer shook with anger and said to his brother," Alas, see how heaven thwarts us in all we do; it has broken my bowstring and snatched the bow from my hand, though I strung it this selfsame morning that it might serve me for many an arrow."
Ajax son of Telamon answered," My good fellow, let your bow and your arrows be, for Jove has made them useless in order to spite the Danaans.
Take your spear, lay your shield upon your shoulder, and both fight the Trojans yourself and urge others to do so.
They may be successful for the moment but if we fight as we ought they will find it a hard matter to take the ships."
Teucer then took his bow and put it by in his tent.
He hung a shield four hides thick about his shoulders, and on his comely head he set his helmet well wrought with a crest of horsehair that nodded menacingly above it; he grasped his redoubtable bronzeshod spear, and forthwith he was by the side of Ajax.
When Hector saw that Teucer 's bow was of no more use to him, he shouted out to the Trojans and Lycians," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians good in close fight, be men, my friends, and show your mettle here at the ships, for I see the weapon of one of their chieftains made useless by the hand of Jove.
It is easy to see when Jove is helping people and means to help them still further, or again when he is bringing them down and will do nothing for them; he is now on our side, and is going against the Argives.
Therefore swarm round the ships and fight.
If any of you is struck by spear or sword and loses his life, let him die; he dies with honour who dies fighting for his country; and he will leave his wife and children safe behind him, with his house and allotment unplundered if only the Achaeans can be driven back to their own land, they and their ships."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all.
Ajax on the other side exhorted his comrades saying," Shame on you Argives, we are now utterly undone, unless we can save ourselves by driving the enemy from our ships.
Do you think, if Hector takes them, that you will be able to get home by land?
Can you not hear him cheering on his whole host to fire our fleet, and bidding them remember that they are not at a dance but in battle?
Our only course is to fight them with might and main; we had better chance it, life or death, once for all, than fight long and without issue hemmed in at our ships by worse men than ourselves."
With these words he put life and soul into them all.
Hector then killed Schedius son of Perimedes, leader of the Phoceans, and Ajax killed Laodamas captain of foot soldiers and son to Antenor.
Polydamas killed Otus of Cyllene a comrade of the son of Phyleus and chief of the proud Epeans.
When Meges saw this he sprang upon him, but Polydamas crouched down, and he missed him, for Apollo would not suffer the son of Panthous to fall in battle; but the spear hit Croesmus in the middle of his chest, whereon he fell heavily to the ground, and Meges stripped him of his armour.
At that moment the valiant soldier Dolops son of Lampus sprang upon Lampus was son of Laomedon and noted for his valour, while his son Dolops was versed in all the ways of war.
He then struck the middle of the son of Phyleus ' shield with his spear, setting on him at close quarters, but his good corslet made with plates of metal saved him; Phyleus had brought it from Ephyra and the river Selleis, where his host, King Euphetes, had given it him to wear in battle and protect him.
It now served to save the life of his son.
Then Meges struck the topmost crest of Dolops 's bronze helmet with his spear and tore away its plume of horsehair, so that all newly dyed with scarlet as it was it tumbled down into the dust.
While he was still fighting and confident of victory, Menelaus came up to help Meges, and got by the side of Dolops unperceived; he then speared him in the shoulder, from behind, and the point, driven so furiously, went through into his chest, whereon he fell headlong.
The two then made towards him to strip him of his armour, but Hector called on all his brothers for help, and he especially upbraided brave Melanippus son of Hiketaon, who erewhile used to pasture his herds of cattle in Percote before the war broke out; but when the ships of the Danaans came, he went back to Ilius, where he was eminent among the Trojans, and lived near Priam who treated him as one of his own sons.
Hector now rebuked him and said," Why, Melanippus, are we thus remiss?
do you take no note of the death of your kinsman, and do you not see how they are trying to take Dolops 's armour?
Follow me; there must be no fighting the Argives from a distance now, but we must do so in close combat till either we kill them or they take the high wall of Ilius and slay her people."
He led on as he spoke, and the hero Melanippus followed after.
Meanwhile Ajax son of Telamon was cheering on the Argives. "
My friends," he cried," be men, and fear dishonour; quit yourselves in battle so as to win respect from one another.
Men who respect each other 's good opinion are less likely to be killed than those who do not, but in flight there is neither gain nor glory."
Thus did he exhort men who were already bent upon driving back the Trojans.
They laid his words to heart and hedged the ships as with a wall of bronze, while Jove urged on the Trojans.
Menelaus of the loud battlecry urged Antilochus on.
"Antilochus," said he," you are young and there is none of the Achaeans more fleet of foot or more valiant than you are.
See if you can not spring upon some Trojan and kill him."
He hurried away when he had thus spurred Antilochus, who at once darted out from the front ranks and aimed a spear, after looking carefully round him.
The Trojans fell back as he threw, and the dart did not speed from his hand without effect, for it struck Melanippus the proud son of Hiketaon in the breast by the nipple as he was coming forward, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Antilochus sprang upon him as a dog springs on a fawn which a hunter has hit as it was breaking away from its covert, and killed it.
Even so, O Melanippus, did stalwart Antilochus spring upon you to strip you of your armour; but noble Hector marked him, and came running up to him through the thick of the battle.
Antilochus, brave soldier though he was, would not stay to face him, but fled like some savage creature which knows it has done wrong, and flies, when it has killed a dog or a man who is herding his cattle, before a body of men can be gathered to attack it.
Even so did the son of Nestor fly, and the Trojans and Hector with a cry that rent the air showered their weapons after him; nor did he turn round and stay his flight till he had reached his comrades.
The Trojans, fierce as lions, were still rushing on towards the ships in fulfilment of the behests of Jove who kept spurring them on to new deeds of daring, while he deadened the courage of the Argives and defeated them by encouraging the Trojans.
For he meant giving glory to Hector son of Priam, and letting him throw fire upon the ships, till he had fulfilled the unrighteous prayer that Thetis had made him; Jove, therefore, bided his time till he should see the glare of a blazing ship.
From that hour he was about so to order that the Trojans should be driven back from the ships and to vouchsafe glory to the Achaeans.
With this purpose he inspired Hector son of Priam, who was eager enough already, to assail the ships.
His fury was as that of Mars, or as when a fire is raging in the glades of some dense forest upon the mountains; he foamed at the mouth, his eyes glared under his terrible eyebrows, and his helmet quivered on his temples by reason of the fury with which he fought.
Jove from heaven was with him, and though he was but one against many, vouchsafed him victory and glory; for he was doomed to an early death, and already Pallas Minerva was hurrying on the hour of his destruction at the hands of the son of Peleus.
Now, however, he kept trying to break the ranks of the enemy wherever he could see them thickest, and in the goodliest armour; but do what he might he could not break through them, for they stood as a tower foursquare, or as some high cliff rising from the grey sea that braves the anger of the gale, and of the waves that thunder up against it.
He fell upon them like flames of fire from every quarter.
As when a wave, raised mountain high by wind and storm, breaks over a ship and covers it deep in foam, the fierce winds roar against the mast, the hearts of the sailors fail them for fear, and they are saved but by a very little from destruction— even so were the hearts of the Achaeans fainting within them.
Or as a savage lion attacking a herd of cows while they are feeding by thousands in the lowlying meadows by some widewatered shore— the herdsman is at his wit 's end how to protect his herd and keeps going about now in the van and now in the rear of his cattle, while the lion springs into the thick of them and fastens on a cow so that they all tremble for fear— even so were the Achaeans utterly panicstricken by Hector and father Jove.
Nevertheless Hector only killed Periphetes of Mycenae; he was son of Copreus who was wo nt to take the orders of King Eurystheus to mighty Hercules, but the son was a far better man than the father in every way; he was fleet of foot, a valiant warrior, and in understanding ranked among the foremost men of Mycenae.
He it was who then afforded Hector a triumph, for as he was turning back he stumbled against the rim of his shield which reached his feet, and served to keep the javelins off him.
He tripped against this and fell face upward, his helmet ringing loudly about his head as he did so.
Hector saw him fall and ran up to him; he then thrust a spear into his chest, and killed him close to his own comrades.
These, for all their sorrow, could not help him for they were themselves terribly afraid of Hector.
They had now reached the ships and the prows of those that had been drawn up first were on every side of them, but the Trojans came pouring after them.
The Argives were driven back from the first row of ships, but they made a stand by their tents without being broken up and scattered; shame and fear restrained them.
They kept shouting incessantly to one another, and Nestor of Gerene, tower of strength to the Achaeans, was loudest in imploring every man by his parents, and beseeching him to stand firm.
"Be men, my friends," he cried," and respect one another 's good opinion.
Think, all of you, on your children, your wives, your property, and your parents whether these be alive or dead.
On their behalf though they are not here, I implore you to stand firm, and not to turn in flight."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all.
Minerva lifted the thick veil of darkness from their eyes, and much light fell upon them, alike on the side of the ships and on that where the fight was raging.
They could see Hector and all his men, both those in the rear who were taking no part in the battle, and those who were fighting by the ships.
Ajax could not bring himself to retreat along with the rest, but strode from deck to deck with a great seapike in his hands twelve cubits long and jointed with rings.
As a man skilled in feats of horsemanship couples four horses together and comes tearing full speed along the public way from the country into some large town— many both men and women marvel as they see him for he keeps all the time changing his horse, springing from one to another without ever missing his feet while the horses are at a gallop— even so did Ajax go striding from one ship 's deck to another, and his voice went up into the heavens.
He kept on shouting his orders to the Danaans and exhorting them to defend their ships and tents; neither did Hector remain within the main body of the Trojan warriors, but as a dun eagle swoops down upon a flock of wildfowl feeding near a river— geese, it may be, or cranes, or longnecked swans— even so did Hector make straight for a darkprowed ship, rushing right towards it; for Jove with his mighty hand impelled him forward, and roused his people to follow him.
And now the battle again raged furiously at the ships.
You would have thought the men were coming on fresh and unwearied, so fiercely did they fight; and this was the mind in which they were —the Achaeans did not believe they should escape destruction but thought themselves doomed, while there was not a Trojan but his heart beat high with the hope of firing the ships and putting the Achaean heroes to the sword.
Thus were the two sides minded.
Then Hector seized the stern of the good ship that had brought Protesilaus to Troy, but never bore him back to his native land.
Round this ship there raged a close handtohand fight between Danaans and Trojans.
They did not fight at a distance with bows and javelins, but with one mind hacked at one another in close combat with their mighty swords and spears pointed at both ends; they fought moreover with keen battleaxes and with hatchets.
Many a good stout blade hilted and scabbarded with iron, fell from hand or shoulder as they fought, and the earth ran red with blood.
Hector, when he had seized the ship, would not loose his hold but held on to its curved stern and shouted to the Trojans," Bring fire, and raise the battlecry all of you with a single voice.
Now has Jove vouchsafed us a day that will pay us for all the rest; this day we shall take the ships which came hither against heaven 's will, and which have caused us such infinite suffering through the cowardice of our councillors, who when I would have done battle at the ships held me back and forbade the host to follow me; if Jove did then indeed warp our judgements, himself now commands me and cheers me on."
As he spoke thus the Trojans sprang yet more fiercely on the Achaeans, and Ajax no longer held his ground, for he was overcome by the darts that were flung at him, and made sure that he was doomed.
Therefore he left the raised deck at the stern, and stepped back on to the sevenfoot bench of the oarsmen.
Here he stood on the lookout, and with his spear held back any Trojan whom he saw bringing fire to the ships.
All the time he kept on shouting at the top of his voice and exhorting the Danaans. "
My friends," he cried," Danaan heroes, servants of Mars, be men my friends, and fight with might and with main.
Can we hope to find helpers hereafter, or a wall to shield us more surely than the one we have?
There is no strong city within reach, whence we may draw fresh forces to turn the scales in our favour.
We are on the plain of the armed Trojans with the sea behind us, and far from our own country.
Our salvation, therefore, is in the might of our hands and in hard fighting."
As he spoke he wielded his spear with still greater fury, and when any Trojan made towards the ships with fire at Hector 's bidding, he would be on the lookout for him, and drive at him with his long spear.
Twelve men did he thus kill in handtohand fight before the ships.
CHAPTER BAKER FARM.
SOMETIMES I rambled to pine groves, standing like temples, or like fleets at sea, full-rigged, with wavy boughs, and rippling with light, so soft and green and shady that the Druids would have forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or to the cedar wood beyond Flint's Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue berries, spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla, and the creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the white spruce trees, and toadstools, round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink and dogwood grow, the red alder berry glows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the wild holly berries make the beholder forget his home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless other wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste.
Instead of calling on some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of kinds which are rare in this neighborhood, standing far away in the middle of some pasture, or in the depths of a wood or swamp, or on a hilltop; such as the black birch, of which we have some handsome specimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch, with its loose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has so neat a hole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its details, of which, excepting scattered specimens, I know but one small grove of sizable trees left in the township, supposed by some to have been planted by the pigeons that were once baited with beechnuts near by; it is worth the while to see the silver grain sparkle when you split this wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the Celtis occidentalis, or false elm, of which we have but one well-grown; some taller mast of a pine, a shingle tree, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst of the woods; and many others I could mention.
These were the shrines I visited both summer and winter.
Once it chanced that I stood in the very abutment of a rainbow's arch, which filled the lower stratum of the atmosphere, tinging the grass and leaves around, and dazzling me as if I looked through colored crystal.
It was a lake of rainbow light, in which, for a short while, I lived like a dolphin.
If it had lasted longer it might have tinged my employments and life.
As I walked on the railroad causeway, I used to wonder at the halo of light around my shadow, and would fain fancy myself one of the elect.
One who visited me declared that the shadows of some Irishmen before him had no halo about them, that it was only natives that were so distinguished.
Benvenuto Cellini tells us in his memoirs, that, after a certain terrible dream or vision which he had during his confinement in the castle of St. Angelo a resplendent light appeared over the shadow of his head at morning and evening, whether he was in Italy or France, and it was particularly conspicuous when the grass was moist with dew.
This was probably the same phenomenon to which I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning, but also at other times, and even by moonlight.
Though a constant one, it is not commonly noticed, and, in the case of an excitable imagination like Cellini's, it would be basis enough for superstition.
Beside, he tells us that he showed it to very few.
But are they not indeed distinguished who are conscious that they are regarded at all?
I set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair Haven, through the woods, to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables.
My way led through Pleasant Meadow, an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat of which a poet has since sung, beginning, "Thy entry is a pleasant field, Which some mossy fruit trees yield Partly to a ruddy brook, By gliding musquash undertook, And mercurial trout, Darting about."
I thought of living there before I went to Walden.
I "hooked" the apples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout.
It was one of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one, in which many events may happen, a large portion of our natural life, though it was already half spent when I started.
By the way there came up a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour under a pine, piling boughs over my head, and wearing my handkerchief for a shed; and when at length I had made one cast over the pickerelweed, standing up to my middle in water, I found myself suddenly in the shadow of a cloud, and the thunder began to rumble with such emphasis that I could do no more than listen to it.
The gods must be proud, thought I, with such forked flashes to rout a poor unarmed fisherman.
So I made haste for shelter to the nearest hut, which stood half a mile from any road, but so much the nearer to the pond, and had long been uninhabited: "And here a poet builded, In the completed years, For behold a trivial cabin That to destruction steers."
So the Muse fables.
But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field, an Irishman, and his wife, and several children, from the broad-faced boy who assisted his father at his work, and now came running by his side from the bog to escape the rain, to the wrinkled, sibyl-like, cone-headed infant that sat upon its father's knee as in the palaces of nobles, and looked out from its home in the midst of wet and hunger inquisitively upon the stranger, with the privilege of infancy, not knowing but it was the last of a noble line, and the hope and cynosure of the world, instead of John Field's poor starveling brat.
There we sat together under that part of the roof which leaked the least, while it showered and thundered without.
I had sat there many times of old before the ship was built that floated his family to America.
An honest, hard-working, but shiftless man plainly was John Field; and his wife, she too was brave to cook so many successive dinners in the recesses of that lofty stove; with round greasy face and bare breast, still thinking to improve her condition one day; with the never absent mop in one hand, and yet no effects of it visible anywhere.
The chickens, which had also taken shelter here from the rain, stalked about the room like members of the family, to humanized, methought, to roast well.
They stood and looked in my eye or pecked at my shoe significantly.
Meanwhile my host told me his story, how hard he worked "bogging" for a neighboring farmer, turning up a meadow with a spade or bog hoe at the rate of ten dollars an acre and the use of the land with manure for one year, and his little broad-faced son worked cheerfully at his father's side the while, not knowing how poor a bargain the latter had made.
I tried to help him with my experience, telling him that he was one of my nearest neighbors, and that I too, who came a-fishing here, and looked like a loafer, was getting my living like himself; that I lived in a tight, light, and clean house, which hardly cost more than the annual rent of such a ruin as his commonly amounts to; and how, if he chose, he might in a month or two build himself a palace of his own; that I did not use tea, nor coffee, nor butter, nor milk, nor fresh meat, and so did not have to work to get them; again, as I did not work hard, I did not have to eat hard, and it cost me but a trifle for my food; but as he began with tea, and coffee, and butter, and milk, and beef, he had to work hard to pay for them, and when he had worked hard he had to eat hard again to repair the waste of his systemand so it was as broad as it was long, indeed it was broader than it was long, for he was discontented and wasted his life into the bargain; and yet he had rated it as a gain in coming to America, that here you could get tea, and coffee, and meat every day.
But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things.
For I purposely talked to him as if he were a philosopher, or desired to be one.
I should be glad if all the meadows on the earth were left in a wild state, if that were the consequence of men's beginning to redeem themselves.
A man will not need to study history to find out what is best for his own culture.
But alas!
the culture of an Irishman is an enterprise to be undertaken with a sort of moral bog hoe.
I told him, that as he worked so hard at bogging, he required thick boots and stout clothing, which yet were soon soiled and worn out, but I wore light shoes and thin clothing, which cost not half so much, though he might think that I was dressed like a gentleman (which, however, was not the case), and in an hour or two, without labor, but as a recreation, I could, if I wished, catch as many fish as I should want for two days, or earn enough money to support me a week.
If he and his family would live simply, they might all go a-huckleberrying in the summer for their amusement.
John heaved a sigh at this, and his wife stared with arms a-kimbo, and both appeared to be wondering if they had capital enough to begin such a course with, or arithmetic enough to carry it through.
It was sailing by dead reckoning to them, and they saw not clearly how to make their port so; therefore I suppose they still take life bravely, after their fashion, face to face, giving it tooth and nail, not having skill to split its massive columns with any fine entering wedge, and rout it in detail;thinking to deal with it roughly, as one should handle a thistle.
But they fight at an overwhelming disadvantageliving, John Field, alas!
without arithmetic, and failing so.
"Do you ever fish?"
I asked.
"Oh yes, I catch a mess now and then when I am lying by; good perch I catch."What's your bait?"
"I catch shiners with fishworms, and bait the perch with them."
"You'd better go now, John," said his wife, with glistening and hopeful face; but John demurred.
The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my departure.
When I had got without I asked for a drink, hoping to get a sight of the well bottom, to complete my survey of the premises; but there, alas!
are shallows and quicksands, and rope broken withal, and bucket irrecoverable.
Meanwhile the right culinary vessel was selected, water was seemingly distilled, and after consultation and long delay passed out to the thirsty onenot yet suffered to cool, not yet to settle.
Such gruel sustains life here, I thought; so, shutting my eyes, and excluding the motes by a skilfully directed undercurrent, I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest draught I could.
I am not squeamish in such cases when manners are concerned.
As I was leaving the Irishman's roof after the rain, bending my steps again to the pond, my haste to catch pickerel, wading in retired meadows, in sloughs and bog-holes, in forlorn and savage places, appeared for an instant trivial to me who had been sent to school and college; but as I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the rainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling sounds borne to my ear through the cleansed air, from I know not what quarter, my Good Genius seemed to sayGo fish and hunt far and wide day by dayfarther and widerand rest thee by many brooks and hearth-sides without misgiving.
Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.
Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures.
Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home.
There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played.
Grow wild according to thy nature, like these sedges and brakes, which will never become English bay.
Let the thunder rumble; what if it threaten ruin to farmers' crops?
that is not its errand to thee.
Take shelter under the cloud, while they flee to carts and sheds.
Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport.
Enjoy the land, but own it not.
Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they are, buying and selling, and spending their lives like serfs.
O Baker Farm!
"Landscape where the richest element Is a little sunshine innocent."...
"No one runs to revel On thy rail-fenced lea."...
"Debate with no man hast thou, With questions art never perplexed, As tame at the first sight as now, In thy plain russet gabardine dressed."
"Come ye who love, And ye who hate, Children of the Holy Dove, And Guy Faux of the state, And hang conspiracies From the tough rafters of the trees!"
Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where their household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes its own breath over again; their shadows, morning and evening, reach farther than their daily steps.
We should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience and character.
Before I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out John Field, with altered mind, letting go "bogging" ere this sunset.
But he, poor man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was catching a fair string, and he said it was his luck; but when we changed seats in the boat luck changed seats too.
Poor John Field!I trust he does not read this, unless he will improve by itthinking to live by some derivative old-country mode in this primitive new countryto catch perch with shiners.
It is good bait sometimes, I allow.
With his horizon all his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with his inherited Irish poverty or poor life, his Adam's grandmother and boggy ways, not to rise in this world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed bog-trotting feet get talaria to their heels.
CHAPTER THE PONDS.
SOMETIMES, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and worn out all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward than I habitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented parts of the town, "to fresh woods and pastures new," or, while the sun was setting, made my supper of huckleberries and blueberries on Fair Haven Hill, and laid up a store for several days.
The fruits do not yield their true flavor to the purchaser of them, nor to him who raises them for the market.
There is but one way to obtain it, yet few take that way.
If you would know the flavor of huckleberries, ask the cowboy or the partridge.
It is a vulgar error to suppose that you have tasted huckleberries who never plucked them.
A huckleberry never reaches Boston; they have not been known there since they grew on her three hills.
The ambrosial and essential part of the fruit is lost with the bloom which is rubbed off in the market cart, and they become mere provender.
As long as Eternal justice reigns, not one innocent huckleberry can be transported thither from the country's hills.
Occasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of Coenobites.
There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat in my doorway to arrange his lines.
Once in a while we sat together on the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my philosophy.
Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech.
When, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used to raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my boat, filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating sound, stirring them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild beasts, until I elicited a growl from every wooded vale and hillside.
In warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw the perch, which I seem to have charmed, hovering around me, and the moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the wrecks of the forest.
Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously, from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and, making a fire close to the water's edge, which we thought attracted the fishes, we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread, and when we had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into the air like skyrockets, which, coming down into the pond, were quenched with a loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total darkness.
Through this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts of men again.
But now I had made my home by the shore.
Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand.
These experiences were very memorable and valuable to meanchored in forty feet of water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes by thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with their tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line with mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet below, or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along it, indicative of some life prowling about its extremity, of dull uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind.
At length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some horned pout squeaking and squirming to the upper air.
It was very queer, especially in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again.
It seemed as if I might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward into this element, which was scarcely more dense.
Thus I caught two fishes as it were with one hook.
The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular description.
It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a mile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one and a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak woods, without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and evaporation.
The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the height of forty to eighty feet, though on the southeast and east they attain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet respectively, within a quarter and a third of a mile.
They are exclusively woodland.
All our Concord waters have two colors at least; one when viewed at a distance, and another, more proper, close at hand.
The first depends more on the light, and follows the sky.
In clear weather, in summer, they appear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a great distance all appear alike.
In stormy weather they are sometimes of a dark slate-color.
The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere.
I have seen our river, when, the landscape being covered with snow, both water and ice were almost as green as grass.
Some consider blue "to be the color of pure water, whether liquid or solid."
But, looking directly down into our waters from a boat, they are seen to be of very different colors.
Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the same point of view.
Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes of the color of both.
Viewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the sky; but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a uniform dark green in the body of the pond.
In some lights, viewed even from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore.
Some have referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green there against the railroad sandbank, and in the spring, before the leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing blue mixed with the yellow of the sand.
Such is the color of its iris.
This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still frozen middle.
Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear weather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the right angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears at a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such a time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to see the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable light blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the original dark green on the opposite sides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in comparison.
It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before sundown.
Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as colorless as an equal quantity of air.
It is well known that a large plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its "body," but a small piece of the same will be colorless.
How large a body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I have never proved.
The water of our river is black or a very dark brown to one looking directly down on it, and, like that of most ponds, imparts to the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge; but this water is of such crystalline purity that the body of the bather appears of an alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural, which, as the limbs are magnified and distorted withal, produces a monstrous effect, making fit studies for a Michael Angelo.
The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet.
Paddling over it, you may see, many feet beneath the surface, the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps only an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their transverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find a subsistence there.
Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had been cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil genius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of the holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep.
Out of curiosity, I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the handle rotted off, if I had not disturbed it.
Making another hole directly over it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down carefully, passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line along the birch, and so pulled the axe out again.
The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like paving-stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side.
Some think it is bottomless.
It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable plants, except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not properly belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a bulrush, nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small heart-leaves and potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all which however a bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like the element they grow in.
The stones extend a rod or two into the water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, where there is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the leaves which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter.
We have one other pond just like this, White Pond, in Nine Acre Corner, about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this centre I do not know a third of this pure and well-like character.
Successive nations perchance have drank at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its water is green and pellucid as ever.
Not an intermitting spring!
Perhaps on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden Walden Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle spring rain accompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still such pure lakes sufficed them.
Even then it had commenced to rise and fall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they now wear, and obtained a patent of Heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the world and distiller of celestial dews.
Who knows in how many unremembered nations' literatures this has been the Castalian Fountain?
or what nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age?
It is a gem of the first water which Concord wears in her coronet.
Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of their footsteps.
I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, even where a thick wood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow shelf-like path in the steep hillside, alternately rising and falling, approaching and receding from the water's edge, as old probably as the race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from time to time unmittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land.
This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly distinguishable close at hand.
The snow reprints it, as it were, in clear white type alto-relievo.
The ornamented grounds of villas which will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this.
The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know.
It is commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not corresponding to the general wet and dryness.
I can remember when it was a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet higher, than when I lived by it.
There is a narrow sand-bar running into it, with very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a kettle of chowder, some six rods from the main shore, about the year 1824, which it has not been possible to do for twenty-five years; and, on the other hand, my friends used to listen with incredulity when I told them, that a few years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was long since converted into a meadow.
But the pond has risen steadily for two years, and now, in the summer of '52, is just five feet higher than when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and fishing goes on again in the meadow.
This makes a difference of level, at the outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed by the surrounding hills is insignificant in amount, and this overflow must be referred to causes which affect the deep springs.
This same summer the pond has begun to fall again.
It is remarkable that this fluctuation, whether periodical or not, appears thus to require many years for its accomplishment.
I have observed one rise and a part of two falls, and I expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence the water will again be as low as I have ever known it.
Flint's Pond, a mile eastward, allowing for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently attained their greatest height at the same time with the latter.
The same is true, as far as my observation goes, of White Pond.
This rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at least; the water standing at this great height for a year or more, though it makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and trees which have sprung up about its edge since the last risepitch pines, birches, alders, aspens, and othersand, falling again, leaves an unobstructed shore; for, unlike many ponds and all waters which are subject to a daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water is lowest.
On the side of the pond next my house a row of pitch pines, fifteen feet high, has been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to their encroachments; and their size indicates how many years have elapsed since the last rise to this height.
By this fluctuation the pond asserts its title to a shore, and thus the shore is shorn, and the trees cannot hold it by right of possession.
These are the lips of the lake, on which no beard grows.
It licks its chaps from time to time.
When the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and maples send forth a mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from all sides of their stems in the water, and to the height of three or four feet from the ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and I have known the high blueberry bushes about the shore, which commonly produce no fruit, bear an abundant crop under these circumstances.
Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved.
My townsmen have all heard the traditionthe oldest people tell me that they heard it in their youththat anciently the Indians were holding a pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the pond was named.
It has been conjectured that when the hill shook these stones rolled down its side and became the present shore.
It is very certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he concluded to dig a well here.
As for the stones, many still think that they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me.
I detect the paver.
If the name was not derived from that of some English localitySaffron Walden, for instanceone might suppose that it was called originally Walled-in Pond.
The pond was my well ready dug.
For four months in the year its water is as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good as any, if not the best, in the town.
In the winter, all water which is exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected from it.
The temperature of the pond water which had stood in the room where I sat from five o'clock in the afternoon till noon the next day, the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to 65' or 70' some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42', or one degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in the village just drawn.
The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45', or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know of in summer, when, beside, shallow and stagnant surface water is not mingled with it.
Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth.
In the warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar, where it became cool in the night, and remained so during the day; though I also resorted to a spring in the neighborhood.
It was as good when a week old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the pump.
Whoever camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs only bury a pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to be independent of the luxury of ice.
There have been caught in Walden pickerel, one weighing seven poundsto say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity, which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not see himperch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds, shiners, chivins or roach (Leuciscus pulchellus), a very few breams, and a couple of eels, one weighing four poundsI am thus particular because the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and these are the only eels I have heard of here;also, I have a faint recollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I mention here chiefly to link my facts to fable.
Nevertheless, this pond is not very fertile in fish.
Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its chief boast.
I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at least three different kinds: a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common here; and another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint blood-red ones, very much like a trout.
The specific name reticulatus would not apply to this; it should be guttatus rather.
These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size promises.
The shiners, pouts, and perch also, and indeed all the fishes which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer-fleshed than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is purer, and they can easily be distinguished from them.
Probably many ichthyologists would make new varieties of some of them.
There are also a clean race of frogs and tortoises, and a few mussels in it; muskrats and minks leave their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits it.
Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a great mud-turtle which had secreted himself under the boat in the night.
Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied swallows (Hirundo bicolor) skim over it, and the peetweets (Totanus macularius) "teeter" along its stony shores all summer.
I have sometimes disturbed a fish hawk sitting on a white pine over the water; but I doubt if it is ever profaned by the wind of a gull, like Fair Haven.
At most, it tolerates one annual loon.
These are all the animals of consequence which frequent it now.
You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern, shore where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen's egg in size, where all around is bare sand.
At first you wonder if the Indians could have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice melted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of them plainly too fresh for that.
They are similar to those found in rivers; but as there are no suckers nor lampreys here, I know not by what fish they could be made.
Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin.
These lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom.
The shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous.
I have in my mind's eye the western, indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the beautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap each other and suggest unexplored coves between.
The forest has never so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water's edge; for the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable boundary to it.
There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it.
The trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each sends forth its most vigorous branch in that direction.
There Nature has woven a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just gradations from the low shrubs of the shore to the highest trees.
There are few traces of man's hand to be seen.
The water laves the shore as it did a thousand years ago.
A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature.
It is earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.
The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows.
Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore-line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the glassy surface of a lake."
When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from another.
You would think that you could walk dry under it to the opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it.
Indeed, they sometimes dive below this line, as it were by mistake, and are undeceived.
As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two, you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said, a swallow skims so low as to touch it.
It may be that in the distance a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water; sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps, is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and so dimple it again.
It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in glass.
You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, resting on it.
From a hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake.
It is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is advertisedthis piscine murder will outand from my distant perch I distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in diameter.
You can even detect a water-bug (Gyrinus) ceaselessly progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it perceptibly.
When the surface is considerably agitated there are no skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short impulses till they completely cover it.
It is a soothing employment, on one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the reflected skies and trees.
Over this great expanse there is no disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged, as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore and all is smooth again.
Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of its life, the heaving of its breast.
The thrills of joy and thrills of pain are undistinguishable.
How peaceful the phenomena of the lake!
Again the works of man shine as in the spring.
Ay, every leaf and twig and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with dew in a spring morning.
Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo!
In such a day, in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or rarer.
Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth.
Sky water.
It needs no fence.
Nations come and go without defiling it.
It is a mirror which no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever fresh;a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and dusted by the sun's hazy brushthis the light dust-clothwhich retains no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds high above its surface, and he reflected in its bosom still.
A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air.
It is continually receiving new life and motion from above.
It is intermediate in its nature between land and sky.
On land only the grass and trees wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind.
I see where the breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light.
It is remarkable that we can look down on its surface.
We shall, perhaps, look down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it.
The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November, usually, in a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the surface.
One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain-storm of several days' duration, when the sky was still completely overcast and the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably smooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it no longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the sombre November colors of the surrounding hills.
Though I passed over it as gently as possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended almost as far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections.
But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom.
Paddling gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a rich bronze color in the green water, sporting there, and constantly rising to the surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it.
In such transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and their swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they were a compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the right or left, their fins, like sails, set all around them.
There were many such schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season before winter would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight, sometimes giving to the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze struck it, or a few rain-drops fell there.
When I approached carelessly and alarmed them, they made a sudden splash and rippling with their tails, as if one had struck the water with a brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the depths.
At length the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began to run, and the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of water, a hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the surface.
Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard immediately, the air being fun of mist, I made haste to take my place at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough soaking.
But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the perch, which the noise of my oars had seared into the depths, and I saw their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after all.
An old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water-fowl, and that there were many eagles about it.
He came here a-fishing, and used an old log canoe which he found on the shore.
It was made of two white pine logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at the ends.
It was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it became water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom.
He did not know whose it was; it belonged to the pond.
He used to make a cable for his anchor of strips of hickory bark tied together.
An old man, a potter, who lived by the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there was an iron chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it.
Sometimes it would come floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back into deep water and disappear.
I was pleased to hear of the old log canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material but more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a tree on the bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float there for a generation, the most proper vessel for the lake.
I remember that when I first looked into these depths there were many large trunks to be seen indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been blown over formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood was cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared.
When I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape-vines had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a boat could pass.
The hills which form its shores are so steep, and the woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from the west end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some land of sylvan spectacle.
I have spent many an hour, when I was younger, floating over its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat to the middle, and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the most attractive and productive industry.
Many a forenoon have I stolen away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher's desk.
But since I left those shores the woodchoppers have still further laid them waste, and now for many a year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood, with occasional vistas through which you see the water.
My Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth.
How can you expect the birds to sing when their groves are cut down?
Now the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!to earn their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug!
That devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore, that Trojan horse, with a thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks!
Where is the country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hill, to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest?
Nevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears best, and best preserves its purity.
Many men have been likened to it, but few deserve that honor.
Though the woodchoppers have laid bare first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me.
It has not acquired one permanent wrinkle after all its ripples.
It is perennially young, and I may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its surface as of yore.
It struck me again tonight, as if I had not seen it almost daily for more than twenty yearsWhy, here is Walden, the same woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it may be to me.
It is the work of a brave man surely, in whom there was no guile!
He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and clarified it in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord.
I see by its face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, Walden, is it you?
It is no dream of mine, To ornament a line; I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven Than I live to Walden even.
I am its stony shore, And the breeze that passes o'er; In the hollow of my hand Are its water and its sand, And its deepest resort Lies high in my thought.
The cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and see it often, are better men for the sight.
The engineer does not forget at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision of serenity and purity once at least during the day.
Though seen but once, it helps to wash out State Street and the engine's soot.
One proposes that it be called "God's Drop."
I have said that Walden has no visible inlet nor outlet, but it is on the one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond, which is more elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it may have flowed, and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be made to flow thither again.
If by living thus reserved and austere, like a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such wonderful purity, who would not regret that the comparatively impure waters of Flint's Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its sweetness in the ocean wave?
Flint's, or Sandy Pond, in Lincoln, our greatest lake and inland sea, lies about a mile east of Walden.
It is much larger, being said to contain one hundred and ninety-seven acres, and is more fertile in fish; but it is comparatively shallow, and not remarkably pure.
A walk through the woods thither was often my recreation.
It was worth the while, if only to feel the wind blow on your cheek freely, and see the waves run, and remember the life of mariners.
I went achestnutting there in the fall, on windy days, when the nuts were dropping into the water and were washed to my feet; and one day, as I crept along its sedgy shore, the fresh spray blowing in my face, I came upon the mouldering wreck of a boat, the sides gone, and hardly more than the impression of its flat bottom left amid the rushes; yet its model was sharply defined, as if it were a large decayed pad, with its veins.
It was as impressive a wreck as one could imagine on the seashore, and had as good a moral.
It is by this time mere vegetable mould and undistinguishable pond shore, through which rushes and flags have pushed up.
I used to admire the ripple marks on the sandy bottom, at the north end of this pond, made firm and hard to the feet of the wader by the pressure of the water, and the rushes which grew in Indian file, in waving lines, corresponding to these marks, rank behind rank, as if the waves had planted them.
There also I have found, in considerable quantities, curious balls, composed apparently of fine grass or roots, of pipewort perhaps, from half an inch to four inches in diameter, and perfectly spherical.
These wash back and forth in shallow water on a sandy bottom, and are sometimes cast on the shore.
They are either solid grass, or have a little sand in the middle.
At first you would say that they were formed by the action of the waves, like a pebble; yet the smallest are made of equally coarse materials, half an inch long, and they are produced only at one season of the year.
Moreover, the waves, I suspect, do not so much construct as wear down a material which has already acquired consistency.
They preserve their form when dry for an indefinite period.
Flint's Pond!
Such is the poverty of our nomenclature.
What right had the unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water, whose shores he has ruthlessly laid bare, to give his name to it?
Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could see his own brazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers grown into crooked and bony talons from the lodge habit of grasping harpy-like;so it is not named for me.
I go not there to see him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who never bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who never spoke a good word for it, nor thanked God that He had made it.
Rather let it be named from the fishes that swim in it, the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child the thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it but the deed which a like-minded neighbor or legislature gave himhim who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance cursed all the shores; who exhausted the land around it, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only that it was not English hay or cranberry meadowthere was nothing to redeem it, forsooth, in his eyesand would have drained and sold it for the mud at its bottom.
It did not turn his mill, and it was no privilege to him to behold it.
I respect not his labors, his farm where everything has its price, who would carry the landscape, who would carry his God, to market, if he could get anything for him; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees no fruits, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his fruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars.
Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth.
Farmers are respectable and interesting to me in proportion as they are poorpoor farmers.
A model farm!
where the house stands like a fungus in a muckheap, chambers for men horses, oxen, and swine, cleansed and uncleansed, all contiguous to one another!
Stocked with men!
A great greasespot, redolent of manures and buttermilk!
Under a high state of cultivation, being manured with the hearts and brains of men!
As if you were to raise your potatoes in the churchyard!
Such is a model farm.
No, no; if the fairest features of the landscape are to be named after men, let them be the noblest and worthiest men alone.
Let our lakes receive as true names at least as the Icarian Sea, where "still the shore" a "brave attempt resounds."
Goose Pond, of small extent, is on my way to Flint's; Fair Haven, an expansion of Concord River, said to contain some seventy acres, is a mile southwest; and White Pond, of about forty acres, is a mile and a half beyond Fair Haven.
This is my lake country.
These, with Concord River, are my water privileges; and night and day, year in year out, they grind such grist as I carry to them.
Since the wood-cutters, and the railroad, and I myself have profaned Walden, perhaps the most attractive, if not the most beautiful, of all our lakes, the gem of the woods, is White Pond;a poor name from its commonness, whether derived from the remarkable purity of its waters or the color of its sands.
In these as in other respects, however, it is a lesser twin of Walden.
They are so much alike that you would say they must be connected under ground.
It has the same stony shore, and its waters are of the same hue.
As at Walden, in sultry dogday weather, looking down through the woods on some of its bays which are not so deep but that the reflection from the bottom tinges them, its waters are of a misty bluish-green or glaucous color.
Many years since I used to go there to collect the sand by cartloads, to make sandpaper with, and I have continued to visit it ever since.
One who frequents it proposes to call it Virid Lake.
Perhaps it might be called Yellow Pine Lake, from the following circumstance.
About fifteen years ago you could see the top of a pitch pine, of the kind called yellow pine hereabouts, though it is not a distinct species, projecting above the surface in deep water, many rods from the shore.
It was even supposed by some that the pond had sunk, and this was one of the primitive forest that formerly stood there.
I find that even so long ago as 1792, in a "Topographical Description of the Town of Concord," by one of its citizens, in the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, the author, after speaking of Walden and White Ponds, adds, "In the middle of the latter may be seen, when the water is very low, a tree which appears as if it grew in the place where it now stands, although the roots are fifty feet below the surface of the water; the top of this tree is broken off, and at that place measures fourteen inches in diameter."
In the spring of '49 I talked with the man who lives nearest the pond in Sudbury, who told me that it was he who got out this tree ten or fifteen years before.
As near as he could remember, it stood twelve or fifteen rods from the shore, where the water was thirty or forty feet deep.
It was in the winter, and he had been getting out ice in the forenoon, and had resolved that in the afternoon, with the aid of his neighbors, he would take out the old yellow pine.
He sawed a channel in the ice toward the shore, and hauled it over and along and out on to the ice with oxen; but, before he had gone far in his work, he was surprised to find that it was wrong end upward, with the stumps of the branches pointing down, and the small end firmly fastened in the sandy bottom.
It was about a foot in diameter at the big end, and he had expected to get a good saw-log, but it was so rotten as to be fit only for fuel, if for that.
He had some of it in his shed then.
There were marks of an axe and of woodpeckers on the butt.
He thought that it might have been a dead tree on the shore, but was finally blown over into the pond, and after the top had become water-logged, while the butt-end was still dry and light, had drifted out and sunk wrong end up.
His father, eighty years old, could not remember when it was not there.
Several pretty large logs may still be seen lying on the bottom, where, owing to the undulation of the surface, they look like huge water snakes in motion.
This pond has rarely been profaned by a boat, for there is little in it to tempt a fisherman.
Instead of the white lily, which requires mud, or the common sweet flag, the blue flag (Iris versicolor) grows thinly in the pure water, rising from the stony bottom all around the shore, where it is visited by hummingbirds in June; and the color both of its bluish blades and its flowers and especially their reflections, is in singular harmony with the glaucous water.
White Pond and Walden are great crystals on the surface of the earth, Lakes of Light.
If they were permanently congealed, and small enough to be clutched, they would, perchance, be carried off by slaves, like precious stones, to adorn the heads of emperors; but being liquid, and ample, and secured to us and our successors forever, we disregard them, and run after the diamond of Kohinoor.
They are too pure to have a market value; they contain no muck.
How much more beautiful than our lives, how much more transparent than our characters, are they!
We never learned meanness of them.
How much fairer than the pool before the farmers door, in which his ducks swim!
Hither the clean wild ducks come.
Nature has no human inhabitant who appreciates her.
The birds with their plumage and their notes are in harmony with the flowers, but what youth or maiden conspires with the wild luxuriant beauty of Nature?
She flourishes most alone, far from the towns where they reside.
Talk of heaven!
ye disgrace earth.
ULYSSES CANNOT SLEEP—PENELOPE'S PRAYER TO DIANA—THE TWO SIGNS FROM HEAVEN—EUMAEUS AND PHILOETIUS ARRIVE—THE SUITORS DINE—CTESIPPUS THROWS AN OX'S FOOT AT ULYSSES—THEOCLYMENUS FORETELLS DISASTER AND LEAVES THE HOUSE.
Ulysses slept in the cloister upon an undressed bullock 's hide, on the top of which he threw several skins of the sheep the suitors had eaten, and Eurynome threw a cloak over him after he had laid himself down.
There, then, Ulysses lay wakefully brooding upon the way in which he should kill the suitors; and by and by, the women who had been in the habit of misconducting themselves with them, left the house giggling and laughing with one another.
This made Ulysses very angry, and he doubted whether to get up and kill every single one of them then and there, or to let them sleep one more and last time with the suitors.
His heart growled within him, and as a bitch with puppies growls and shows her teeth when she sees a stranger, so did his heart growl with anger at the evil deeds that were being done: but he beat his breast and said," Heart, be still, you had worse than this to bear on the day when the terrible Cyclops ate your brave companions; yet you bore it in silence till your cunning got you safe out of the cave, though you made sure of being killed."
Thus he chided with his heart, and checked it into endurance, but he tossed about as one who turns a paunch full of blood and fat in front of a hot fire, doing it first on one side and then on the other, that he may get it cooked as soon as possible, even so did he turn himself about from side to side, thinking all the time how, single handed as he was, he should contrive to kill so large a body of men as the wicked suitors.
But by and by Minerva came down from heaven in the likeness of a woman, and hovered over his head saying," My poor unhappy man, why do you lie awake in this way?
This is your house: your wife is safe inside it, and so is your son who is just such a young man as any father may be proud of."
"Goddess," answered Ulysses," all that you have said is true, but I am in some doubt as to how I shall be able to kill these wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number of them there always are.
And there is this further difficulty, which is still more considerable.
Supposing that with Jove 's and your assistance I succeed in killing them, I must ask you to consider where I am to escape to from their avengers when it is all over."
"For shame," replied Minerva," why, any one else would trust a worse ally than myself, even though that ally were only a mortal and less wise than I am.
Am I not a goddess, and have I not protected you throughout in all your troubles?
I tell you plainly that even though there were fifty bands of men surrounding us and eager to kill us, you should take all their sheep and cattle, and drive them away with you.
But go to sleep; it is a very bad thing to lie awake all night, and you shall be out of your troubles before long."
As she spoke she shed sleep over his eyes, and then went back to Olympus.
While Ulysses was thus yielding himself to a very deep slumber that eased the burden of his sorrows, his admirable wife awoke, and sitting up in her bed began to cry.
When she had relieved herself by weeping she prayed to Diana saying," Great Goddess Diana, daughter of Jove, drive an arrow into my heart and slay me; or let some whirlwind snatch me up and bear me through paths of darkness till it drop me into the mouths of overflowing Oceanus, as it did the daughters of Pandareus.
The daughters of Pandareus lost their father and mother, for the gods killed them, so they were left orphans.
But Venus took care of them, and fed them on cheese, honey, and sweet wine.
Juno taught them to excel all women in beauty of form and understanding; Diana gave them an imposing presence, and Minerva endowed them with every kind of accomplishment; but one day when Venus had gone up to Olympus to see Jove about getting them married( for well does he know both what shall happen and what not happen to every one) the storm winds came and spirited them away to become handmaids to the dread Erinyes.
Even so I wish that the gods who live in heaven would hide me from mortal sight, or that fair Diana might strike me, for I would fain go even beneath the sad earth if I might do so still looking towards Ulysses only, and without having to yield myself to a worse man than he was.
Besides, no matter how much people may grieve by day, they can put up with it so long as they can sleep at night, for when the eyes are closed in slumber people forget good and ill alike; whereas my misery haunts me even in my dreams.
This very night methought there was one lying by my side who was like Ulysses as he was when he went away with his host, and I rejoiced, for I believed that it was no dream, but the very truth itself."
On this the day broke, but Ulysses heard the sound of her weeping, and it puzzled him, for it seemed as though she already knew him and was by his side.
Then he gathered up the cloak and the fleeces on which he had lain, and set them on a seat in the cloister, but he took the bullock 's hide out into the open.
He lifted up his hands to heaven, and prayed, saying" Father Jove, since you have seen fit to bring me over land and sea to my own home after all the afflictions you have laid upon me, give me a sign out of the mouth of some one or other of those who are now waking within the house, and let me have another sign of some kind from outside."
Thus did he pray.
Jove heard his prayer and forthwith thundered high up among the clouds from the splendour of Olympus, and Ulysses was glad when he heard it.
At the same time within the house, a millerwoman from hard by in the mill room lifted up her voice and gave him another sign.
There were twelve millerwomen whose business it was to grind wheat and barley which are the staff of life.
The others had ground their task and had gone to take their rest, but this one had not yet finished, for she was not so strong as they were, and when she heard the thunder she stopped grinding and gave the sign to her master. "
Father Jove," said she," you, who rule over heaven and earth, you have thundered from a clear sky without so much as a cloud in it, and this means something for somebody; grant the prayer, then, of me your poor servant who calls upon you, and let this be the very last day that the suitors dine in the house of Ulysses.
They have worn me out with labour of grinding meal for them, and I hope they may never have another dinner anywhere at all."
Ulysses was glad when he heard the omens conveyed to him by the woman 's speech, and by the thunder, for he knew they meant that he should avenge himself on the suitors.
Then the other maids in the house rose and lit the fire on the hearth; Telemachus also rose and put on his clothes.
He girded his sword about his shoulder, bound his sandals on to his comely feet, and took a doughty spear with a point of sharpened bronze; then he went to the threshold of the cloister and said to Euryclea," Nurse, did you make the stranger comfortable both as regards bed and board, or did you let him shift for himself?—for my mother, good woman though she is, has a way of paying great attention to secondrate people, and of neglecting others who are in reality much better men."
"Do not find fault child," said Euryclea," when there is no one to find fault with.
The stranger sat and drank his wine as long as he liked: your mother did ask him if he would take any more bread and he said he would not.
When he wanted to go to bed she told the servants to make one for him, but he said he was such a wretched outcast that he would not sleep on a bed and under blankets; he insisted on having an undressed bullock 's hide and some sheepskins put for him in the cloister and I threw a cloak over him myself."
Then Telemachus went out of the court to the place where the Achaeans were meeting in assembly; he had his spear in his hand, and he was not alone, for his two dogs went with him.
But Euryclea called the maids and said," Come, wake up; set about sweeping the cloisters and sprinkling them with water to lay the dust; put the covers on the seats; wipe down the tables, some of you, with a wet sponge; clean out the mixingjugs and the cups, and go for water from the fountain at once; the suitors will be here directly; they will be here early, for it is a feast day."
Thus did she speak, and they did even as she had said: twenty of them went to the fountain for water, and the others set themselves busily to work about the house.
The men who were in attendance on the suitors also came up and began chopping firewood.
By and by the women returned from the fountain, and the swineherd came after them with the three best pigs he could pick out.
These he let feed about the premises, and then he said goodhumouredly to Ulysses," Stranger, are the suitors treating you any better now, or are they as insolent as ever?"
"May heaven," answered Ulysses," requite to them the wickedness with which they deal highhandedly in another man 's house without any sense of shame."
Thus did they converse; meanwhile Melanthius the goatherd came up, for he too was bringing in his best goats for the suitors ' dinner; and he had two shepherds with him.
They tied the goats up under the gatehouse, and then Melanthius began gibing at Ulysses."
Are you still here, stranger," said he," to pester people by begging about the house?
Why can you not go elsewhere?
You and I shall not come to an understanding before we have given each other a taste of our fists.
You beg without any sense of decency: are there not feasts elsewhere among the Achaeans, as well as here?"
Ulysses made no answer, but bowed his head and brooded.
Then a third man, Philoetius, joined them, who was bringing in a barren heifer and some goats.
These were brought over by the boatmen who are there to take people over when any one comes to them.
So Philoetius made his heifer and his goats secure under the gatehouse, and then went up to the swineherd.
"Who, Swineherd," said he," is this stranger that is lately come here?
Is he one of your men?
What is his family?
Where does he come from?
Poor fellow, he looks as if he had been some great man, but the gods give sorrow to whom they will— even to kings if it so pleases them."
As he spoke he went up to Ulysses and saluted him with his right hand;" Good day to you, father stranger," said he," you seem to be very poorly off now, but I hope you will have better times by and by.
Father Jove, of all gods you are the most malicious.
We are your own children, yet you show us no mercy in all our misery and afflictions.
A sweat came over me when I saw this man, and my eyes filled with tears, for he reminds me of Ulysses, who I fear is going about in just such rags as this man 's are, if indeed he is still among the living.
If he is already dead and in the house of Hades, then, alas!
for my good master, who made me his stockman when I was quite young among the Cephallenians, and now his cattle are countless; no one could have done better with them than I have, for they have bred like ears of corn; nevertheless I have to keep bringing them in for others to eat, who take no heed to his son though he is in the house, and fear not the wrath of heaven, but are already eager to divide Ulysses ' property among them because he has been away so long.
I have often thought— only it would not be right while his son is living— of going off with the cattle to some foreign country; bad as this would be, it is still harder to stay here and be illtreated about other people 's herds.
My position is intolerable, and I should long since have run away and put myself under the protection of some other chief, only that I believe my poor master will yet return, and send all these suitors flying out of the house."
"Stockman," answered Ulysses," you seem to be a very welldisposed person, and I can see that you are a man of sense.
Therefore I will tell you, and will confirm my words with an oath.
By Jove, the chief of all gods, and by that hearth of Ulysses to which I am now come, Ulysses shall return before you leave this place, and if you are so minded you shall see him killing the suitors who are now masters here."
"If Jove were to bring this to pass," replied the stockman," you should see how I would do my very utmost to help him."
And in like manner Eumaeus prayed that Ulysses might return home.
Thus did they converse.
Meanwhile the suitors were hatching a plot to murder Telemachus: but a bird flew near them on their left hand— an eagle with a dove in its talons.
On this Amphinomus said," My friends, this plot of ours to murder Telemachus will not succeed; let us go to dinner instead."
The others assented, so they went inside and laid their cloaks on the benches and seats.
They sacrificed the sheep, goats, pigs, and the heifer, and when the inward meats were cooked they served them round.
They mixed the wine in the mixingbowls, and the swineherd gave every man his cup, while Philoetius handed round the bread in the bread baskets, and Melanthius poured them out their wine.
Then they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them.
Telemachus purposely made Ulysses sit in the part of the cloister that was paved with stone; he gave him a shabby looking seat at a little table to himself, and had his portion of the inward meats brought to him, with his wine in a gold cup. "
Sit there," said he," and drink your wine among the great people.
I will put a stop to the gibes and blows of the suitors, for this is no public house, but belongs to Ulysses, and has passed from him to me.
Therefore, suitors, keep your hands and your tongues to yourselves, or there will be mischief."
The suitors bit their lips, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech; then Antinous said," We do not like such language but we will put up with it, for Telemachus is threatening us in good earnest.
If Jove had let us we should have put a stop to his brave talk ere now."
Thus spoke Antinous, but Telemachus heeded him not.
Meanwhile the heralds were bringing the holy hecatomb through the city, and the Achaeans gathered under the shady grove of Apollo.
Then they roasted the outer meat, drew it off the spits, gave every man his portion, and feasted to their heart 's content; those who waited at table gave Ulysses exactly the same portion as the others had, for Telemachus had told them to do so.
But Minerva would not let the suitors for one moment drop their insolence, for she wanted Ulysses to become still more bitter against them.
Now there happened to be among them a ribald fellow, whose name was Ctesippus, and who came from Same.
This man, confident in his great wealth, was paying court to the wife of Ulysses, and said to the suitors," Hear what I have to say.
The stranger has already had as large a portion as any one else; this is well, for it is not right nor reasonable to illtreat any guest of Telemachus who comes here.
I will, however, make him a present on my own account, that he may have something to give to the bathwoman, or to some other of Ulysses ' servants."
As he spoke he picked up a heifer 's foot from the meatbasket in which it lay, and threw it at Ulysses, but Ulysses turned his head a little aside, and avoided it, smiling grimly Sardinian fashion as he did so, and it hit the wall, not him.
On this Telemachus spoke fiercely to Ctesippus," It is a good thing for you," said he," that the stranger turned his head so that you missed him.
If you had hit him I should have run you through with my spear, and your father would have had to see about getting you buried rather than married in this house.
So let me have no more unseemly behaviour from any of you, for I am grown up now to the knowledge of good and evil and understand what is going on, instead of being the child that I have been heretofore.
I have long seen you killing my sheep and making free with my corn and wine: I have put up with this, for one man is no match for many, but do me no further violence.
Still, if you wish to kill me, kill me; I would far rather die than see such disgraceful scenes day after day— guests insulted, and men dragging the women servants about the house in an unseemly way."
They all held their peace till at last Agelaus son of Damastor said," No one should take offence at what has just been said, nor gainsay it, for it is quite reasonable.
Leave off, therefore, illtreating the stranger, or any one else of the servants who are about the house; I would say, however, a friendly word to Telemachus and his mother, which I trust may commend itself to both.'
As long,' I would say,' as you had ground for hoping that Ulysses would one day come home, no one could complain of your waiting and suffering the suitors to be in your house.
It would have been better that he should have returned, but it is now sufficiently clear that he will never do so; therefore talk all this quietly over with your mother, and tell her to marry the best man, and the one who makes her the most advantageous offer.
Thus you will yourself be able to manage your own inheritance, and to eat and drink in peace, while your mother will look after some other man 's house, not yours.'"
To this Telemachus answered," By Jove, Agelaus, and by the sorrows of my unhappy father, who has either perished far from Ithaca, or is wandering in some distant land, I throw no obstacles in the way of my mother 's marriage; on the contrary I urge her to choose whomsoever she will, and I will give her numberless gifts into the bargain, but I dare not insist point blank that she shall leave the house against her own wishes.
Heaven forbid that I should do this."
Minerva now made the suitors fall to laughing immoderately, and set their wits wandering; but they were laughing with a forced laughter.
Their meat became smeared with blood; their eyes filled with tears, and their hearts were heavy with forebodings.
Theoclymenus saw this and said," Unhappy men, what is it that ails you?
There is a shroud of darkness drawn over you from head to foot, your cheeks are wet with tears; the air is alive with wailing voices; the walls and roofbeams drip blood; the gate of the cloisters and the court beyond them are full of ghosts trooping down into the night of hell; the sun is blotted out of heaven, and a blighting gloom is over all the land."
Thus did he speak, and they all of them laughed heartily.
Eurymachus then said," This stranger who has lately come here has lost his senses.
Servants, turn him out into the streets, since he finds it so dark here."
But Theoclymenus said," Eurymachus, you need not send any one with me.
I have eyes, ears, and a pair of feet of my own, to say nothing of an understanding mind.
I will take these out of the house with me, for I see mischief overhanging you, from which not one of you men who are insulting people and plotting ill deeds in the house of Ulysses will be able to escape."
He left the house as he spoke, and went back to Piraeus who gave him welcome, but the suitors kept looking at one another and provoking Telemachus by laughing at the strangers.
One insolent fellow said to him," Telemachus, you are not happy in your guests; first you have this importunate tramp, who comes begging bread and wine and has no skill for work or for hard fighting, but is perfectly useless, and now here is another fellow who is setting himself up as a prophet.
Let me persuade you, for it will be much better to put them on board ship and send them off to the Sicels to sell for what they will bring."
Telemachus gave him no heed, but sate silently watching his father, expecting every moment that he would begin his attack upon the suitors.
Meanwhile the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, had had a rich seat placed for her facing the court and cloisters, so that she could hear what every one was saying.
The dinner indeed had been prepared amid much merriment; it had been both good and abundant, for they had sacrificed many victims; but the supper was yet to come, and nothing can be conceived more gruesome than the meal which a goddess and a brave man were soon to lay before them— for they had brought their doom upon themselves.
CHAPTER V "I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing."
"A bad thing!
Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?"
"I think they will neither of them do the other any good."
"You surprize me!
Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good.
I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure.
How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good!
This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.
Knightley."
"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."
"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject.
We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with.
Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case.
You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life.
I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith.
She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be.
But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself.
They will read together.
She means it, I know."
"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.
I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule.
The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now.
But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma.
She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding.
Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not."
"I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so then;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished."
"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as that,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done.
"But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember.
Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family.
At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen.
She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident.
And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all.
In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her.
She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her."
"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body.
I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held."
"Yes," said he, smiling.
"You are better placed here; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess.
But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield.
You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor."
"Thank you.
There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr.
Weston."
"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne.
We will not despair, however.
Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him."
"I hope not that.--It is not likely.
No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter."
"Not I, indeed.
I only name possibilities.
I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing.
I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith.
I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have.
She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing.
She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.
Her ignorance is hourly flattery.
How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority?
And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance.
Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to.
She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home.
I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little polish."
"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.
How well she looked last night!"
"Oh!
you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you?
Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty."
"Pretty!
say beautiful rather.
Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?"
"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers.
But I am a partial old friend."
"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant!
regular features, open countenance, with a complexion!
oh!
what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!
There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance.
One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health.
She is loveliness itself.
Mr. Knightley, is not she?"
"I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied.
"I think her all you describe.
I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain.
Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way.
Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm."
"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm.
With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature.
Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend?
No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times."
"Very well; I will not plague you any more.
Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.
John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children.
I am sure of having their opinions with me."
"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you.
Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself.
It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office."
"Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it.
It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to."
"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister."
"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry.
I will keep my ill-humour to myself.
I have a very sincere interest in Emma.
Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great.
There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma.
I wonder what will become of her!"
"So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much."
"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all.
But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for.
It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object.
I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good.
But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home."
"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account.
I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you."
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible.
There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?"
convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.
CHAPTER IV Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing.
Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other.
As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.
In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been important.
Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined.
She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges.
But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to.
Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required.
Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question.
Two such could never be granted.
Two such she did not want.
It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent.
Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful.
For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain.
Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same situation she should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration.
She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole.
But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
Emma encouraged her talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "two parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people."
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose.
She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it.
Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging.
He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging.
He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.
She was very fond of singing.
He could sing a little himself.
She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing.
He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country.
She believed every body spoke well of him.
His mother and sisters were very fond of him.
Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she wanted him to marry.
She was in no hurry at all.
"Well done, Mrs.
Martin!"
thought Emma.
"You know what you are about."
"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen.
Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her."
"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of his own business?
He does not read?"
"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would think any thing of.
He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all them to himself.
But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining.
And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield.
He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.
He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."
The next question was-"What sort of looking man is Mr.
Martin?"
"Oh!
not handsome--not at all handsome.
I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now.
One does not, you know, after a time.
But did you never see him?
He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.
He has passed you very often."
"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name.
A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.
The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.
A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.
But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it."
"To be sure.
Oh yes!
It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight."
"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man.
I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well.
What do you imagine his age to be?"
"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd."
"Only four-and-twenty.
That is too young to settle.
His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry.
They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it.
Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable."
"Six years hence!
Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"
"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence.
Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world.
Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet."
"To be sure, so it is.
But they live very comfortably.
They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year."
"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice.
The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates.
There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you."
"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are.
But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do."
"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse.
I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education."
"To be sure.
Yes.
Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up.
However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife.
I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me.
But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it."
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love.
The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road.
He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion.
Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin.
His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination.
Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder.
Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.
"Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd!
It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls.
He did not think we ever walked this road.
He thought we walked towards Randalls most days.
He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.
He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow.
So very odd we should happen to meet!
Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected?
What do you think of him?
Do you think him so very plain?"
"He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility.
I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air.
I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."
"To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen."
"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin.
At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men.
I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before.
Do not you begin to feel that now?
Were not you struck?
I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here."
"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley.
He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley.
I see the difference plain enough.
But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!"
"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with him.
You might not see one in a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley.
But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to.
What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton?
Compare Mr. Martin with either of them.
Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent.
You must see the difference."
"Oh yes!--there is a great difference.
But Mr. Weston is almost an old man.
Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty."
"Which makes his good manners the more valuable.
The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes.
What is passable in youth is detestable in later age.
Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?"
"There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly.
"But there may be pretty good guessing.
He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss."
"Will he, indeed?
That will be very bad."
"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.
He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man.
What has he to do with books?
And I have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us."
"I wonder he did not remember the book"--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself.
She, therefore, said no more for some time.
Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's.
They have more gentleness.
They might be more safely held up as a pattern.
There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in him, because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to be copied.
Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits him very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable.
On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model.
Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle.
He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late.
I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be.
If he means any thing, it must be to please you.
Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?"
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet's head.
She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it.
She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict.
It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to Hartfield.
The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its expediency.
Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.
He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy.
And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like.
He was reckoned very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her, there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense with:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton's admiration.
Agamemnon proposes that the Achaeans should sail home, and is rebuked by Ulysses—Juno beguiles Jupiter—Hector is wounded.
Nestor was sitting over his wine, but the cry of battle did not escape him, and he said to the son of Aesculapius," What, noble Machaon, is the meaning of all this?
The shouts of men fighting by our ships grow stronger and stronger; stay here, therefore, and sit over your wine, while fair Hecamede heats you a bath and washes the clotted blood from off you.
I will go at once to the lookout station and see what it is all about."
As he spoke he took up the shield of his son Thrasymedes that was lying in his tent, all gleaming with bronze, for Thrasymedes had taken his father 's shield; he grasped his redoubtable bronzeshod spear, and as soon as he was outside saw the disastrous rout of the Achaeans who, now that their wall was overthrown, were flying pellmell before the Trojans.
As when there is a heavy swell upon the sea, but the waves are dumb— they keep their eyes on the watch for the quarter whence the fierce winds may spring upon them, but they stay where they are and set neither this way nor that, till some particular wind sweeps down from heaven to determine them— even so did the old man ponder whether to make for the crowd of Danaans, or go in search of Agamemnon.
In the end he deemed it best to go to the son of Atreus; but meanwhile the hosts were fighting and killing one another, and the hard bronze rattled on their bodies, as they thrust at one another with their swords and spears.
The wounded kings, the son of Tydeus, Ulysses, and Agamemnon son of Atreus, fell in with Nestor as they were coming up from their ships— for theirs were drawn up some way from where the fighting was going on, being on the shore itself inasmuch as they had been beached first, while the wall had been built behind the hindermost.
The stretch of the shore, wide though it was, did not afford room for all the ships, and the host was cramped for space, therefore they had placed the ships in rows one behind the other, and had filled the whole opening of the bay between the two points that formed it.
The kings, leaning on their spears, were coming out to survey the fight, being in great anxiety, and when old Nestor met them they were filled with dismay.
Then King Agamemnon said to him," Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, why have you left the battle to come hither?
I fear that what dread Hector said will come true, when he vaunted among the Trojans saying that he would not return to Ilius till he had fired our ships and killed us; this is what he said, and now it is all coming true.
Alas!
others of the Achaeans, like Achilles, are in such anger with me that they refuse to fight by the sterns of our ships."
Then Nestor knight of Gerene, answered," It is indeed as you say; it is all coming true at this moment, and even Jove who thunders from on high can not prevent it.
Fallen is the wall on which we relied as an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet.
The Trojans are fighting stubbornly and without ceasing at the ships; look where you may you can not see from what quarter the rout of the Achaeans is coming; they are being killed in a confused mass and the battlecry ascends to heaven; let us think, if counsel can be of any use, what we had better do; but I do not advise our going into battle ourselves, for a man can not fight when he is wounded."
And King Agamemnon answered," Nestor, if the Trojans are indeed fighting at the rear of our ships, and neither the wall nor the trench has served us— over which the Danaans toiled so hard, and which they deemed would be an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet —I see it must be the will of Jove that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here, far from Argos.
I knew when Jove was willing to defend us, and I know now that he is raising the Trojans to like honour with the gods, while us, on the other hand, he has bound hand and foot.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let us bring down the ships that are on the beach and draw them into the water; let us make them fast to their mooringstones a little way out, against the fall of night— if even by night the Trojans will desist from fighting; we may then draw down the rest of the fleet.
There is nothing wrong in flying ruin even by night.
It is better for a man that he should fly and be saved than be caught and killed."
Ulysses looked fiercely at him and said," Son of Atreus, what are you talking about?
Wretch, you should have commanded some other and baser army, and not been ruler over us to whom Jove has allotted a life of hard fighting from youth to old age, till we every one of us perish.
Is it thus that you would quit the city of Troy, to win which we have suffered so much hardship?
Hold your peace, lest some other of the Achaeans hear you say what no man who knows how to give good counsel, no king over so great a host as that of the Argives should ever have let fall from his lips.
I despise your judgement utterly for what you have been saying.
Would you, then, have us draw down our ships into the water while the battle is raging, and thus play further into the hands of the conquering Trojans?
It would be ruin; the Achaeans will not go on fighting when they see the ships being drawn into the water, but will cease attacking and keep turning their eyes towards them; your counsel, therefore, sir captain, would be our destruction."
Agamemnon answered," Ulysses, your rebuke has stung me to the heart.
I am not, however, ordering the Achaeans to draw their ships into the sea whether they will or no.
Someone, it may be, old or young, can offer us better counsel which I shall rejoice to hear."
Then said Diomed," Such an one is at hand; he is not far to seek, if you will listen to me and not resent my speaking though I am younger than any of you.
I am by lineage son to a noble sire, Tydeus, who lies buried at Thebes.
For Portheus had three noble sons, two of whom, Agrius and Melas, abode in Pleuron and rocky Calydon.
The third was the knight Oeneus, my father 's father, and he was the most valiant of them all.
Oeneus remained in his own country, but my father( as Jove and the other gods ordained it) migrated to Argos.
He married into the family of Adrastus, and his house was one of great abundance, for he had large estates of rich corngrowing land, with much orchard ground as well, and he had many sheep; moreover he excelled all the Argives in the use of the spear.
You must yourselves have heard whether these things are true or no; therefore when I say well despise not my words as though I were a coward or of ignoble birth.
I say, then, let us go to the fight as we needs must, wounded though we be.
When there, we may keep out of the battle and beyond the range of the spears lest we get fresh wounds in addition to what we have already, but we can spur on others, who have been indulging their spleen and holding aloof from battle hitherto."
Thus did he speak; whereon they did even as he had said and set out, King Agamemnon leading the way.
Meanwhile Neptune had kept no blind lookout, and came up to them in the semblance of an old man.
He took Agamemnon 's right hand in his own and said," Son of Atreus, I take it Achilles is glad now that he sees the Achaeans routed and slain, for he is utterly without remorse— may he come to a bad end and heaven confound him.
As for yourself, the blessed gods are not yet so bitterly angry with you but that the princes and counsellors of the Trojans shall again raise the dust upon the plain, and you shall see them flying from the ships and tents towards their city."
With this he raised a mighty cry of battle, and sped forward to the plain.
The voice that came from his deep chest was as that of nine or ten thousand men when they are shouting in the thick of a fight, and it put fresh courage into the hearts of the Achaeans to wage war and do battle without ceasing.
Juno of the golden throne looked down as she stood upon a peak of Olympus and her heart was gladdened at the sight of him who was at once her brother and her brotherinlaw, hurrying hither and thither amid the fighting.
Then she turned her eyes to Jove as he sat on the topmost crests of manyfountained Ida, and loathed him.
She set herself to think how she might hoodwink him, and in the end she deemed that it would be best for her to go to Ida and array herself in rich attire, in the hope that Jove might become enamoured of her, and wish to embrace her.
While he was thus engaged a sweet and careless sleep might be made to steal over his eyes and senses.
She went, therefore, to the room which her son Vulcan had made her, and the doors of which he had cunningly fastened by means of a secret key so that no other god could open them.
Here she entered and closed the doors behind her.
She cleansed all the dirt from her fair body with ambrosia, then she anointed herself with olive oil, ambrosial, very soft, and scented specially for herself— if it were so much as shaken in the bronzefloored house of Jove, the scent pervaded the universe of heaven and earth.
With this she anointed her delicate skin, and then she plaited the fair ambrosial locks that flowed in a stream of golden tresses from her immortal head.
She put on the wondrous robe which Minerva had worked for her with consummate art, and had embroidered with manifold devices; she fastened it about her bosom with golden clasps, and she girded herself with a girdle that had a hundred tassels: then she fastened her earrings, three brilliant pendants that glistened most beautifully, through the pierced lobes of her ears, and threw a lovely new veil over her head.
She bound her sandals on to her feet, and when she had arrayed herself perfectly to her satisfaction, she left her room and called Venus to come aside and speak to her. "
My dear child," said she," will you do what I am going to ask of you, or will you refuse me because you are angry at my being on the Danaan side, while you are on the Trojan?"
Jove 's daughter Venus answered," Juno, august queen of goddesses, daughter of mighty Saturn, say what you want, and I will do it for you at once, if I can, and if it can be done at all."
Then Juno told her a lying tale and said," I want you to endow me with some of those fascinating charms, the spells of which bring all things mortal and immortal to your feet.
I am going to the world 's end to visit Oceanus( from whom all we gods proceed) and mother Tethys: they received me in their house, took care of me, and brought me up, having taken me over from Rhaea when Jove imprisoned great Saturn in the depths that are under earth and sea.
I must go and see them that I may make peace between them; they have been quarrelling, and are so angry that they have not slept with one another this long while; if I can bring them round and restore them to one another 's embraces, they will be grateful to me and love me for ever afterwards."
Thereon laughterloving Venus said," I can not and must not refuse you, for you sleep in the arms of Jove who is our king."
As she spoke she loosed from her bosom the curiously embroidered girdle into which all her charms had been wrought— love, desire, and that sweet flattery which steals the judgement even of the most prudent.
She gave the girdle to Juno and said," Take this girdle wherein all my charms reside and lay it in your bosom.
If you will wear it I promise you that your errand, be it what it may, will not be bootless."
When she heard this Juno smiled, and still smiling she laid the girdle in her bosom.
Venus now went back into the house of Jove, while Juno darted down from the summits of Olympus.
She passed over Pieria and fair Emathia, and went on and on till she came to the snowy ranges of the Thracian horsemen, over whose topmost crests she sped without ever setting foot to ground.
When she came to Athos she went on over the waves of the sea till she reached Lemnos, the city of noble Thoas.
There she met Sleep, own brother to Death, and caught him by the hand, saying," Sleep, you who lord it alike over mortals and immortals, if you ever did me a service in times past, do one for me now, and I shall be grateful to you ever after.
Close Jove 's keen eyes for me in slumber while I hold him clasped in my embrace, and I will give you a beautiful golden seat, that can never fall to pieces; my clubfooted son Vulcan shall make it for you, and he shall give it a footstool for you to rest your fair feet upon when you are at table."
Then Sleep answered," Juno, great queen of goddesses, daughter of mighty Saturn, I would lull any other of the gods to sleep without compunction, not even excepting the waters of Oceanus from whom all of them proceed, but I dare not go near Jove, nor send him to sleep unless he bids me.
I have had one lesson already through doing what you asked me, on the day when Jove 's mighty son Hercules set sail from Ilius after having sacked the city of the Trojans.
At your bidding I suffused my sweet self over the mind of aegisbearing Jove, and laid him to rest; meanwhile you hatched a plot against Hercules, and set the blasts of the angry winds beating upon the sea, till you took him to the goodly city of Cos, away from all his friends.
Jove was furious when he awoke, and began hurling the gods about all over the house; he was looking more particularly for myself, and would have flung me down through space into the sea where I should never have been heard of any more, had not Night who cows both men and gods protected me.
I fled to her and Jove left off looking for me in spite of his being so angry, for he did not dare do anything to displease Night.
And now you are again asking me to do something on which I can not venture."
And Juno said," Sleep, why do you take such notions as those into your head?
Do you think Jove will be as anxious to help the Trojans, as he was about his own son?
Come, I will marry you to one of the youngest of the Graces, and she shall be your own— Pasithea, whom you have always wanted to marry."
Sleep was pleased when he heard this, and answered," Then swear it to me by the dread waters of the river Styx; lay one hand on the bounteous earth, and the other on the sheen of the sea, so that all the gods who dwell down below with Saturn may be our witnesses, and see that you really do give me one of the youngest of the Graces— Pasithea, whom I have always wanted to marry."
Juno did as he had said.
She swore, and invoked all the gods of the nether world, who are called Titans, to witness.
When she had completed her oath, the two enshrouded themselves in a thick mist and sped lightly forward, leaving Lemnos and Imbrus behind them.
Presently they reached manyfountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, and Lectum where they left the sea to go on by land, and the tops of the trees of the forest soughed under the going of their feet.
Here Sleep halted, and ere Jove caught sight of him he climbed a lofty pinetree— the tallest that reared its head towards heaven on all Ida.
He hid himself behind the branches and sat there in the semblance of the sweetsinging bird that haunts the mountains and is called Chalcis by the gods, but men call it Cymindis.
Juno then went to Gargarus, the topmost peak of Ida, and Jove, driver of the clouds, set eyes upon her.
As soon as he did so he became inflamed with the same passionate desire for her that he had felt when they had first enjoyed each other 's embraces, and slept with one another without their dear parents knowing anything about it.
He went up to her and said," What do you want that you have come hither from Olympus— and that too with neither chariot nor horses to convey you?"
Then Juno told him a lying tale and said," I am going to the world 's end, to visit Oceanus, from whom all we gods proceed, and mother Tethys; they received me into their house, took care of me, and brought me up.
I must go and see them that I may make peace between them: they have been quarrelling, and are so angry that they have not slept with one another this long time.
The horses that will take me over land and sea are stationed on the lowermost spurs of manyfountained Ida, and I have come here from Olympus on purpose to consult you.
I was afraid you might be angry with me later on, if I went to the house of Oceanus without letting you know."
And Jove said," Juno, you can choose some other time for paying your visit to Oceanus— for the present let us devote ourselves to love and to the enjoyment of one another.
Never yet have I been so overpowered by passion neither for goddess nor mortal woman as I am at this moment for yourself— not even when I was in love with the wife of Ixion who bore me Pirithous, peer of gods in counsel, nor yet with Danae the daintilyancled daughter of Acrisius, who bore me the famed hero Perseus.
Then there was the daughter of Phoenix, who bore me Minos and Rhadamanthus: there was Semele, and Alcmena in Thebes by whom I begot my lionhearted son Hercules, while Semele became mother to Bacchus the comforter of mankind.
There was queen Ceres again, and lovely Leto, and yourself— but with none of these was I ever so much enamoured as I now am with you."
Juno again answered him with a lying tale. "
Most dread son of Saturn," she exclaimed," what are you talking about?
Would you have us enjoy one another here on the top of Mount Ida, where everything can be seen?
What if one of the everliving gods should see us sleeping together, and tell the others?
It would be such a scandal that when I had risen from your embraces I could never show myself inside your house again; but if you are so minded, there is a room which your son Vulcan has made me, and he has given it good strong doors; if you would so have it, let us go thither and lie down."
And Jove answered," Juno, you need not be afraid that either god or man will see you, for I will enshroud both of us in such a dense golden cloud, that the very sun for all his bright piercing beams shall not see through it."
With this the son of Saturn caught his wife in his embrace; whereon the earth sprouted them a cushion of young grass, with dewbespangled lotus, crocus, and hyacinth, so soft and thick that it raised them well above the ground.
Here they laid themselves down and overhead they were covered by a fair cloud of gold, from which there fell glittering dewdrops.
Thus, then, did the sire of all things repose peacefully on the crest of Ida, overcome at once by sleep and love, and he held his spouse in his arms.
Meanwhile Sleep made off to the ships of the Achaeans, to tell earthencircling Neptune, lord of the earthquake.
When he had found him he said," Now, Neptune, you can help the Danaans with a will, and give them victory though it be only for a short time while Jove is still sleeping.
I have sent him into a sweet slumber, and Juno has beguiled him into going to bed with her."
Sleep now departed and went his ways to and fro among mankind, leaving Neptune more eager than ever to help the Danaans.
He darted forward among the first ranks and shouted saying," Argives, shall we let Hector son of Priam have the triumph of taking our ships and covering himself with glory?
This is what he says that he shall now do, seeing that Achilles is still in dudgeon at his ship; we shall get on very well without him if we keep each other in heart and stand by one another.
Now, therefore, let us all do as I say.
Let us each take the best and largest shield we can lay hold of, put on our helmets, and sally forth with our longest spears in our hands; I will lead you on, and Hector son of Priam, rage as he may, will not dare to hold out against us.
If any good staunch soldier has only a small shield, let him hand it over to a worse man, and take a larger one for himself."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
The son of Tydeus, Ulysses, and Agamemnon, wounded though they were, set the others in array, and went about everywhere effecting the exchanges of armour; the most valiant took the best armour, and gave the worse to the worse man.
When they had donned their bronze armour they marched on with Neptune at their head.
In his strong hand he grasped his terrible sword, keen of edge and flashing like lightning; woe to him who comes across it in the day of battle; all men quake for fear and keep away from it.
Hector on the other side set the Trojans in array.
Thereon Neptune and Hector waged fierce war on one another— Hector on the Trojan and Neptune on the Argive side.
Mighty was the uproar as the two forces met; the sea came rolling in towards the ships and tents of the Achaeans, but waves do not thunder on the shore more loudly when driven before the blast of Boreas, nor do the flames of a forest fire roar more fiercely when it is well alight upon the mountains, nor does the wind bellow with ruder music as it tears on through the tops of when it is blowing its hardest, than the terrible shout which the Trojans and Achaeans raised as they sprang upon one another.
Hector first aimed his spear at Ajax, who was turned full towards him, nor did he miss his aim.
The spear struck him where two bands passed over his chest— the band of his shield and that of his silverstudded sword— and these protected his body.
Hector was angry that his spear should have been hurled in vain, and withdrew under cover of his men.
As he was thus retreating, Ajax son of Telamon, struck him with a stone, of which there were many lying about under the men 's feet as they fought— brought there to give support to the ships ' sides as they lay on the shore.
Ajax caught up one of them and struck Hector above the rim of his shield close to his neck; the blow made him spin round like a top and reel in all directions.
As an oak falls headlong when uprooted by the lightning flash of father Jove, and there is a terrible smell of brimstone— no man can help being dismayed if he is standing near it, for a thunderbolt is a very awful thing— even so did Hector fall to earth and bite the dust.
His spear fell from his hand, but his shield and helmet were made fast about his body, and his bronze armour rang about him.
The sons of the Achaeans came running with a loud cry towards him, hoping to drag him away, and they showered their darts on the Trojans, but none of them could wound him before he was surrounded and covered by the princes Polydamas, Aeneas, Agenor, Sarpedon captain of the Lycians, and noble Glaucus.
Of the others, too, there was not one who was unmindful of him, and they held their round shields over him to cover him.
His comrades then lifted him off the ground and bore him away from the battle to the place where his horses stood waiting for him at the rear of the fight with their driver and the chariot; these then took him towards the city groaning and in great pain.
When they reached the ford of the fair stream of Xanthus, begotten of Immortal Jove, they took him from off his chariot and laid him down on the ground; they poured water over him, and as they did so he breathed again and opened his eyes.
Then kneeling on his knees he vomited blood, but soon fell back on to the ground, and his eyes were again closed in darkness for he was still stunned by the blow.
When the Argives saw Hector leaving the field, they took heart and set upon the Trojans yet more furiously.
Ajax fleet son of Oileus began by springing on Satnius son of Enops, and wounding him with his spear: a fair naiad nymph had borne him to Enops as he was herding cattle by the banks of the river Satnioeis.
The son of Oileus came up to him and struck him in the flank so that he fell, and a fierce fight between Trojans and Danaans raged round his body.
Polydamas son of Panthous drew near to avenge him, and wounded Prothoenor son of Areilycus on the right shoulder; the terrible spear went right through his shoulder, and he clutched the earth as he fell in the dust.
Polydamas vaunted loudly over him saying," Again I take it that the spear has not sped in vain from the strong hand of the son of Panthous; an Argive has caught it in his body, and it will serve him for a staff as he goes down into the house of Hades."
The Argives were maddened by this boasting.
Ajax son of Telamon was more angry than any, for the man had fallen close beside him; so he aimed at Polydamas as he was retreating, but Polydamas saved himself by swerving aside and the spear struck Archelochus son of Antenor, for heaven counselled his destruction; it struck him where the head springs from the neck at the top joint of the spine, and severed both the tendons at the back of the head.
His head, mouth, and nostrils reached the ground long before his legs and knees could do so, and Ajax shouted to Polydamas saying," Think, Polydamas, and tell me truly whether this man is not as well worth killing as Prothoenor was: he seems rich, and of rich family, a brother, it may be, or son of the knight Antenor, for he is very like him."
But he knew well who it was, and the Trojans were greatly angered.
Acamas then bestrode his brother 's body and wounded Promachus the Boeotian with his spear, for he was trying to drag his brother 's body away.
Acamas vaunted loudly over him saying," Argive archers, braggarts that you are, toil and suffering shall not be for us only, but some of you too shall fall here as well as ourselves.
See how Promachus now sleeps, vanquished by my spear; payment for my brother 's blood has not been long delayed; a man, therefore, may well be thankful if he leaves a kinsman in his house behind him to avenge his fall."
His taunts infuriated the Argives, and Peneleos was more enraged than any of them.
He sprang towards Acamas, but Acamas did not stand his ground, and he killed Ilioneus son of the rich flockmaster Phorbas, whom Mercury had favoured and endowed with greater wealth than any other of the Trojans.
Ilioneus was his only son, and Peneleos now wounded him in the eye under his eyebrows, tearing the eyeball from its socket: the spear went right through the eye into the nape of the neck, and he fell, stretching out both hands before him.
Peneleos then drew his sword and smote him on the neck, so that both head and helmet came tumbling down to the ground with the spear still sticking in the eye; he then held up the head, as though it had been a poppyhead, and showed it to the Trojans, vaunting over them as he did so.
"Trojans," he cried," bid the father and mother of noble Ilioneus make moan for him in their house, for the wife also of Promachus son of Alegenor will never be gladdened by the coming of her dear husband— when we Argives return with our ships from Troy."
As he spoke fear fell upon them, and every man looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety.
Tell me now, O Muses that dwell on Olympus, who was the first of the Argives to bear away bloodstained spoils after Neptune lord of the earthquake had turned the fortune of war.
Ajax son of Telamon was first to wound Hyrtius son of Gyrtius, captain of the staunch Mysians.
Antilochus killed Phalces and Mermerus, while Meriones slew Morys and Hippotion, Teucer also killed Prothoon and Periphetes.
The son of Atreus then wounded Hyperenor shepherd of his people, in the flank, and the bronze point made his entrails gush out as it tore in among them; on this his life came hurrying out of him at the place where he had been wounded, and his eyes were closed in darkness.
Ajax son of Oileus killed more than any other, for there was no man so fleet as he to pursue flying foes when Jove had spread panic among them.
A quarrel in Olympus—Minerva goes down and persuades Fandarus to violate the oaths by wounding Menelaus with an arrow—Agamemnon makes a speech and sends for Machaon—He then goes about among his captains and upbraids Ulysses and Sthenelus, who each of them retort fiercely—Diomed checks Sthenelus, and the two hosts then engage, with great slaughter on either side.
Now the gods were sitting with Jove in council upon the golden floor while Hebe went round pouring out nectar for them to drink, and as they pledged one another in their cups of gold they looked down upon the town of Troy.
The son of Saturn then began to tease Juno, talking at her so as to provoke her."
Menelaus," said he," has two good friends among the goddesses, Juno of Argos, and Minerva of Alalcomene, but they only sit still and look on, while Venus keeps ever by Alexandrus ' side to defend him in any danger ;indeed she has just rescued him when he made sure that it was all over with him— for the victory really did lie with Menelaus.
We must consider what we shall do about all this; shall we set them fighting anew or make peace between them?
If you will agree to this last Menelaus can take back Helen and the city of Priam may remain still inhabited."
Minerva and Juno muttered their discontent as they sat side by side hatching mischief for the Trojans.
Minerva scowled at her father, for she was in a furious passion with him, and said nothing, but Juno could not contain herself. "
Dread son of Saturn," said she," what, pray, is the meaning of all this?
Is my trouble, then, to go for nothing, and the sweat that I have sweated, to say nothing of my horses, while getting the people together against Priam and his children?
Do as you will, but we other gods shall not all of us approve your counsel."
Jove was angry and answered," My dear, what harm have Priam and his sons done you that you are so hotly bent on sacking the city of Ilius?
Will nothing do for you but you must within their walls and eat Priam raw, with his sons and all the other Trojans to boot?
Have it your own way then; for I would not have this matter become a bone of contention between us.
I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, if ever I want to sack a city belonging to friends of yours, you must not try to stop me; you will have to let me do it, for I am giving in to you sorely against my will.
Of all inhabited cities under the sun and stars of heaven ,there was none that I so much respected as Ilius with Priam and his whole people.
Equitable feasts were never wanting about my altar, nor the savour of burning fat, which is honour due to ourselves."
"My own three favourite cities," answered Juno," are Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae.
Sack them whenever you may be displeased with them.
I shall not defend them and I shall not care.
Even if I did, and tried to stay you, I should take nothing by it, for you are much stronger than I am, but I will not have my own work wasted.
I too am a god and of the same race with yourself.
I am Saturn 's eldest daughter, and am honourable not on this ground only, but also because I am your wife, and you are king over the gods.
Let it be a case, then, of giveandtake between us, and the rest of the gods will follow our lead.
Tell Minerva to go and take part in the fight at once, and let her contrive that the Trojans shall be the first to break their oaths and set upon the Achaeans."
The sire of gods and men heeded her words, and said to Minerva," Go at once into the Trojan and Achaean hosts, and contrive that the Trojans shall be the first to break their oaths and set upon the Achaeans."
This was what Minerva was already eager to do, so down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus.
She shot through the sky as some brilliant meteor which the son of scheming Saturn has sent as a sign to mariners or to some great army, and a fiery train of light follows in its wake.
The Trojans and Achaeans were struck with awe as they beheld, and one would turn to his neighbour, saying," Either we shall again have war and din of combat, or Jove the lord of battle will now make peace between us."
Thus did they converse.
Then Minerva took the form of Laodocus, son of Antenor, and went through the ranks of the Trojans to find Pandarus, the redoubtable son of Lycaon.
She found him standing among the stalwart heroes who had followed him from the banks of the Aesopus, so she went close up to him and said," Brave son of Lycaon, will you do as I tell you?
If you dare send an arrow at Menelaus you will win honour and thanks from all the Trojans, and especially from prince Alexandrus— he would be the first to requite you very handsomely if he could see Menelaus mount his funeral pyre, slain by an arrow from your hand.
Take your home aim then, and pray to Lycian Apollo, the famous archer; vow that when you get home to your strong city of Zelea you will offer a hecatomb of firstling lambs in his honour."
His fool 's heart was persuaded, and he took his bow from its case.
This bow was made from the horns of a wild ibex which he had killed as it was bounding from a rock; he had stalked it, and it had fallen as the arrow struck it to the heart.
Its horns were sixteen palms long, and a worker in horn had made them into a bow, smoothing them well down, and giving them tips of gold.
When Pandarus had strung his bow he laid it carefully on the ground, and his brave followers held their shields before him lest the Achaeans should set upon him before he had shot Menelaus.
Then he opened the lid of his quiver and took out a winged arrow that had not yet been shot, fraught with the pangs of death.
He laid the arrow on the string and prayed to Lycian Apollo, the famous archer, vowing that when he got home to his strong city of Zelea he would offer a hecatomb of firstling lambs in his honour.
He laid the notch of the arrow on the oxhide bowstring, and drew both notch and string to his breast till the arrowhead was near the bow; then when the bow was arched into a halfcircle he let fly, and the bow twanged, and the string sang as the arrow flew gladly on over the heads of the throng.
But the blessed gods did not forget thee, O Menelaus, and Jove 's daughter, driver of the spoil, was the first to stand before thee and ward off the piercing arrow.
She turned it from his skin as a mother whisks a fly from off her child when it is sleeping sweetly; she guided it to the part where the golden buckles of the belt that passed over his double cuirass were fastened, so the arrow struck the belt that went tightly round him.
It went right through this and through the cuirass of cunning workmanship; it also pierced the belt beneath it, which he wore next his skin to keep out darts or arrows; it was this that served him in the best stead, nevertheless the arrow went through it and grazed the top of the skin, so that blood began flowing from the wound.
As when some woman of Meonia or Caria strains purple dye on to a piece of ivory that is to be the cheekpiece of a horse, and is to be laid up in a treasure house— many a knight is fain to bear it, but the king keeps it as an ornament of which both horse and driver may be proud— even so, O Menelaus, were your shapely thighs and your legs down to your fair ancles stained with blood.
When King Agamemnon saw the blood flowing from the wound he was afraid, and so was brave Menelaus himself till he saw that the barbs of the arrow and the thread that bound the arrowhead to the shaft were still outside the wound.
Then he took heart, but Agamemnon heaved a deep sigh as he held Menelaus 's hand in his own, and his comrades made moan in concert. "
Dear brother," he cried," I have been the death of you in pledging this covenant and letting you come forward as our champion.
The Trojans have trampled on their oaths and have wounded you; nevertheless the oath, the blood of lambs, the drinkofferings and the right hands of fellowship in which we have put our trust shall not be vain.
If he that rules Olympus fulfil it not here and now, he will yet fulfil it hereafter, and they shall pay dearly with their lives and with their wives and children.
The day will surely come when mighty Ilius shall be laid low, with Priam and Priam 's people, when the son of Saturn from his high throne shall overshadow them with his awful aegis in punishment of their present treachery.
This shall surely be; but how, Menelaus, shall I mourn you, if it be your lot now to die?
I should return to Argos as a byword, for the Achaeans will at once go home.
We shall leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, and the earth will rot your bones as you lie here at Troy with your purpose not fulfilled.
Then shall some braggart Trojan leap upon your tomb and say,' Ever thus may Agamemnon wreak his vengeance; he brought his army in vain; he is gone home to his own land with empty ships, and has left Menelaus behind him.'
Thus will one of them say, and may the earth then swallow me."
But Menelaus reassured him and said," Take heart, and do not alarm the people; the arrow has not struck me in a mortal part, for my outer belt of burnished metal first stayed it, and under this my cuirass and the belt of mail which the bronzesmiths made me."
And Agamemnon answered," I trust, dear Menelaus, that it may be even so, but the surgeon shall examine your wound and lay herbs upon it to relieve your pain."
He then said to Talthybius," Talthybius, tell Machaon, son to the great physician, Aesculapius, to come and see Menelaus immediately.
Some Trojan or Lycian archer has wounded him with an arrow to our dismay, and to his own great glory."
Talthybius did as he was told, and went about the host trying to find Machaon.
Presently he found standing amid the brave warriors who had followed him from Tricca; thereon he went up to him and said," Son of Aesculapius, King Agamemnon says you are to come and see Menelaus immediately.
Some Trojan or Lycian archer has wounded him with an arrow to our dismay and to his own great glory."
Thus did he speak, and Machaon was moved to go.
They passed through the spreading host of the Achaeans and went on till they came to the place where Menelaus had been wounded and was lying with the chieftains gathered in a circle round him.
Machaon passed into the middle of the ring and at once drew the arrow from the belt, bending its barbs back through the force with which he pulled it out.
He undid the burnished belt, and beneath this the cuirass and the belt of mail which the bronzesmiths had made; then, when he had seen the wound, he wiped away the blood and applied some soothing drugs which Chiron had given to Aesculapius out of the good will he bore him.
While they were thus busy about Menelaus, the Trojans came forward against them, for they had put on their armour, and now renewed the fight.
You would not have then found Agamemnon asleep nor cowardly and unwilling to fight, but eager rather for the fray.
He left his chariot rich with bronze and his panting steeds in charge of Eurymedon, son of Ptolemaeus the son of Peiraeus, and bade him hold them in readiness against the time his limbs should weary of going about and giving orders to so many, for he went among the ranks on foot.
When he saw men hasting to the front he stood by them and cheered them on. "
Argives," said he," slacken not one whit in your onset; father Jove will be no helper of liars; the Trojans have been the first to break their oaths and to attack us; therefore they shall be devoured of vultures; we shall take their city and carry off their wives and children in our ships."
But he angrily rebuked those whom he saw shirking and disinclined to fight. "
Argives," he cried," cowardly miserable creatures, have you no shame to stand here like frightened fawns who, when they can no longer scud over the plain, huddle together, but show no fight?
You are as dazed and spiritless as deer.
Would you wait till the Trojans reach the sterns of our ships as they lie on the shore, to see whether the son of Saturn will hold his hand over you to protect you?"
Thus did he go about giving his orders among the ranks.
Passing through the crowd, he came presently on the Cretans, arming round Idomeneus, who was at their head, fierce as a wild boar, while Meriones was bringing up the battalions that were in the rear.
Agamemnon was glad when he saw him, and spoke him fairly. "
Idomeneus," said he," I treat you with greater distinction than I do any others of the Achaeans, whether in war or in other things, or at table.
When the princes are mixing my choicest wines in the mixingbowls, they have each of them a fixed allowance, but your cup is kept always full like my own, that you may drink whenever you are minded.
Go, therefore, into battle, and show yourself the man you have been always proud to be."
Idomeneus answered," I will be a trusty comrade, as I promised you from the first I would be.
Urge on the other Achaeans, that we may join battle at once, for the Trojans have trampled upon their covenants.
Death and destruction shall be theirs, seeing they have been the first to break their oaths and to attack us."
The son of Atreus went on, glad at heart, till he came upon the two Ajaxes arming themselves amid a host of footsoldiers.
As when a goatherd from some high post watches a storm drive over the deep before the west wind— black as pitch is the offing and a mighty whirlwind draws towards him, so that he is afraid and drives his flock into a cave— even thus did the ranks of stalwart youths move in a dark mass to battle under the Ajaxes, horrid with shield and spear.
Glad was King Agamemnon when he saw them. "
No need," he cried," to give orders to such leaders of the Argives as you are, for of your own selves you spur your men on to fight with might and main.
Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo that all were so minded as you are, for the city of Priam would then soon fall beneath our hands, and we should sack it."
With this he left them and went onward to Nestor, the facile speaker of the Pylians, who was marshalling his men and urging them on, in company with Pelagon, Alastor, Chromius, Haemon, and Bias shepherd of his people.
He placed his knights with their chariots and horses in the front rank, while the footsoldiers, brave men and many, whom he could trust, were in the rear.
The cowards he drove into the middle, that they might fight whether they would or no.
He gave his orders to the knights first, bidding them hold their horses well in hand, so as to avoid confusion.
"Let no man," he said," relying on his strength or horsemanship, get before the others and engage singly with the Trojans, nor yet let him lag behind or you will weaken your attack; but let each when he meets an enemy 's chariot throw his spear from his own; this be much the best; this is how the men of old took towns and strongholds; in this wise were they minded."
Thus did the old man charge them, for he had been in many a fight, and King Agamemnon was glad.
"I wish," he said to him," that your limbs were as supple and your strength as sure as your judgment is; but age, the common enemy of mankind, has laid his hand upon you; would that it had fallen upon some other, and that you were still young."
And Nestor, knight of Gerene, answered," Son of Atreus, I too would gladly be the man I was when I slew mighty Ereuthalion; but the gods will not give us everything at one and the same time.
I was then young, and now I am old; still I can go with my knights and give them that counsel which old men have a right to give.
The wielding of the spear I leave to those who are younger and stronger than myself."
Agamemnon went his way rejoicing, and presently found Menestheus, son of Peteos, tarrying in his place, and with him were the Athenians loud of tongue in battle.
Near him also tarried cunning Ulysses, with his sturdy Cephallenians round him; they had not yet heard the battlecry, for the ranks of Trojans and Achaeans had only just begun to move, so they were standing still, waiting for some other columns of the Achaeans to attack the Trojans and begin the fighting.
When he saw this Agamemnon rebuked them and said," Son of Peteos, and you other, steeped in cunning, heart of guile, why stand you here cowering and waiting on others?
You two should be of all men foremost when there is hard fighting to be done, for you are ever foremost to accept my invitation when we councillors of the Achaeans are holding feast.
You are glad enough then to take your fill of roast meats and to drink wine as long as you please, whereas now you would not care though you saw ten columns of Achaeans engage the enemy in front of you."
Ulysses glared at him and answered," Son of Atreus, what are you talking about?
How can you say that we are slack?
When the Achaeans are in full fight with the Trojans, you shall see, if you care to do so, that the father of Telemachus will join battle with the foremost of them.
You are talking idly."
When Agamemnon saw that Ulysses was angry, he smiled pleasantly at him and withdrew his words. "
Ulysses," said he," noble son of Laertes, excellent in all good counsel, I have neither fault to find nor orders to give you, for I know your heart is right, and that you and I are of a mind.
Enough; I will make you amends for what I have said, and if any ill has now been spoken may the gods bring it to nothing."
He then left them and went on to others.
Presently he saw the son of Tydeus, noble Diomed, standing by his chariot and horses, with Sthenelus the son of Capaneus beside him; whereon he began to upbraid him. "
Son of Tydeus," he said," why stand you cowering here upon the brink of battle?
Tydeus did not shrink thus, but was ever ahead of his men when leading them on against the foe— so, at least, say they that saw him in battle, for I never set eyes upon him myself.
They say that there was no man like him.
He came once to Mycenae, not as an enemy but as a guest, in company with Polynices to recruit his forces, for they were levying war against the strong city of Thebes, and prayed our people for a body of picked men to help them.
The men of Mycenae were willing to let them have one, but Jove dissuaded them by showing them unfavourable omens.
Tydeus, therefore, and Polynices went their way.
When they had got as far the deepmeadowed and rushgrown banks of the Aesopus, the Achaeans sent Tydeus as their envoy, and he found the Cadmeans gathered in great numbers to a banquet in the house of Eteocles.
Stranger though he was, he knew no fear on finding himself singlehanded among so many, but challenged them to contests of all kinds, and in each one of them was at once victorious, so mightily did Minerva help him.
The Cadmeans were incensed at his success, and set a force of fifty youths with two captains— the godlike hero Maeon, son of Haemon, and Polyphontes, son of Autophonus— at their head, to lie in wait for him on his return journey; but Tydeus slew every man of them, save only Maeon, whom he let go in obedience to heaven 's omens.
Such was Tydeus of Aetolia.
His son can talk more glibly, but he can not fight as his father did."
Diomed made no answer, for he was shamed by the rebuke of Agamemnon; but the son of Capaneus took up his words and said," Son of Atreus, tell no lies, for you can speak truth if you will.
We boast ourselves as even better men than our fathers; we took sevengated Thebes, though the wall was stronger and our men were fewer in number, for we trusted in the omens of the gods and in the help of Jove, whereas they perished through their own sheer folly; hold not, then, our fathers in like honour with us."
Diomed looked sternly at him and said," Hold your peace, my friend, as I bid you.
It is not amiss that Agamemnon should urge the Achaeans forward, for the glory will be his if we take the city, and his the shame if we are vanquished.
Therefore let us acquit ourselves with valour."
As he spoke he sprang from his chariot, and his armour rang so fiercely about his body that even a brave man might well have been scared to hear it.
As when some mighty wave that thunders on the beach when the west wind has lashed it into fury— it has reared its head afar and now comes crashing down on the shore; it bows its arching crest high over the jagged rocks and spews its salt foam in all directions— even so did the serried phalanxes of the Danaans march steadfastly to battle.
The chiefs gave orders each to his own people, but the men said never a word; no man would think it, for huge as the host was, it seemed as though there was not a tongue among them, so silent were they in their obedience; and as they marched the armour about their bodies glistened in the sun.
But the clamour of the Trojan ranks was as that of many thousand ewes that stand waiting to be milked in the yards of some rich flockmaster, and bleat incessantly in answer to the bleating of their lambs; for they had not one speech nor language, but their tongues were diverse, and they came from many different places.
These were inspired of Mars, but the others by Minerva— and with them came Panic, Rout, and Strife whose fury never tires, sister and friend of murderous Mars, who, from being at first but low in stature, grows till she uprears her head to heaven, though her feet are still on earth.
She it was that went about among them and flung down discord to the waxing of sorrow with even hand between them.
When they were got together in one place shield clashed with shield and spear with spear in the rage of battle.
The bossed shields beat one upon another, and there was a tramp as of a great multitude— deathcry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth ran red with blood.
As torrents swollen with rain course madly down their deep channels till the angry floods meet in some gorge, and the shepherd on the hillside hears their roaring from afar— even such was the toil and uproar of the hosts as they joined in battle.
First Antilochus slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Echepolus, son of Thalysius, fighting in the foremost ranks.
He struck at the projecting part of his helmet and drove the spear into his brow; the point of bronze pierced the bone, and darkness veiled his eyes; headlong as a tower he fell amid the press of the fight, and as he dropped King Elephenor, son of Chalcodon and captain of the proud Abantes began dragging him out of reach of the darts that were falling around him, in haste to strip him of his armour.
But his purpose was not for long; Agenor saw him haling the body away, and smote him in the side with his bronzeshod spear— for as he stooped his side was left unprotected by his shield— and thus he perished.
Then the fight between Trojans and Achaeans grew furious over his body, and they flew upon each other like wolves, man and man crushing one upon the other.
Forthwith Ajax, son of Telamon, slew the fair youth Simoeisius, son of Anthemion, whom his mother bore by the banks of the Simois, as she was coming down from Mt.
Ida, where she had been with her parents to see their flocks.
Therefore he was named Simoeisius, but he did not live to pay his parents for his rearing, for he was cut off untimely by the spear of mighty Ajax, who struck him in the breast by the right nipple as he was coming on among the foremost fighters; the spear went right through his shoulder, and he fell as a poplar that has grown straight and tall in a meadow by some mere, and its top is thick with branches.
Then the wheelwright lays his axe to its roots that he may fashion a felloe for the wheel of some goodly chariot, and it lies seasoning by the waterside.
In such wise did Ajax fell to earth Simoeisius, son of Anthemion.
Thereon Antiphus of the gleaming corslet, son of Priam, hurled a spear at Ajax from amid the crowd and missed him, but he hit Leucus, the brave comrade of Ulysses, in the groin, as he was dragging the body of Simoeisius over to the other side; so he fell upon the body and loosed his hold upon it.
Ulysses was furious when he saw Leucus slain, and strode in full armour through the front ranks till he was quite close; then he glared round about him and took aim, and the Trojans fell back as he did so.
His dart was not sped in vain, for it struck Democoon, the bastard son of Priam, who had come to him from Abydos, where he had charge of his father 's mares.
Ulysses, infuriated by the death of his comrade, hit him with his spear on one temple, and the bronze point came through on the other side of his forehead.
Thereon darkness veiled his eyes, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Hector, and they that were in front, then gave round while the Argives raised a shout and drew off the dead, pressing further forward as they did so.
But Apollo looked down from Pergamus and called aloud to the Trojans, for he was displeased. "
Trojans," he cried," rush on the foe, and do not let yourselves be thus beaten by the Argives.
Their skins are not stone nor iron that when hit them you do them no harm.
Moreover, Achilles, the son of lovely Thetis, is not fighting, but is nursing his anger at the ships."
Thus spoke the mighty god, crying to them from the city, while Jove 's redoubtable daughter, the Tritoborn, went about among the host of the Achaeans, and urged them forward whenever she beheld them slackening.
Then fate fell upon Diores, son of Amarynceus, for he was struck by a jagged stone near the ancle of his right leg.
He that hurled it was Peirous, son of Imbrasus, captain of the Thracians, who had come from Aenus; the bones and both the tendons were crushed by the pitiless stone.
He fell to the ground on his back, and in his death throes stretched out his hands towards his comrades.
But Peirous, who had wounded him, sprang on him and thrust a spear into his belly, so that his bowels came gushing out upon the ground, and darkness veiled his eyes.
As he was leaving the body, Thoas of Aetolia struck him in the chest near the nipple, and the point fixed itself in his lungs.
Thoas came close up to him, pulled the spear out of his chest, and then drawing his sword, smote him in the middle of the belly so that he died; but he did not strip him of his armour, for his Thracian comrades, men who wear their hair in a tuft at the top of their heads, stood round the body and kept him off with their long spears for all his great stature and valour; so he was driven back.
Thus the two corpses lay stretched on earth near to one another, the one captain of the Thracians and the other of the Epeans; and many another fell round them.
And now no man would have made light of the fighting if he could have gone about among it scatheless and unwounded, with Minerva leading him by the hand, and protecting him from the storm of spears and arrows.
For many Trojans and Achaeans on that day lay stretched side by side face downwards upon the earth.
CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love.
Her ideas only varied as to the how much.
At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little.
She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him.
Their affection was always to subside into friendship.
Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part.
When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.
"I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice," said she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice.
I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness.
So much the better.
I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do.
I am quite enough in love.
I should be sorry to be more."
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.
"He is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up.
Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto.
No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.
Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard.
This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily."
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength.
It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision.
No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own name was not wanting.
Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed.
Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend.
Pray make my excuses and adieus to her."
This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself.
Harriet was remembered only from being her friend.
His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.
Her intentions were unchanged.
Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness.
His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections.
Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
"I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it.
I know the danger of indulging such speculations.
But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure."
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand.
As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named.
He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride.
There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten.
Emma grew sick at the sound.
She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.
With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give.
Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same.
Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before.
At last Emma attacked her on another ground.
"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know.
I have not forgotten it, I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever.
Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it."
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation.
Emma continued, "I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.
These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.
They are very important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them.
My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.
I want you to save yourself from greater pain.
Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what would be kind by me."
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.
The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.
"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do for you!--Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!"
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.
"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to herself.
"There is nothing to be compared to it.
Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.
It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives.
Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing.
Oh!
the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable.
I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!"
The death of Hector.
Thus the Trojans in the city, scared like fawns, wiped the sweat from off them and drank to quench their thirst, leaning against the goodly battlements, while the Achaeans with their shields laid upon their shoulders drew close up to the walls.
But stern fate bade Hector stay where he was before Ilius and the Scaean gates.
Then Phoebus Apollo spoke to the son of Peleus saying," Why, son of Peleus, do you, who are but man, give chase to me who am immortal?
Have you not yet found out that it is a god whom you pursue so furiously?
You did not harass the Trojans whom you had routed, and now they are within their walls, while you have been decoyed hither away from them.
Me you can not kill, for death can take no hold upon me."
Achilles was greatly angered and said," You have baulked me, FarDarter, most malicious of all gods, and have drawn me away from the wall, where many another man would have bitten the dust ere he got within Ilius; you have robbed me of great glory and have saved the Trojans at no risk to yourself, for you have nothing to fear, but I would indeed have my revenge if it were in my power to do so."
On this, with fell intent he made towards the city, and as the winning horse in a chariot race strains every nerve when he is flying over the plain, even so fast and furiously did the limbs of Achilles bear him onwards.
King Priam was first to note him as he scoured the plain, all radiant as the star which men call Orion 's Hound, and whose beams blaze forth in time of harvest more brilliantly than those of any other that shines by night; brightest of them all though he be, he yet bodes ill for mortals, for he brings fire and fever in his train— even so did Achilles ' armour gleam on his breast as he sped onwards.
Priam raised a cry and beat his head with his hands as he lifted them up and shouted out to his dear son, imploring him to return; but Hector still stayed before the gates, for his heart was set upon doing battle with Achilles.
The old man reached out his arms towards him and bade him for pity 's sake come within the walls. "
Hector," he cried," my son, stay not to face this man alone and unsupported, or you will meet death at the hands of the son of Peleus, for he is mightier than you.
Monster that he is; would indeed that the gods loved him no better than I do, for so, dogs and vultures would soon devour him as he lay stretched on earth, and a load of grief would be lifted from my heart, for many a brave son has he reft from me, either by killing them or selling them away in the islands that are beyond the sea: even now I miss two sons from among the Trojans who have thronged within the city, Lycaon and Polydorus, whom Laothoe peeress among women bore me.
Should they be still alive and in the hands of the Achaeans, we will ransom them with gold and bronze, of which we have store, for the old man Altes endowed his daughter richly; but if they are already dead and in the house of Hades, sorrow will it be to us two who were their parents; albeit the grief of others will be more shortlived unless you too perish at the hands of Achilles.
Come, then, my son, within the city, to be the guardian of Trojan men and Trojan women, or you will both lose your own life and afford a mighty triumph to the son of Peleus.
Have pity also on your unhappy father while life yet remains to him— on me, whom the son of Saturn will destroy by a terrible doom on the threshold of old age, after I have seen my sons slain and my daughters haled away as captives, my bridal chambers pillaged, little children dashed to earth amid the rage of battle, and my sons ' wives dragged away by the cruel hands of the Achaeans; in the end fierce hounds will tear me in pieces at my own gates after some one has beaten the life out of my body with sword or spearhounds that I myself reared and fed at my own table to guard my gates, but who will yet lap my blood and then lie all distraught at my doors.
When a young man falls by the sword in battle, he may lie where he is and there is nothing unseemly; let what will be seen, all is honourable in death, but when an old man is slain there is nothing in this world more pitiable than that dogs should defile his grey hair and beard and all that men hide for shame."
The old man tore his grey hair as he spoke, but he moved not the heart of Hector.
His mother hard by wept and moaned aloud as she bared her bosom and pointed to the breast which had suckled him. "
Hector," she cried, weeping bitterly the while," Hector, my son, spurn not this breast, but have pity upon me too: if I have ever given you comfort from my own bosom, think on it now, dear son, and come within the wall to protect us from this man ;stand not without to meet him.
Should the wretch kill you, neither I nor your richly dowered wife shall ever weep, dear offshoot of myself, over the bed on which you lie, for dogs will devour you at the ships of the Achaeans."
Thus did the two with many tears implore their son, but they moved not the heart of Hector, and he stood his ground awaiting huge Achilles as he drew nearer towards him.
As a serpent in its den upon the mountains, full fed with deadly poisons, waits for the approach of man— he is filled with fury and his eyes glare terribly as he goes writhing round his den —even so Hector leaned his shield against a tower that jutted out from the wall and stood where he was, undaunted.
"Alas," said he to himself in the heaviness of his heart," if I go within the gates, Polydamas will be the first to heap reproach upon me, for it was he that urged me to lead the Trojans back to the city on that awful night when Achilles again came forth against us.
I would not listen, but it would have been indeed better if I had done so.
Now that my folly has destroyed the host, I dare not look Trojan men and Trojan women in the face, lest a worse man should say,' Hector has ruined us by his selfconfidence.'
Surely it would be better for me to return after having fought Achilles and slain him, or to die gloriously here before the city.
What, again, if I were to lay down my shield and helmet, lean my spear against the wall and go straight up to noble Achilles?
What if I were to promise to give up Helen, who was the fountainhead of all this war, and all the treasure that Alexandrus brought with him in his ships to Troy, aye, and to let the Achaeans divide the half of everything that the city contains among themselves?
I might make the Trojans, by the mouths of their princes, take a solemn oath that they would hide nothing, but would divide into two shares all that is within the city— but why argue with myself in this way?
Were I to go up to him he would show me no kind of mercy; he would kill me then and there as easily as though I were a woman, when I had off my armour.
There is no parleying with him from some rock or oak tree as young men and maidens prattle with one another.
Better fight him at once, and learn to which of us Jove will vouchsafe victory."
Thus did he stand and ponder, but Achilles came up to him as it were Mars himself, plumed lord of battle.
From his right shoulder he brandished his terrible spear of Pelian ash, and the bronze gleamed around him like flashing fire or the rays of the rising sun.
Fear fell upon Hector as he beheld him, and he dared not stay longer where he was but fled in dismay from before the gates, while Achilles darted after him at his utmost speed.
As a mountain falcon, swiftest of all birds, swoops down upon some cowering dove— the dove flies before him but the falcon with a shrill scream follows close after, resolved to have her— even so did Achilles make straight for Hector with all his might, while Hector fled under the Trojan wall as fast as his limbs could take him.
On they flew along the waggonroad that ran hard by under the wall, past the lookout station, and past the weatherbeaten wild figtree, till they came to two fair springs which feed the river Scamander.
One of these two springs is warm, and steam rises from it as smoke from a burning fire, but the other even in summer is as cold as hail or snow, or the ice that forms on water.
Here, hard by the springs, are the goodly washingtroughs of stone, where in the time of peace before the coming of the Achaeans the wives and fair daughters of the Trojans used to wash their clothes.
Past these did they fly, the one in front and the other giving chase behind him: good was the man that fled, but better far was he that followed after, and swiftly indeed did they run, for the prize was no mere beast for sacrifice or bullock 's hide, as it might be for a common footrace, but they ran for the life of Hector.
As horses in a chariot race speed round the turningposts when they are running for some great prize— a tripod or woman— at the games in honour of some dead hero, so did these two run full speed three times round the city of Priam.
All the gods watched them, and the sire of gods and men was the first to speak.
"Alas," said he," my eyes behold a man who is dear to me being pursued round the walls of Troy; my heart is full of pity for Hector, who has burned the thighbones of many a heifer in my honour, one while on the crests of manyvalleyed Ida, and again on the citadel of Troy; and now I see noble Achilles in full pursuit of him round the city of Priam.
What say you?
Consider among yourselves and decide whether we shall now save him or let him fall, valiant though he be, before Achilles, son of Peleus."
Then Minerva said," Father, wielder of the lightning, lord of cloud and storm, what mean you?
Would you pluck this mortal whose doom has long been decreed out of the jaws of death?
Do as you will, but we others shall not be of a mind with you."
And Jove answered," My child, Tritoborn, take heart.
I did not speak in full earnest, and I will let you have your way.
Do without let or hindrance as you are minded."
Thus did he urge Minerva who was already eager, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus.
Achilles was still in full pursuit of Hector, as a hound chasing a fawn which he has started from its covert on the mountains, and hunts through glade and thicket.
The fawn may try to elude him by crouching under cover of a bush, but he will scent her out and follow her up until he gets her— even so there was no escape for Hector from the fleet son of Peleus.
Whenever he made a set to get near the Dardanian gates and under the walls, that his people might help him by showering down weapons from above, Achilles would gain on him and head him back towards the plain, keeping himself always on the city side.
As a man in a dream who fails to lay hands upon another whom he is pursuing— the one can not escape nor the other overtake— even so neither could Achilles come up with Hector, nor Hector break away from Achilles; nevertheless he might even yet have escaped death had not the time come when Apollo, who thus far had sustained his strength and nerved his running, was now no longer to stay by him.
Achilles made signs to the Achaean host, and shook his head to show that no man was to aim a dart at Hector, lest another might win the glory of having hit him and he might himself come in second.
Then, at last, as they were nearing the fountains for the fourth time, the father of all balanced his golden scales and placed a doom in each of them, one for Achilles and the other for Hector.
As he held the scales by the middle, the doom of Hector fell down deep into the house of Hades— and then Phoebus Apollo left him.
Thereon Minerva went close up to the son of Peleus and said," Noble Achilles, favoured of heaven, we two shall surely take back to the ships a triumph for the Achaeans by slaying Hector, for all his lust of battle.
Do what Apollo may as he lies grovelling before his father, aegisbearing Jove, Hector can not escape us longer.
Stay here and take breath, while I go up to him and persuade him to make a stand and fight you."
Thus spoke Minerva.
Achilles obeyed her gladly, and stood still, leaning on his bronzepointed ashen spear, while Minerva left him and went after Hector in the form and with the voice of Deiphobus.
She came close up to him and said," Dear brother, I see you are hard pressed by Achilles who is chasing you at full speed round the city of Priam, let us await his onset and stand on our defence."
And Hector answered," Deiphobus, you have always been dearest to me of all my brothers, children of Hecuba and Priam, but henceforth I shall rate you yet more highly, inasmuch as you have ventured outside the wall for my sake when all the others remain inside."
Then Minerva said," Dear brother, my father and mother went down on their knees and implored me, as did all my comrades, to remain inside, so great a fear has fallen upon them all; but I was in an agony of grief when I beheld you; now, therefore, let us two make a stand and fight, and let there be no keeping our spears in reserve, that we may learn whether Achilles shall kill us and bear off our spoils to the ships, or whether he shall fall before you."
Thus did Minerva inveigle him by her cunning, and when the two were now close to one another great Hector was first to speak.
"I will no longer fly you, son of Peleus," said he," as I have been doing hitherto.
Three times have I fled round the mighty city of Priam, without daring to withstand you, but now, let me either slay or be slain, for I am in the mind to face you.
Let us, then, give pledges to one another by our gods, who are the fittest witnesses and guardians of all covenants; let it be agreed between us that if Jove vouchsafes me the longer stay and I take your life, I am not to treat your dead body in any unseemly fashion, but when I have stripped you of your armour, I am to give up your body to the Achaeans.
And do you likewise."
Achilles glared at him and answered," Fool, prate not to me about covenants.
There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out all through.
Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall and glut grim Mars with his life 's blood.
Put forth all your strength; you have need now to prove yourself indeed a bold soldier and man of war.
You have no more chance, and Pallas Minerva will forthwith vanquish you by my spear: you shall now pay me in full for the grief you have caused me on account of my comrades whom you have killed in battle."
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it.
Hector saw it coming and avoided it; he watched it and crouched down so that it flew over his head and stuck in the ground beyond; Minerva then snatched it up and gave it back to Achilles without Hector 's seeing her; Hector thereon said to the son of Peleus," You have missed your aim, Achilles, peer of the gods, and Jove has not yet revealed to you the hour of my doom, though you made sure that he had done so.
You were a falsetongued liar when you deemed that I should forget my valour and quail before you.
You shall not drive your spear into the back of a runaway— drive it, should heaven so grant you power, drive it into me as I make straight towards you; and now for your own part avoid my spear if you can— would that you might receive the whole of it into your body; if you were once dead the Trojans would find the war an easier matter, for it is you who have harmed them most."
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it.
His aim was true for he hit the middle of Achilles ' shield, but the spear rebounded from it, and did not pierce it.
Hector was angry when he saw that the weapon had sped from his hand in vain, and stood there in dismay for he had no second spear.
With a loud cry he called Deiphobus and asked him for one, but there was no man; then he saw the truth and said to himself," Alas!
the gods have lured me on to my destruction.
I deemed that the hero Deiphobus was by my side, but he is within the wall, and Minerva has inveigled me; death is now indeed exceedingly near at hand and there is no way out of it— for so Jove and his son Apollo the fardarter have willed it, though heretofore they have been ever ready to protect me.
My doom has come upon me; let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter."
As he spoke he drew the keen blade that hung so great and strong by his side, and gathering himself together be sprang on Achilles like a soaring eagle which swoops down from the clouds on to some lamb or timid hare— even so did Hector brandish his sword and spring upon Achilles.
Achilles mad with rage darted towards him, with his wondrous shield before his breast, and his gleaming helmet, made with four layers of metal, nodding fiercely forward.
The thick tresses of gold with which Vulcan had crested the helmet floated round it, and as the evening star that shines brighter than all others through the stillness of night, even such was the gleam of the spear which Achilles poised in his right hand, fraught with the death of noble Hector.
He eyed his fair flesh over and over to see where he could best wound it, but all was protected by the goodly armour of which Hector had spoiled Patroclus after he had slain him, save only the throat where the collarbones divide the neck from the shoulders, and this is a most deadly place: here then did Achilles strike him as he was coming on towards him, and the point of his spear went right through the fleshy part of the neck, but it did not sever his windpipe so that he could still speak.
Hector fell headlong, and Achilles vaunted over him saying," Hector, you deemed that you should come off scatheless when you were spoiling Patroclus, and recked not of myself who was not with him.
Fool that you were: for I, his comrade, mightier far than he, was still left behind him at the ships, and now I have laid you low.
The Achaeans shall give him all due funeral rites, while dogs and vultures shall work their will upon yourself."
Then Hector said, as the life ebbed out of him," I pray you by your life and knees, and by your parents, let not dogs devour me at the ships of the Achaeans, but accept the rich treasure of gold and bronze which my father and mother will offer you, and send my body home, that the Trojans and their wives may give me my dues of fire when I am dead."
Achilles glared at him and answered," Dog, talk not to me neither of knees nor parents; would that I could be as sure of being able to cut your flesh into pieces and eat it raw, for the ill you have done me, as I am that nothing shall save you from the dogs— it shall not be, though they bring ten or twenty fold ransom and weigh it out for me on the spot, with promise of yet more hereafter.
Though Priam son of Dardanus should bid them offer me your weight in gold, even so your mother shall never lay you out and make lament over the son she bore, but dogs and vultures shall eat you utterly up."
Hector with his dying breath then said," I know you what you are, and was sure that I should not move you, for your heart is hard as iron; look to it that I bring not heaven 's anger upon you on the day when Paris and Phoebus Apollo, valiant though you be, shall slay you at the Scaean gates."
When he had thus said the shrouds of death enfolded him, whereon his soul went out of him and flew down to the house of Hades, lamenting its sad fate that it should enjoy youth and strength no longer.
But Achilles said, speaking to the dead body," Die; for my part I will accept my fate whensoever Jove and the other gods see fit to send it."
As he spoke he drew his spear from the body and set it on one side; then he stripped the bloodstained armour from Hector 's shoulders while the other Achaeans came running up to view his wondrous strength and beauty; and no one came near him without giving him a fresh wound.
Then would one turn to his neighbour and say," It is easier to handle Hector now than when he was flinging fire on to our ships"—and as he spoke he would thrust his spear into him anew.
When Achilles had done spoiling Hector of his armour, he stood among the Argives and said," My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, now that heaven has vouchsafed us to overcome this man, who has done us more hurt than all the others together, consider whether we should not attack the city in force, and discover in what mind the Trojans may be.
We should thus learn whether they will desert their city now that Hector has fallen, or will still hold out even though he is no longer living.
But why argue with myself in this way, while Patroclus is still lying at the ships unburied, and unmourned— he whom I can never forget so long as I am alive and my strength fails not?
Though men forget their dead when once they are within the house of Hades, yet not even there will I forget the comrade whom I have lost.
Now, therefore, Achaean youths, let us raise the song of victory and go back to the ships taking this man along with us; for we have achieved a mighty triumph and have slain noble Hector to whom the Trojans prayed throughout their city as though he were a god."
On this he treated the body of Hector with contumely: he pierced the sinews at the back of both his feet from heel to ancle and passed thongs of oxhide through the slits he had made: thus he made the body fast to his chariot, letting the head trail upon the ground.
Then when he had put the goodly armour on the chariot and had himself mounted, he lashed his horses on and they flew forward nothing loth.
The dust rose from Hector as he was being dragged along, his dark hair flew all abroad, and his head once so comely was laid low on earth, for Jove had now delivered him into the hands of his foes to do him outrage in his own land.
Thus was the head of Hector being dishonoured in the dust.
His mother tore her hair, and flung her veil from her with a loud cry as she looked upon her son.
His father made piteous moan, and throughout the city the people fell to weeping and wailing.
It was as though the whole of frowning Ilius was being smirched with fire.
Hardly could the people hold Priam back in his hot haste to rush without the gates of the city.
He grovelled in the mire and besought them, calling each one of them by his name."
Let be, my friends," he cried," and for all your sorrow, suffer me to go singlehanded to the ships of the Achaeans.
Let me beseech this cruel and terrible man, if maybe he will respect the feeling of his fellowmen, and have compassion on my old age.
His own father is even such another as myself— Peleus, who bred him and reared him to be the bane of us Trojans, and of myself more than of all others.
Many a son of mine has he slain in the flower of his youth, and yet, grieve for these as I may, I do so for one— Hector— more than for them all, and the bitterness of my sorrow will bring me down to the house of Hades.
Would that he had died in my arms, for so both his illstarred mother who bore him, and myself, should have had the comfort of weeping and mourning over him."
Thus did he speak with many tears, and all the people of the city joined in his lament.
Hecuba then raised the cry of wailing among the Trojans."
Alas, my son," she cried," what have I left to live for now that you are no more?
Night and day did I glory in you throughout the city, for you were a tower of strength to all in Troy, and both men and women alike hailed you as a god.
So long as you lived you were their pride, but now death and destruction have fallen upon you."
Hector 's wife had as yet heard nothing, for no one had come to tell her that her husband had remained without the gates.
She was at her loom in an inner part of the house, weaving a double purple web, and embroidering it with many flowers.
She told her maids to set a large tripod on the fire, so as to have a warm bath ready for Hector when he came out of battle; poor woman, she knew not that he was now beyond the reach of baths, and that Minerva had laid him low by the hands of Achilles.
She heard the cry coming as from the wall, and trembled in every limb; the shuttle fell from her hands, and again she spoke to her waitingwomen."
Two of you," she said," come with me that I may learn what it is that has befallen; I heard the voice of my husband 's honoured mother; my own heart beats as though it would come into my mouth and my limbs refuse to carry me; some great misfortune for Priam 's children must be at hand.
May I never live to hear it, but I greatly fear that Achilles has cut off the retreat of brave Hector and has chased him on to the plain where he was singlehanded; I fear he may have put an end to the reckless daring which possessed my husband, who would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour."
Her heart beat fast, and as she spoke she flew from the house like a maniac, with her waitingwomen following after.
When she reached the battlements and the crowd of people, she stood looking out upon the wall, and saw Hector being borne away in front of the city— the horses dragging him without heed or care over the ground towards the ships of the Achaeans.
Her eyes were then shrouded as with the darkness of night and she fell fainting backwards.
She tore the attiring from her head and flung it from her, the frontlet and net with its plaited band, and the veil which golden Venus had given her on the day when Hector took her with him from the house of Eetion, after having given countless gifts of wooing for her sake.
Her husband 's sisters and the wives of his brothers crowded round her and supported her, for she was fain to die in her distraction; when she again presently breathed and came to herself, she sobbed and made lament among the Trojans saying," Woe is me, O Hector; woe, indeed, that to share a common lot we were born, you at Troy in the house of Priam, and I at Thebes under the wooded mountain of Placus in the house of Eetion who brought me up when I was a child— illstarred sire of an illstarred daughter— would that he had never begotten me.
You are now going into the house of Hades under the secret places of the earth, and you leave me a sorrowing widow in your house.
The child, of whom you and I are the unhappy parents, is as yet a mere infant.
Now that you are gone, O Hector, you can do nothing for him nor he for you.
Even though he escape the horrors of this woeful war with the Achaeans, yet shall his life henceforth be one of labour and sorrow, for others will seize his lands.
The day that robs a child of his parents severs him from his own kind; his head is bowed, his cheeks are wet with tears, and he will go about destitute among the friends of his father, plucking one by the cloak and another by the shirt.
Some one or other of these may so far pity him as to hold the cup for a moment towards him and let him moisten his lips, but he must not drink enough to wet the roof of his mouth; then one whose parents are alive will drive him from the table with blows and angry words.'
Out with you,' he will say,' you have no father here,' and the child will go crying back to his widowed mother— he, Astyanax, who erewhile would sit upon his father 's knees, and have none but the daintiest and choicest morsels set before him.
When he had played till he was tired and went to sleep, he would lie in a bed, in the arms of his nurse, on a soft couch, knowing neither want nor care, whereas now that he has lost his father his lot will be full of hardship— he, whom the Trojans name Astyanax, because you, O Hector, were the only defence of their gates and battlements.
The wriggling writhing worms will now eat you at the ships, far from your parents, when the dogs have glutted themselves upon you.
You will lie naked, although in your house you have fine and goodly raiment made by hands of women.
This will I now burn; it is of no use to you, for you can never again wear it, and thus you will have respect shown you by the Trojans both men and women."
In such wise did she cry aloud amid her tears, and the women joined in her lament.
CHAPTER XII One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight.
But this was not judged feasible.
The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word.
His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.
All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it.
Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than, "Very well.
If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh!
yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different."
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry.
It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.
It made her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;-"Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be!
I do look forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure."
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins.
No!--she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise.
There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no love.
Alas!
there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley.
Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing.
A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return.
Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.
The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly.
As to his going, it was inevitable.
He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance.
He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience.
Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon."
This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast.
When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim.
The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy!
and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation.
Her father's feelings were quite distinct.
He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him.
He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it.
His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst."
"But you will come again," said Emma.
"This will not be your only visit to Randalls."
"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever."
"Our poor ball must be quite given up."
"Ah!
that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?"
"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance.
I would much rather have been merry than wise."
"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball.
My father depends on it.
Do not forget your engagement."
Emma looked graciously.
"Such a fortnight as it has been!"
he continued; "every day more precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making me less fit to bear any other place.
Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!"
"As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations?
I am sure we do.
I am sure you did not much expect to like us.
You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
"And you must be off this very morning?"
"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately.
I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him."
"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss Bates?
How unlucky!
Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours."
"Yes--I have called there; passing the door, I thought it better.
It was a right thing to do.
I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent.
She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in.
She is a woman that one may, that one must laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight.
It was better to pay my visit, then"-He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
"In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts.
She hardly knew what to say.
It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish.
Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-He was silent.
She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner.
She heard him sigh.
It was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him.
A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield.
My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance?
Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial.
Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
"I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you.
I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me.
She has been so kind as to promise it.
Oh!
the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing.
In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again."
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill.
Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.
It was a sad change.
They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival.
Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners!
It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days.
To complete every other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her.
What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it.
"I certainly must," said she.
"This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least.
Well!
evil to some is always good to others.
I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy.
He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes."
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness.
He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious.
She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health.
THE MEETING BETWEEN NAUSICAA AND ULYSSES.
So here Ulysses slept, overcome by sleep and toil; but Minerva went off to the country and city of the Phaeacians— a people who used to live in the fair town of Hypereia, near the lawless Cyclopes.
Now the Cyclopes were stronger than they and plundered them, so their king Nausithous moved them thence and settled them in Scheria, far from all other people.
He surrounded the city with a wall, built houses and temples, and divided the lands among his people; but he was dead and gone to the house of Hades, and King Alcinous, whose counsels were inspired of heaven, was now reigning.
To his house, then, did Minerva hie in furtherance of the return of Ulysses.
She went straight to the beautifully decorated bedroom in which there slept a girl who was as lovely as a goddess, Nausicaa, daughter to King Alcinous.
Two maid servants were sleeping near her, both very pretty, one on either side of the doorway, which was closed with well made folding doors.
Minerva took the form of the famous sea captain Dymas 's daughter, who was a bosom friend of Nausicaa and just her own age; then, coming up to the girl 's bedside like a breath of wind, she hovered over her head and said: "Nausicaa, what can your mother have been about, to have such a lazy daughter?
Here are your clothes all lying in disorder, yet you are going to be married almost immediately, and should not only be well dressed yourself, but should find good clothes for those who attend you.
This is the way to get yourself a good name, and to make your father and mother proud of you.
Suppose, then, that we make tomorrow a washing day, and start at daybreak.
I will come and help you so that you may have everything ready as soon as possible, for all the best young men among your own people are courting you, and you are not going to remain a maid much longer.
Ask your father, therefore, to have a waggon and mules ready for us at daybreak, to take the rugs, robes, and girdles, and you can ride, too, which will be much pleasanter for you than walking, for the washingcisterns are some way from the town."
When she had said this Minerva went away to Olympus, which they say is the everlasting home of the gods.
Here no wind beats roughly, and neither rain nor snow can fall; but it abides in everlasting sunshine and in a great peacefulness of light, wherein the blessed gods are illumined for ever and ever.
This was the place to which the goddess went when she had given instructions to the girl.
By and by morning came and woke Nausicaa, who began wondering about her dream; she therefore went to the other end of the house to tell her father and mother all about it, and found them in their own room.
Her mother was sitting by the fireside spinning her purple yarn with her maids around her, and she happened to catch her father just as he was going out to attend a meeting of the town council, which the Phaeacian aldermen had convened.
She stopped him and said: "Papa dear, could you manage to let me have a good big waggon?
I want to take all our dirty clothes to the river and wash them.
You are the chief man here, so it is only right that you should have a clean shirt when you attend meetings of the council.
Moreover, you have five sons at home, two of them married, while the other three are good looking bachelors; you know they always like to have clean linen when they go to a dance, and I have been thinking about all this."
She did not say a word about her own wedding, for she did not like to, but her father knew and said," You shall have the mules, my love, and whatever else you have a mind for.
Be off with you, and the men shall get you a good strong waggon with a body to it that will hold all your clothes."
On this he gave his orders to the servants, who got the waggon out, harnessed the mules, and put them to, while the girl brought the clothes down from the linen room and placed them on the waggon.
Her mother prepared her a basket of provisions with all sorts of good things, and a goat skin full of wine; the girl now got into the waggon, and her mother gave her also a golden cruse of oil, that she and her women might anoint themselves.
Then she took the whip and reins and lashed the mules on, whereon they set off, and their hoofs clattered on the road.
They pulled without flagging, and carried not only Nausicaa and her wash of clothes, but the maids also who were with her.
When they reached the water side they went to the washing cisterns, through which there ran at all times enough pure water to wash any quantity of linen, no matter how dirty.
Here they unharnessed the mules and turned them out to feed on the sweet juicy herbage that grew by the water side.
They took the clothes out of the waggon, put them in the water, and vied with one another in treading them in the pits to get the dirt out.
After they had washed them and got them quite clean, they laid them out by the sea side, where the waves had raised a high beach of shingle, and set about washing themselves and anointing themselves with olive oil.
Then they got their dinner by the side of the stream, and waited for the sun to finish drying the clothes.
When they had done dinner they threw off the veils that covered their heads and began to play at ball, while Nausicaa sang for them.
As the huntress Diana goes forth upon the mountains of Taygetus or Erymanthus to hunt wild boars or deer, and the wood nymphs, daughters of Aegisbearing Jove, take their sport along with her( then is Leto proud at seeing her daughter stand a full head taller than the others, and eclipse the loveliest amid a whole bevy of beauties), even so did the girl outshine her handmaids.
When it was time for them to start home, and they were folding the clothes and putting them into the waggon, Minerva began to consider how Ulysses should wake up and see the handsome girl who was to conduct him to the city of the Phaeacians.
The girl, therefore, threw a ball at one of the maids, which missed her and fell into deep water.
On this they all shouted, and the noise they made woke Ulysses, who sat up in his bed of leaves and began to wonder what it might all be.
"Alas," said he to himself," what kind of people have I come amongst?
Are they cruel, savage, and uncivilised, or hospitable and humane?
I seem to hear the voices of young women, and they sound like those of the nymphs that haunt mountain tops, or springs of rivers and meadows of green grass.
At any rate I am among a race of men and women.
Let me try if I can not manage to get a look at them."
As he said this he crept from under his bush, and broke off a bough covered with thick leaves to hide his nakedness.
He looked like some lion of the wilderness that stalks about exulting in his strength and defying both wind and rain; his eyes glare as he prowls in quest of oxen, sheep, or deer, for he is famished, and will dare break even into a well fenced homestead, trying to get at the sheep— even such did Ulysses seem to the young women, as he drew near to them all naked as he was, for he was in great want.
On seeing one so unkempt and so begrimed with salt water, the others scampered off along the spits that jutted out into the sea, but the daughter of Alcinous stood firm, for Minerva put courage into her heart and took away all fear from her.
She stood right in front of Ulysses, and he doubted whether he should go up to her, throw himself at her feet, and embrace her knees as a suppliant, or stay where he was and entreat her to give him some clothes and show him the way to the town.
In the end he deemed it best to entreat her from a distance in case the girl should take offence at his coming near enough to clasp her knees, so he addressed her in honeyed and persuasive language.
"O queen," he said," I implore your aid— but tell me, are you a goddess or are you a mortal woman?
If you are a goddess and dwell in heaven, I can only conjecture that you are Jove 's daughter Diana, for your face and figure resemble none but hers; if on the other hand you are a mortal and live on earth, thrice happy are your father and mother— thrice happy, too, are your brothers and sisters; how proud and delighted they must feel when they see so fair a scion as yourself going out to a dance; most happy, however, of all will he be whose wedding gifts have been the richest, and who takes you to his own home.
I never yet saw any one so beautiful, neither man nor woman, and am lost in admiration as I behold you.
I can only compare you to a young palm tree which I saw when I was at Delos growing near the altar of Apollo— for I was there, too, with much people after me, when I was on that journey which has been the source of all my troubles.
Never yet did such a young plant shoot out of the ground as that was, and I admired and wondered at it exactly as I now admire and wonder at yourself.
I dare not clasp your knees, but I am in great distress; yesterday made the twentieth day that I had been tossing about upon the sea.
The winds and waves have taken me all the way from the Ogygian island and now fate has flung me upon this coast that I may endure still further suffering; for I do not think that I have yet come to the end of it, but rather that heaven has still much evil in store for me.
"And now, O queen, have pity upon me, for you are the first person I have met, and I know no one else in this country.
Show me the way to your town, and let me have anything that you may have brought hither to wrap your clothes in.
May heaven grant you in all things your heart 's desire— husband, house, and a happy, peaceful home; for there is nothing better in this world than that man and wife should be of one mind in a house.
It discomfits their enemies, makes the hearts of their friends glad, and they themselves know more about it than any one."
To this Nausicaa answered," Stranger, you appear to be a sensible, welldisposed person.
There is no accounting for luck; Jove gives prosperity to rich and poor just as he chooses, so you must take what he has seen fit to send you, and make the best of it.
Now, however, that you have come to this our country, you shall not want for clothes nor for anything else that a foreigner in distress may reasonably look for.
I will show you the way to the town, and will tell you the name of our people; we are called Phaeacians, and I am daughter to Alcinous, in whom the whole power of the state is vested."
Then she called her maids and said," Stay where you are, you girls.
Can you not see a man without running away from him?
Do you take him for a robber or a murderer?
Neither he nor any one else can come here to do us Phaeacians any harm, for we are dear to the gods, and live apart on a land 's end that juts into the sounding sea, and have nothing to do with any other people.
This is only some poor man who has lost his way, and we must be kind to him, for strangers and foreigners in distress are under Jove 's protection, and will take what they can get and be thankful; so, girls, give the poor fellow something to eat and drink, and wash him in the stream at some place that is sheltered from the wind."
On this the maids left off running away and began calling one another back.
They made Ulysses sit down in the shelter as Nausicaa had told them, and brought him a shirt and cloak.
They also brought him the little golden cruse of oil, and told him to go and wash in the stream.
But Ulysses said," Young women, please to stand a little on one side that I may wash the brine from my shoulders and anoint myself with oil, for it is long enough since my skin has had a drop of oil upon it.
I can not wash as long as you all keep standing there.
I am ashamed to strip before a number of good looking young women."
Then they stood on one side and went to tell the girl, while Ulysses washed himself in the stream and scrubbed the brine from his back and from his broad shoulders.
When he had thoroughly washed himself, and had got the brine out of his hair, he anointed himself with oil, and put on the clothes which the girl had given him; Minerva then made him look taller and stronger than before, she also made the hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan and Minerva enriches a piece of silver plate by gilding it— and his work is full of beauty.
Then he went and sat down a little way off upon the beach, looking quite young and handsome, and the girl gazed on him with admiration; then she said to her maids: "Hush, my dears, for I want to say something.
I believe the gods who live in heaven have sent this man to the Phaeacians.
When I first saw him I thought him plain, but now his appearance is like that of the gods who dwell in heaven.
I should like my future husband to be just such another as he is, if he would only stay here and not want to go away.
However, give him something to eat and drink."
They did as they were told, and set food before Ulysses, who ate and drank ravenously, for it was long since he had had food of any kind.
Meanwhile, Nausicaa bethought her of another matter.
She got the linen folded and placed in the waggon, she then yoked the mules, and, as she took her seat, she called Ulysses: "Stranger," said she," rise and let us be going back to the town; I will introduce you at the house of my excellent father, where I can tell you that you will meet all the best people among the Phaeacians.
But be sure and do as I bid you, for you seem to be a sensible person.
As long as we are going past the fields and farm lands, follow briskly behind the waggon along with the maids and I will lead the way myself.
Presently, however, we shall come to the town, where you will find a high wall running all round it, and a good harbour on either side with a narrow entrance into the city, and the ships will be drawn up by the road side, for every one has a place where his own ship can lie.
You will see the market place with a temple of Neptune in the middle of it, and paved with large stones bedded in the earth.
Here people deal in ship 's gear of all kinds, such as cables and sails, and here, too, are the places where oars are made, for the Phaeacians are not a nation of archers; they know nothing about bows and arrows, but are a seafaring folk, and pride themselves on their masts, oars, and ships, with which they travel far over the sea.
"I am afraid of the gossip and scandal that may be set on foot against me later on; for the people here are very illnatured, and some low fellow, if he met us, might say,' Who is this finelooking stranger that is going about with Nausicaa?
Where did she find him?
I suppose she is going to marry him.
Perhaps he is a vagabond sailor whom she has taken from some foreign vessel, for we have no neighbours; or some god has at last come down from heaven in answer to her prayers, and she is going to live with him all the rest of her life.
It would be a good thing if she would take herself off and find a husband somewhere else, for she will not look at one of the many excellent young Phaeacians who are in love with her.'
This is the kind of disparaging remark that would be made about me, and I could not complain, for I should myself be scandalised at seeing any other girl do the like, and go about with men in spite of everybody, while her father and mother were still alive, and without having been married in the face of all the world.
"If, therefore, you want my father to give you an escort and to help you home, do as I bid you; you will see a beautiful grove of poplars by the road side dedicated to Minerva; it has a well in it and a meadow all round it.
Here my father has a field of rich garden ground, about as far from the town as a man 's voice will carry.
Sit down there and wait for a while till the rest of us can get into the town and reach my father 's house.
Then, when you think we must have done this, come into the town and ask the way to the house of my father Alcinous.
You will have no difficulty in finding it; any child will point it out to you, for no one else in the whole town has anything like such a fine house as he has.
When you have got past the gates and through the outer court, go right across the inner court till you come to my mother.
You will find her sitting by the fire and spinning her purple wool by firelight.
It is a fine sight to see her as she leans back against one of the bearingposts with her maids all ranged behind her.
Close to her seat stands that of my father, on which he sits and topes like an immortal god.
Never mind him, but go up to my mother, and lay your hands upon her knees if you would get home quickly.
If you can gain her over, you may hope to see your own country again, no matter how distant it may be."
So saying she lashed the mules with her whip and they left the river.
The mules drew well, and their hoofs went up and down upon the road.
She was careful not to go too fast for Ulysses and the maids who were following on foot along with the waggon, so she plied her whip with judgement.
As the sun was going down they came to the sacred grove of Minerva, and there Ulysses sat down and prayed to the mighty daughter of Jove.
"Hear me," he cried," daughter of Aegisbearing Jove, unweariable, hear me now, for you gave no heed to my prayers when Neptune was wrecking me.
Now, therefore, have pity upon me and grant that I may find friends and be hospitably received by the Phaeacians."
Thus did he pray, and Minerva heard his prayer, but she would not show herself to him openly, for she was afraid of her uncle Neptune, who was still furious in his endeavors to prevent Ulysses from getting home.
ULYSSES REVEALS HIMSELF TO TELEMACHUS.
Meanwhile Ulysses and the swineherd had lit a fire in the hut and were were getting breakfast ready at daybreak, for they had sent the men out with the pigs.
When Telemachus came up, the dogs did not bark but fawned upon him ,so Ulysses, hearing the sound of feet and noticing that the dogs did not bark, said to Eumaeus: "Eumaeus, I hear footsteps; I suppose one of your men or some one of your acquaintance is coming here, for the dogs are fawning upon him and not barking."
The words were hardly out of his mouth before his son stood at the door.
Eumaeus sprang to his feet, and the bowls in which he was mixing wine fell from his hands, as he made towards his master.
He kissed his head and both his beautiful eyes, and wept for joy.
A father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son, the child of his old age, after ten years ' absence in a foreign country and after having gone through much hardship.
He embraced him, kissed him all over as though he had come back from the dead, and spoke fondly to him saying: "So you are come, Telemachus, light of my eyes that you are.
When I heard you had gone to Pylos I made sure I was never going to see you any more.
Come in, my dear child, and sit down, that I may have a good look at you now you are home again; it is not very often you come into the country to see us herdsmen; you stick pretty close to the town generally.
I suppose you think it better to keep an eye on what the suitors are doing."
"So be it, old friend," answered Telemachus," but I am come now because I want to see you, and to learn whether my mother is still at her old home or whether some one else has married her, so that the bed of Ulysses is without bedding and covered with cobwebs."
"She is still at the house," replied Eumaeus," grieving and breaking her heart, and doing nothing but weep, both night and day continually."
As he spoke he took Telemachus ' spear, whereon he crossed the stone threshold and came inside.
Ulysses rose from his seat to give him place as he entered, but Telemachus checked him;" Sit down, stranger," said he," I can easily find another seat, and there is one here who will lay it for me."
Ulysses went back to his own place, and Eumaeus strewed some green brushwood on the floor and threw a sheepskin on top of it for Telemachus to sit upon.
Then the swineherd brought them platters of cold meat, the remains from what they had eaten the day before, and he filled the bread baskets with bread as fast as he could.
He mixed wine also in bowls of ivywood, and took his seat facing Ulysses.
Then they laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus said to Eumaeus," Old friend, where does this stranger come from?
How did his crew bring him to Ithaca, and who were they?—for assuredly he did not come here by land."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," My son, I will tell you the real truth.
He says he is a Cretan, and that he has been a great traveller.
At this moment he is running away from a Thesprotian ship, and has taken refuge at my station, so I will put him into your hands.
Do whatever you like with him, only remember that he is your suppliant."
"I am very much distressed," said Telemachus," by what you have just told me.
How can I take this stranger into my house?
I am as yet young, and am not strong enough to hold my own if any man attacks me.
My mother can not make up her mind whether to stay where she is and look after the house out of respect for public opinion and the memory of her husband, or whether the time is now come for her to take the best man of those who are wooing her, and the one who will make her the most advantageous offer; still, as the stranger has come to your station I will find him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a sword and sandals, and will send him wherever he wants to go.
Or if you like you can keep him here at the station, and I will send him clothes and food that he may be no burden on you and on your men; but I will not have him go near the suitors, for they are very insolent, and are sure to ill treat him in a way that would greatly grieve me; no matter how valiant a man may be he can do nothing against numbers, for they will be too strong for him."
Then Ulysses said," Sir, it is right that I should say something myself.
I am much shocked about what you have said about the insolent way in which the suitors are behaving in despite of such a man as you are.
Tell me, do you submit to such treatment tamely, or has some god set your people against you?
May you not complain of your brothers— for it is to these that a man may look for support, however great his quarrel may be?
I wish I were as young as you are and in my present mind; if I were son to Ulysses, or, indeed, Ulysses himself, I would rather some one came and cut my head off, but I would go to the house and be the bane of every one of these men.
If they were too many for me— I being singlehanded— I would rather die fighting in my own house than see such disgraceful sights day after day, strangers grossly maltreated, and men dragging the women servants about the house in an unseemly way, wine drawn recklessly, and bread wasted all to no purpose for an end that shall never be accomplished."
And Telemachus answered," I will tell you truly everything.
There is no enmity between me and my people, nor can I complain of brothers, to whom a man may look for support however great his quarrel may be.
Jove has made us a race of only sons.
Laertes was the only son of Arceisius, and Ulysses only son of Laertes.
I am myself the only son of Ulysses who left me behind him when he went away, so that I have never been of any use to him.
Hence it comes that my house is in the hands of numberless marauders; for the chiefs from all the neighbouring islands, Dulichium, Same, Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying court to my mother, who will neither say point blank that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so with myself into the bargain.
The issue, however, rests with heaven.
But do you, old friend Eumaeus, go at once and tell Penelope that I am safe and have returned from Pylos.
Tell it to herself alone, and then come back here without letting any one else know, for there are many who are plotting mischief against me."
"I understand and heed you," replied Eumaeus;" you need instruct me no further, only as I am going that way say whether I had not better let poor Laertes know that you are returned.
He used to superintend the work on his farm in spite of his bitter sorrow about Ulysses, and he would eat and drink at will along with his servants; but they tell me that from the day on which you set out for Pylos he has neither eaten nor drunk as he ought to do, nor does he look after his farm, but sits weeping and wasting the flesh from off his bones."
"More 's the pity," answered Telemachus," I am sorry for him, but we must leave him to himself just now.
If people could have everything their own way, the first thing I should choose would be the return of my father; but go, and give your message; then make haste back again, and do not turn out of your way to tell Laertes.
Tell my mother to send one of her women secretly with the news at once, and let him hear it from her."
Thus did he urge the swineherd; Eumaeus, therefore, took his sandals, bound them to his feet, and started for the town.
Minerva watched him well off the station, and then came up to it in the form of a woman— fair, stately, and wise.
She stood against the side of the entry, and revealed herself to Ulysses, but Telemachus could not see her, and knew not that she was there, for the gods do not let themselves be seen by everybody.
Ulysses saw her, and so did the dogs, for they did not bark, but went scared and whining off to the other side of the yards.
She nodded her head and motioned to Ulysses with her eyebrows; whereon he left the hut and stood before her outside the main wall of the yards.
Then she said to him: "Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, it is now time for you to tell your son: do not keep him in the dark any longer, but lay your plans for the destruction of the suitors, and then make for the town.
I will not be long in joining you, for I too am eager for the fray."
As she spoke she touched him with her golden wand.
First she threw a fair clean shirt and cloak about his shoulders; then she made him younger and of more imposing presence; she gave him back his colour, filled out his cheeks, and let his beard become dark again.
Then she went away and Ulysses came back inside the hut.
His son was astounded when he saw him, and turned his eyes away for fear he might be looking upon a god.
"Stranger," said he," how suddenly you have changed from what you were a moment or two ago.
You are dressed differently and your colour is not the same.
Are you some one or other of the gods that live in heaven?
If so, be propitious to me till I can make you due sacrifice and offerings of wrought gold.
Have mercy upon me."
And Ulysses said," I am no god, why should you take me for one?
I am your father, on whose account you grieve and suffer so much at the hands of lawless men."
As he spoke he kissed his son, and a tear fell from his cheek on to the ground, for he had restrained all tears till now.
But Telemachus could not yet believe that it was his father, and said: "You are not my father, but some god is flattering me with vain hopes that I may grieve the more hereafter; no mortal man could of himself contrive to do as you have been doing, and make yourself old and young at a moment 's notice, unless a god were with him.
A second ago you were old and all in rags, and now you are like some god come down from heaven."
Ulysses answered," Telemachus, you ought not to be so immeasurably astonished at my being really here.
There is no other Ulysses who will come hereafter.
Such as I am, it is I, who after long wandering and much hardship have got home in the twentieth year to my own country.
What you wonder at is the work of the redoubtable goddess Minerva, who does with me whatever she will, for she can do what she pleases.
At one moment she makes me like a beggar, and the next I am a young man with good clothes on my back; it is an easy matter for the gods who live in heaven to make any man look either rich or poor."
As he spoke he sat down, and Telemachus threw his arms about his father and wept.
They were both so much moved that they cried aloud like eagles or vultures with crooked talons that have been robbed of their half fledged young by peasants.
Thus piteously did they weep, and the sun would have gone down upon their mourning if Telemachus had not suddenly said," In what ship, my dear father, did your crew bring you to Ithaca?
Of what nation did they declare themselves to be— for you can not have come by land?"
"I will tell you the truth, my son," replied Ulysses.
"It was the Phaeacians who brought me here.
They are great sailors, and are in the habit of giving escorts to any one who reaches their coasts.
They took me over the sea while I was fast asleep, and landed me in Ithaca, after giving me many presents in bronze, gold, and raiment.
These things by heaven 's mercy are lying concealed in a cave, and I am now come here on the suggestion of Minerva that we may consult about killing our enemies.
First, therefore, give me a list of the suitors, with their number, that I may learn who, and how many, they are.
I can then turn the matter over in my mind, and see whether we two can fight the whole body of them ourselves, or whether we must find others to help us."
To this Telemachus answered," Father, I have always heard of your renown both in the field and in council, but the task you talk of is a very great one: I am awed at the mere thought of it; two men can not stand against many and brave ones.
There are not ten suitors only, nor twice ten, but ten many times over; you shall learn their number at once.
There are fiftytwo chosen youths from Dulichium, and they have six servants; from Same there are twentyfour; twenty young Achaeans from Zacynthus, and twelve from Ithaca itself, all of them well born.
They have with them a servant Medon, a bard, and two men who can carve at table.
If we face such numbers as this, you may have bitter cause to rue your coming, and your revenge.
See whether you can not think of some one who would be willing to come and help us."
"Listen to me," replied Ulysses," and think whether Minerva and her father Jove may seem sufficient, or whether I am to try and find some one else as well."
"Those whom you have named," answered Telemachus," are a couple of good allies, for though they dwell high up among the clouds they have power over both gods and men."
"These two," continued Ulysses," will not keep long out of the fray, when the suitors and we join fight in my house.
Now, therefore, return home early tomorrow morning, and go about among the suitors as before.
Later on the swineherd will bring me to the city disguised as a miserable old beggar.
If you see them ill treating me, steel your heart against my sufferings; even though they drag me feet foremost out of the house, or throw things at me, look on and do nothing beyond gently trying to make them behave more reasonably; but they will not listen to you, for the day of their reckoning is at hand.
Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart; when Minerva shall put it in my mind, I will nod my head to you, and on seeing me do this you must collect all the armour that is in the house and hide it in the strong store room.
Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you are removing it ;say that you have taken it to be out of the way of the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot.
Add to this more particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes tempts people to use them.
But leave a sword and a spear apiece for yourself and me, and a couple of oxhide shields so that we can snatch them up at any moment; Jove and Minerva will then soon quiet these people.
There is also another matter; if you are indeed my son and my blood runs in your veins, let no one know that Ulysses is within the house— neither Laertes, nor yet the swineherd, nor any of the servants, nor even Penelope herself.
Let you and me exploit the women alone, and let us also make trial of some other of the men servants, to see who is on our side and whose hand is against us."
"Father," replied Telemachus," you will come to know me by and by, and when you do you will find that I can keep your counsel.
I do not think, however, the plan you propose will turn out well for either of us.
Think it over.
It will take us a long time to go the round of the farms and exploit the men, and all the time the suitors will be wasting your estate with impunity and without compunction.
Prove the women by all means, to see who are disloyal and who guiltless, but I am not in favour of going round and trying the men.
We can attend to that later on, if you really have some sign from Jove that he will support you."
Thus did they converse, and meanwhile the ship which had brought Telemachus and his crew from Pylos had reached the town of Ithaca.
When they had come inside the harbour they drew the ship on to the land; their servants came and took their armour from them, and they left all the presents at the house of Clytius.
Then they sent a servant to tell Penelope that Telemachus had gone into the country, but had sent the ship to the town to prevent her from being alarmed and made unhappy.
This servant and Eumaeus happened to meet when they were both on the same errand of going to tell Penelope.
When they reached the House, the servant stood up and said to the queen in the presence of the waiting women," Your son, Madam, is now returned from Pylos"; but Eumaeus went close up to Penelope, and said privately all that her son had bidden him tell her.
When he had given his message he left the house with its outbuildings and went back to his pigs again.
The suitors were surprised and angry at what had happened, so they went outside the great wall that ran round the outer court, and held a council near the main entrance.
Eurymachus, son of Polybus, was the first to speak.
"My friends," said he," this voyage of Telemachus 's is a very serious matter; we had made sure that it would come to nothing.
Now, however, let us draw a ship into the water, and get a crew together to send after the others and tell them to come back as fast as they can."
He had hardly done speaking when Amphinomus turned in his place and saw the ship inside the harbour, with the crew lowering her sails, and putting by their oars; so he laughed, and said to the others," We need not send them any message, for they are here.
Some god must have told them, or else they saw the ship go by, and could not overtake her."
On this they rose and went to the water side.
The crew then drew the ship on shore; their servants took their armour from them, and they went up in a body to the place of assembly, but they would not let any one old or young sit along with them, and Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke first.
"Good heavens," said he," see how the gods have saved this man from destruction.
We kept a succession of scouts upon the headlands all day long, and when the sun was down we never went on shore to sleep, but waited in the ship all night till morning in the hope of capturing and killing him; but some god has conveyed him home in spite of us.
Let us consider how we can make an end of him.
He must not escape us; our affair is never likely to come off while he is alive, for he is very shrewd, and public feeling is by no means all on our side.
We must make haste before he can call the Achaeans in assembly; he will lose no time in doing so, for he will be furious with us, and will tell all the world how we plotted to kill him, but failed to take him.
The people will not like this when they come to know of it; we must see that they do us no hurt, nor drive us from our own country into exile.
Let us try and lay hold of him either on his farm away from the town, or on the road hither.
Then we can divide up his property amongst us, and let his mother and the man who marries her have the house.
If this does not please you, and you wish Telemachus to live on and hold his father 's property, then we must not gather here and eat up his goods in this way, but must make our offers to Penelope each from his own house, and she can marry the man who will give the most for her, and whose lot it is to win her."
They all held their peace until Amphinomus rose to speak.
He was the son of Nisus, who was son to king Aretias, and he was foremost among all the suitors from the wheatgrowing and well grassed island of Dulichium; his conversation, moreover, was more agreeable to Penelope than that of any of the other suitors, for he was a man of good natural disposition. "
My friends," said he, speaking to them plainly and in all honestly," I am not in favour of killing Telemachus.
It is a heinous thing to kill one who is of noble blood.
Let us first take counsel of the gods, and if the oracles of Jove advise it, I will both help to kill him myself, and will urge everyone else to do so; but if they dissuade us, I would have you hold your hands."
Thus did he speak, and his words pleased them well ,so they rose forthwith and went to the house of Ulysses, where they took their accustomed seats.
Then Penelope resolved that she would show herself to the suitors.
She knew of the plot against Telemachus, for the servant Medon had overheard their counsels and had told her; she went down therefore to the court attended by her maidens, and when she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearingposts supporting the roof of the cloister holding a veil before her face, and rebuked Antinous saying: "Antinous, insolent and wicked schemer, they say you are the best speaker and counsellor of any man your own age in Ithaca, but you are nothing of the kind.
Madman, why should you try to compass the death of Telemachus, and take no heed of suppliants, whose witness is Jove himself?
It is not right for you to plot thus against one another.
Do you not remember how your father fled to this house in fear of the people, who were enraged against him for having gone with some Taphian pirates and plundered the Thesprotians who were at peace with us?
They wanted to tear him in pieces and eat up everything he had, but Ulysses stayed their hands although they were infuriated, and now you devour his property without paying for it, and break my heart by wooing his wife and trying to kill his son.
Leave off doing so, and stop the others also."
To this Eurymachus son of Polybus answered," Take heart, Queen Penelope daughter of Icarius, and do not trouble yourself about these matters.
The man is not yet born, nor never will be, who shall lay hands upon your son Telemachus, while I yet live to look upon the face of the earth.
I say— and it shall surely be— that my spear shall be reddened with his blood; for many a time has Ulysses taken me on his knees, held wine up to my lips to drink, and put pieces of meat into my hands.
Therefore Telemachus is much the dearest friend I have, and has nothing to fear from the hands of us suitors.
Of course, if death comes to him from the gods, he can not escape it."
He said this to quiet her, but in reality he was plotting against Telemachus.
Then Penelope went upstairs again and mourned her husband till Minerva shed sleep over her eyes.
In the evening Eumaeus got back to Ulysses and his son, who had just sacrificed a young pig of a year old and were helping one another to get supper ready; Minerva therefore came up to Ulysses, turned him into an old man with a stroke of her wand, and clad him in his old clothes again, for fear that the swineherd might recognise him and not keep the secret, but go and tell Penelope.
Telemachus was the first to speak."
So you have got back, Eumaeus," said he.
"What is the news of the town?
Have the suitors returned, or are they still waiting over yonder, to take me on my way home?"
"I did not think of asking about that," replied Eumaeus," when I was in the town.
I thought I would give my message and come back as soon as I could.
I met a man sent by those who had gone with you to Pylos, and he was the first to tell the news to your mother, but I can say what I saw with my own eyes; I had just got on to the crest of the hill of Mercury above the town when I saw a ship coming into harbour with a number of men in her.
They had many shields and spears, and I thought it was the suitors, but I can not be sure."
On hearing this Telemachus smiled to his father, but so that Eumaeus could not see him.
Then, when they had finished their work and the meal was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share so that all were satisfied.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, they laid down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
CHAPTER X One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her."
--He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father, "Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be possible.
Mrs. Weston wants to see you.
She must see you."
"Is she unwell?"
"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated.
She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you alone, and that you know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?"
"Certainly.
This moment, if you please.
It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way.
But what can be the matter?--Is she really not ill?"
"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions.
You will know it all in time.
The most unaccountable business!
But hush, hush!"
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma.
Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.
"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."
"No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me.
I promised my wife to leave it all to her.
She will break it to you better than I can.
Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon."
"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good God!--Mr.
Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick Square.
I know it has.
Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is."
"No, indeed you are mistaken."
-"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square.
Which of them is it?--I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment."
"Upon my word, Emma."
-"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them?
Good Heavens!--What can be to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"
"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not.
It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley."
Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.
"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being broke to you.
I should not have used the expression.
In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it.
I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort.
She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward.
Her fancy was very active.
Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her.
It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.
"Who is that gentleman on horseback?"
said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view.
"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you.
You will not see him.
He is half way to Windsor by this time."
"Has your son been with you, then?"
"Oh!
yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind."
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better.
I shall leave you together.
There is no use in delay.
I shall not be far off, if you want me."
--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--"I have been as good as my word.
She has not the least idea."
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, "What is it my dear friend?
Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is.
I have been walking all this way in complete suspense.
We both abhor suspense.
Do not let mine continue longer.
It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be."
"Have you indeed no idea?"
said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?"
"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."
"You are right.
It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.)
"He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand.
It is impossible to express our surprize.
He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe.
Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet.
"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"
Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God!
You are not serious?
You do not mean it?"
"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-"You may well be amazed.
But it is even so.
There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body.
Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself.
I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him."
Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.
"Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it.
What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?"
"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much.
It has hurt his father equally.
Some part of his conduct we cannot excuse."
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of."
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words.
"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
Fortunately, however, it did cease.
I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him.
You may believe me, Mrs. Weston.
This is the simple truth."
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do.
"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she.
"On this point we have been wretched.
It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."
"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself.
But this does not acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame.
What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very disengaged?
What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong, very wrong indeed."
"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--" "And how could she bear such behaviour!
Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect."
"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation.
He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said.
The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct."
"Impropriety!
Oh!
Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure.
Much, much beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion.
So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life."
"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, very many, good qualities; and--" "Good God!"
cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs.
Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess!
What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy?
To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her even to think of such a measure!"
"He knew nothing about it, Emma.
On this article I can fully acquit him.
It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans.
They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long."
Emma began to listen better.
"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston.
"He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now.
Let us wait, therefore, for this letter.
It may bring many extenuations.
It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood.
Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him.
Let us have patience.
I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may.
They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment."
"His sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him much harm.
Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"
"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty.
Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!
While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required.
What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very little persuasion."
"Ah!"
thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."
"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this morning.
He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."
"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?"
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
"None; not one.
He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves."
"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy.
But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding.
What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!"
"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston.
"I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not have heard."
"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."
"True.
But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch.
His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match.
Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour.
It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we?
and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right.
And how much may be said in her situation for even that error!"
"Much, indeed!"
cried Emma feelingly.
"If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's, nor the world's law.'"
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming, "A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word!
This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing.
But you really frightened me.
I thought you had lost half your property, at least.
And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter."
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate.
His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing.
His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.
CHAPTER XI "Harriet, poor Harriet!"
--Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her.
Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with him.
It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet!
to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery.
Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith."
--She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed.
She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments.
Her influence would have been enough.
And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds.
Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.--"But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to do."
She was extremely angry with herself.
If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account.
Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted.
This discovery laid many smaller matters open.
No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed.
An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison.
She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert.
But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge!
There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else.
Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible.
An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words.
"For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret.
Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."
--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted.
It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself.
The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.
Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls.
Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse!"
cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"
"What news do you mean?"
replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
"About Jane Fairfax.
Did you ever hear any thing so strange?
Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself.
I met him just now.
He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it."
"What did Mr. Weston tell you?"
--said Emma, still perplexed.
"Oh!
he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while.
How very odd!"
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it.
Her character appeared absolutely changed.
She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.
Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
"Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax.
You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly."
"Me!"
cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished.
"Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."
"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?"
"Him!--never, never.
Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?"
turning away distressed.
"Harriet!"
cried Emma, after a moment's pause--"What do you mean?--Good Heaven!
what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.
"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me!
I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person.
Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed!
I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other.
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side.
And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him.
At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if you, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!"
cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake.
Are you speaking of--Mr.
Knightley?"
"To be sure I am.
I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew.
When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."
"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person.
I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill.
I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of."
"Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!"
"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion.
I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory."
"Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time.
It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant.
No!
(with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room.
That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth."
"Good God!"
cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?"
"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me?
At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it is possible--" She paused a few moments.
Emma could not speak.
"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body.
You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other.
But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--.
But you know they were your own words, that more wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way.
But you are too good for that, I am sure."
Harriet was standing at one of the windows.
Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said, "Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"
"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say that I have."
Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.
A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart.
A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.
She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth.
Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill?
Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return?
It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes.
She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before.
How improperly had she been acting by Harriet!
How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct!
What blindness, what madness, had led her on!
It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world.
Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less.
Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation.
From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and more aware of it.
When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her.
Emma knew it to have been very much the case.
She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet.
He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma.
Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.)
He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.--But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:--The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her.
The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
"Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view?
But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
"Mr. Martin!
No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin.
I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it."
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but for you.
You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine--and so I have.
But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful."
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say on reply, "Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does."
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father's footsteps.
He was coming through the hall.
Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him.
"She could not compose herself-Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma's feelings: "Oh God!
that I had never seen her!"
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours.
Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.--How to understand it all!
How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour.
To that point went every leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be?
When had his influence, such influence begun?-When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back; she compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh!
had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear.
She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.--She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her--her affection for Mr.
Knightley.--Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every body's destiny.
She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief.
She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of Harriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.--Mr.
Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her side!
Such a debasement on his!
It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could it be?--No; it was impossible.
And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers?
Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?
Oh!
had she never brought Harriet forward!
Had she left her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr.
Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!--But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.--Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt.--She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley's.--Alas!
was not that her own doing too?
Who had been at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.
CHAPTER WINTER ANIMALS.
WHEN THE ponds were firmly frozen, they afforded not only new and shorter routes to many points, but new views from their surfaces of the familiar landscape around them.
When I crossed Flint's Pond, after it was covered with snow, though I had often paddled about and skated over it, it was so unexpectedly wide and so strange that I could think of nothing but Baffin's Bay.
The Lincoln hills rose up around me at the extremity of a snowy plain, in which I did not remember to have stood before; and the fishermen, at an indeterminable distance over the ice, moving slowly about with their wolfish dogs, passed for sealers, or Esquimaux, or in misty weather loomed like fabulous creatures, and I did not know whether they were giants or pygmies.
I took this course when I went to lecture in Lincoln in the evening, travelling in no road and passing no house between my own hut and the lecture room.
In Goose Pond, which lay in my way, a colony of muskrats dwelt, and raised their cabins high above the ice, though none could be seen abroad when I crossed it.
Walden, being like the rest usually bare of snow, or with only shallow and interrupted drifts on it, was my yard where I could walk freely when the snow was nearly two feet deep on a level elsewhere and the villagers were confined to their streets.
There, far from the village street, and except at very long intervals, from the jingle of sleigh-bells, I slid and skated, as in a vast moose-yard well trodden, overhung by oak woods and solemn pines bent down with snow or bristling with icicles.
For sounds in winter nights, and often in winter days, I heard the forlorn but melodious note of a hooting owl indefinitely far; such a sound as the frozen earth would yield if struck with a suitable plectrum, the very lingua vernacula of Walden Wood, and quite familiar to me at last, though I never saw the bird while it was making it.
I seldom opened my door in a winter evening without hearing it; Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer, hoo, sounded sonorously, and the first three syllables accented somewhat like how der do; or sometimes hoo, hoo only.
One night in the beginning of winter, before the pond froze over, about nine o'clock, I was startled by the loud honking of a goose, and, stepping to the door, heard the sound of their wings like a tempest in the woods as they flew low over my house.
They passed over the pond toward Fair Haven, seemingly deterred from settling by my light, their commodore honking all the while with a regular beat.
Suddenly an unmistakable cat owl from very near me, with the most harsh and tremendous voice I ever heard from any inhabitant of the woods, responded at regular intervals to the goose, as if determined to expose and disgrace this intruder from Hudson's Bay by exhibiting a greater compass and volume of voice in a native, and boo-hoo him out of Concord horizon.
What do you mean by alarming the citadel at this time of night consecrated to me?
Do you think I am ever caught napping at such an hour, and that I have not got lungs and a larynx as well as yourself?
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo!
It was one of the most thrilling discords I ever heard.
And yet, if you had a discriminating ear, there were in it the elements of a concord such as these plains never saw nor heard.
I also heard the whooping of the ice in the pond, my great bed-fellow in that part of Concord, as if it were restless in its bed and would fain turn over, were troubled with flatulency and had dreams; or I was waked by the cracking of the ground by the frost, as if some one had driven a team against my door, and in the morning would find a crack in the earth a quarter of a mile long and a third of an inch wide.
Sometimes I heard the foxes as they ranged over the snow-crust, in moonlight nights, in search of a partridge or other game, barking raggedly and demoniacally like forest dogs, as if laboring with some anxiety, or seeking expression, struggling for light and to be dogs outright and run freely in the streets; for if we take the ages into our account, may there not be a civilization going on among brutes as well as men?
They seemed to me to be rudimental, burrowing men, still standing on their defence, awaiting their transformation.
Sometimes one came near to my window, attracted by my light, barked a vulpine curse at me, and then retreated.
Usually the red squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius) waked me in the dawn, coursing over the roof and up and down the sides of the house, as if sent out of the woods for this purpose.
In the course of the winter I threw out half a bushel of ears of sweet corn, which had not got ripe, on to the snow-crust by my door, and was amused by watching the motions of the various animals which were baited by it.
In the twilight and the night the rabbits came regularly and made a hearty meal.
All day long the red squirrels came and went, and afforded me much entertainment by their manoeuvres.
One would approach at first warily through the shrub oaks, running over the snow-crust by fits and starts like a leaf blown by the wind, now a few paces this way, with wonderful speed and waste of energy, making inconceivable haste with his "trotters," as if it were for a wager, and now as many paces that way, but never getting on more than half a rod at a time; and then suddenly pausing with a ludicrous expression and a gratuitous somerset, as if all the eyes in the universe were eyed on himfor all the motions of a squirrel, even in the most solitary recesses of the forest, imply spectators as much as those of a dancing girlwasting more time in delay and circumspection than would have sufficed to walk the whole distanceI never saw one walkand then suddenly, before you could say Jack Robinson, he would be in the top of a young pitch pine, winding up his clock and chiding all imaginary spectators, soliloquizing and talking to all the universe at the same timefor no reason that I could ever detect, or he himself was aware of, I suspect.
At length he would reach the corn, and selecting a suitable ear, frisk about in the same uncertain trigonometrical way to the topmost stick of my wood-pile, before my window, where he looked me in the face, and there sit for hours, supplying himself with a new ear from time to time, nibbling at first voraciously and throwing the half-naked cobs about; till at length he grew more dainty still and played with his food, tasting only the inside of the kernel, and the ear, which was held balanced over the stick by one paw, slipped from his careless grasp and fell to the ground, when he would look over at it with a ludicrous expression of uncertainty, as if suspecting that it had life, with a mind not made up whether to get it again, or a new one, or be off; now thinking of corn, then listening to hear what was in the wind.
So the little impudent fellow would waste many an ear in a forenoon; till at last, seizing some longer and plumper one, considerably bigger than himself, and skilfully balancing it, he would set out with it to the woods, like a tiger with a buffalo, by the same zig-zag course and frequent pauses, scratching along with it as if it were too heavy for him and falling all the while, making its fall a diagonal between a perpendicular and horizontal, being determined to put it through at any rate;a singularly frivolous and whimsical fellow;and so he would get off with it to where he lived, perhaps carry it to the top of a pine tree forty or fifty rods distant, and I would afterwards find the cobs strewn about the woods in various directions.
At length the jays arrive, whose discordant screams were heard long before, as they were warily making their approach an eighth of a mile off, and in a stealthy and sneaking manner they flit from tree to tree, nearer and nearer, and pick up the kernels which the squirrels have dropped.
Then, sitting on a pitch pine bough, they attempt to swallow in their haste a kernel which is too big for their throats and chokes them; and after great labor they disgorge it, and spend an hour in the endeavor to crack it by repeated blows with their bills.
They were manifestly thieves, and I had not much respect for them; but the squirrels, though at first shy, went to work as if they were taking what was their own.
Meanwhile also came the chickadees in flocks, which, picking up the crumbs the squirrels had dropped, flew to the nearest twig and, placing them under their claws, hammered away at them with their little bills, as if it were an insect in the bark, till they were sufficiently reduced for their slender throats.
A little flock of these titmice came daily to pick a dinner out of my woodpile, or the crumbs at my door, with faint flitting lisping notes, like the tinkling of icicles in the grass, or else with sprightly day day day, or more rarely, in springlike days, a wiry summery phebe from the woodside.
They were so familiar that at length one alighted on an armful of wood which I was carrying in, and pecked at the sticks without fear.
I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance than I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.
The squirrels also grew at last to be quite familiar, and occasionally stepped upon my shoe, when that was the nearest way.
When the ground was not yet quite covered, and again near the end of winter, when the snow was melted on my south hillside and about my wood-pile, the partridges came out of the woods morning and evening to feed there.
Whichever side you walk in the woods the partridge bursts away on whirring wings, jarring the snow from the dry leaves and twigs on high, which comes sifting down in the sunbeams like golden dust, for this brave bird is not to be scared by winter.
It is frequently covered up by drifts, and, it is said, "sometimes plunges from on wing into the soft snow, where it remains concealed for a day or two."
I used to start them in the open land also, where they had come out of the woods at sunset to "bud" the wild apple trees.
They will come regularly every evening to particular trees, where the cunning sportsman lies in wait for them, and the distant orchards next the woods suffer thus not a little.
I am glad that the partridge gets fed, at any rate.
It is Nature's own bird which lives on buds and diet-drink.
In dark winter mornings, or in short winter afternoons, I sometimes heard a pack of hounds threading all the woods with hounding cry and yelp, unable to resist the instinct of the chase, and the note of the hunting-horn at intervals, proving that man was in the rear.
The woods ring again, and yet no fox bursts forth on to the open level of the pond, nor following pack pursuing their Actaeon.
And perhaps at evening I see the hunters returning with a single brush trailing from their sleigh for a trophy, seeking their inn.
They tell me that if the fox would remain in the bosom of the frozen earth he would be safe, or if be would run in a straight line away no foxhound could overtake him; but, having left his pursuers far behind, he stops to rest and listen till they come up, and when he runs he circles round to his old haunts, where the hunters await him.
Sometimes, however, he will run upon a wall many rods, and then leap off far to one side, and he appears to know that water will not retain his scent.
A hunter told me that he once saw a fox pursued by hounds burst out on to Walden when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, run part way across, and then return to the same shore.
Ere long the hounds arrived, but here they lost the scent.
Sometimes a pack hunting by themselves would pass my door, and circle round my house, and yelp and hound without regarding me, as if afflicted by a species of madness, so that nothing could divert them from the pursuit.
Thus they circle until they fall upon the recent trail of a fox, for a wise hound will forsake everything else for this.
One day a man came to my hut from Lexington to inquire after his hound that made a large track, and had been hunting for a week by himself.
But I fear that he was not the wiser for all I told him, for every time I attempted to answer his questions he interrupted me by asking, "What do you do here?"
He had lost a dog, but found a man.
One old hunter who has a dry tongue, who used to come to bathe in Walden once every year when the water was warmest, and at such times looked in upon me, told me that many years ago he took his gun one afternoon and went out for a cruise in Walden Wood; and as he walked the Wayland road he heard the cry of hounds approaching, and ere long a fox leaped the wall into the road, and as quick as thought leaped the other wall out of the road, and his swift bullet had not touched him.
Some way behind came an old hound and her three pups in full pursuit, hunting on their own account, and disappeared again in the woods.
Late in the afternoon, as he was resting in the thick woods south of Walden, he heard the voice of the hounds far over toward Fair Haven still pursuing the fox; and on they came, their hounding cry which made all the woods ring sounding nearer and nearer, now from Well Meadow, now from the Baker Farm.
For a long time he stood still and listened to their music, so sweet to a hunter's ear, when suddenly the fox appeared, threading the solemn aisles with an easy coursing pace, whose sound was concealed by a sympathetic rustle of the leaves, swift and still, keeping the round, leaving his pursuers far behind; and, leaping upon a rock amid the woods, he sat erect and listening, with his back to the hunter.
For a moment compassion restrained the latter's arm; but that was a short-lived mood, and as quick as thought can follow thought his piece was levelled, and whang!the fox, rolling over the rock, lay dead on the ground.
The hunter still kept his place and listened to the hounds.
Still on they came, and now the near woods resounded through all their aisles with their demoniac cry.
At length the old hound burst into view with muzzle to the ground, and snapping the air as if possessed, and ran directly to the rock; but, spying the dead fox, she suddenly ceased her hounding as if struck dumb with amazement, and walked round and round him in silence; and one by one her pups arrived, and, like their mother, were sobered into silence by the mystery.
Then the hunter came forward and stood in their midst, and the mystery was solved.
They waited in silence while he skinned the fox, then followed the brush a while, and at length turned off into the woods again.
That evening a Weston squire came to the Concord hunter's cottage to inquire for his hounds, and told how for a week they had been hunting on their own account from Weston woods.
The Concord hunter told him what he knew and offered him the skin; but the other declined it and departed.
He did not find his hounds that night, but the next day learned that they had crossed the river and put up at a farmhouse for the night, whence, having been well fed, they took their departure early in the morning.
The hunter who told me this could remember one Sam Nutting, who used to hunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges, and exchange their skins for rum in Concord village; who told him, even, that he had seen a moose there.
Nutting had a famous foxhound named Burgoynehe pronounced it Buginewhich my informant used to borrow.
In the "Wast Book" of an old trader of this town, who was also a captain, town-clerk, and representative, I find the following entry.
Jan. 18th, 1742-3, "John Melven Cr.
by 1 Grey Fox 0-2-3"; they are not now found here; and in his ledger, Feb, 7th, 1743, Hezekiah Stratton has credit "by 1/2 a Catt skin 0-1-4 1/2"; of course, a wild-cat, for Stratton was a sergeant in the old French war, and would not have got credit for hunting less noble game.
Credit is given for deerskins also, and they were daily sold.
One man still preserves the horns of the last deer that was killed in this vicinity, and another has told me the particulars of the hunt in which his uncle was engaged.
The hunters were formerly a numerous and merry crew here.
I remember well one gaunt Nimrod who would catch up a leaf by the roadside and play a strain on it wilder and more melodious, if my memory serves me, than any hunting-horn.
At midnight, when there was a moon, I sometimes met with hounds in my path prowling about the woods, which would skulk out of my way, as if afraid, and stand silent amid the bushes till I had passed.
Squirrels and wild mice disputed for my store of nuts.
There were scores of pitch pines around my house, from one to four inches in diameter, which had been gnawed by mice the previous wintera Norwegian winter for them, for the snow lay long and deep, and they were obliged to mix a large proportion of pine bark with their other diet.
These trees were alive and apparently flourishing at midsummer, and many of them had grown a foot, though completely girdled; but after another winter such were without exception dead.
It is remarkable that a single mouse should thus be allowed a whole pine tree for its dinner, gnawing round instead of up and down it; but perhaps it is necessary in order to thin these trees, which are wont to grow up densely.
The hares (Lepus Americanus) were very familiar.
One had her form under my house all winter, separated from me only by the flooring, and she startled me each morning by her hasty departure when I began to stirthump, thump, thump, striking her head against the floor timbers in her hurry.
They used to come round my door at dusk to nibble the potato parings which I had thrown out, and were so nearly the color of the round that they could hardly be distinguished when still.
Sometimes in the twilight I alternately lost and recovered sight of one sitting motionless under my window.
When I opened my door in the evening, off they would go with a squeak and a bounce.
Near at hand they only excited my pity.
One evening one sat by my door two paces from me, at first trembling with fear, yet unwilling to move; a poor wee thing, lean and bony, with ragged ears and sharp nose, scant tail and slender paws.
It looked as if Nature no longer contained the breed of nobler bloods, but stood on her last toes.
Its large eyes appeared young and unhealthy, almost dropsical.
I took a step, and lo, away it scud with an elastic spring over the snow-crust, straightening its body and its limbs into graceful length, and soon put the forest between me and itselfthe wild free venison, assenting its vigor and the dignity of Nature.
Not without reason was its slenderness.
Such then was its nature.
(Lepus, levipes, light-foot, some think.)
What is a country without rabbits and partridges?
They are among the most simple and indigenous animal products; ancient and venerable families known to antiquity as to modern times; of the very hue and substance of Nature, nearest allied to leaves and to the groundand to one another; it is either winged or it is legged.
It is hardly as if you had seen a wild creature when a rabbit or a partridge bursts away, only a natural one, as much to be expected as rustling leaves.
The partridge and the rabbit are still sure to thrive, like true natives of the soil, whatever revolutions occur.
If the forest is cut off, the sprouts and bushes which spring up afford them concealment, and they become more numerous than ever.
That must be a poor country indeed that does not support a hare.
Our woods teem with them both, and around every swamp may be seen the partridge or rabbit walk, beset with twiggy fences and horse-hair snares, which some cow-boy tends.
CHAPTER THE POND IN WINTER.
AFTER A still winter night I awoke with the impression that some question had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in vain to answer in my sleep, as whathowwhenwhere?
But there was dawning Nature, in whom all creatures live, looking in at my broad windows with serene and satisfied face, and no question on her lips.
I awoke to an answered question, to Nature and daylight.
The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward!
Nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals ask.
She has long ago taken her resolution.
"O Prince, our eyes contemplate with admiration and transmit to the soul the wonderful and varied spectacle of this universe.
The night veils without doubt a part of this glorious creation; but day comes to reveal to us this great work, which extends from earth even into the plains of the ether."
Then to my morning work.
First I take an axe and pail and go in search of water, if that be not a dream.
After a cold and snowy night it needed a divining-rod to find it.
Every winter the liquid and trembling surface of the pond, which was so sensitive to every breath, and reflected every light and shadow, becomes solid to the depth of a foot or a foot and a half, so that it will support the heaviest teams, and perchance the snow covers it to an equal depth, and it is not to be distinguished from any level field.
Like the marmots in the surrounding hills, it closes its eyelids and becomes dormant for three months or more.
Standing on the snow-covered plain, as if in a pasture amid the hills, I cut my way first through a foot of snow, and then a foot of ice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneeling to drink, I look down into the quiet parlor of the fishes, pervaded by a softened light as through a window of ground glass, with its bright sanded floor the same as in summer; there a perennial waveless serenity reigns as in the amber twilight sky, corresponding to the cool and even temperament of the inhabitants.
Heaven is under our feet is well as over our heads.
Early in the morning, while all things are crisp with frost, men come with fishing-reels and slender lunch, and let down their fine lines through the snowy field to take pickerel and perch; wild men, who instinctively follow other fashions and trust other authorities than their townsmen, and by their goings and comings stitch towns together in parts where else they would be ripped.
They sit and eat their luncheon in stout fearnaughts on the dry oak leaves on the shore, as wise in natural lore as the citizen is in artificial.
They never consulted with books, and know and can tell much less than they have done.
The things which they practice are said not yet to be known.
Here is one fishing for pickerel with grown perch for bait.
You look into his pail with wonder as into a summer pond, as if he kept summer locked up at home, or knew where she had retreated.
How, pray, did he get these in midwinter?
Oh, he got worms out of rotten logs since the ground froze, and so he caught them.
His life itself passes deeper in nature than the studies of the naturalist penetrate; himself a subject for the naturalist.
The latter raises the moss and bark gently with his knife in search of insects; the former lays open logs to their core with his axe, and moss and bark fly far and wide.
He gets his living by barking trees.
Such a man has some right to fish, and I love to see nature carried out in him.
The perch swallows the grub-worm, the pickerel swallows the perch, and the fisher-man swallows the pickerel; and so all the chinks in the scale of being are filled.
When I strolled around the pond in misty weather I was sometimes amused by the primitive mode which some ruder fisher-man had adopted.
He would perhaps have placed alder branches over the narrow holes in the ice, which were four or five rods apart and an equal distance from the shore, and having fastened the end of the line to a stick to prevent its being pulled through, have passed the slack line over a twig of the alder, a foot or more above the ice, and tied a dry oak leaf to it, which, being pulled down, would show when he had a bite.
These alders loomed through the mist at regular intervals as you walked half way round the pond.
Ah, the pickerel of Walden!
when I see them lying on the ice, or in the well which the fisherman cuts in the ice, making a little hole to admit the water, I am always surprised by their rare beauty, as if they were fabulous fishes, they are so foreign to the streets, even to the woods, foreign as Arabia to our Concord life.
They possess a quite dazzling and transcendent beauty which separates them by a wide interval from the cadaverous cod and haddock whose fame is trumpeted in our streets.
They are not green like the pines, nor gray like the stones, nor blue like the sky; but they have, to my eyes, if possible, yet rarer colors, like flowers and precious stones, as if they were the pearls, the animalized nuclei or crystals of the Walden water.
They, of course, are Walden all over and all through; are themselves small Waldens in the animal kingdom, Waldenses.
It is surprising that they are caught herethat in this deep and capacious spring, far beneath the rattling teams and chaises and tinkling sleighs that travel the Walden road, this great gold and emerald fish swims.
I never chanced to see its kind in any market; it would be the cynosure of all eyes there.
Easily, with a few convulsive quirks, they give up their watery ghosts, like a mortal translated before his time to the thin air of heaven.
As I was desirous to recover the long lost bottom of Walden Pond, I surveyed it carefully, before the ice broke up, early in '46, with compass and chain and sounding line.
There have been many stories told about the bottom, or rather no bottom, of this pond, which certainly had no foundation for themselves.
It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it.
I have visited two such Bottomless Ponds in one walk in this neighborhood.
Many have believed that Walden reached quite through to the other side of the globe.
Some who have lain flat on the ice for a long time, looking down through the illusive medium, perchance with watery eyes into the bargain, and driven to hasty conclusions by the fear of catching cold in their breasts, have seen vast holes "into which a load of hay might be drived," if there were anybody to drive it, the undoubted source of the Styx and entrance to the Infernal Regions from these parts.
Others have gone down from the village with a "fifty-six" and a wagon load of inch rope, but yet have failed to find any bottom; for while the "fifty-six" was resting by the way, they were paying out the rope in the vain attempt to fathom their truly immeasurable capacity for marvellousness.
But I can assure my readers that Walden has a reasonably tight bottom at a not unreasonable, though at an unusual, depth.
I fathomed it easily with a cod-line and a stone weighing about a pound and a half, and could tell accurately when the stone left the bottom, by having to pull so much harder before the water got underneath to help me.
The greatest depth was exactly one hundred and two feet; to which may be added the five feet which it has risen since, making one hundred and seven.
This is a remarkable depth for so small an area; yet not an inch of it can be spared by the imagination.
What if all ponds were shallow?
Would it not react on the minds of men?
I am thankful that this pond was made deep and pure for a symbol.
While men believe in the infinite some ponds will be thought to be bottomless.
A factory-owner, bearing what depth I had found, thought that it could not be true, for, judging from his acquaintance with dams, sand would not lie at so steep an angle.
But the deepest ponds are not so deep in proportion to their area as most suppose, and, if drained, would not leave very remarkable valleys.
They are not like cups between the hills; for this one, which is so unusually deep for its area, appears in a vertical section through its centre not deeper than a shallow plate.
Most ponds, emptied, would leave a meadow no more hollow than we frequently see.
William Gilpin, who is so admirable in all that relates to landscapes, and usually so correct, standing at the head of Loch Fyne, in Scotland, which he describes as "a bay of salt water, sixty or seventy fathoms deep, four miles in breadth, and about fifty miles long, surrounded by mountains, observes, "If we could have seen it immediately after the diluvian crash, or whatever convulsion of nature occasioned it, before the waters gushed in, what a horrid chasm must it have appeared!
"So high as heaved the tumid hills, so low Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep, Capacious bed of waters."
But if, using the shortest diameter of Loch Fyne, we apply these proportions to Walden, which, as we have seen, appears already in a vertical section only like a shallow plate, it will appear four times as shallow.
So much for the increased horrors of the chasm of Loch Fyne when emptied.
No doubt many a smiling valley with its stretching cornfields occupies exactly such a "horrid chasm," from which the waters have receded, though it requires the insight and the far sight of the geologist to convince the unsuspecting inhabitants of this fact.
Often an inquisitive eye may detect the shores of a primitive lake in the low horizon hills, and no subsequent elevation of the plain have been necessary to conceal their history.
But it is easiest, as they who work on the highways know, to find the hollows by the puddles after a shower.
The amount of it is, the imagination, give it the least license, dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes.
So, probably, the depth of the ocean will be found to be very inconsiderable compared with its breadth.
As I sounded through the ice I could determine the shape of the bottom with greater accuracy than is possible in surveying harbors which do not freeze over, and I was surprised at its general regularity.
In the deepest part there are several acres more level than almost any field which is exposed to the sun, wind, and plow.
In one instance, on a line arbitrarily chosen, the depth did not vary more than one foot in thirty rods; and generally, near the middle, I could calculate the variation for each one hundred feet in any direction beforehand within three or four inches.
Some are accustomed to speak of deep and dangerous holes even in quiet sandy ponds like this, but the effect of water under these circumstances is to level all inequalities.
The regularity of the bottom and its conformity to the shores and the range of the neighboring hills were so perfect that a distant promontory betrayed itself in the soundings quite across the pond, and its direction could be determined by observing the opposite shore.
Cape becomes bar, and plain shoal, and valley and gorge deep water and channel.
When I had mapped the pond by the scale of ten rods to an inch, and put down the soundings, more than a hundred in all, I observed this remarkable coincidence.
Having noticed that the number indicating the greatest depth was apparently in the centre of the map, I laid a rule on the map lengthwise, and then breadthwise, and found, to my surprise, that the line of greatest length intersected the line of greatest breadth exactly at the point of greatest depth, notwithstanding that the middle is so nearly level, the outline of the pond far from regular, and the extreme length and breadth were got by measuring into the coves; and I said to myself, Who knows but this hint would conduct to the deepest part of the ocean as well as of a pond or puddle?
Is not this the rule also for the height of mountains, regarded as the opposite of valleys?
We know that a hill is not highest at its narrowest part.
Of five coves, three, or all which had been sounded, were observed to have a bar quite across their mouths and deeper water within, so that the bay tended to be an expansion of water within the land not only horizontally but vertically, and to form a basin or independent pond, the direction of the two capes showing the course of the bar.
Every harbor on the sea-coast, also, has its bar at its entrance.
In proportion as the mouth of the cove was wider compared with its length, the water over the bar was deeper compared with that in the basin.
Given, then, the length and breadth of the cove, and the character of the surrounding shore, and you have almost elements enough to make out a formula for all cases.
In order to see how nearly I could guess, with this experience, at the deepest point in a pond, by observing the outlines of a surface and the character of its shores alone, I made a plan of White Pond, which contains about forty-one acres, and, like this, has no island in it, nor any visible inlet or outlet; and as the line of greatest breadth fell very near the line of least breadth, where two opposite capes approached each other and two opposite bays receded, I ventured to mark a point a short distance from the latter line, but still on the line of greatest length, as the deepest.
The deepest part was found to be within one hundred feet of this, still farther in the direction to which I had inclined, and was only one foot deeper, namely, sixty feet.
Of course, a stream running through, or an island in the pond, would make the problem much more complicated.
If we knew all the laws of Nature, we should need only one fact, or the description of one actual phenomenon, to infer all the particular results at that point.
Now we know only a few laws, and our result is vitiated, not, of course, by any confusion or irregularity in Nature, but by our ignorance of essential elements in the calculation.
Our notions of law and harmony are commonly confined to those instances which we detect; but the harmony which results from a far greater number of seemingly conflicting, but really concurring, laws, which we have not detected, is still more wonderful.
The particular laws are as our points of view, as, to the traveller, a mountain outline varies with every step, and it has an infinite number of profiles, though absolutely but one form.
Even when cleft or bored through it is not comprehended in its entireness.
What I have observed of the pond is no less true in ethics.
It is the law of average.
Such a rule of the two diameters not only guides us toward the sun in the system and the heart in man, but draws lines through the length and breadth of the aggregate of a man's particular daily behaviors and waves of life into his coves and inlets, and where they intersect will be the height or depth of his character.
Perhaps we need only to know how his shores trend and his adjacent country or circumstances, to infer his depth and concealed bottom.
If he is surrounded by mountainous circumstances, an Achillean shore, whose peaks overshadow and are reflected in his bosom, they suggest a corresponding depth in him.
But a low and smooth shore proves him shallow on that side.
In our bodies, a bold projecting brow falls off to and indicates a corresponding depth of thought.
Also there is a bar across the entrance of our every cove, or particular inclination; each is our harbor for a season, in which we are detained and partially land-locked.
These inclinations are not whimsical usually, but their form, size, and direction are determined by the promontories of the shore, the ancient axes of elevation.
When this bar is gradually increased by storms, tides, or currents, or there is a subsidence of the waters, so that it reaches to the surface, that which was at first but an inclination in the shore in which a thought was harbored becomes an individual lake, cut off from the ocean, wherein the thought secures its own conditionschanges, perhaps, from salt to fresh, becomes a sweet sea, dead sea, or a marsh.
At the advent of each individual into this life, may we not suppose that such a bar has risen to the surface somewhere?
It is true, we are such poor navigators that our thoughts, for the most part, stand off and on upon a harborless coast, are conversant only with the bights of the bays of poesy, or steer for the public ports of entry, and go into the dry docks of science, where they merely refit for this world, and no natural currents concur to individualize them.
As for the inlet or outlet of Walden, I have not discovered any but rain and snow and evaporation, though perhaps, with a thermometer and a line, such places may be found, for where the water flows into the pond it will probably be coldest in summer and warmest in winter.
When the ice-men were at work here in '46-7, the cakes sent to the shore were one day rejected by those who were stacking them up there, not being thick enough to lie side by side with the rest; and the cutters thus discovered that the ice over a small space was two or three inches thinner than elsewhere, which made them think that there was an inlet there.
They also showed me in another place what they thought was a "leach-hole," through which the pond leaked out under a hill into a neighboring meadow, pushing me out on a cake of ice to see it.
It was a small cavity under ten feet of water; but I think that I can warrant the pond not to need soldering till they find a worse leak than that.
One has suggested, that if such a "leach-hole" should be found, its connection with the meadow, if any existed, might be proved by conveying some, colored powder or sawdust to the mouth of the hole, and then putting a strainer over the spring in the meadow, which would catch some of the particles carried through by the current.
While I was surveying, the ice, which was sixteen inches thick, undulated under a slight wind like water.
It is well known that a level cannot be used on ice.
At one rod from the shore its greatest fluctuation, when observed by means of a level on land directed toward a graduated staff on the ice, was three quarters of an inch, though the ice appeared firmly attached to the shore.
It was probably greater in the middle.
Who knows but if our instruments were delicate enough we might detect an undulation in the crust of the earth?
When two legs of my level were on the shore and the third on the ice, and the sights were directed over the latter, a rise or fall of the ice of an almost infinitesimal amount made a difference of several feet on a tree across the pond.
When I began to cut holes for sounding there were three or four inches of water on the ice under a deep snow which had sunk it thus far; but the water began immediately to run into these holes, and continued to run for two days in deep streams, which wore away the ice on every side, and contributed essentially, if not mainly, to dry the surface of the pond; for, as the water ran in, it raised and floated the ice.
This was somewhat like cutting a hole in the bottom of a ship to let the water out.
When such holes freeze, and a rain succeeds, and finally a new freezing forms a fresh smooth ice over all, it is beautifully mottled internally by dark figures, shaped somewhat like a spider's web, what you may call ice rosettes, produced by the channels worn by the water flowing from all sides to a centre.
Sometimes, also, when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, I saw a double shadow of myself, one standing on the head of the other, one on the ice, the other on the trees or hillside.
While yet it is cold January, and snow and ice are thick and solid, the prudent landlord comes from the village to get ice to cool his summer drink; impressively, even pathetically, wise, to foresee the heat and thirst of July now in Januarywearing a thick coat and mittens!
when so many things are not provided for.
It may be that he lays up no treasures in this world which will cool his summer drink in the next.
He cuts and saws the solid pond, unroofs the house of fishes, and carts off their very element and air, held fast by chains and stakes like corded wood, through the favoring winter air, to wintry cellars, to underlie the summer there.
It looks like solidified azure, as, far off, it is drawn through the streets.
These ice-cutters are a merry race, full of jest and sport, and when I went among them they were wont to invite me to saw pit-fashion with them, I standing underneath.
In the winter of '46-7 there came a hundred men of Hyperborean extraction swoop down on to our pond one morning, with many carloads of ungainly-looking farming tools-sleds, plows, drill-barrows, turf-knives, spades, saws, rakes, and each man was armed with a double-pointed pike-staff, such as is not described in the New-England Farmer or the Cultivator.
I did not know whether they had come to sow a crop of winter rye, or some other kind of grain recently introduced from Iceland.
As I saw no manure, I judged that they meant to skim the land, as I had done, thinking the soil was deep and had lain fallow long enough.
They said that a gentleman farmer, who was behind the scenes, wanted to double his money, which, as I understood, amounted to half a million already; but in order to cover each one of his dollars with another, he took off the only coat, ay, the skin itself, of Walden Pond in the midst of a hard winter.
They went to work at once, plowing, barrowing, rolling, furrowing, in admirable order, as if they were bent on making this a model farm; but when I was looking sharp to see what kind of seed they dropped into the furrow, a gang of fellows by my side suddenly began to book up the virgin mould itself, with a peculiar jerk, clean down to the sand, or rather the waterfor it was a very springy soilindeed all the terra firma there wasand haul it away on sleds, and then I guessed that they must be cutting peat in a bog.
So they came and went every day, with a peculiar shriek from the locomotive, from and to some point of the polar regions, as it seemed to me, like a flock of arctic snow-birds.
But sometimes Squaw Walden had her revenge, and a hired man, walking behind his team, slipped through a crack in the ground down toward Tartarus, and he who was so brave before suddenly became but the ninth part of a man, almost gave up his animal heat, and was glad to take refuge in my house, and acknowledged that there was some virtue in a stove; or sometimes the frozen soil took a piece of steel out of a plowshare, or a plow got set in the furrow and had to be cut out.
To speak literally, a hundred Irishmen, with Yankee overseers, came from Cambridge every day to get out the ice.
They divided it into cakes by methods too well known to require description, and these, being sledded to the shore, were rapidly hauled off on to an ice platform, and raised by grappling irons and block and tackle, worked by horses, on to a stack, as surely as so many barrels of flour, and there placed evenly side by side, and row upon row, as if they formed the solid base of an obelisk designed to pierce the clouds.
They told me that in a good day they could get out a thousand tons, which was the yield of about one acre.
Deep ruts and "cradle-holes" were worn in the ice, as on terra firma, by the passage of the sleds over the same track, and the horses invariably ate their oats out of cakes of ice hollowed out like buckets.
They stacked up the cakes thus in the open air in a pile thirty-five feet high on one side and six or seven rods square, putting hay between the outside layers to exclude the air; for when the wind, though never so cold, finds a passage through, it will wear large cavities, leaving slight supports or studs only here and there, and finally topple it down.
At first it looked like a vast blue fort or Valhalla; but when they began to tuck the coarse meadow hay into the crevices, and this became covered with rime and icicles, it looked like a venerable moss-grown and hoary ruin, built of azure-tinted marble, the abode of Winter, that old man we see in the almanachis shanty, as if he had a design to estivate with us.
They calculated that not twenty-five per cent of this would reach its destination, and that two or three per cent would be wasted in the cars.
However, a still greater part of this heap had a different destiny from what was intended; for, either because the ice was found not to keep so well as was expected, containing more air than usual, or for some other reason, it never got to market.
This heap, made in the winter of '46-7 and estimated to contain ten thousand tons, was finally covered with hay and boards; and though it was unroofed the following July, and a part of it carried off, the rest remaining exposed to the sun, it stood over that summer and the next winter, and was not quite melted till September, 1848.
Thus the pond recovered the greater part.
Like the water, the Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint, but at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from the white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a quarter of a mile off.
Sometimes one of those great cakes slips from the ice-man's sled into the village street, and lies there for a week like a great emerald, an object of interest to all passers.
I have noticed that a portion of Walden which in the state of water was green will often, when frozen, appear from the same point of view blue.
So the hollows about this pond will, sometimes, in the winter, be filled with a greenish water somewhat like its own, but the next day will have frozen blue.
Perhaps the blue color of water and ice is due to the light and air they contain, and the most transparent is the bluest.
Ice is an interesting subject for contemplation.
They told me that they had some in the ice-houses at Fresh Pond five years old which was as good as ever.
Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but frozen remains sweet forever?
It is commonly said that this is the difference between the affections and the intellect.
Thus for sixteen days I saw from my window a hundred men at work like busy husbandmen, with teams and horses and apparently all the implements of farming, such a picture as we see on the first page of the almanac; and as often as I looked out I was reminded of the fable of the lark and the reapers, or the parable of the sower, and the like; and now they are all gone, and in thirty days more, probably, I shall look from the same window on the pure sea-green Walden water there, reflecting the clouds and the trees, and sending up its evaporations in solitude, and no traces will appear that a man has ever stood there.
Perhaps I shall hear a solitary loon laugh as he dives and plumes himself, or shall see a lonely fisher in his boat, like a floating leaf, beholding his form reflected in the waves, where lately a hundred men securely labored.
Thus it appears that the sweltering inhabitants of Charleston and New Orleans, of Madras and Bombay and Calcutta, drink at my well.
In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat-Geeta, since whose composition years of the gods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and its literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is not to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its sublimity from our conceptions.
I lay down the book and go to my well for water, and lo!
there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and water jug.
I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and our buckets as it were grate together in the same well.
The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges.
With favoring winds it is wafted past the site of the fabulous islands of Atlantis and the Hesperides, makes the periplus of Hanno, and, floating by Ternate and Tidore and the mouth of the Persian Gulf, melts in the tropic gales of the Indian seas, and is landed in ports of which Alexander only heard the names.
SPRING
Glaucus and Diomed—The story of Bellerophon—Hector and Andromache.
The fight between Trojans and Achaeans was now left to rage as it would, and the tide of war surged hither and thither over the plain as they aimed their bronzeshod spears at one another between the streams of Simois and Xanthus.
First, Ajax son of Telamon, tower of strength to the Achaeans, broke a phalanx of the Trojans, and came to the assistance of his comrades by killing Acamas son of Eussorus, the best man among the Thracians, being both brave and of great stature.
The spear struck the projecting peak of his helmet: its bronze point then went through his forehead into the brain, and darkness veiled his eyes.
Then Diomed killed Axylus son of Teuthranus, a rich man who lived in the strong city of Arisbe, and was beloved by all men; for he had a house by the roadside, and entertained every one who passed; howbeit not one of his guests stood before him to save his life, and Diomed killed both him and his squire Calesius, who was then his charioteer— so the pair passed beneath the earth.
Euryalus killed Dresus and Opheltius, and then went in pursuit of Aesepus and Pedasus, whom the naiad nymph Abarbarea had borne to noble Bucolion.
Bucolion was eldest son to Laomedon, but he was a bastard.
While tending his sheep he had converse with the nymph, and she conceived twin sons; these the son of Mecisteus now slew, and he stripped the armour from their shoulders.
Polypoetes then killed Astyalus, Ulysses Pidytes of Percote, and Teucer Aretaon.
Ablerus fell by the spear of Nestor 's son Antilochus, and Agamemnon, king of men, killed Elatus who dwelt in Pedasus by the banks of the river Satnioeis.
Leitus killed Phylacus as he was flying, and Eurypylus slew Melanthus.
Then Menelaus of the loud warcry took Adrestus alive, for his horses ran into a tamarisk bush, as they were flying wildly over the plain, and broke the pole from the car; they went on towards the city along with the others in full flight, but Adrestus rolled out, and fell in the dust flat on his face by the wheel of his chariot; Menelaus came up to him spear in hand, but Adrestus caught him by the knees begging for his life. "
Take me alive," he cried," son of Atreus, and you shall have a full ransom for me: my father is rich and has much treasure of gold, bronze, and wrought iron laid by in his house.
From this store he will give you a large ransom should he hear of my being alive and at the ships of the Achaeans."
Thus did he plead, and Menelaus was for yielding and giving him to a squire to take to the ships of the Achaeans, but Agamemnon came running up to him and rebuked him. "
My good Menelaus," said he," this is no time for giving quarter.
Has, then, your house fared so well at the hands of the Trojans?
Let us not spare a single one of them— not even the child unborn and in its mother 's womb; let not a man of them be left alive, but let all in Ilius perish, unheeded and forgotten."
Thus did he speak, and his brother was persuaded by him, for his words were just.
Menelaus, therefore, thrust Adrestus from him, whereon King Agamemnon struck him in the flank, and he fell: then the son of Atreus planted his foot upon his breast to draw his spear from the body.
Meanwhile Nestor shouted to the Argives, saying," My friends, Danaan warriors, servants of Mars, let no man lag that he may spoil the dead, and bring back much booty to the ships.
Let us kill as many as we can; the bodies will lie upon the plain, and you can despoil them later at your leisure."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all.
And now the Trojans would have been routed and driven back into Ilius, had not Priam 's son Helenus, wisest of augurs, said to Hector and Aeneas," Hector and Aeneas, you two are the mainstays of the Trojans and Lycians, for you are foremost at all times, alike in fight and counsel; hold your ground here, and go about among the host to rally them in front of the gates, or they will fling themselves into the arms of their wives, to the great joy of our foes.
Then, when you have put heart into all our companies, we will stand firm here and fight the Danaans however hard they press us, for there is nothing else to be done.
Meanwhile do you, Hector, go to the city and tell our mother what is happening.
Tell her to bid the matrons gather at the temple of Minerva in the acropolis ;let her then take her key and open the doors of the sacred building; there, upon the knees of Minerva, let her lay the largest, fairest robe she has in her house— the one she sets most store by; let her, moreover, promise to sacrifice twelve yearling heifers that have never yet felt the goad, in the temple of the goddess, if she will take pity on the town, with the wives and little ones of the Trojans, and keep the son of Tydeus from falling on the goodly city of Ilius; for he fights with fury and fills men 's souls with panic.
I hold him mightiest of them all; we did not fear even their great champion Achilles, son of a goddess though he be, as we do this man: his rage is beyond all bounds, and there is none can vie with him in prowess."
Hector did as his brother bade him.
He sprang from his chariot, and went about everywhere among the host, brandishing his spears, urging the men on to fight, and raising the dread cry of battle.
Thereon they rallied and again faced the Achaeans, who gave ground and ceased their murderous onset, for they deemed that some one of the immortals had come down from starry heaven to help the Trojans, so strangely had they rallied.
And Hector shouted to the Trojans," Trojans and allies, be men, my friends, and fight with might and main, while I go to Ilius and tell the old men of our council and our wives to pray to the gods and vow hecatombs in their honour."
With this he went his way, and the black rim of hide that went round his shield beat against his neck and his ancles.
Then Glaucus son of Hippolochus, and the son of Tydeus went into the open space between the hosts to fight in single combat.
When they were close up to one another Diomed of the loud warcry was the first to speak.
"Who, my good sir," said he," who are you among men?
I have never seen you in battle until now, but you are daring beyond all others if you abide my onset.
Woe to those fathers whose sons face my might.
If, however, you are one of the immortals and have come down from heaven, I will not fight you; for even valiant Lycurgus, son of Dryas, did not live long when he took to fighting with the gods.
He it was that drove the nursing women who were in charge of frenzied Bacchus through the land of Nysa, and they flung their thyrsi on the ground as murderous Lycurgus beat them with his oxgoad.
Bacchus himself plunged terrorstricken into the sea, and Thetis took him to her bosom to comfort him, for he was scared by the fury with which the man reviled him.
Thereon the gods who live at ease were angry with Lycurgus and the son of Saturn struck him blind, nor did he live much longer after he had become hateful to the immortals.
Therefore I will not fight with the blessed gods; but if you are of them that eat the fruit of the ground, draw near and meet your doom."
And the son of Hippolochus answered," Son of Tydeus, why ask me of my lineage?
Men come and go as leaves year by year upon the trees.
Those of autumn the wind sheds upon the ground, but when spring returns the forest buds forth with fresh vines.
Even so is it with the generations of mankind, the new spring up as the old are passing away.
If, then, you would learn my descent, it is one that is well known to many.
There is a city in the heart of Argos, pasture land of horses, called Ephyra, where Sisyphus lived, who was the craftiest of all mankind.
He was the son of Aeolus, and had a son named Glaucus, who was father to Bellerophon, whom heaven endowed with the most surpassing comeliness and beauty.
But Proetus devised his ruin, and being stronger than he, drove him from the land of the Argives, over which Jove had made him ruler.
For Antea, wife of Proetus, lusted after him, and would have had him lie with her in secret; but Bellerophon was an honourable man and would not, so she told lies about him to Proteus.'
Proetus,' said she,' kill Bellerophon or die, for he would have had converse with me against my will.'
The king was angered, but shrank from killing Bellerophon, so he sent him to Lycia with lying letters of introduction, written on a folded tablet, and containing much ill against the bearer.
He bade Bellerophon show these letters to his fatherinlaw, to the end that he might thus perish; Bellerophon therefore went to Lycia, and the gods convoyed him safely.
"When he reached the river Xanthus, which is in Lycia, the king received him with all goodwill, feasted him nine days, and killed nine heifers in his honour, but when rosyfingered morning appeared upon the tenth day, he questioned him and desired to see the letter from his soninlaw Proetus.
When he had received the wicked letter he first commanded Bellerophon to kill that savage monster, the Chimaera, who was not a human being, but a goddess, for she had the head of a lion and the tail of a serpent, while her body was that of a goat, and she breathed forth flames of fire; but Bellerophon slew her, for he was guided by signs from heaven.
He next fought the farfamed Solymi, and this, he said, was the hardest of all his battles.
Thirdly, he killed the Amazons, women who were the peers of men, and as he was returning thence the king devised yet another plan for his destruction; he picked the bravest warriors in all Lycia, and placed them in ambuscade, but not a man ever came back, for Bellerophon killed every one of them.
Then the king knew that he must be the valiant offspring of a god, so he kept him in Lycia, gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him of equal honour in the kingdom with himself; and the Lycians gave him a piece of land, the best in all the country, fair with vineyards and tilled fields, to have and to hold.
"The king 's daughter bore Bellerophon three children, Isander, Hippolochus, and Laodameia.
Jove, the lord of counsel, lay with Laodameia, and she bore him noble Sarpedon; but when Bellerophon came to be hated by all the gods, he wandered all desolate and dismayed upon the Alean plain, gnawing at his own heart, and shunning the path of man.
Mars, insatiate of battle, killed his son Isander while he was fighting the Solymi; his daughter was killed by Diana of the golden reins, for she was angered with her; but Hippolochus was father to myself, and when he sent me to Troy he urged me again and again to fight ever among the foremost and outvie my peers, so as not to shame the blood of my fathers who were the noblest in Ephyra and in all Lycia.
This, then, is the descent I claim."
Thus did he speak, and the heart of Diomed was glad.
He planted his spear in the ground, and spoke to him with friendly words."
Then," he said," you are an old friend of my father 's house.
Great Oeneus once entertained Bellerophon for twenty days, and the two exchanged presents.
Oeneus gave a belt rich with purple, and Bellerophon a double cup, which I left at home when I set out for Troy.
I do not remember Tydeus, for he was taken from us while I was yet a child, when the army of the Achaeans was cut to pieces before Thebes.
Henceforth, however, I must be your host in middle Argos, and you mine in Lycia, if I should ever go there; let us avoid one another 's spears even during a general engagement; there are many noble Trojans and allies whom I can kill, if I overtake them and heaven delivers them into my hand; so again with yourself, there are many Achaeans whose lives you may take if you can; we two, then, will exchange armour, that all present may know of the old ties that subsist between us."
With these words they sprang from their chariots, grasped one another 's hands, and plighted friendship.
But the son of Saturn made Glaucus take leave of his wits, for he exchanged golden armour for bronze, the worth of a hundred head of cattle for the worth of nine.
Now when Hector reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree, the wives and daughters of the Trojans came running towards him to ask after their sons, brothers, kinsmen, and husbands: he told them to set about praying to the gods, and many were made sorrowful as they heard him.
Presently he reached the splendid palace of King Priam, adorned with colonnades of hewn stone.
In it there were fifty bedchambers— all of hewn stone— built near one another, where the sons of Priam slept, each with his wedded wife.
Opposite these, on the other side the courtyard, there were twelve upper rooms also of hewn stone for Priam 's daughters, built near one another, where his sonsinlaw slept with their wives.
When Hector got there, his fond mother came up to him with Laodice the fairest of her daughters.
She took his hand within her own and said," My son, why have you left the battle to come hither?
Are the Achaeans, woe betide them, pressing you hard about the city that you have thought fit to come and uplift your hands to Jove from the citadel?
Wait till I can bring you wine that you may make offering to Jove and to the other immortals, and may then drink and be refreshed.
Wine gives a man fresh strength when he is wearied, as you now are with fighting on behalf of your kinsmen."
And Hector answered," Honoured mother, bring no wine, lest you unman me and I forget my strength.
I dare not make a drinkoffering to Jove with unwashed hands; one who is bespattered with blood and filth may not pray to the son of Saturn.
Get the matrons together, and go with offerings to the temple of Minerva driver of the spoil; there, upon the knees of Minerva, lay the largest and fairest robe you have in your house— the one you set most store by; promise, moreover, to sacrifice twelve yearling heifers that have never yet felt the goad, in the temple of the goddess if she will take pity on the town, with the wives and little ones of the Trojans, and keep the son of Tydeus from off the goodly city of Ilius, for he fights with fury, and fills men 's souls with panic.
Go, then, to the temple of Minerva, while I seek Paris and exhort him, if he will hear my words.
Would that the earth might open her jaws and swallow him, for Jove bred him to be the bane of the Trojans, and of Priam and Priam 's sons.
Could I but see him go down into the house of Hades, my heart would forget its heaviness."
His mother went into the house and called her waitingwomen who gathered the matrons throughout the city.
She then went down into her fragrant storeroom, where her embroidered robes were kept, the work of Sidonian women, whom Alexandrus had brought over from Sidon when he sailed the seas upon that voyage during which he carried off Helen.
Hecuba took out the largest robe, and the one that was most beautifully enriched with embroidery, as an offering to Minerva: it glittered like a star, and lay at the very bottom of the chest.
With this she went on her way and many matrons with her.
When they reached the temple of Minerva, lovely Theano, daughter of Cisseus and wife of Antenor, opened the doors, for the Trojans had made her priestess of Minerva.
The women lifted up their hands to the goddess with a loud cry, and Theano took the robe to lay it upon the knees of Minerva, praying the while to the daughter of great Jove."
Holy Minerva," she cried," protectress of our city, mighty goddess, break the spear of Diomed and lay him low before the Scaean gates.
Do this, and we will sacrifice twelve heifers that have never yet known the goad, in your temple, if you will have pity upon the town, with the wives and little ones of the Trojans."
Thus she prayed, but Pallas Minerva granted not her prayer.
While they were thus praying to the daughter of great Jove, Hector went to the fair house of Alexandrus, which he had built for him by the foremost builders in the land.
They had built him his house, storehouse, and courtyard near those of Priam and Hector on the acropolis.
Here Hector entered, with a spear eleven cubits long in his hand; the bronze point gleamed in front of him, and was fastened to the shaft of the spear by a ring of gold.
He found Alexandrus within the house, busied about his armour, his shield and cuirass, and handling his curved bow; there, too, sat Argive Helen with her women, setting them their several tasks; and as Hector saw him he rebuked him with words of scorn. "
Sir," said he," you do ill to nurse this rancour; the people perish fighting round this our town; you would yourself chide one whom you saw shirking his part in the combat.
Up then, or ere long the city will be in a blaze."
And Alexandrus answered," Hector, your rebuke is just; listen therefore, and believe me when I tell you that I am not here so much through rancour or illwill towards the Trojans, as from a desire to indulge my grief.
My wife was even now gently urging me to battle, and I hold it better that I should go, for victory is ever fickle.
Wait, then, while I put on my armour, or go first and I will follow.
I shall be sure to overtake you."
Hector made no answer, but Helen tried to soothe him."
Brother," said she," to my abhorred and sinful self, would that a whirlwind had caught me up on the day my mother brought me forth, and had borne me to some mountain or to the waves of the roaring sea that should have swept me away ere this mischief had come about.
But, since the gods have devised these evils, would, at any rate, that I had been wife to a better man— to one who could smart under dishonour and men 's evil speeches.
This fellow was never yet to be depended upon, nor never will be, and he will surely reap what he has sown.
Still, brother, come in and rest upon this seat, for it is you who bear the brunt of that toil that has been caused by my hateful self and by the sin of Alexandrus— both of whom Jove has doomed to be a theme of song among those that shall be born hereafter."
And Hector answered," Bid me not be seated, Helen, for all the goodwill you bear me.
I can not stay.
I am in haste to help the Trojans, who miss me greatly when I am not among them; but urge your husband, and of his own self also let him make haste to overtake me before I am out of the city.
I must go home to see my household, my wife and my little son, for I know not whether I shall ever again return to them, or whether the gods will cause me to fill by the hands of the Achaeans."
Then Hector left her, and forthwith was at his own house.
He did not find Andromache, for she was on the wall with her child and one of her maids, weeping bitterly.
Seeing, then, that she was not within, he stood on the threshold of the women 's rooms and said," Women, tell me, and tell me true, where did Andromache go when she left the house?
Was it to my sisters, or to my brothers ' wives?
or is she at the temple of Minerva where the other women are propitiating the awful goddess?"
His good housekeeper answered," Hector, since you bid me tell you truly, she did not go to your sisters nor to your brothers ' wives, nor yet to the temple of Minerva, where the other women are propitiating the awful goddess, but she is on the high wall of Ilius, for she had heard the Trojans were being hard pressed, and that the Achaeans were in great force :she went to the wall in frenzied haste, and the nurse went with her carrying the child."
Hector hurried from the house when she had done speaking, and went down the streets by the same way that he had come.
When he had gone through the city and had reached the Scaean gates through which he would go out on to the plain, his wife came running towards him, Andromache, daughter of great Eetion who ruled in Thebe under the wooded slopes of Mt.
Placus, and was king of the Cilicians.
His daughter had married Hector, and now came to meet him with a nurse who carried his little child in her bosom— a mere babe.
Hector 's darling son, and lovely as a star.
Hector had named him Scamandrius, but the people called him Astyanax, for his father stood alone as chief guardian of Ilius.
Hector smiled as he looked upon the boy, but he did not speak, and Andromache stood by him weeping and taking his hand in her own. "
Dear husband," said she," your valour will bring you to destruction; think on your infant son, and on my hapless self who ere long shall be your widow— for the Achaeans will set upon you in a body and kill you.
It would be better for me, should I lose you, to lie dead and buried, for I shall have nothing left to comfort me when you are gone, save only sorrow.
I have neither father nor mother now.
Achilles slew my father when he sacked Thebe the goodly city of the Cilicians.
He slew him, but did not for very shame despoil him; when he had burned him in his wondrous armour, he raised a barrow over his ashes and the mountain nymphs, daughters of aegisbearing Jove, planted a grove of elms about his tomb.
I had seven brothers in my father 's house, but on the same day they all went within the house of Hades.
Achilles killed them as they were with their sheep and cattle.
My mother— her who had been queen of all the land under Mt.
Placus— he brought hither with the spoil, and freed her for a great sum, but the archerqueen Diana took her in the house of your father.
Nay— Hector— you who to me are father, mother, brother, and dear husband— have mercy upon me; stay here upon this wall; make not your child fatherless, and your wife a widow; as for the host, place them near the figtree, where the city can be best scaled, and the wall is weakest.
Thrice have the bravest of them come thither and assailed it, under the two Ajaxes, Idomeneus, the sons of Atreus, and the brave son of Tydeus, either of their own bidding, or because some soothsayer had told them."
And Hector answered," Wife, I too have thought upon all this, but with what face should I look upon the Trojans, men or women, if I shirked battle like a coward?
I can not do so :I know nothing save to fight bravely in the forefront of the Trojan host and win renown alike for my father and myself.
Well do I know that the day will surely come when mighty Ilius shall be destroyed with Priam and Priam 's people, but I grieve for none of these— not even for Hecuba, nor King Priam, nor for my brothers many and brave who may fall in the dust before their foes— for none of these do I grieve as for yourself when the day shall come on which some one of the Achaeans shall rob you for ever of your freedom, and bear you weeping away.
It may be that you will have to ply the loom in Argos at the bidding of a mistress, or to fetch water from the springs Messeis or Hypereia, treated brutally by some cruel taskmaster; then will one say who sees you weeping,' She was wife to Hector, the bravest warrior among the Trojans during the war before Ilius.'
On this your tears will break forth anew for him who would have put away the day of captivity from you.
May I lie dead under the barrow that is heaped over my body ere I hear your cry as they carry you into bondage."
He stretched his arms towards his child, but the boy cried and nestled in his nurse 's bosom, scared at the sight of his father 's armour, and at the horsehair plume that nodded fiercely from his helmet.
His father and mother laughed to see him, but Hector took the helmet from his head and laid it all gleaming upon the ground.
Then he took his darling child, kissed him, and dandled him in his arms, praying over him the while to Jove and to all the gods.
"Jove," he cried," grant that this my child may be even as myself, chief among the Trojans; let him be not less excellent in strength, and let him rule Ilius with his might.
Then may one say of him as he comes from battle,' The son is far better than the father.'
May he bring back the bloodstained spoils of him whom he has laid low, and let his mother 's heart be glad."
With this he laid the child again in the arms of his wife, who took him to her own soft bosom, smiling through her tears.
As her husband watched her his heart yearned towards her and he caressed her fondly, saying," My own wife, do not take these things too bitterly to heart.
No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man 's hour is come, be he brave or be he coward ,there is no escape for him when he has once been born.
Go, then, within the house, and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for war is man 's matter, and mine above all others of them that have been born in Ilius."
He took his plumed helmet from the ground, and his wife went back again to her house, weeping bitterly and often looking back towards him.
When she reached her home she found her maidens within, and bade them all join in her lament; so they mourned Hector in his own house though he was yet alive, for they deemed that they should never see him return safe from battle, and from the furious hands of the Achaeans.
Paris did not remain long in his house.
He donned his goodly armour overlaid with bronze, and hasted through the city as fast as his feet could take him.
As a horse, stabled and fed, breaks loose and gallops gloriously over the plain to the place where he is wo nt to bathe in the fairflowing river— he holds his head high, and his mane streams upon his shoulders as he exults in his strength and flies like the wind to the haunts and feeding ground of the mares— even so went forth Paris from high Pergamus, gleaming like sunlight in his armour, and he laughed aloud as he sped swiftly on his way.
Forthwith he came upon his brother Hector, who was then turning away from the place where he had held converse with his wife, and he was himself the first to speak. "
Sir," said he," I fear that I have kept you waiting when you are in haste, and have not come as quickly as you bade me."
"My good brother," answered Hector," you fight bravely, and no man with any justice can make light of your doings in battle.
But you are careless and wilfully remiss.
It grieves me to the heart to hear the ill that the Trojans speak about you, for they have suffered much on your account.
Let us be going, and we will make things right hereafter, should Jove vouchsafe us to set the cup of our deliverance before everliving gods of heaven in our own homes, when we have chased the Achaeans from Troy."
Fire being now thrown on the ship of Protesilaus, Patroclus fights in the armour of Achilles—He drives the Trojans back, but is in the end killed by Euphorbus and Hector.
Thus did they fight about the ship of Protesilaus.
Then Patroclus drew near to Achilles with tears welling from his eyes, as from some spring whose crystal stream falls over the ledges of a high precipice.
When Achilles saw him thus weeping he was sorry for him and said," Why, Patroclus, do you stand there weeping like some silly child that comes running to her mother, and begs to be taken up and carried— she catches hold of her mother 's dress to stay her though she is in a hurry, and looks tearfully up until her mother carries her— even such tears, Patroclus, are you now shedding.
Have you anything to say to the Myrmidons or to myself?
or have you had news from Phthia which you alone know?
They tell me Menoetius son of Actor is still alive, as also Peleus son of Aeacus, among the Myrmidons— men whose loss we two should bitterly deplore; or are you grieving about the Argives and the way in which they are being killed at the ships, through their own highhanded doings?
Do not hide anything from me but tell me that both of us may know about it."
Then, O knight Patroclus, with a deep sigh you answered," Achilles, son of Peleus, foremost champion of the Achaeans, do not be angry, but I weep for the disaster that has now befallen the Argives.
All those who have been their champions so far are lying at the ships, wounded by sword or spear.
Brave Diomed son of Tydeus has been hit with a spear, while famed Ulysses and Agamemnon have received swordwounds; Eurypylus again has been struck with an arrow in the thigh; skilled apothecaries are attending to these heroes, and healing them of their wounds; are you still, O Achilles, so inexorable?
May it never be my lot to nurse such a passion as you have done, to the baning of your own good name.
Who in future story will speak well of you unless you now save the Argives from ruin?
You know no pity; knight Peleus was not your father nor Thetis your mother, but the grey sea bore you and the sheer cliffs begot you, so cruel and remorseless are you.
If however you are kept back through knowledge of some oracle, or if your mother Thetis has told you something from the mouth of Jove, at least send me and the Myrmidons with me, if I may bring deliverance to the Danaans.
Let me moreover wear your armour; the Trojans may thus mistake me for you and quit the field, so that the hardpressed sons of the Achaeans may have breathing time— which while they are fighting may hardly be.
We who are fresh might soon drive tired men back from our ships and tents to their own city."
He knew not what he was asking, nor that he was suing for his own destruction.
Achilles was deeply moved and answered," What, noble Patroclus, are you saying?
I know no prophesyings which I am heeding, nor has my mother told me anything from the mouth of Jove, but I am cut to the very heart that one of my own rank should dare to rob me because he is more powerful than I am.
This, after all that I have gone through, is more than I can endure.
The girl whom the sons of the Achaeans chose for me, whom I won as the fruit of my spear on having sacked a city— her has King Agamemnon taken from me as though I were some common vagrant.
Still, let bygones be bygones: no man may keep his anger for ever; I said I would not relent till battle and the cry of war had reached my own ships; nevertheless, now gird my armour about your shoulders, and lead the Myrmidons to battle, for the dark cloud of Trojans has burst furiously over our fleet; the Argives are driven back on to the beach, cooped within a narrow space, and the whole people of Troy has taken heart to sally out against them, because they see not the visor of my helmet gleaming near them.
Had they seen this, there would not have been a creek nor grip that had not been filled with their dead as they fled back again.
And so it would have been, if only King Agamemnon had dealt fairly by me.
As it is the Trojans have beset our host.
Diomed son of Tydeus no longer wields his spear to defend the Danaans, neither have I heard the voice of the son of Atreus coming from his hated head, whereas that of murderous Hector rings in my cars as he gives orders to the Trojans, who triumph over the Achaeans and fill the whole plain with their cry of battle.
But even so, Patroclus, fall upon them and save the fleet, lest the Trojans fire it and prevent us from being able to return.
Do, however, as I now bid you, that you may win me great honour from all the Danaans, and that they may restore the girl to me again and give me rich gifts into the bargain.
When you have driven the Trojans from the ships, come back again.
Though Juno 's thundering husband should put triumph within your reach, do not fight the Trojans further in my absence, or you will rob me of glory that should be mine.
And do not for lust of battle go on killing the Trojans nor lead the Achaeans on to Ilius, lest one of the everliving gods from Olympus attack you— for Phoebus Apollo loves them well :return when you have freed the ships from peril, and let others wage war upon the plain.
Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that not a single man of all the Trojans might be left alive, nor yet of the Argives, but that we two might be alone left to tear aside the mantle that veils the brow of Troy."
Thus did they converse.
But Ajax could no longer hold his ground for the shower of darts that rained upon him; the will of Jove and the javelins of the Trojans were too much for him; the helmet that gleamed about his temples rang with the continuous clatter of the missiles that kept pouring on to it and on to the cheekpieces that protected his face.
Moreover his left shoulder was tired with having held his shield so long, yet for all this, let fly at him as they would, they could not make him give ground.
He could hardly draw his breath, the sweat rained from every pore of his body, he had not a moment 's respite, and on all sides he was beset by danger upon danger.
And now, tell me, O Muses that hold your mansions on Olympus, how fire was thrown upon the ships of the Achaeans.
Hector came close up and let drive with his great sword at the ashen spear of Ajax.
He cut it clean in two just behind where the point was fastened on to the shaft of the spear.
Ajax, therefore, had now nothing but a headless spear, while the bronze point flew some way off and came ringing down on to the ground.
Ajax knew the hand of heaven in this, and was dismayed at seeing that Jove had now left him utterly defenceless and was willing victory for the Trojans.
Therefore he drew back, and the Trojans flung fire upon the ship which was at once wrapped in flame.
The fire was now flaring about the ship 's stern, whereon Achilles smote his two thighs and said to Patroclus," Up, noble knight, for I see the glare of hostile fire at our fleet; up, lest they destroy our ships, and there be no way by which we may retreat.
Gird on your armour at once while I call our people together."
As he spoke Patroclus put on his armour.
First he greaved his legs with greaves of good make, and fitted with ancleclasps of silver; after this he donned the cuirass of the son of Aeacus, richly inlaid and studded.
He hung his silverstudded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then his mighty shield.
On his comely head he set his helmet, well wrought, with a crest of horsehair that nodded menacingly above it.
He grasped two redoubtable spears that suited his hands, but he did not take the spear of noble Achilles, so stout and strong, for none other of the Achaeans could wield it, though Achilles could do so easily.
This was the ashen spear from Mount Pelion, which Chiron had cut upon a mountain top and had given to Peleus, wherewith to deal out death among heroes.
He bade Automedon yoke his horses with all speed ,for he was the man whom he held in honour next after Achilles, and on whose support in battle he could rely most firmly.
Automedon therefore yoked the fleet horses Xanthus and Balius, steeds that could fly like the wind: these were they whom the harpy Podarge bore to the west wind, as she was grazing in a meadow by the waters of the river Oceanus.
In the side traces he set the noble horse Pedasus, whom Achilles had brought away with him when he sacked the city of Eetion, and who, mortal steed though he was, could take his place along with those that were immortal.
Meanwhile Achilles went about everywhere among the tents, and bade his Myrmidons put on their armour.
Even as fierce ravening wolves that are feasting upon a homed stag which they have killed upon the mountains, and their jaws are red with blood— they go in a pack to lap water from the clear spring with their long thin tongues; and they reek of blood and slaughter ;they know not what fear is, for it is hunger drives them— even so did the leaders and counsellors of the Myrmidons gather round the good squire of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, and among them stood Achilles himself cheering on both men and horses.
Fifty ships had noble Achilles brought to Troy, and in each there was a crew of fifty oarsmen.
Over these he set five captains whom he could trust, while he was himself commander over them all.
Menesthius of the gleaming corslet, son to the river Spercheius that streams from heaven, was captain of the first company.
Fair Polydora daughter of Peleus bore him to everflowing Spercheius— a woman mated with a god— but he was called son of Borus son of Perieres, with whom his mother was living as his wedded wife, and who gave great wealth to gain her.
The second company was led by noble Eudorus, son to an unwedded woman.
Polymele, daughter of Phylas the graceful dancer, bore him; the mighty slayer of Argos was enamoured of her as he saw her among the singing women at a dance held in honour of Diana the rushing huntress of the golden arrows; he therefore— Mercury, giver of all good— went with her into an upper chamber, and lay with her in secret, whereon she bore him a noble son Eudorus, singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant.
When Ilithuia goddess of the pains of childbirth brought him to the light of day, and he saw the face of the sun, mighty Echecles son of Actor took the mother to wife, and gave great wealth to gain her, but her father Phylas brought the child up, and took care of him, doting as fondly upon him as though he were his own son.
The third company was led by Pisander son of Maemalus, the finest spearman among all the Myrmidons next to Achilles ' own comrade Patroclus.
The old knight Phoenix was captain of the fourth company, and Alcimedon, noble son of Laerceus of the fifth.
When Achilles had chosen his men and had stationed them all with their captains, he charged them straitly saying," Myrmidons, remember your threats against the Trojans while you were at the ships in the time of my anger, and you were all complaining of me.'
Cruel son of Peleus,' you would say,' your mother must have suckled you on gall, so ruthless are you.
You keep us here at the ships against our will; if you are so relentless it were better we went home over the sea.'
Often have you gathered and thus chided with me.
The hour is now come for those high feats of arms that you have so long been pining for, therefore keep high hearts each one of you to do battle with the Trojans."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they serried their companies yet more closely when they heard the words of their king.
As the stones which a builder sets in the wall of some high house which is to give shelter from the winds— even so closely were the helmets and bossed shields set against one another.
Shield pressed on shield, helm on helm, and man on man; so close were they that the horsehair plumes on the gleaming ridges of their helmets touched each other as they bent their heads.
In front of them all two men put on their armour— Patroclus and Automedon— two men, with but one mind to lead the Myrmidons.
Then Achilles went inside his tent and opened the lid of the strong chest which silverfooted Thetis had given him to take on board ship, and which she had filled with shirts, cloaks to keep out the cold, and good thick rugs.
In this chest he had a cup of rare workmanship, from which no man but himself might drink, nor would he make offering from it to any other god save only to father Jove.
He took the cup from the chest and cleansed it with sulphur; this done he rinsed it clean water, and after he had washed his hands he drew wine.
Then he stood in the middle of the court and prayed, looking towards heaven, and making his drinkoffering of wine; nor was he unseen of Jove whose joy is in thunder."
King Jove," he cried," lord of Dodona, god of the Pelasgi, who dwellest afar, you who hold wintry Dodona in your sway, where your prophets the Selli dwell around you with their feet unwashed and their couches made upon the ground— if you heard me when I prayed to you aforetime, and did me honour while you sent disaster on the Achaeans, vouchsafe me now the fulfilment of yet this further prayer.
I shall stay here where my ships are lying, but I shall send my comrade into battle at the head of many Myrmidons.
Grant, O allseeing Jove, that victory may go with him; put your courage into his heart that Hector may learn whether my squire is man enough to fight alone, or whether his might is only then so indomitable when I myself enter the turmoil of war.
Afterwards when he has chased the fight and the cry of battle from the ships, grant that he may return unharmed, with his armour and his comrades, fighters in close combat."
Thus did he pray, and allcounselling Jove heard his prayer.
Part of it he did indeed vouchsafe him— but not the whole.
He granted that Patroclus should thrust back war and battle from the ships, but refused to let him come safely out of the fight.
When he had made his drinkoffering and had thus prayed, Achilles went inside his tent and put back the cup into his chest.
Then he again came out, for he still loved to look upon the fierce fight that raged between the Trojans and Achaeans.
Meanwhile the armed band that was about Patroclus marched on till they sprang high in hope upon the Trojans.
They came swarming out like wasps whose nests are by the roadside, and whom silly children love to tease, whereon any one who happens to be passing may get stung— or again, if a wayfarer going along the road vexes them by accident, every wasp will come flying out in a fury to defend his little ones— even with such rage and courage did the Myrmidons swarm from their ships, and their cry of battle rose heavenwards.
Patroclus called out to his men at the top of his voice," Myrmidons, followers of Achilles son of Peleus, be men my friends, fight with might and with main, that we may win glory for the son of Peleus, who is far the foremost man at the ships of the Argives— he, and his close fighting followers.
The son of Atreus King Agamemnon will thus learn his folly in showing no respect to the bravest of the Achaeans."
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they fell in a body upon the Trojans.
The ships rang again with the cry which the Achaeans raised, and when the Trojans saw the brave son of Menoetius and his squire all gleaming in their armour, they were daunted and their battalions were thrown into confusion, for they thought the fleet son of Peleus must now have put aside his anger, and have been reconciled to Agamemnon; every one, therefore, looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety.
Patroclus first aimed a spear into the middle of the press where men were packed most closely, by the stern of the ship of Protesilaus.
He hit Pyraechmes who had led his Paeonian horsemen from the Amydon and the broad waters of the river Axius; the spear struck him on the right shoulder, and with a groan he fell backwards in the dust; on this his men were thrown into confusion, for by killing their leader, who was the finest soldier among them, Patroclus struck panic into them all.
He thus drove them from the ship and quenched the fire that was then blazing— leaving the halfburnt ship to lie where it was.
The Trojans were now driven back with a shout that rent the skies, while the Danaans poured after them from their ships, shouting also without ceasing.
As when Jove, gatherer of the thundercloud, spreads a dense canopy on the top of some lofty mountain, and all the peaks, the jutting headlands, and forest glades show out in the great light that flashes from the bursting heavens, even so when the Danaans had now driven back the fire from their ships, they took breath for a little while; but the fury of the fight was not yet over, for the Trojans were not driven back in utter rout, but still gave battle, and were ousted from their ground only by sheer fighting.
The fight then became more scattered, and the chieftains killed one another when and how they could.
The valiant son of Menoetius first drove his spear into the thigh of Areilycus just as he was turning round; the point went clean through, and broke the bone so that he fell forward.
Meanwhile Menelaus struck Thoas in the chest, where it was exposed near the rim of his shield, and he fell dead.
The son of Phyleus saw Amphiclus about to attack him, and ere he could do so took aim at the upper part of his thigh, where the muscles are thicker than in any other part; the spear tore through all the sinews of the leg, and his eyes were closed in darkness.
Of the sons of Nestor one, Antilochus, speared Atymnius, driving the point of the spear through his throat, and down he fell.
Maris then sprang on Antilochus in handtohand fight to avenge his brother, and bestrode the body spear in hand; but valiant Thrasymedes was too quick for him, and in a moment had struck him in the shoulder ere he could deal his blow; his aim was true, and the spear severed all the muscles at the root of his arm, and tore them right down to the bone, so he fell heavily to the ground and his eyes were closed in darkness.
Thus did these two noble comrades of Sarpedon go down to Erebus slain by the two sons of Nestor; they were the warrior sons of Amisodorus, who had reared the invincible Chimaera, to the bane of many.
Ajax son of Oileus sprang on Cleobulus and took him alive as he was entangled in the crush; but he killed him then and there by a swordblow on the neck.
The sword reeked with his blood, while dark death and the strong hand of fate gripped him and closed his eyes.
Peneleos and Lycon now met in close fight, for they had missed each other with their spears.
They had both thrown without effect, so now they drew their swords.
Lycon struck the plumed crest of Peneleos ' helmet but his sword broke at the hilt, while Peneleos smote Lycon on the neck under the ear.
The blade sank so deep that the head was held on by nothing but the skin, and there was no more life left in him.
Meriones gave chase to Acamas on foot and caught him up just as he was about to mount his chariot; he drove a spear through his right shoulder so that he fell headlong from the car, and his eyes were closed in darkness.
Idomeneus speared Erymas in the mouth; the bronze point of the spear went clean through it beneath the brain, crashing in among the white bones and smashing them up.
His teeth were all of them knocked out and the blood came gushing in a stream from both his eyes; it also came gurgling up from his mouth and nostrils, and the darkness of death enfolded him round about.
Thus did these chieftains of the Danaans each of them kill his man.
As ravening wolves seize on kids or lambs, fastening on them when they are alone on the hillsides and have strayed from the main flock through the carelessness of the shepherd— and when the wolves see this they pounce upon them at once because they can not defend themselves— even so did the Danaans now fall on the Trojans, who fled with illomened cries in their panic and had no more fight left in them.
Meanwhile great Ajax kept on trying to drive a spear into Hector, but Hector was so skilful that he held his broad shoulders well under cover of his oxhide shield, ever on the lookout for the whizzing of the arrows and the heavy thud of the spears.
He well knew that the fortunes of the day had changed, but still stood his ground and tried to protect his comrades.
As when a cloud goes up into heaven from Olympus, rising out of a clear sky when Jove is brewing a gale— even with such panic stricken rout did the Trojans now fly, and there was no order in their going.
Hector 's fleet horses bore him and his armour out of the fight, and he left the Trojan host penned in by the deep trench against their will.
Many a yoke of horses snapped the pole of their chariots in the trench and left their master 's car behind them.
Patroclus gave chase, calling impetuously on the Danaans and full of fury against the Trojans, who, being now no longer in a body, filled all the ways with their cries of panic and rout; the air was darkened with the clouds of dust they raised, and the horses strained every nerve in their flight from the tents and ships towards the city.
Patroclus kept on heading his horses wherever he saw most men flying in confusion, cheering on his men the while.
Chariots were being smashed in all directions, and many a man came tumbling down from his own car to fall beneath the wheels of that of Patroclus, whose immortal steeds, given by the gods to Peleus, sprang over the trench at a bound as they sped onward.
He was intent on trying to get near Hector, for he had set his heart on spearing him, but Hector 's horses were now hurrying him away.
As the whole dark earth bows before some tempest on an autumn day when Jove rains his hardest to punish men for giving crooked judgement in their courts, and driving justice therefrom without heed to the decrees of heaven— all the rivers run full and the torrents tear many a new channel as they roar headlong from the mountains to the dark sea, and it fares ill with the works of men— even such was the stress and strain of the Trojan horses in their flight.
Patroclus now cut off the battalions that were nearest to him and drove them back to the ships.
They were doing their best to reach the city, but he would not let them, and bore down on them between the river and the ships and wall.
Many a fallen comrade did he then avenge.
First he hit Pronous with a spear on the chest where it was exposed near the rim of his shield, and he fell heavily to the ground.
Next he sprang on Thestor son of Enops, who was sitting all huddled up in his chariot, for he had lost his head and the reins had been torn out of his hands.
Patroclus went up to him and drove a spear into his right jaw; he thus hooked him by the teeth and the spear pulled him over the rim of his car, as one who sits at the end of some jutting rock and draws a strong fish out of the sea with a hook and a line— even so with his spear did he pull Thestor all gaping from his chariot; he then threw him down on his face and he died while falling.
On this, as Erylaus was on coming to attack him, he struck him full on the head with a stone, and his brains were all battered inside his helmet, whereon he fell headlong to the ground and the pangs of death took hold upon him.
Then he laid low, one after the other, Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus, Echius son of Damastor, Pyris, Ipheus, Euippus and Polymelus son of Argeas.
Now when Sarpedon saw his comrades, men who wore ungirdled tunics, being overcome by Patroclus son of Menoetius, he rebuked the Lycians saying.
"Shame on you, where are you flying to?
Show your mettle; I will myself meet this man in fight and learn who it is that is so masterful; he has done us much hurt, and has stretched many a brave man upon the ground."
He sprang from his chariot as he spoke, and Patroclus, when he saw this, leaped on to the ground also.
The two then rushed at one another with loud cries like eaglebeaked crooktaloned vultures that scream and tear at one another in some high mountain fastness.
The son of scheming Saturn looked down upon them in pity and said to Juno who was his wife and sister," Alas, that it should be the lot of Sarpedon whom I love so dearly to perish by the hand of Patroclus.
I am in two minds whether to catch him up out of the fight and set him down safe and sound in the fertile land of Lycia, or to let him now fall by the hand of the son of Menoetius."
And Juno answered," Most dread son of Saturn, what is this that you are saying?
Would you snatch a mortal man, whose doom has long been fated, out of the jaws of death?
Do as you will, but we shall not all of us be of your mind.
I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, that if you send Sarpedon safely to his own home, some other of the gods will be also wanting to escort his son out of battle, for there are many sons of gods fighting round the city of Troy, and you will make every one jealous.
If, however, you are fond of him and pity him, let him indeed fall by the hand of Patroclus, but as soon as the life is gone out of him, send Death and sweet Sleep to bear him off the field and take him to the broad lands of Lycia, where his brothers and his kinsmen will bury him with mound and pillar, in due honour to the dead."
The sire of gods and men assented, but he shed a rain of blood upon the earth in honour of his son whom Patroclus was about to kill on the rich plain of Troy far from his home.
When they were now come close to one another Patroclus struck Thrasydemus, the brave squire of Sarpedon, in the lower part of the belly, and killed him.
Sarpedon then aimed a spear at Patroclus and missed him, but he struck the horse Pedasus in the right shoulder, and it screamed aloud as it lay, groaning in the dust until the life went out of it.
The other two horses began to plunge; the pole of the chariot cracked and they got entangled in the reins through the fall of the horse that was yoked along with them; but Automedon knew what to do; without the loss of a moment he drew the keen blade that hung by his sturdy thigh and cut the third horse adrift; whereon the other two righted themselves, and pulling hard at the reins again went together into battle.
Sarpedon now took a second aim at Patroclus, and again missed him, the point of the spear passed over his left shoulder without hitting him.
Patroclus then aimed in his turn, and the spear sped not from his hand in vain, for he hit Sarpedon just where the midriff surrounds the everbeating heart.
He fell like some oak or silver poplar or tall pine to which woodmen have laid their axes upon the mountains to make timber for shipbuilding— even so did he lie stretched at full length in front of his chariot and horses, moaning and clutching at the bloodstained dust.
As when a lion springs with a bound upon a herd of cattle and fastens on a great black bull which dies bellowing in its clutches— even so did the leader of the Lycian warriors struggle in death as he fell by the hand of Patroclus.
He called on his trusty comrade and said," Glaucus, my brother, hero among heroes, put forth all your strength, fight with might and main, now if ever quit yourself like a valiant soldier.
First go about among the Lycian captains and bid them fight for Sarpedon; then yourself also do battle to save my armour from being taken.
My name will haunt you henceforth and for ever if the Achaeans rob me of my armour now that I have fallen at their ships.
Do your very utmost and call all my people together."
Death closed his eyes as he spoke.
Patroclus planted his heel on his breast and drew the spear from his body, whereon his senses came out along with it, and he drew out both spearpoint and Sarpedon 's soul at the same time.
Hard by the Myrmidons held his snorting steeds, who were wild with panic at finding themselves deserted by their lords.
Glaucus was overcome with grief when he heard what Sarpedon said, for he could not help him.
He had to support his arm with his other hand, being in great pain through the wound which Teucer 's arrow had given him when Teucer was defending the wall as he, Glaucus, was assailing it.
Therefore he prayed to fardarting Apollo saying," Hear me O king from your seat, may be in the rich land of Lycia, or may be in Troy, for in all places you can hear the prayer of one who is in distress, as I now am.
I have a grievous wound; my hand is aching with pain, there is no staunching the blood, and my whole arm drags by reason of my hurt, so that I can not grasp my sword nor go among my foes and fight them, though our prince, Jove 's son Sarpedon, is slain.
Jove defended not his son, do you, therefore, O king, heal me of my wound, ease my pain and grant me strength both to cheer on the Lycians and to fight along with them round the body of him who has fallen."
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer.
He eased his pain, staunched the black blood from the wound, and gave him new strength.
Glaucus perceived this, and was thankful that the mighty god had answered his prayer; forthwith, therefore, he went among the Lycian captains, and bade them come to fight about the body of Sarpedon.
From these he strode on among the Trojans to Polydamas son of Panthous and Agenor; he then went in search of Aeneas and Hector, and when he had found them he said," Hector, you have utterly forgotten your allies, who languish here for your sake far from friends and home while you do nothing to support them.
Sarpedon leader of the Lycian warriors has fallen— he who was at once the right and might of Lycia; Mars has laid him low by the spear of Patroclus.
Stand by him, my friends, and suffer not the Myrmidons to strip him of his armour, nor to treat his body with contumely in revenge for all the Danaans whom we have speared at the ships."
As he spoke the Trojans were plunged in extreme and ungovernable grief; for Sarpedon, alien though he was, had been one of the main stays of their city, both as having much people with him, and himself the foremost among them all.
Led by Hector, who was infuriated by the fall of Sarpedon, they made instantly for the Danaans with all their might, while the undaunted spirit of Patroclus son of Menoetius cheered on the Achaeans.
First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, men who needed no bidding. "
Ajaxes," said he," may it now please you to show yourselves the men you have always been, or even better— Sarpedon is fallen— he who was first to overleap the wall of the Achaeans; let us take the body and outrage it ;let us strip the armour from his shoulders, and kill his comrades if they try to rescue his body."
He spoke to men who of themselves were full eager; both sides, therefore, the Trojans and Lycians on the one hand, and the Myrmidons and Achaeans on the other, strengthened their battalions, and fought desperately about the body of Sarpedon, shouting fiercely the while.
Mighty was the din of their armour as they came together, and Jove shed a thick darkness over the fight, to increase the toil of the battle over the body of his son.
At first the Trojans made some headway against the Achaeans, for one of the best men among the Myrmidons was killed, Epeigeus, son of noble Agacles who had erewhile been king in the good city of Budeum; but presently, having killed a valiant kinsman of his own, he took refuge with Peleus and Thetis, who sent him to Ilius the land of noble steeds to fight the Trojans under Achilles.
Hector now struck him on the head with a stone just as he had caught hold of the body, and his brains inside his helmet were all battered in, so that he fell face foremost upon the body of Sarpedon, and there died.
Patroclus was enraged by the death of his comrade, and sped through the front ranks as swiftly as a hawk that swoops down on a flock of daws or starlings.
Even so swiftly, O noble knight Patroclus, did you make straight for the Lycians and Trojans to avenge your comrade.
Forthwith he struck Sthenelaus the son of Ithaemenes on the neck with a stone, and broke the tendons that join it to the head and spine.
On this Hector and the front rank of his men gave ground.
As far as a man can throw a javelin when competing for some prize, or even in battle— so far did the Trojans now retreat before the Achaeans.
Glaucus, captain of the Lycians, was the first to rally them, by killing Bathycles son of Chalcon who lived in Hellas and was the richest man among the Myrmidons.
Glaucus turned round suddenly, just as Bathycles who was pursuing him was about to lay hold of him, and drove his spear right into the middle of his chest, whereon he fell heavily to the ground, and the fall of so good a man filled the Achaeans with dismay, while the Trojans were exultant, and came up in a body round the corpse.
Nevertheless the Achaeans, mindful of their prowess, bore straight down upon them.
Meriones then killed a helmed warrior of the Trojans, Laogonus son of Onetor, who was priest of Jove of Mt.
Ida, and was honoured by the people as though he were a god.
Meriones struck him under the jaw and ear, so that life went out of him and the darkness of death laid hold upon him.
Aeneas then aimed a spear at Meriones, hoping to hit him under the shield as he was advancing, but Meriones saw it coming and stooped forward to avoid it, whereon the spear flew past him and the point stuck in the ground, while the buttend went on quivering till Mars robbed it of its force.
The spear, therefore, sped from Aeneas 's hand in vain and fell quivering to the ground.
Aeneas was angry and said," Meriones, you are a good dancer, but if I had hit you my spear would soon have made an end of you."
And Meriones answered," Aeneas, for all your bravery, you will not be able to make an end of every one who comes against you.
You are only a mortal like myself, and if I were to hit you in the middle of your shield with my spear, however strong and selfconfident you may be, I should soon vanquish you, and you would yield your life to Hades of the noble steeds."
On this the son of Menoetius rebuked him and said," Meriones, hero though you be, you should not speak thus; taunting speeches, my good friend, will not make the Trojans draw away from the dead body; some of them must go under ground first; blows for battle, and words for council; fight, therefore, and say nothing."
He led the way as he spoke and the hero went forward with him.
As the sound of woodcutters in some forest glade upon the mountains— and the thud of their axes is heard afar— even such a din now rose from earthclash of bronze armour and of good oxhide shields, as men smote each other with their swords and spears pointed at both ends.
A man had need of good eyesight now to know Sarpedon, so covered was he from head to foot with spears and blood and dust.
Men swarmed about the body, as flies that buzz round the full milkpails in spring when they are brimming with milk— even so did they gather round Sarpedon; nor did Jove turn his keen eyes away for one moment from the fight, but kept looking at it all the time, for he was settling how best to kill Patroclus, and considering whether Hector should be allowed to end him now in the fight round the body of Sarpedon, and strip him of his armour, or whether he should let him give yet further trouble to the Trojans.
In the end, he deemed it best that the brave squire of Achilles son of Peleus should drive Hector and the Trojans back towards the city and take the lives of many.
First, therefore, he made Hector turn fainthearted, whereon he mounted his chariot and fled, bidding the other Trojans fly also, for he saw that the scales of Jove had turned against him.
Neither would the brave Lycians stand firm; they were dismayed when they saw their king lying struck to the heart amid a heap of corpses— for when the son of Saturn made the fight wax hot many had fallen above him.
The Achaeans, therefore stripped the gleaming armour from his shoulders and the brave son of Menoetius gave it to his men to take to the ships.
Then Jove lord of the stormcloud said to Apollo," Dear Phoebus, go, I pray you, and take Sarpedon out of range of the weapons; cleanse the black blood from off him, and then bear him a long way off where you may wash him in the river, anoint him with ambrosia, and clothe him in immortal raiment; this done, commit him to the arms of the two fleet messengers, Death, and Sleep, who will carry him straightway to the rich land of Lycia, where his brothers and kinsmen will inter him, and will raise both mound and pillar to his memory, in due honour to the dead."
Thus he spoke.
Apollo obeyed his father 's saying, and came down from the heights of Ida into the thick of the fight; forthwith he took Sarpedon out of range of the weapons, and then bore him a long way off, where he washed him in the river, anointed him with ambrosia and clothed him in immortal raiment; this done, he committed him to the arms of the two fleet messengers, Death, and Sleep, who presently set him down in the rich land of Lycia.
Meanwhile Patroclus, with many a shout to his horses and to Automedon, pursued the Trojans and Lycians in the pride and foolishness of his heart.
Had he but obeyed the bidding of the son of Peleus, he would have escaped death and have been scatheless; but the counsels of Jove pass man 's understanding; he will put even a brave man to flight and snatch victory from his grasp, or again he will set him on to fight, as he now did when he put a high spirit into the heart of Patroclus.
Who then first, and who last, was slain by you, O Patroclus, when the gods had now called you to meet your doom?
First Adrestus, Autonous, Echeclus, Perimus the son of Megas, Epistor and Melanippus; after these he killed Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes.
These he slew, but the rest saved themselves by flight.
The sons of the Achaeans would now have taken Troy by the hands of Patroclus, for his spear flew in all directions, had not Phoebus Apollo taken his stand upon the wall to defeat his purpose and to aid the Trojans.
Thrice did Patroclus charge at an angle of the high wall, and thrice did Apollo beat him back, striking his shield with his own immortal hands.
When Patroclus was coming on like a god for yet a fourth time, Apollo shouted to him with an awful voice and said," Draw back, noble Patroclus, it is not your lot to sack the city of the Trojan chieftains, nor yet will it be that of Achilles who is a far better man than you are."
On hearing this, Patroclus withdrew to some distance and avoided the anger of Apollo.
Meanwhile Hector was waiting with his horses inside the Scaean gates, in doubt whether to drive out again and go on fighting, or to call the army inside the gates.
As he was thus doubting Phoebus Apollo drew near him in the likeness of a young and lusty warrior Asius, who was Hector 's uncle, being own brother to Hecuba, and son of Dymas who lived in Phrygia by the waters of the river Sangarius; in his likeness Jove 's son Apollo now spoke to Hector saying," Hector, why have you left off fighting?
It is ill done of you.
If I were as much better a man than you, as I am worse, you should soon rue your slackness.
Drive straight towards Patroclus, if so be that Apollo may grant you a triumph over him, and you may rule him."
With this the god went back into the hurlyburly, and Hector bade Cebriones drive again into the fight.
Apollo passed in among them, and struck panic into the Argives, while he gave triumph to Hector and the Trojans.
Hector let the other Danaans alone and killed no man, but drove straight at Patroclus.
Patroclus then sprang from his chariot to the ground, with a spear in his left hand, and in his right a jagged stone as large as his hand could hold.
He stood still and threw it, nor did it go far without hitting some one; the cast was not in vain, for the stone struck Cebriones, Hector 's charioteer, a bastard son of Priam, as he held the reins in his hands.
The stone hit him on the forehead and drove his brows into his head for the bone was smashed, and his eyes fell to the ground at his feet.
He dropped dead from his chariot as though he were diving, and there was no more life left in him.
Over him did you then vaunt, O knight Patroclus, saying," Bless my heart, how active he is, and how well he dives.
If we had been at sea this fellow would have dived from the ship 's side and brought up as many oysters as the whole crew could stomach, even in rough water, for he has dived beautifully off his chariot on to the ground.
It seems, then, that there are divers also among the Trojans."
As he spoke he flung himself on Cebriones with the spring, as it were, of a lion that while attacking a stockyard is himself struck in the chest, and his courage is his own bane— even so furiously, O Patroclus, did you then spring upon Cebriones.
Hector sprang also from his chariot to the ground.
The pair then fought over the body of Cebriones.
As two lions fight fiercely on some high mountain over the body of a stag that they have killed, even so did these two mighty warriors, Patroclus son of Menoetius and brave Hector, hack and hew at one another over the corpse of Cebriones.
Hector would not let him go when he had once got him by the head, while Patroclus kept fast hold of his feet, and a fierce fight raged between the other Danaans and Trojans.
As the east and south wind buffet one another when they beat upon some dense forest on the mountains— there is beech and ash and spreading cornel; the top of the trees roar as they beat on one another, and one can hear the boughs cracking and breaking— even so did the Trojans and Achaeans spring upon one another and lay about each other, and neither side would give way.
Many a pointed spear fell to ground and many a winged arrow sped from its bowstring about the body of Cebriones; many a great stone, moreover, beat on many a shield as they fought around his body, but there he lay in the whirling clouds of dust, all huge and hugely, heedless of his driving now.
So long as the sun was still high in mid heaven the weapons of either side were alike deadly, and the people fell; but when he went down towards the time when men loose their oxen, the Achaeans proved to be beyond all forecast stronger, so that they drew Cebriones out of range of the darts and tumult of the Trojans, and stripped the armour from his shoulders.
Then Patroclus sprang like Mars with fierce intent and a terrific shout upon the Trojans, and thrice did he kill nine men; but as he was coming on like a god for a time, then, O Patroclus, was the hour of your end approaching, for Phoebus fought you in fell earnest.
Patroclus did not see him as he moved about in the crush, for he was enshrouded in thick darkness, and the god struck him from behind on his back and his broad shoulders with the flat of his hand, so that his eyes turned dizzy.
Phoebus Apollo beat the helmet from off his head, and it rolled rattling off under the horses ' feet, where its horsehair plumes were all begrimed with dust and blood.
Never indeed had that helmet fared so before, for it had served to protect the head and comely forehead of the godlike hero Achilles.
Now, however, Zeus delivered it over to be worn by Hector.
Nevertheless the end of Hector also was near.
The bronzeshod spear, so great and so strong, was broken in the hand of Patroclus, while his shield that covered him from head to foot fell to the ground as did also the band that held it, and Apollo undid the fastenings of his corslet.
On this his mind became clouded; his limbs failed him, and he stood as one dazed; whereon Euphorbus son of Panthous a Dardanian, the best spearman of his time, as also the finest horseman and fleetest runner, came behind him and struck him in the back with a spear, midway between the shoulders.
This man as soon as ever he had come up with his chariot had dismounted twenty men, so proficient was he in all the arts of war— he it was, O knight Patroclus, that first drove a weapon into you, but he did not quite overpower you.
Euphorbus then ran back into the crowd, after drawing his ashen spear out of the wound; he would not stand firm and wait for Patroclus, unarmed though he now was, to attack him; but Patroclus unnerved, alike by the blow the god had given him and by the spearwound, drew back under cover of his men in fear for his life.
Hector on this, seeing him to be wounded and giving ground, forced his way through the ranks, and when close up with him struck him in the lower part of the belly with a spear, driving the bronze point right through it, so that he fell heavily to the ground to the great grief of the Achaeans.
As when a lion has fought some fierce wildboar and worsted him— the two fight furiously upon the mountains over some little fountain at which they would both drink, and the lion has beaten the boar till he can hardly breathe— even so did Hector son of Priam take the life of the brave son of Menoetius who had killed so many, striking him from close at hand, and vaunting over him the while. "
Patroclus," said he," you deemed that you should sack our city, rob our Trojan women of their freedom, and carry them off in your ships to your own country.
Fool; Hector and his fleet horses were ever straining their utmost to defend them.
I am foremost of all the Trojan warriors to stave the day of bondage from off them; as for you, vultures shall devour you here.
Poor wretch, Achilles with all his bravery availed you nothing; and yet I ween when you left him he charged you straitly saying,' Come not back to the ships, knight Patroclus, till you have rent the bloodstained shirt of murderous Hector about his body.'
Thus I ween did he charge you, and your fool 's heart answered him' yea' within you."
Then, as the life ebbed out of you, you answered, O knight Patroclus:" Hector, vaunt as you will, for Jove the son of Saturn and Apollo have vouchsafed you victory; it is they who have vanquished me so easily, and they who have stripped the armour from my shoulders; had twenty such men as you attacked me, all of them would have fallen before my spear.
Fate and the son of Leto have overpowered me, and among mortal men Euphorbus; you are yourself third only in the killing of me.
I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, you too shall live but for a little season; death and the day of your doom are close upon you, and they will lay you low by the hand of Achilles son of Aeacus."
When he had thus spoken his eyes were closed in death, his soul left his body and flitted down to the house of Hades, mourning its sad fate and bidding farewell to the youth and vigor of its manhood.
Dead though he was, Hector still spoke to him saying," Patroclus, why should you thus foretell my doom?
Who knows but Achilles, son of lovely Thetis, may be smitten by my spear and die before me?"
As he spoke he drew the bronze spear from the wound, planting his foot upon the body, which he thrust off and let lie on its back.
He then went spear in hand after Automedon, squire of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, for he longed to lay him low, but the immortal steeds which the gods had given as a rich gift to Peleus bore him swiftly from the field.
THE KILLING OF THE SUITORS—THE MAIDS WHO HAVE MISCONDUCTED THEMSELVES ARE MADE TO CLEANSE THE CLOISTERS AND ARE THEN HANGED.
Then Ulysses tore off his rags, and sprang on to the broad pavement with his bow and his quiver full of arrows.
He shed the arrows on to the ground at his feet and said," The mighty contest is at an end.
I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to hit another mark which no man has yet hit."
On this he aimed a deadly arrow at Antinous, who was about to take up a twohandled gold cup to drink his wine and already had it in his hands.
He had no thought of death— who amongst all the revellers would think that one man, however brave, would stand alone among so many and kill him?
The arrow struck Antinous in the throat, and the point went clean through his neck, so that he fell over and the cup dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his nostrils.
He kicked the table from him and upset the things on it, so that the bread and roasted meats were all soiled as they fell over on to the ground.
The suitors were in an uproar when they saw that a man had been hit; they sprang in dismay one and all of them from their seats and looked everywhere towards the walls, but there was neither shield nor spear, and they rebuked Ulysses very angrily. "
Stranger," said they," you shall pay for shooting people in this way: you shall see no other contest; you are a doomed man; he whom you have slain was the foremost youth in Ithaca, and the vultures shall devour you for having killed him."
Thus they spoke, for they thought that he had killed Antinous by mistake, and did not perceive that death was hanging over the head of every one of them.
But Ulysses glared at them and said: "Dogs, did you think that I should not come back from Troy?
You have wasted my substance have forced my women servants to lie with you, and have wooed my wife while I was still living.
You have feared neither God nor man, and now you shall die."
They turned pale with fear as he spoke, and every man looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety, but Eurymachus alone spoke.
"If you are Ulysses," said he," then what you have said is just.
We have done much wrong on your lands and in your house.
But Antinous who was the head and front of the offending lies low already.
It was all his doing.
It was not that he wanted to marry Penelope; he did not so much care about that; what he wanted was something quite different, and Jove has not vouchsafed it to him; he wanted to kill your son and to be chief man in Ithaca.
Now, therefore, that he has met the death which was his due, spare the lives of your people.
We will make everything good among ourselves, and pay you in full for all that we have eaten and drunk.
Each one of us shall pay you a fine worth twenty oxen, and we will keep on giving you gold and bronze till your heart is softened.
Until we have done this no one can complain of your being enraged against us."
Ulysses again glared at him and said," Though you should give me all that you have in the world both now and all that you ever shall have, I will not stay my hand till I have paid all of you in full.
You must fight, or fly for your lives; and fly, not a man of you shall."
Their hearts sank as they heard him, but Eurymachus again spoke saying: "My friends, this man will give us no quarter.
He will stand where he is and shoot us down till he has killed every man among us.
Let us then show fight; draw your swords, and hold up the tables to shield you from his arrows.
Let us have at him with a rush, to drive him from the pavement and doorway: we can then get through into the town, and raise such an alarm as shall soon stay his shooting."
As he spoke he drew his keen blade of bronze, sharpened on both sides, and with a loud cry sprang towards Ulysses, but Ulysses instantly shot an arrow into his breast that caught him by the nipple and fixed itself in his liver.
He dropped his sword and fell doubled up over his table.
The cup and all the meats went over on to the ground as he smote the earth with his forehead in the agonies of death, and he kicked the stool with his feet until his eyes were closed in darkness.
Then Amphinomus drew his sword and made straight at Ulysses to try and get him away from the door; but Telemachus was too quick for him, and struck him from behind; the spear caught him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, so that he fell heavily to the ground and struck the earth with his forehead.
Then Telemachus sprang away from him, leaving his spear still in the body, for he feared that if he stayed to draw it out, some one of the Achaeans might come up and hack at him with his sword, or knock him down, so he set off at a run, and immediately was at his father 's side.
Then he said: "Father, let me bring you a shield, two spears, and a brass helmet for your temples.
I will arm myself as well, and will bring other armour for the swineherd and the stockman, for we had better be armed."
"Run and fetch them," answered Ulysses," while my arrows hold out, or when I am alone they may get me away from the door."
Telemachus did as his father said, and went off to the store room where the armour was kept.
He chose four shields, eight spears, and four brass helmets with horsehair plumes.
He brought them with all speed to his father, and armed himself first, while the stockman and the swineherd also put on their armour, and took their places near Ulysses.
Meanwhile Ulysses, as long as his arrows lasted, had been shooting the suitors one by one, and they fell thick on one another :when his arrows gave out, he set the bow to stand against the end wall of the house by the door post, and hung a shield four hides thick about his shoulders; on his comely head he set his helmet, well wrought with a crest of horsehair that nodded menacingly above it and he grasped two redoubtable bronzeshod spears.
Now there was a trap door on the wall, while at one end of the pavement there was an exit leading to a narrow passage, and this exit was closed by a wellmade door.
Ulysses told Philoetius to stand by this door and guard it, for only one person could attack it at a time.
But Agelaus shouted out," Can not some one go up to the trap door and tell the people what is going on?
Help would come at once, and we should soon make an end of this man and his shooting."
"This may not be, Agelaus," answered Melanthius," the mouth of the narrow passage is dangerously near the entrance to the outer court.
One brave man could prevent any number from getting in.
But I know what I will do, I will bring you arms from the storeroom, for I am sure it is there that Ulysses and his son have put them."
On this the goatherd Melanthius went by back passages to the storeroom of Ulysses ' house.
There he chose twelve shields, with as many helmets and spears, and brought them back as fast as he could to give them to the suitors.
Ulysses ' heart began to fail him when he saw the suitors putting on their armour and brandishing their spears.
He saw the greatness of the danger, and said to Telemachus," Some one of the women inside is helping the suitors against us, or it may be Melanthius."
Telemachus answered," The fault, father, is mine, and mine only; I left the store room door open, and they have kept a sharper look out than I have.
Go, Eumaeus, put the door to, and see whether it is one of the women who is doing this, or whether, as I suspect, it is Melanthius the son of Dolius."
Thus did they converse.
Meanwhile Melanthius was again going to the store room to fetch more armour, but the swineherd saw him and said to Ulysses who was beside him," Ulysses, noble son of Laertes ,it is that scoundrel Melanthius, just as we suspected, who is going to the store room.
Say, shall I kill him, if I can get the better of him, or shall I bring him here that you may take your own revenge for all the many wrongs that he has done in your house?"
Ulysses answered," Telemachus and I will hold these suitors in check, no matter what they do; go back both of you and bind Melanthius ' hands and feet behind him.
Throw him into the store room and make the door fast behind you; then fasten a noose about his body, and string him close up to the rafters from a high bearingpost that he may linger on in an agony."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said; they went to the store room, which they entered before Melanthius saw them, for he was busy searching for arms in the innermost part of the room, so the two took their stand on either side of the door and waited.
By and by Melanthius came out with a helmet in one hand, and an old dryrotted shield in the other, which had been borne by Laertes when he was young, but which had been long since thrown aside, and the straps had become unsewn; on this the two seized him, dragged him back by the hair, and threw him struggling to the ground.
They bent his hands and feet well behind his back, and bound them tight with a painful bond as Ulysses had told them; then they fastened a noose about his body and strung him up from a high pillar till he was close up to the rafters, and over him did you then vaunt, O swineherd Eumaeus saying," Melanthius, you will pass the night on a soft bed as you deserve.
You will know very well when morning comes from the streams of Oceanus, and it is time for you to be driving in your goats for the suitors to feast on."
There, then, they left him in very cruel bondage, and having put on their armour they closed the door behind them and went back to take their places by the side of Ulysses; whereon the four men stood in the cloister, fierce and full of fury; nevertheless, those who were in the body of the court were still both brave and many.
Then Jove 's daughter Minerva came up to them, having assumed the voice and form of Mentor.
Ulysses was glad when he saw her and said," Mentor, lend me your help, and forget not your old comrade, nor the many good turns he has done you.
Besides, you are my agemate."
But all the time he felt sure it was Minerva, and the suitors from the other side raised an uproar when they saw her.
Agelaus was the first to reproach her. "
Mentor," he cried," do not let Ulysses beguile you into siding with him and fighting the suitors.
This is what we will do: when we have killed these people, father and son, we will kill you too.
You shall pay for it with your head, and when we have killed you, we will take all you have, in doors or out, and bring it into hotchpot with Ulysses ' property; we will not let your sons live in your house, nor your daughters, nor shall your widow continue to live in the city of Ithaca."
This made Minerva still more furious, so she scolded Ulysses very angrily. "
Ulysses," said she," your strength and prowess are no longer what they were when you fought for nine long years among the Trojans about the noble lady Helen.
You killed many a man in those days, and it was through your stratagem that Priam 's city was taken.
How comes it that you are so lamentably less valiant now that you are on your own ground, face to face with the suitors in your own house?
Come on, my good fellow, stand by my side and see how Mentor, son of Alcimus shall fight your foes and requite your kindnesses conferred upon him."
But she would not give him full victory as yet, for she wished still further to prove his own prowess and that of his brave son, so she flew up to one of the rafters in the roof of the cloister and sat upon it in the form of a swallow.
Meanwhile Agelaus son of Damastor, Eurynomus, Amphimedon, Demoptolemus, Pisander, and Polybus son of Polyctor bore the brunt of the fight upon the suitors ' side; of all those who were still fighting for their lives they were by far the most valiant, for the others had already fallen under the arrows of Ulysses.
Agelaus shouted to them and said," My friends, he will soon have to leave off, for Mentor has gone away after having done nothing for him but brag.
They are standing at the doors unsupported.
Do not aim at him all at once, but six of you throw your spears first, and see if you can not cover yourselves with glory by killing him.
When he has fallen we need not be uneasy about the others."
They threw their spears as he bade them, but Minerva made them all of no effect.
One hit the door post; another went against the door; the pointed shaft of another struck the wall; and as soon as they had avoided all the spears of the suitors Ulysses said to his own men," My friends, I should say we too had better let drive into the middle of them, or they will crown all the harm they have done us by killing us outright."
They therefore aimed straight in front of them and threw their spears.
Ulysses killed Demoptolemus, Telemachus Euryades, Eumaeus Elatus, while the stockman killed Pisander.
These all bit the dust, and as the others drew back into a corner Ulysses and his men rushed forward and regained their spears by drawing them from the bodies of the dead.
The suitors now aimed a second time, but again Minerva made their weapons for the most part without effect.
One hit a bearingpost of the cloister; another went against the door; while the pointed shaft of another struck the wall.
Still, Amphimedon just took a piece of the top skin from off Telemachus 's wrist, and Ctesippus managed to graze Eumaeus 's shoulder above his shield; but the spear went on and fell to the ground.
Then Ulysses and his men let drive into the crowd of suitors.
Ulysses hit Eurydamas, Telemachus Amphimedon, and Eumaeus Polybus.
After this the stockman hit Ctesippus in the breast, and taunted him saying," Foulmouthed son of Polytherses, do not be so foolish as to talk wickedly another time, but let heaven direct your speech, for the gods are far stronger than men.
I make you a present of this advice to repay you for the foot which you gave Ulysses when he was begging about in his own house."
Thus spoke the stockman, and Ulysses struck the son of Damastor with a spear in close fight, while Telemachus hit Leocritus son of Evenor in the belly, and the dart went clean through him, so that he fell forward full on his face upon the ground.
Then Minerva from her seat on the rafter held up her deadly aegis, and the hearts of the suitors quailed.
They fled to the other end of the court like a herd of cattle maddened by the gadfly in early summer when the days are at their longest.
As eaglebeaked, crooktaloned vultures from the mountains swoop down on the smaller birds that cower in flocks upon the ground, and kill them, for they can not either fight or fly, and lookers on enjoy the sport— even so did Ulysses and his men fall upon the suitors and smite them on every side.
They made a horrible groaning as their brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with their blood.
Leiodes then caught the knees of Ulysses and said," Ulysses I beseech you have mercy upon me and spare me.
I never wronged any of the women in your house either in word or deed, and I tried to stop the others.
I saw them, but they would not listen, and now they are paying for their folly.
I was their sacrificing priest; if you kill me, I shall die without having done anything to deserve it, and shall have got no thanks for all the good that I did."
Ulysses looked sternly at him and answered," If you were their sacrificing priest, you must have prayed many a time that it might be long before I got home again, and that you might marry my wife and have children by her.
Therefore you shall die."
With these words he picked up the sword that Agelaus had dropped when he was being killed, and which was lying upon the ground.
Then he struck Leiodes on the back of his neck, so that his head fell rolling in the dust while he was yet speaking.
The minstrel Phemius son of Terpes— he who had been forced by the suitors to sing to them— now tried to save his life.
He was standing near towards the trap door and held his lyre in his hand.
He did not know whether to fly out of the cloister and sit down by the altar of Jove that was in the outer court, and on which both Laertes and Ulysses had offered up the thigh bones of many an ox, or whether to go straight up to Ulysses and embrace his knees, but in the end he deemed it best to embrace Ulysses ' knees.
So he laid his lyre on the ground between the mixing bowl and the silverstudded seat; then going up to Ulysses he caught hold of his knees and said," Ulysses, I beseech you have mercy on me and spare me.
You will be sorry for it afterwards if you kill a bard who can sing both for gods and men as I can.
I make all my lays myself, and heaven visits me with every kind of inspiration.
I would sing to you as though you were a god, do not therefore be in such a hurry to cut my head off.
Your own son Telemachus will tell you that I did not want to frequent your house and sing to the suitors after their meals, but they were too many and too strong for me, so they made me."
Telemachus heard him, and at once went up to his father.
"Hold!"
he cried," the man is guiltless, do him no hurt; and we will spare Medon too, who was always good to me when I was a boy, unless Philoetius or Eumaeus has already killed him, or he has fallen in your way when you were raging about the court."
Medon caught these words of Telemachus, for he was crouching under a seat beneath which he had hidden by covering himself up with a freshly flayed heifer 's hide, so he threw off the hide, went up to Telemachus, and laid hold of his knees.
"Here I am, my dear sir," said he," stay your hand therefore, and tell your father, or he will kill me in his rage against the suitors for having wasted his substance and been so foolishly disrespectful to yourself."
Ulysses smiled at him and answered," Fear not; Telemachus has saved your life, that you may know in future, and tell other people, how greatly better good deeds prosper than evil ones.
Go, therefore, outside the cloisters into the outer court, and be out of the way of the slaughter— you and the bard— while I finish my work here inside."
The pair went into the outer court as fast as they could, and sat down by Jove 's great altar, looking fearfully round, and still expecting that they would be killed.
Then Ulysses searched the whole court carefully over, to see if anyone had managed to hide himself and was still living, but he found them all lying in the dust and weltering in their blood.
They were like fishes which fishermen have netted out of the sea, and thrown upon the beach to lie gasping for water till the heat of the sun makes an end of them.
Even so were the suitors lying all huddled up one against the other.
Then Ulysses said to Telemachus," Call nurse Euryclea; I have something to say to her."
Telemachus went and knocked at the door of the women 's room."
Make haste," said he," you old woman who have been set over all the other women in the house.
Come outside; my father wishes to speak to you."
When Euryclea heard this she unfastened the door of the women 's room and came out, following Telemachus.
She found Ulysses among the corpses bespattered with blood and filth like a lion that has just been devouring an ox, and his breast and both his cheeks are all bloody, so that he is a fearful sight; even so was Ulysses besmirched from head to foot with gore.
When she saw all the corpses and such a quantity of blood, she was beginning to cry out for joy, for she saw that a great deed had been done; but Ulysses checked her," Old woman," said he," rejoice in silence; restrain yourself, and do not make any noise about it; it is an unholy thing to vaunt over dead men.
Heaven 's doom and their own evil deeds have brought these men to destruction, for they respected no man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, and they have come to a bad end as a punishment for their wickedness and folly.
Now, however, tell me which of the women in the house have misconducted themselves, and who are innocent."
"I will tell you the truth, my son," answered Euryclea.
"There are fifty women in the house whom we teach to do things, such as carding wool, and all kinds of household work.
Of these, twelve in all have misbehaved, and have been wanting in respect to me, and also to Penelope.
They showed no disrespect to Telemachus, for he has only lately grown and his mother never permitted him to give orders to the female servants; but let me go upstairs and tell your wife all that has happened, for some god has been sending her to sleep."
"Do not wake her yet," answered Ulysses," but tell the women who have misconducted themselves to come to me."
Euryclea left the cloister to tell the women, and make them come to Ulysses; in the meantime he called Telemachus, the stockman, and the swineherd.
"Begin," said he," to remove the dead, and make the women help you.
Then, get sponges and clean water to swill down the tables and seats.
When you have thoroughly cleansed the whole cloisters, take the women into the space between the domed room and the wall of the outer court, and run them through with your swords till they are quite dead, and have forgotten all about love and the way in which they used to lie in secret with the suitors."
On this the women came down in a body, weeping and wailing bitterly.
First they carried the dead bodies out, and propped them up against one another in the gatehouse.
Ulysses ordered them about and made them do their work quickly, so they had to carry the bodies out.
When they had done this, they cleaned all the tables and seats with sponges and water, while Telemachus and the two others shovelled up the blood and dirt from the ground, and the women carried it all away and put it out of doors.
Then when they had made the whole place quite clean and orderly, they took the women out and hemmed them in the narrow space between the wall of the domed room and that of the yard, so that they could not get away: and Telemachus said to the other two," I shall not let these women die a clean death, for they were insolent to me and my mother, and used to sleep with the suitors."
So saying he made a ship 's cable fast to one of the bearingposts that supported the roof of the domed room, and secured it all around the building, at a good height, lest any of the women 's feet should touch the ground; and as thrushes or doves beat against a net that has been set for them in a thicket just as they were getting to their nest, and a terrible fate awaits them, even so did the women have to put their heads in nooses one after the other and die most miserably.
Their feet moved convulsively for a while, but not for very long.
As for Melanthius, they took him through the cloister into the inner court.
There they cut off his nose and his ears; they drew out his vitals and gave them to the dogs raw, and then in their fury they cut off his hands and his feet.
When they had done this they washed their hands and feet and went back into the house, for all was now over; and Ulysses said to the dear old nurse Euryclea," Bring me sulphur, which cleanses all pollution, and fetch fire also that I may burn it, and purify the cloisters.
Go, moreover, and tell Penelope to come here with her attendants, and also all the maidservants that are in the house."
"All that you have said is true," answered Euryclea," but let me bring you some clean clothes— a shirt and cloak.
Do not keep these rags on your back any longer.
It is not right."
"First light me a fire," replied Ulysses.
She brought the fire and sulphur, as he had bidden her, and Ulysses thoroughly purified the cloisters and both the inner and outer courts.
Then she went inside to call the women and tell them what had happened; whereon they came from their apartment with torches in their hands, and pressed round Ulysses to embrace him, kissing his head and shoulders and taking hold of his hands.
It made him feel as if he should like to weep, for he remembered every one of them.
CHAPTER II Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property.
He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum.
It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness.
Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best.
She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved.
The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease.
Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable.
He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening.
It was a concern which brought just employment enough.
He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away.
He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished.
He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.
He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age.
It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance.
His father had no apprehension of it.
The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear.
He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too.
He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life.
His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place.
There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit.
Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion.
For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.
"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston?
I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed.
Mr. Woodhouse told me of it.
Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life."
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter.
Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured.
She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations.
And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own.
But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor!
She would be very glad to stay."
There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up.
His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself.
What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it.
He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject.
Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately.
With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.
CHAPTER III Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.
He liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked.
He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.
Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such.
Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses.
Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.
She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite.
Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect.
She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness.
Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible.
And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will.
It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders.
She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing.
The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself.
She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies.
Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands.
It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church.
She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston.
She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty.
A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder.
This was all that was generally known of her history.
She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired.
She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions.
The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her.
The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm.
They were a family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect.
She would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners.
It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware.
With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests.
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare.
He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say: "Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs.
An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.
Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body.
I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you.
Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little bit of tart--a very little bit.
Ours are all apple-tarts.
You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here.
I do not advise the custard.
Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine?
A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water?
I do not think it could disagree with you."
Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy.
The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions.
Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!
CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.
"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name."
"Oh!
yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.
I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage."
"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-He is to be in town next week, if not sooner.
We have notice of it in a letter to-day.
I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston.
She is his principal correspondent, I assure you.
I hardly ever get a letter."
"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her!
Oh!
Mr. Weston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh!
Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!"
"Aye, we men are sad fellows.
You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time."
"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think.
Enscombe is in Yorkshire?"
"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey."
"Yes, upon my word, very considerable.
Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London.
But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about.
You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."
"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together.
In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's!
This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word.
Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton.
You must grant me that."
"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing.
I always take the part of my own sex.
I do indeed.
I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point.
I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it.
Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety.
She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution.
Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?"
"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did.
Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for"-Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh!
Mr. Weston, do not mistake me.
Selina is no fine lady, I assure you.
Do not run away with such an idea."
"Is not she?
Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld."
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on.
"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves.
She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her.
Besides, she is out of health now; but that indeed, by her own account, she has always been.
I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness."
"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr.
Weston?--To Bath, or to Clifton?"
"She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her.
The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe.
She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change.
It is a retired place.
A fine place, but very retired."
"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say.
Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove.
Such an immense plantation all round it!
You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion.
Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life.
I always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society."
"Frank was here in February for a fortnight."
"So I remember to have heard.
He will find an addition to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition.
But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world."
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed, "My dear madam!
Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.
Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs.
Elton."
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
"When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome.
It has been completely unexpected.
That is, I always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up--but nobody believed me.
He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding.
'How could he contrive to come?
And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?'
and so forth--I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.
I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next."
"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true.
It is just what I used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be May before Hymen's saffron robe would be put on for us.
Oh!
the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views!
The carriage--we had disappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair."
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.
"You were mentioning May.
May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise.
When he was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we intended.
Now will be the time.
This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house.
I think it is so.
I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight.
I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy.
He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.
Mrs. Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifying to me.
She thinks nobody equal to him."
"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour.
I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others.
I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him.--I am no flatterer."
Mr. Weston was musing.
"I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor Mrs. Churchill.
If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish.
You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her.
She was the instigator.
Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her.
Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence!
And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.
She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart."
"Only think!
well, that must be infinitely provoking!
I have quite a horror of upstarts.
Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves!
Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly.
People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.
A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows.
They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.
One has not great hopes from Birmingham.
I always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours.
It is infinitely too bad.
Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I believe, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death."
They were interrupted.
Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards.
The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother.
He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with-"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure.
My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them."
"I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic."
"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again."
"That is very likely.
You think so, do not you?"
"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately."
"Increase!"
"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great difference in your way of life."
"Difference!
No indeed I am not."
"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be.
Witness this very time.
Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen before, or any thing like it?
Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it.
A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown.
The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."
"Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all."
"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way.
And if they are, I only beg you to send them home."
"No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence.
Let them be sent to Donwell.
I shall certainly be at leisure."
"Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me!
I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys.
These amazing engagements of mine--what have they been?
Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of, which never took place.
I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John Knightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.
But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine.
And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts."
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.
CHAPTER I A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill.
She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him.
Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing.
If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary.
She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance!
and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive.
She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state.
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings.
The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.
He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act.
They met with the utmost friendliness.
There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her.
But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree.
She watched him well.
It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been.
Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation.
It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference.
He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him.
Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.
"He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off."
She had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented.
His aunt could not bear to have him leave her.
Such was his own account at Randall's.
If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder.
That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls.
Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago.
He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her.
She could not endure its noise.
Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan.
They were going to remove immediately to Richmond.
Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place.
A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the house was taken for May and June.
She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish.
Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects.
He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered.
She hoped it was not so.
Two months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable.
He was quite delighted.
It was the very circumstance he could have wished for.
Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood.
What were nine miles to a young man?--An hour's ride.
He would be always coming over.
The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never.
Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle.
Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning.
There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.
Better than nearer!
One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--the ball at the Crown.
It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day.
Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.
Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing.
A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned.
The time of year lightened the evil to him.
May was better for every thing than February.
Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.
ULYSSES IN THE HUT WITH EUMAEUS.
Ulysses now left the haven, and took the rough track up through the wooded country and over the crest of the mountain till he reached the place where Minerva had said that he would find the swineherd, who was the most thrifty servant he had.
He found him sitting in front of his hut, which was by the yards that he had built on a site which could be seen from far.
He had made them spacious and fair to see, with a free run for the pigs all round them; he had built them during his master 's absence, of stones which he had gathered out of the ground, without saying anything to Penelope or Laertes, and he had fenced them on top with thorn bushes.
Outside the yard he had run a strong fence of oaken posts, split, and set pretty close together, while inside he had built twelve styes near one another for the sows to lie in.
There were fifty pigs wallowing in each stye, all of them breeding sows; but the boars slept outside and were much fewer in number, for the suitors kept on eating them, and the swineherd had to send them the best he had continually.
There were three hundred and sixty boar pigs, and the herdsman 's four hounds, which were as fierce as wolves, slept always with them.
The swineherd was at that moment cutting out a pair of sandals from a good stout ox hide.
Three of his men were out herding the pigs in one place or another, and he had sent the fourth to town with a boar that he had been forced to send the suitors that they might sacrifice it and have their fill of meat.
When the hounds saw Ulysses they set up a furious barking and flew at him, but Ulysses was cunning enough to sit down and loose his hold of the stick that he had in his hand: still, he would have been torn by them in his own homestead had not the swineherd dropped his ox hide, rushed full speed through the gate of the yard and driven the dogs off by shouting and throwing stones at them.
Then he said to Ulysses," Old man, the dogs were likely to have made short work of you, and then you would have got me into trouble.
The gods have given me quite enough worries without that, for I have lost the best of masters, and am in continual grief on his account.
I have to attend swine for other people to eat, while he, if he yet lives to see the light of day, is starving in some distant land.
But come inside, and when you have had your fill of bread and wine, tell me where you come from, and all about your misfortunes."
On this the swineherd led the way into the hut and bade him sit down.
He strewed a good thick bed of rushes upon the floor, and on the top of this he threw the shaggy chamois skin— a great thick one— on which he used to sleep by night.
Ulysses was pleased at being made thus welcome, and said" May Jove, sir, and the rest of the gods grant you your heart 's desire in return for the kind way in which you have received me."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," Stranger, though a still poorer man should come here, it would not be right for me to insult him, for all strangers and beggars are from Jove.
You must take what you can get and be thankful, for servants live in fear when they have young lords for their masters; and this is my misfortune now, for heaven has hindered the return of him who would have been always good to me and given me something of my own— a house, a piece of land, a good looking wife, and all else that a liberal master allows a servant who has worked hard for him, and whose labour the gods have prospered as they have mine in the situation which I hold.
If my master had grown old here he would have done great things by me, but he is gone, and I wish that Helen 's whole race were utterly destroyed, for she has been the death of many a good man.
It was this matter that took my master to Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight the Trojans in the cause of king Agamemnon."
As he spoke he bound his girdle round him and went to the styes where the young sucking pigs were penned.
He picked out two which he brought back with him and sacrificed.
He singed them, cut them up, and spitted them; when the meat was cooked he brought it all in and set it before Ulysses, hot and still on the spit, whereon Ulysses sprinkled it over with white barley meal.
The swineherd then mixed wine in a bowl of ivywood, and taking a seat opposite Ulysses told him to begin.
"Fall to, stranger," said he," on a dish of servant 's pork.
The fat pigs have to go to the suitors, who eat them up without shame or scruple; but the blessed gods love not such shameful doings, and respect those who do what is lawful and right.
Even the fierce freebooters who go raiding on other people 's land, and Jove gives them their spoil— even they, when they have filled their ships and got home again live consciencestricken, and look fearfully for judgement; but some god seems to have told these people that Ulysses is dead and gone; they will not, therefore, go back to their own homes and make their offers of marriage in the usual way, but waste his estate by force, without fear or stint.
Not a day or night comes out of heaven, but they sacrifice not one victim nor two only, and they take the run of his wine, for he was exceedingly rich.
No other great man either in Ithaca or on the mainland is as rich as he was; he had as much as twenty men put together.
I will tell you what he had.
There are twelve herds of cattle upon the main land, and as many flocks of sheep, there are also twelve droves of pigs, while his own men and hired strangers feed him twelve widely spreading herds of goats.
Here in Ithaca he runs even large flocks of goats on the far end of the island, and they are in the charge of excellent goat herds.
Each one of these sends the suitors the best goat in the flock every day.
As for myself, I am in charge of the pigs that you see here, and I have to keep picking out the best I have and sending it to them."
This was his story, but Ulysses went on eating and drinking ravenously without a word, brooding his revenge.
When he had eaten enough and was satisfied, the swineherd took the bowl from which he usually drank, filled it with wine, and gave it to Ulysses, who was pleased, and said as he took it in his hands," My friend, who was this master of yours that bought you and paid for you, so rich and so powerful as you tell me?
You say he perished in the cause of King Agamemnon; tell me who he was, in case I may have met with such a person.
Jove and the other gods know, but I may be able to give you news of him, for I have travelled much."
Eumaeus answered," Old man, no traveller who comes here with news will get Ulysses ' wife and son to believe his story.
Nevertheless, tramps in want of a lodging keep coming with their mouths full of lies, and not a word of truth; every one who finds his way to Ithaca goes to my mistress and tells her falsehoods, whereon she takes them in, makes much of them, and asks them all manner of questions, crying all the time as women will when they have lost their husbands.
And you too, old man, for a shirt and a cloak would doubtless make up a very pretty story.
But the wolves and birds of prey have long since torn Ulysses to pieces, or the fishes of the sea have eaten him, and his bones are lying buried deep in sand upon some foreign shore; he is dead and gone, and a bad business it is for all his friends— for me especially; go where I may I shall never find so good a master, not even if I were to go home to my mother and father where I was bred and born.
I do not so much care, however, about my parents now, though I should dearly like to see them again in my own country; it is the loss of Ulysses that grieves me most; I can not speak of him without reverence though he is here no longer, for he was very fond of me, and took such care of me that wherever he may be I shall always honour his memory."
"My friend," replied Ulysses," you are very positive, and very hard of belief about your master 's coming home again, nevertheless I will not merely say, but will swear, that he is coming.
Do not give me anything for my news till he has actually come, you may then give me a shirt and cloak of good wear if you will.
I am in great want, but I will not take anything at all till then, for I hate a man, even as I hate hell fire, who lets his poverty tempt him into lying.
I swear by king Jove, by the rites of hospitality, and by that hearth of Ulysses to which I have now come, that all will surely happen as I have said it will.
Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here to do vengeance on all those who are ill treating his wife and son."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," Old man, you will neither get paid for bringing good news, nor will Ulysses ever come home; drink your wine in peace, and let us talk about something else.
Do not keep on reminding me of all this; it always pains me when any one speaks about my honoured master.
As for your oath we will let it alone, but I only wish he may come, as do Penelope, his old father Laertes, and his son Telemachus.
I am terribly unhappy too about this same boy of his; he was running up fast into manhood, and bade fare to be no worse man, face and figure, than his father, but some one, either god or man, has been unsettling his mind, so he has gone off to Pylos to try and get news of his father, and the suitors are lying in wait for him as he is coming home, in the hope of leaving the house of Arceisius without a name in Ithaca.
But let us say no more about him, and leave him to be taken, or else to escape if the son of Saturn holds his hand over him to protect him.
And now, old man, tell me your own story; tell me also, for I want to know, who you are and where you come from.
Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how crew brought you to Ithaca, and from what country they professed to come— for you can not have come by land."
And Ulysses answered," I will tell you all about it.
If there were meat and wine enough, and we could stay here in the hut with nothing to do but to eat and drink while the others go to their work, I could easily talk on for a whole twelve months without ever finishing the story of the sorrows with which it has pleased heaven to visit me.
"I am by birth a Cretan; my father was a well to do man, who had many sons born in marriage, whereas I was the son of a slave whom he had purchased for a concubine; nevertheless, my father Castor son of Hylax( whose lineage I claim, and who was held in the highest honour among the Cretans for his wealth, prosperity, and the valour of his sons) put me on the same level with my brothers who had been born in wedlock.
When, however, death took him to the house of Hades, his sons divided his estate and cast lots for their shares, but to me they gave a holding and little else; nevertheless, my valour enabled me to marry into a rich family, for I was not given to bragging, or shirking on the field of battle.
It is all over now; still, if you look at the straw you can see what the ear was, for I have had trouble enough and to spare.
Mars and Minerva made me doughty in war; when I had picked my men to surprise the enemy with an ambuscade I never gave death so much as a thought, but was the first to leap forward and spear all whom I could overtake.
Such was I in battle, but I did not care about farm work, nor the frugal home life of those who would bring up children.
My delight was in ships, fighting, javelins, and arrows— things that most men shudder to think of; but one man likes one thing and another another, and this was what I was most naturally inclined to.
Before the Achaeans went to Troy, nine times was I in command of men and ships on foreign service, and I amassed much wealth.
I had my pick of the spoil in the first instance, and much more was allotted to me later on.
"My house grew apace and I became a great man among the Cretans, but when Jove counselled that terrible expedition, in which so many perished, the people required me and Idomeneus to lead their ships to Troy, and there was no way out of it, for they insisted on our doing so.
There we fought for nine whole years, but in the tenth we sacked the city of Priam and sailed home again as heaven dispersed us.
Then it was that Jove devised evil against me.
I spent but one month happily with my children, wife, and property, and then I conceived the idea of making a descent on Egypt, so I fitted out a fine fleet and manned it.
I had nine ships, and the people flocked to fill them.
For six days I and my men made feast, and I found them many victims both for sacrifice to the gods and for themselves, but on the seventh day we went on board and set sail from Crete with a fair North wind behind us though we were going down a river.
Nothing went ill with any of our ships, and we had no sickness on board, but sat where we were and let the ships go as the wind and steersmen took them.
On the fifth day we reached the river Aegyptus; there I stationed my ships in the river, bidding my men stay by them and keep guard over them while I sent out scouts to reconnoitre from every point of vantage.
"But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men, and taking their wives and children captive.
The alarm was soon carried to the city, and when they heard the war cry, the people came out at daybreak till the plain was filled with horsemen and foot soldiers and with the gleam of armour.
Then Jove spread panic among my men, and they would no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded.
The Egyptians killed many of us, and took the rest alive to do forced labour for them.
Jove, however, put it in my mind to do thus— and I wish I had died then and there in Egypt instead, for there was much sorrow in store for me— I took off my helmet and shield and dropped my spear from my hand; then I went straight up to the king 's chariot, clasped his knees and kissed them, whereon he spared my life, bade me get into his chariot, and took me weeping to his own home.
Many made at me with their ashen spears and tried to kill me in their fury, but the king protected me, for he feared the wrath of Jove the protector of strangers, who punishes those who do evil.
"I stayed there for seven years and got together much money among the Egyptians, for they all gave me something; but when it was now going on for eight years there came a certain Phoenician, a cunning rascal, who had already committed all sorts of villainy, and this man talked me over into going with him to Phoenicia, where his house and his possessions lay.
I stayed there for a whole twelve months, but at the end of that time when months and days had gone by till the same season had come round again, he set me on board a ship bound for Libya, on a pretence that I was to take a cargo along with him to that place, but really that he might sell me as a slave and take the money I fetched.
I suspected his intention, but went on board with him, for I could not help it.
"The ship ran before a fresh North wind till we had reached the sea that lies between Crete and Libya; there, however, Jove counselled their destruction, for as soon as we were well out from Crete and could see nothing but sea and sky, he raised a black cloud over our ship and the sea grew dark beneath it.
Then Jove let fly with his thunderbolts and the ship went round and round and was filled with fire and brimstone as the lightning struck it.
The men fell all into the sea; they were carried about in the water round the ship looking like so many seagulls, but the god presently deprived them of all chance of getting home again.
I was all dismayed.
Jove, however, sent the ship 's mast within my reach, which saved my life, for I clung to it, and drifted before the fury of the gale.
Nine days did I drift but in the darkness of the tenth night a great wave bore me on to the Thesprotian coast.
There Pheidon king of the Thesprotians entertained me hospitably without charging me anything at all— for his son found me when I was nearly dead with cold and fatigue, whereon he raised me by the hand, took me to his father 's house and gave me clothes to wear.
"There it was that I heard news of Ulysses, for the king told me he had entertained him, and shown him much hospitality while he was on his homeward journey.
He showed me also the treasure of gold, and wrought iron that Ulysses had got together.
There was enough to keep his family for ten generations, so much had he left in the house of king Pheidon.
But the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he might learn Jove 's mind from the god 's high oak tree, and know whether after so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly, or in secret.
Moreover the king swore in my presence, making drinkofferings in his own house as he did so, that the ship was by the water side, and the crew found, that should take him to his own country.
He sent me off however before Ulysses returned, for there happened to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheatgrowing island of Dulichium, and he told those in charge of her to be sure and take me safely to King Acastus.
"These men hatched a plot against me that would have reduced me to the very extreme of misery, for when the ship had got some way out from land they resolved on selling me as a slave.
They stripped me of the shirt and cloak that I was wearing, and gave me instead the tattered old clouts in which you now see me; then, towards nightfall, they reached the tilled lands of Ithaca, and there they bound me with a strong rope fast in the ship, while they went on shore to get supper by the sea side.
But the gods soon undid my bonds for me, and having drawn my rags over my head I slid down the rudder into the sea, where I struck out and swam till I was well clear of them, and came ashore near a thick wood in which I lay concealed.
They were very angry at my having escaped and went searching about for me, till at last they thought it was no further use and went back to their ship.
The gods, having hidden me thus easily, then took me to a good man 's door— for it seems that I am not to die yet awhile."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," Poor unhappy stranger, I have found the story of your misfortunes extremely interesting, but that part about Ulysses is not right; and you will never get me to believe it.
Why should a man like you go about telling lies in this way?
I know all about the return of my master.
The gods one and all of them detest him, or they would have taken him before Troy, or let him die with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes and his son would have been heir to his renown, but now the storm winds have spirited him away we know not whither.
"As for me I live out of the way here with the pigs, and never go to the town unless when Penelope sends for me on the arrival of some news about Ulysses.
Then they all sit round and ask questions, both those who grieve over the king 's absence, and those who rejoice at it because they can eat up his property without paying for it.
For my own part I have never cared about asking anyone else since the time when I was taken in by an Aetolian, who had killed a man and come a long way till at last he reached my station, and I was very kind to him.
He said he had seen Ulysses with Idomeneus among the Cretans, refitting his ships which had been damaged in a gale.
He said Ulysses would return in the following summer or autumn with his men, and that he would bring back much wealth.
And now you, you unfortunate old man, since fate has brought you to my door, do not try to flatter me in this way with vain hopes.
It is not for any such reason that I shall treat you kindly, but only out of respect for Jove the god of hospitality, as fearing him and pitying you."
Ulysses answered," I see that you are of an unbelieving mind; I have given you my oath, and yet you will not credit me ;let us then make a bargain, and call all the gods in heaven to witness it.
If your master comes home, give me a cloak and shirt of good wear, and send me to Dulichium where I want to go; but if he does not come as I say he will, set your men on to me, and tell them to throw me from yonder precipice, as a warning to tramps not to go about the country telling lies."
"And a pretty figure I should cut then," replied Eumaeus," both now and hereafter, if I were to kill you after receiving you into my hut and showing you hospitality.
I should have to say my prayers in good earnest if I did; but it is just supper time and I hope my men will come in directly, that we may cook something savoury for supper."
Thus did they converse, and presently the swineherds came up with the pigs, which were then shut up for the night in their styes, and a tremendous squealing they made as they were being driven into them.
But Eumaeus called to his men and said," Bring in the best pig you have, that I may sacrifice him for this stranger, and we will take toll of him ourselves.
We have had trouble enough this long time feeding pigs, while others reap the fruit of our labour."
On this he began chopping firewood, while the others brought in a fine fat five year old boar pig, and set it at the altar.
Eumaeus did not forget the gods, for he was a man of good principles, so the first thing he did was to cut bristles from the pig 's face and throw them into the fire, praying to all the gods as he did so that Ulysses might return home again.
Then he clubbed the pig with a billet of oak which he had kept back when he was chopping the firewood, and stunned it, while the others slaughtered and singed it.
Then they cut it up, and Eumaeus began by putting raw pieces from each joint on to some of the fat; these he sprinkled with barley meal, and laid upon the embers; they cut the rest of the meat up small, put the pieces upon the spits and roasted them till they were done; when they had taken them off the spits they threw them on to the dresser in a heap.
The swineherd, who was a most equitable man, then stood up to give every one his share.
He made seven portions; one of these he set apart for Mercury the son of Maia and the nymphs, praying to them as he did so; the others he dealt out to the men man by man.
He gave Ulysses some slices cut lengthways down the loin as a mark of especial honour, and Ulysses was much pleased.
"I hope, Eumaeus," said he," that Jove will be as well disposed towards you as I am, for the respect you are showing to an outcast like myself."
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus," Eat, my good fellow, and enjoy your supper, such as it is.
God grants this, and withholds that, just as he thinks right, for he can do whatever he chooses."
As he spoke he cut off the first piece and offered it as a burnt sacrifice to the immortal gods; then he made them a drinkoffering, put the cup in the hands of Ulysses, and sat down to his own portion.
Mesaulius brought them their bread; the swineherd had brought this man on his own account from among the Taphians during his master 's absence, and had paid for him with his own money without saying anything either to his mistress or Laertes.
They then laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, and when they had had enough to eat and drink, Mesaulius took away what was left of the bread, and they all went to bed after having made a hearty supper.
Now the night came on stormy and very dark, for there was no moon.
It poured without ceasing, and the wind blew strong from the West, which is a wet quarter ,so Ulysses thought he would see whether Eumaeus, in the excellent care he took of him, would take off his own cloak and give it him, or make one of his men give him one."
Listen to me," said he," Eumaeus and the rest of you; when I have said a prayer I will tell you something.
It is the wine that makes me talk in this way; wine will make even a wise man fall to singing; it will make him chuckle and dance and say many a word that he had better leave unspoken; still, as I have begun, I will go on.
Would that I were still young and strong as when we got up an ambuscade before Troy.
Menelaus and Ulysses were the leaders, but I was in command also, for the other two would have it so.
When we had come up to the wall of the city we crouched down beneath our armour and lay there under cover of the reeds and thick brushwood that grew about the swamp.
It came on to freeze with a North wind blowing; the snow fell small and fine like hoar frost, and our shields were coated thick with rime.
The others had all got cloaks and shirts, and slept comfortably enough with their shields about their shoulders, but I had carelessly left my cloak behind me, not thinking that I should be too cold, and had gone off in nothing but my shirt and shield.
When the night was twothirds through and the stars had shifted their places, I nudged Ulysses who was close to me with my elbow, and he at once gave me his ear.
"'Ulysses,' said I,' this cold will be the death of me, for I have no cloak; some god fooled me into setting off with nothing on but my shirt, and I do not know what to do.'
"Ulysses, who was as crafty as he was valiant, hit upon the following plan: "'Keep still,' said he in a low voice,' or the others will hear you.'
Then he raised his head on his elbow.
"'My friends,' said he,' I have had a dream from heaven in my sleep.
We are a long way from the ships; I wish some one would go down and tell Agamemnon to send us up more men at once.'
"On this Thoas son of Andraemon threw off his cloak and set out running to the ships, whereon I took the cloak and lay in it comfortably enough till morning.
Would that I were still young and strong as I was in those days, for then some one of you swineherds would give me a cloak both out of good will and for the respect due to a brave soldier; but now people look down upon me because my clothes are shabby."
And Eumaeus answered," Old man, you have told us an excellent story, and have said nothing so far but what is quite satisfactory; for the present, therefore, you shall want neither clothing nor anything else that a stranger in distress may reasonably expect, but tomorrow morning you have to shake your own old rags about your body again, for we have not many spare cloaks nor shirts up here, but every man has only one.
When Ulysses ' son comes home again he will give you both cloak and shirt, and send you wherever you may want to go."
With this he got up and made a bed for Ulysses by throwing some goatskins and sheepskins on the ground in front of the fire.
Here Ulysses lay down, and Eumaeus covered him over with a great heavy cloak that he kept for a change in case of extraordinarily bad weather.
Thus did Ulysses sleep, and the young men slept beside him.
But the swineherd did not like sleeping away from his pigs, so he got ready to go outside, and Ulysses was glad to see that he looked after his property during his master 's absence.
First he slung his sword over his brawny shoulders and put on a thick cloak to keep out the wind.
He also took the skin of a large and well fed goat, and a javelin in case of attack from men or dogs.
Thus equipped he went to his rest where the pigs were camping under an overhanging rock that gave them shelter from the North wind.
THE VISIT TO KING MENELAUS, WHO TELLS HIS STORY—MEANWHILE THE SUITORS IN ITHACA PLOT AGAINST TELEMACHUS.
they reached the low lying city of Lacedaemon, where they drove straight to the abode of Menelaus[ and found him in his own house, feasting with his many clansmen in honour of the wedding of his son, and also of his daughter, whom he was marrying to the son of that valiant warrior Achilles.
He had given his consent and promised her to him while he was still at Troy, and now the gods were bringing the marriage about; so he was sending her with chariots and horses to the city of the Myrmidons over whom Achilles ' son was reigning.
For his only son he had found a bride from Sparta the daughter of Alector.
This son, Megapenthes, was born to him of a bondwoman, for heaven vouchsafed Helen no more children after she had borne Hermione, who was fair as golden Venus herself.
So the neighbours and kinsmen of Menelaus were feasting and making merry in his house.
There was a bard also to sing to them and play his lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them when the man struck up with his tune.
Telemachus and the son of Nestor stayed their horses at the gate, whereon Eteoneus servant to Menelaus came out, and as soon as he saw them ran hurrying back into the house to tell his Master.
He went close up to him and said," Menelaus, there are some strangers come here, two men, who look like sons of Jove.
What are we to do?
Shall we take their horses out, or tell them to find friends elsewhere as they best can?"
Menelaus was very angry and said," Eteoneus, son of Boethous, you never used to be a fool, but now you talk like a simpleton.
Take their horses out, of course, and show the strangers in that they may have supper; you and I have staid often enough at other people 's houses before we got back here, where heaven grant that we may rest in peace henceforward."
So Eteoneus bustled back and bade the other servants come with him.
They took their sweating steeds from under the yoke, made them fast to the mangers, and gave them a feed of oats and barley mixed.
Then they leaned the chariot against the end wall of the courtyard, and led the way into the house.
Telemachus and Pisistratus were astonished when they saw it, for its splendour was as that of the sun and moon; then, when they had admired everything to their heart 's content, they went into the bath room and washed themselves.
When the servants had washed them and anointed them with oil, they brought them woollen cloaks and shirts, and the two took their seats by the side of Menelaus.
A maidservant brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them.
An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, while the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side.
Menelaus then greeted them saying," Fall to, and welcome; when you have done supper I shall ask who you are, for the lineage of such men as you can not have been lost.
You must be descended from a line of sceptrebearing kings, for poor people do not have such sons as you are."
On this he handed them a piece of fat roast loin, which had been set near him as being a prime part, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them; as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Telemachus said to the son of Nestor, with his head so close that no one might hear," Look, Pisistratus, man after my own heart, see the gleam of bronze and gold— of amber ivory, and silver.
Everything is so splendid that it is like seeing the palace of Olympian Jove.
I am lost in admiration."
Menelaus overheard him and said," No one, my sons, can hold his own with Jove, for his house and everything about him is immortal; but among mortal men— well, there may be another who has as much wealth as I have, or there may not; but at all events I have travelled much and have undergone much hardship, for it was nearly eight years before I could get home with my fleet.
I went to Cyprus, Phoenicia and the Egyptians; I went also to the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, and the Erembians, and to Libya where the lambs have horns as soon as they are born, and the sheep lamb down three times a year.
Every one in that country, whether master or man, has plenty of cheese, meat, and good milk, for the ewes yield all the year round.
But while I was travelling and getting great riches among these people, my brother was secretly and shockingly murdered through the perfidy of his wicked wife, so that I have no pleasure in being lord of all this wealth.
Whoever your parents may be they must have told you about all this, and of my heavy loss in the ruin of a stately mansion fully and magnificently furnished.
Would that I had only a third of what I now have so that I had stayed at home, and all those were living who perished on the plain of Troy, far from Argos.
I often grieve, as I sit here in my house, for one and all of them.
At times I cry aloud for sorrow, but presently I leave off again, for crying is cold comfort and one soon tires of it.
Yet grieve for these as I may, I do so for one man more than for them all.
I can not even think of him without loathing both food and sleep, so miserable does he make me, for no one of all the Achaeans worked so hard or risked so much as he did.
He took nothing by it, and has left a legacy of sorrow to myself, for he has been gone a long time, and we know not whether he is alive or dead.
His old father, his longsuffering wife Penelope, and his son Telemachus, whom he left behind him an infant in arms, are plunged in grief on his account."
Thus spoke Menelaus, and the heart of Telemachus yearned as he bethought him of his father.
Tears fell from his eyes as he heard him thus mentioned, so that he held his cloak before his face with both hands.
When Menelaus saw this he doubted whether to let him choose his own time for speaking, or to ask him at once and find what it was all about.
While he was thus in two minds Helen came down from her high vaulted and perfumed room, looking as lovely as Diana herself.
Adraste brought her a seat, Alcippe a soft woollen rug while Phylo fetched her the silver workbox which Alcandra wife of Polybus had given her.
Polybus lived in Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world; he gave Menelaus two baths, both of pure silver, two tripods, and ten talents of gold; besides all this, his wife gave Helen some beautiful presents, to wit, a golden distaff, and a silver work box that ran on wheels, with a gold band round the top of it.
Phylo now placed this by her side, full of fine spun yarn, and a distaff charged with violet coloured wool was laid upon the top of it.
Then Helen took her seat, put her feet upon the footstool, and began to question her husband.
"Do we know, Menelaus," said she," the names of these strangers who have come to visit us?
Shall I guess right or wrong?—but I can not help saying what I think.
Never yet have I seen either man or woman so like somebody else( indeed when I look at him I hardly know what to think) as this young man is like Telemachus, whom Ulysses left as a baby behind him, when you Achaeans went to Troy with battle in your hearts, on account of my most shameless self."
"My dear wife," replied Menelaus," I see the likeness just as you do.
His hands and feet are just like Ulysses; so is his hair, with the shape of his head and the expression of his eyes.
Moreover, when I was talking about Ulysses, and saying how much he had suffered on my account, tears fell from his eyes, and he hid his face in his mantle."
Then Pisistratus said," Menelaus, son of Atreus, you are right in thinking that this young man is Telemachus, but he is very modest, and is ashamed to come here and begin opening up discourse with one whose conversation is so divinely interesting as your own.
My father, Nestor, sent me to escort him hither, for he wanted to know whether you could give him any counsel or suggestion.
A son has always trouble at home when his father has gone away leaving him without supporters; and this is how Telemachus is now placed, for his father is absent, and there is no one among his own people to stand by him."
"Bless my heart," replied Menelaus," then I am receiving a visit from the son of a very dear friend, who suffered much hardship for my sake.
I had always hoped to entertain him with most marked distinction when heaven had granted us a safe return from beyond the seas.
I should have founded a city for him in Argos, and built him a house.
I should have made him leave Ithaca with his goods, his son, and all his people, and should have sacked for them some one of the neighbouring cities that are subject to me.
We should thus have seen one another continually, and nothing but death could have interrupted so close and happy an intercourse.
I suppose, however, that heaven grudged us such great good fortune, for it has prevented the poor fellow from ever getting home at all."
Thus did he speak, and his words set them all a weeping.
Helen wept, Telemachus wept, and so did Menelaus, nor could Pisistratus keep his eyes from filling, when he remembered his dear brother Antilochus whom the son of bright Dawn had killed.
Thereon he said to Menelaus, "Sir, my father Nestor, when we used to talk about you at home, told me you were a person of rare and excellent understanding.
If, then, it be possible, do as I would urge you.
I am not fond of crying while I am getting my supper.
Morning will come in due course, and in the forenoon I care not how much I cry for those that are dead and gone.
This is all we can do for the poor things.
We can only shave our heads for them and wring the tears from our cheeks.
I had a brother who died at Troy; he was by no means the worst man there; you are sure to have known him— his name was Antilochus; I never set eyes upon him myself, but they say that he was singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant."
"Your discretion, my friend," answered Menelaus," is beyond your years.
It is plain you take after your father.
One can soon see when a man is son to one whom heaven has blessed both as regards wife and offspring— and it has blessed Nestor from first to last all his days, giving him a green old age in his own house, with sons about him who are both well disposed and valiant.
We will put an end therefore to all this weeping, and attend to our supper again.
Let water be poured over our hands.
Telemachus and I can talk with one another fully in the morning."
On this Asphalion, one of the servants, poured water over their hands and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them.
Then Jove 's daughter Helen bethought her of another matter.
She drugged the wine with an herb that banishes all care, sorrow, and ill humour.
Whoever drinks wine thus drugged can not shed a single tear all the rest of the day, not even though his father and mother both of them drop down dead, or he sees a brother or a son hewn in pieces before his very eyes.
This drug, of such sovereign power and virtue, had been given to Helen by Polydamna wife of Thon, a woman of Egypt, where there grow all sorts of herbs, some good to put into the mixing bowl and others poisonous.
Moreover, every one in the whole country is a skilled physician, for they are of the race of Paeeon.
When Helen had put this drug in the bowl, and had told the servants to serve the wine round, she said: "Menelaus, son of Atreus, and you my good friends, sons of honourable men( which is as Jove wills, for he is the giver both of good and evil, and can do what he chooses), feast here as you will, and listen while I tell you a tale in season.
I can not indeed name every single one of the exploits of Ulysses, but I can say what he did when he was before Troy, and you Achaeans were in all sorts of difficulties.
He covered himself with wounds and bruises, dressed himself all in rags, and entered the enemy 's city looking like a menial or a beggar, and quite different from what he did when he was among his own people.
In this disguise he entered the city of Troy, and no one said anything to him.
I alone recognised him and began to question him, but he was too cunning for me.
When, however, I had washed and anointed him and had given him clothes, and after I had sworn a solemn oath not to betray him to the Trojans till he had got safely back to his own camp and to the ships, he told me all that the Achaeans meant to do.
He killed many Trojans and got much information before he reached the Argive camp, for all which things the Trojan women made lamentation, but for my own part I was glad, for my heart was beginning to yearn after my home, and I was unhappy about the wrong that Venus had done me in taking me over there, away from my country, my girl, and my lawful wedded husband, who is indeed by no means deficient either in person or understanding."
Then Menelaus said," All that you have been saying, my dear wife, is true.
I have travelled much, and have had much to do with heroes, but I have never seen such another man as Ulysses.
What endurance too, and what courage he displayed within the wooden horse, wherein all the bravest of the Argives were lying in wait to bring death and destruction upon the Trojans.
At that moment you came up to us; some god who wished well to the Trojans must have set you on to it and you had Deiphobus with you.
Three times did you go all round our hiding place and pat it; you called our chiefs each by his own name, and mimicked all our wives— Diomed, Ulysses, and I from our seats inside heard what a noise you made.
Diomed and I could not make up our minds whether to spring out then and there, or to answer you from inside, but Ulysses held us all in check, so we sat quite still, all except Anticlus, who was beginning to answer you, when Ulysses clapped his two brawny hands over his mouth, and kept them there.
It was this that saved us all, for he muzzled Anticlus till Minerva took you away again."
"How sad," exclaimed Telemachus," that all this was of no avail to save him, nor yet his own iron courage.
But now, sir, be pleased to send us all to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep."
On this Helen told the maid servants to set beds in the room that was in the gatehouse, and to make them with good red rugs, and spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for the guests to wear.
So the maids went out, carrying a torch, and made the beds, to which a manservant presently conducted the strangers.
Thus, then, did Telemachus and Pisistratus sleep there in the forecourt, while the son of Atreus lay in an inner room with lovely Helen by his side.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn appeared, Menelaus rose and dressed himself.
He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulders, and left his room looking like an immortal god.
Then, taking a seat near Telemachus he said: "And what, Telemachus, has led you to take this long sea voyage to Lacedaemon?
Are you on public, or private business?
Tell me all about it."
"I have come, sir," replied Telemachus," to see if you can tell me anything about my father.
I am being eaten out of house and home; my fair estate is being wasted, and my house is full of miscreants who keep killing great numbers of my sheep and oxen, on the pretence of paying their addresses to my mother.
Therefore, I am suppliant at your knees if haply you may tell me about my father 's melancholy end, whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other traveller; for he was a man born to trouble.
Do not soften things out of any pity for myself, but tell me in all plainness exactly what you saw.
If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed by the Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all."
Menelaus on hearing this was very much shocked."
So," he exclaimed," these cowards would usurp a brave man 's bed?
A hind might as well lay her new born young in the lair of a lion, and then go off to feed in the forest or in some grassy dell: the lion when he comes back to his lair will make short work with the pair of them— and so will Ulysses with these suitors.
By father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, if Ulysses is still the man that he was when he wrestled with Philomeleides in Lesbos, and threw him so heavily that all the Achaeans cheered him— if he is still such and were to come near these suitors, they would have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
As regards your questions, however, I will not prevaricate nor deceive you, but will tell you without concealment all that the old man of the sea told me.
"I was trying to come on here, but the gods detained me in Egypt, for my hecatombs had not given them full satisfaction, and the gods are very strict about having their dues.
Now off Egypt, about as far as a ship can sail in a day with a good stiff breeze behind her, there is an island called Pharos— it has a good harbour from which vessels can get out into open sea when they have taken in water— and here the gods becalmed me twenty days without so much as a breath of fair wind to help me forward.
We should have run clean out of provisions and my men would have starved, if a goddess had not taken pity upon me and saved me in the person of Idothea, daughter to Proteus, the old man of the sea, for she had taken a great fancy to me.
"She came to me one day when I was by myself, as I often was, for the men used to go with their barbed hooks, all over the island in the hope of catching a fish or two to save them from the pangs of hunger.'
Stranger,' said she,' it seems to me that you like starving in this way— at any rate it does not greatly trouble you, for you stick here day after day, without even trying to get away though your men are dying by inches.'
"'Let me tell you,' said I,' whichever of the goddesses you may happen to be, that I am not staying here of my own accord, but must have offended the gods that live in heaven.
Tell me, therefore, for the gods know everything, which of the immortals it is that is hindering me in this way, and tell me also how I may sail the sea so as to reach my home.'
"'Stranger,' replied she,' I will make it all quite clear to you.
There is an old immortal who lives under the sea hereabouts and whose name is Proteus.
He is an Egyptian, and people say he is my father; he is Neptune 's head man and knows every inch of ground all over the bottom of the sea.
If you can snare him and hold him tight, he will tell you about your voyage, what courses you are to take, and how you are to sail the sea so as to reach your home.
He will also tell you, if you so will, all that has been going on at your house both good and bad, while you have been away on your long and dangerous journey.'
"'Can you show me,' said I,' some stratagem by means of which I may catch this old god without his suspecting it and finding me out?
For a god is not easily caught— not by a mortal man.'
"'Stranger,' said she,' I will make it all quite clear to you.
About the time when the sun shall have reached mid heaven, the old man of the sea comes up from under the waves, heralded by the West wind that furs the water over his head.
As soon as he has come up he lies down, and goes to sleep in a great sea cave, where the seals— Halosydne 's chickens as they call them— come up also from the grey sea, and go to sleep in shoals all round him; and a very strong and fishlike smell do they bring with them.
Early tomorrow morning I will take you to this place and will lay you in ambush.
Pick out, therefore, the three best men you have in your fleet, and I will tell you all the tricks that the old man will play you.
"'First he will look over all his seals, and count them; then, when he has seen them and tallied them on his five fingers, he will go to sleep among them, as a shepherd among his sheep.
The moment you see that he is asleep seize him; put forth all your strength and hold him fast, for he will do his very utmost to get away from you.
He will turn himself into every kind of creature that goes upon the earth, and will become also both fire and water; but you must hold him fast and grip him tighter and tighter, till he begins to talk to you and comes back to what he was when you saw him go to sleep; then you may slacken your hold and let him go; and you can ask him which of the gods it is that is angry with you, and what you must do to reach your home over the seas.'
"Having so said she dived under the waves, whereon I turned back to the place where my ships were ranged upon the shore; and my heart was clouded with care as I went along.
When I reached my ship we got supper ready, for night was falling, and camped down upon the beach.
"When the child of morning rosyfingered Dawn appeared, I took the three men on whose prowess of all kinds I could most rely, and went along by the seaside, praying heartily to heaven.
Meanwhile the goddess fetched me up four seal skins from the bottom of the sea, all of them just skinned, for she meant playing a trick upon her father.
Then she dug four pits for us to lie in, and sat down to wait till we should come up.
When we were close to her, she made us lie down in the pits one after the other, and threw a seal skin over each of us.
Our ambuscade would have been intolerable, for the stench of the fishy seals was most distressing— who would go to bed with a sea monster if he could help it?—but here, too, the goddess helped us, and thought of something that gave us great relief, for she put some ambrosia under each man 's nostrils, which was so fragrant that it killed the smell of the seals.
"We waited the whole morning and made the best of it, watching the seals come up in hundreds to bask upon the sea shore, till at noon the old man of the sea came up too, and when he had found his fat seals he went over them and counted them.
We were among the first he counted, and he never suspected any guile, but laid himself down to sleep as soon as he had done counting.
Then we rushed upon him with a shout and seized him; on which he began at once with his old tricks, and changed himself first into a lion with a great mane; then all of a sudden he became a dragon, a leopard, a wild boar; the next moment he was running water, and then again directly he was a tree, but we stuck to him and never lost hold, till at last the cunning old creature became distressed, and said,' Which of the gods was it, Son of Atreus, that hatched this plot with you for snaring me and seizing me against my will?
What do you want?'
"'You know that yourself, old man,' I answered,' you will gain nothing by trying to put me off.
It is because I have been kept so long in this island, and see no sign of my being able to get away.
I am losing all heart; tell me, then, for you gods know everything, which of the immortals it is that is hindering me, and tell me also how I may sail the sea so as to reach my home?'
"Then,' he said,' if you would finish your voyage and get home quickly, you must offer sacrifices to Jove and to the rest of the gods before embarking; for it is decreed that you shall not get back to your friends, and to your own house, till you have returned to the heavenfed stream of Egypt, and offered holy hecatombs to the immortal gods that reign in heaven.
When you have done this they will let you finish your voyage.'
"I was broken hearted when I heard that I must go back all that long and terrible voyage to Egypt; nevertheless, I answered,' I will do all, old man, that you have laid upon me; but now tell me, and tell me true, whether all the Achaeans whom Nestor and I left behind us when we set sail from Troy have got home safely, or whether any one of them came to a bad end either on board his own ship or among his friends when the days of his fighting were done.'
"'Son of Atreus,' he answered,' why ask me?
You had better not know what I can tell you, for your eyes will surely fill when you have heard my story.
Many of those about whom you ask are dead and gone, but many still remain, and only two of the chief men among the Achaeans perished during their return home.
As for what happened on the field of battle— you were there yourself.
A third Achaean leader is still at sea, alive, but hindered from returning.
Ajax was wrecked, for Neptune drove him on to the great rocks of Gyrae; nevertheless, he let him get safe out of the water, and in spite of all Minerva 's hatred he would have escaped death, if he had not ruined himself by boasting.
He said the gods could not drown him even though they had tried to do so, and when Neptune heard this large talk, he seized his trident in his two brawny hands, and split the rock of Gyrae in two pieces.
The base remained where it was, but the part on which Ajax was sitting fell headlong into the sea and carried Ajax with it; so he drank salt water and was drowned.
"'Your brother and his ships escaped, for Juno protected him, but when he was just about to reach the high promontory of Malea, he was caught by a heavy gale which carried him out to sea again sorely against his will, and drove him to the foreland where Thyestes used to dwell, but where Aegisthus was then living.
By and by, however, it seemed as though he was to return safely after all, for the gods backed the wind into its old quarter and they reached home; whereon Agamemnon kissed his native soil, and shed tears of joy at finding himself in his own country.
"'Now there was a watchman whom Aegisthus kept always on the watch, and to whom he had promised two talents of gold.
This man had been looking out for a whole year to make sure that Agamemnon did not give him the slip and prepare war; when, therefore, this man saw Agamemnon go by, he went and told Aegisthus, who at once began to lay a plot for him.
He picked twenty of his bravest warriors and placed them in ambuscade on one side the cloister, while on the opposite side he prepared a banquet.
Then he sent his chariots and horsemen to Agamemnon, and invited him to the feast, but he meant foul play.
He got him there, all unsuspicious of the doom that was awaiting him, and killed him when the banquet was over as though he were butchering an ox in the shambles; not one of Agamemnon 's followers was left alive, nor yet one of Aegisthus ', but they were all killed there in the cloisters.'
"Thus spoke Proteus, and I was broken hearted as I heard him.
I sat down upon the sands and wept; I felt as though I could no longer bear to live nor look upon the light of the sun.
Presently, when I had had my fill of weeping and writhing upon the ground, the old man of the sea said,' Son of Atreus, do not waste any more time in crying so bitterly; it can do no manner of good; find your way home as fast as ever you can, for Aegisthus may be still alive, and even though Orestes has been beforehand with you in killing him, you may yet come in for his funeral.'
"On this I took comfort in spite of all my sorrow, and said,' I know, then, about these two; tell me, therefore, about the third man of whom you spoke; is he still alive, but at sea, and unable to get home?
or is he dead?
Tell me, no matter how much it may grieve me.'
"'The third man,' he answered,' is Ulysses who dwells in Ithaca.
I can see him in an island sorrowing bitterly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who is keeping him prisoner, and he can not reach his home for he has no ships nor sailors to take him over the sea.
As for your own end, Menelaus, you shall not die in Argos, but the gods will take you to the Elysian plain, which is at the ends of the world.
There fairhaired Rhadamanthus reigns, and men lead an easier life than any where else in the world, for in Elysium there falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow, but Oceanus breathes ever with a West wind that sings softly from the sea, and gives fresh life to all men.
This will happen to you because you have married Helen, and are Jove 's soninlaw.'
"As he spoke he dived under the waves, whereon I turned back to the ships with my companions, and my heart was clouded with care as I went along.
When we reached the ships we got supper ready, for night was falling, and camped down upon the beach.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn appeared, we drew our ships into the water, and put our masts and sails within them; then we went on board ourselves, took our seats on the benches, and smote the grey sea with our oars.
I again stationed my ships in the heavenfed stream of Egypt, and offered hecatombs that were full and sufficient.
When I had thus appeased heaven 's anger, I raised a barrow to the memory of Agamemnon that his name might live for ever, after which I had a quick passage home, for the gods sent me a fair wind.
"And now for yourself— stay here some ten or twelve days longer, and I will then speed you on your way.
I will make you a noble present of a chariot and three horses.
I will also give you a beautiful chalice that so long as you live you may think of me whenever you make a drinkoffering to the immortal gods."
"Son of Atreus," replied Telemachus," do not press me to stay longer; I should be contented to remain with you for another twelve months; I find your conversation so delightful that I should never once wish myself at home with my parents; but my crew whom I have left at Pylos are already impatient, and you are detaining me from them.
As for any present you may be disposed to make me, I had rather that it should be a piece of plate.
I will take no horses back with me to Ithaca, but will leave them to adorn your own stables, for you have much flat ground in your kingdom where lotus thrives, as also meadowsweet and wheat and barley, and oats with their white and spreading ears; whereas in Ithaca we have neither open fields nor racecourses, and the country is more fit for goats than horses, and I like it the better for that.
None of our islands have much level ground, suitable for horses, and Ithaca least of all."
Menelaus smiled and took Telemachus 's hand within his own.
"What you say," said he," shows that you come of good family.
I both can, and will, make this exchange for you, by giving you the finest and most precious piece of plate in all my house.
It is a mixing bowl by Vulcan 's own hand, of pure silver, except the rim, which is inlaid with gold.
Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it me in the course of a visit which I paid him when I returned thither on my homeward journey.
I will make you a present of it."
Thus did they converse[ and guests kept coming to the king 's house.
They brought sheep and wine, while their wives had put up bread for them to take with them; so they were busy cooking their dinners in the courts].
Meanwhile the suitors were throwing discs or aiming with spears at a mark on the levelled ground in front of Ulysses ' house, and were behaving with all their old insolence.
Antinous and Eurymachus, who were their ringleaders and much the foremost among them all, were sitting together when Noemon son of Phronius came up and said to Antinous, "Have we any idea, Antinous, on what day Telemachus returns from Pylos?
He has a ship of mine, and I want it, to cross over to Elis: I have twelve brood mares there with yearling mule foals by their side not yet broken in, and I want to bring one of them over here and break him."
They were astounded when they heard this, for they had made sure that Telemachus had not gone to the city of Neleus.
They thought he was only away somewhere on the farms, and was with the sheep, or with the swineherd; so Antinous said," When did he go?
Tell me truly, and what young men did he take with him?
Were they freemen or his own bondsmen— for he might manage that too?
Tell me also, did you let him have the ship of your own free will because he asked you, or did he take it without your leave?"
"I lent it him," answered Noemon," what else could I do when a man of his position said he was in a difficulty, and asked me to oblige him?
I could not possibly refuse.
As for those who went with him they were the best young men we have, and I saw Mentor go on board as captain— or some god who was exactly like him.
I can not understand it, for I saw Mentor here myself yesterday morning, and yet he was then setting out for Pylos."
Noemon then went back to his father 's house, but Antinous and Eurymachus were very angry.
They told the others to leave off playing, and to come and sit down along with themselves.
When they came, Antinous son of Eupeithes spoke in anger.
His heart was black with rage, and his eyes flashed fire as he said: "Good heavens, this voyage of Telemachus is a very serious matter; we had made sure that it would come to nothing, but the young fellow has got away in spite of us, and with a picked crew too.
He will be giving us trouble presently; may Jove take him before he is full grown.
Find me a ship, therefore, with a crew of twenty men, and I will lie in wait for him in the straits between Ithaca and Samos; he will then rue the day that he set out to try and get news of his father."
Thus did he speak, and the others applauded his saying; they then all of them went inside the buildings.
It was not long ere Penelope came to know what the suitors were plotting; for a man servant, Medon, overheard them from outside the outer court as they were laying their schemes within, and went to tell his mistress.
As he crossed the threshold of her room Penelope said:" Medon, what have the suitors sent you here for?
Is it to tell the maids to leave their master 's business and cook dinner for them?
I wish they may neither woo nor dine henceforward, neither here nor anywhere else, but let this be the very last time, for the waste you all make of my son 's estate.
Did not your fathers tell you when you were children, how good Ulysses had been to them— never doing anything highhanded, nor speaking harshly to anybody?
Kings may say things sometimes, and they may take a fancy to one man and dislike another, but Ulysses never did an unjust thing by anybody— which shows what bad hearts you have, and that there is no such thing as gratitude left in this world."
Then Medon said," I wish, Madam, that this were all; but they are plotting something much more dreadful now— may heaven frustrate their design.
They are going to try and murder Telemachus as he is coming home from Pylos and Lacedaemon, where he has been to get news of his father."
Then Penelope 's heart sank within her, and for a long time she was speechless; her eyes filled with tears, and she could find no utterance.
At last, however, she said," Why did my son leave me?
What business had he to go sailing off in ships that make long voyages over the ocean like seahorses?
Does he want to die without leaving any one behind him to keep up his name?"
"I do not know," answered Medon," whether some god set him on to it, or whether he went on his own impulse to see if he could find out if his father was dead, or alive and on his way home."
Then he went downstairs again, leaving Penelope in an agony of grief.
There were plenty of seats in the house, but she had no heart for sitting on any one of them; she could only fling herself on the floor of her own room and cry; whereon all the maids in the house, both old and young, gathered round her and began to cry too, till at last in a transport of sorrow she exclaimed, "My dears, heaven has been pleased to try me with more affliction than any other woman of my age and country.
First I lost my brave and lionhearted husband, who had every good quality under heaven, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos, and now my darling son is at the mercy of the winds and waves, without my having heard one word about his leaving home.
You hussies ,there was not one of you would so much as think of giving me a call out of my bed, though you all of you very well knew when he was starting.
If I had known he meant taking this voyage, he would have had to give it up, no matter how much he was bent upon it, or leave me a corpse behind him— one or other.
Now, however, go some of you and call old Dolius, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and who is my gardener.
Bid him go at once and tell everything to Laertes, who may be able to hit on some plan for enlisting public sympathy on our side, as against those who are trying to exterminate his own race and that of Ulysses."
Then the dear old nurse Euryclea said," You may kill me, Madam, or let me live on in your house, whichever you please, but I will tell you the real truth.
I knew all about it, and gave him everything he wanted in the way of bread and wine, but he made me take my solemn oath that I would not tell you anything for some ten or twelve days, unless you asked or happened to hear of his having gone, for he did not want you to spoil your beauty by crying.
And now, Madam, wash your face, change your dress, and go upstairs with your maids to offer prayers to Minerva, daughter of Aegisbearing Jove, for she can save him even though he be in the jaws of death.
Do not trouble Laertes: he has trouble enough already.
Besides, I can not think that the gods hate the race of the son of Arceisius so much, but there will be a son left to come up after him, and inherit both the house and the fair fields that lie far all round it."
With these words she made her mistress leave off crying, and dried the tears from her eyes.
Penelope washed her face, changed her dress, and went upstairs with her maids.
She then put some bruised barley into a basket and began praying to Minerva.
"Hear me," she cried," Daughter of Aegisbearing Jove, unweariable.
If ever Ulysses while he was here burned you fat thigh bones of sheep or heifer, bear it in mind now as in my favour, and save my darling son from the villainy of the suitors."
She cried aloud as she spoke, and the goddess heard her prayer; meanwhile the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloister, and one of them said: "The queen is preparing for her marriage with one or other of us.
Little does she dream that her son has now been doomed to die."
This was what they said, but they did not know what was going to happen.
Then Antinous said," Comrades, let there be no loud talking, lest some of it get carried inside.
Let us be up and do that in silence, about which we are all of a mind."
He then chose twenty men, and they went down to their ship and to the sea side; they drew the vessel into the water and got her mast and sails inside her; they bound the oars to the tholepins with twisted thongs of leather, all in due course, and spread the white sails aloft, while their fine servants brought them their armour.
Then they made the ship fast a little way out, came on shore again, got their suppers, and waited till night should fall.
But Penelope lay in her own room upstairs unable to eat or drink, and wondering whether her brave son would escape, or be overpowered by the wicked suitors.
Like a lioness caught in the toils with huntsmen hemming her in on every side she thought and thought till she sank into a slumber, and lay on her bed bereft of thought and motion.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter, and made a vision in the likeness of Penelope 's sister Iphthime daughter of Icarius who had married Eumelus and lived in Pherae.
She told the vision to go to the house of Ulysses, and to make Penelope leave off crying, so it came into her room by the hole through which the thong went for pulling the door to, and hovered over her head saying, "You are asleep, Penelope: the gods who live at ease will not suffer you to weep and be so sad.
Your son has done them no wrong, so he will yet come back to you."
Penelope, who was sleeping sweetly at the gates of dreamland, answered," Sister, why have you come here?
You do not come very often, but I suppose that is because you live such a long way off.
Am I, then, to leave off crying and refrain from all the sad thoughts that torture me?
I, who have lost my brave and lionhearted husband, who had every good quality under heaven, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos; and now my darling son has gone off on board of a ship— a foolish fellow who has never been used to roughing it, nor to going about among gatherings of men.
I am even more anxious about him than about my husband; I am all in a tremble when I think of him, lest something should happen to him, either from the people among whom he has gone, or by sea, for he has many enemies who are plotting against him, and are bent on killing him before he can return home."
Then the vision said," Take heart, and be not so much dismayed.
There is one gone with him whom many a man would be glad enough to have stand by his side, I mean Minerva; it is she who has compassion upon you, and who has sent me to bear you this message."
"Then," said Penelope," if you are a god or have been sent here by divine commission, tell me also about that other unhappy one— is he still alive, or is he already dead and in the house of Hades?"
And the vision said," I shall not tell you for certain whether he is alive or dead, and there is no use in idle conversation."
Then it vanished through the thonghole of the door and was dissipated into thin air; but Penelope rose from her sleep refreshed and comforted, so vivid had been her dream.
Meantime the suitors went on board and sailed their ways over the sea, intent on murdering Telemachus.
Now there is a rocky islet called Asteris, of no great size, in mid channel between Ithaca and Samos, and there is a harbour on either side of it where a ship can lie.
Here then the Achaeans placed themselves in ambush.
The gods hold a council and determine to watch the fight, from the hill Callicolone, and the barrow of Hercules—A fight between Achilles and AEneas is interrupted by Neptune, who saves AEneas—Achilles kills many Trojans.
Thus, then, did the Achaeans arm by their ships round you, O son of Peleus, who were hungering for battle; while the Trojans over against them armed upon the rise of the plain.
Meanwhile Jove from the top of manydelled Olympus, bade Themis gather the gods in council, whereon she went about and called them to the house of Jove.
There was not a river absent except Oceanus, nor a single one of the nymphs that haunt fair groves, or springs of rivers and meadows of green grass.
When they reached the house of cloudcompelling Jove, they took their seats in the arcades of polished marble which Vulcan with his consummate skill had made for father Jove.
In such wise, therefore, did they gather in the house of Jove.
Neptune also, lord of the earthquake, obeyed the call of the goddess, and came up out of the sea to join them.
There, sitting in the midst of them, he asked what Jove 's purpose might be.
"Why," said he," wielder of the lightning, have you called the gods in council?
Are you considering some matter that concerns the Trojans and Achaeans— for the blaze of battle is on the point of being kindled between them?"
And Jove answered," You know my purpose, shaker of earth, and wherefore I have called you hither.
I take thought for them even in their destruction.
For my own part I shall stay here seated on Mt.
Olympus and look on in peace, but do you others go about among Trojans and Achaeans, and help either side as you may be severally disposed.
If Achilles fights the Trojans without hindrance they will make no stand against him; they have ever trembled at the sight of him, and now that he is roused to such fury about his comrade, he will override fate itself and storm their city."
Thus spoke Jove and gave the word for war, whereon the gods took their several sides and went into battle.
Juno, Pallas Minerva, earthencircling Neptune, Mercury bringer of good luck and excellent in all cunning— all these joined the host that came from the ships; with them also came Vulcan in all his glory, limping, but yet with his thin legs plying lustily under him.
Mars of gleaming helmet joined the Trojans, and with him Apollo of locks unshorn, and the archer goddess Diana, Leto, Xanthus, and laughterloving Venus.
So long as the gods held themselves aloof from mortal warriors the Achaeans were triumphant, for Achilles who had long refused to fight was now with them.
There was not a Trojan but his limbs failed him for fear as he beheld the fleet son of Peleus all glorious in his armour, and looking like Mars himself.
When, however, the Olympians came to take their part among men, forthwith uprose strong Strife, rouser of hosts, and Minerva raised her loud voice, now standing by the deep trench that ran outside the wall, and now shouting with all her might upon the shore of the sounding sea.
Mars also bellowed out upon the other side, dark as some black thundercloud, and called on the Trojans at the top of his voice, now from the acropolis, and now speeding up the side of the river Simois till he came to the hill Callicolone.
Thus did the gods spur on both hosts to fight, and rouse fierce contention also among themselves.
The sire of gods and men thundered from heaven above, while from beneath Neptune shook the vast earth, and bade the high hills tremble.
The spurs and crests of manyfountained Ida quaked, as also the city of the Trojans and the ships of the Achaeans.
Hades, king of the realms below, was struck with fear; he sprang panicstricken from his throne and cried aloud in terror lest Neptune, lord of the earthquake, should crack the ground over his head, and lay bare his mouldy mansions to the sight of mortals and immortals— mansions so ghastly grim that even the gods shudder to think of them.
Such was the uproar as the gods came together in battle.
Apollo with his arrows took his stand to face King Neptune, while Minerva took hers against the god of war; the archergoddess Diana with her golden arrows, sister of fardarting Apollo, stood to face Juno; Mercury the lusty bringer of good luck faced Leto, while the mighty eddying river whom men can Scamander, but gods Xanthus, matched himself against Vulcan.
The gods, then, were thus ranged against one another.
But the heart of Achilles was set on meeting Hector son of Priam, for it was with his blood that he longed above all things else to glut the stubborn lord of battle.
Meanwhile Apollo set Aeneas on to attack the son of Peleus, and put courage into his heart, speaking with the voice of Lycaon son of Priam.
In his likeness therefore, he said to Aeneas," Aeneas, counsellor of the Trojans, where are now the brave words with which you vaunted over your wine before the Trojan princes, saying that you would fight Achilles son of Peleus in single combat?"
And Aeneas answered," Why do you thus bid me fight the proud son of Peleus, when I am in no mind to do so?
Were I to face him now, it would not be for the first time.
His spear has already put me to flight from Ida, when he attacked our cattle and sacked Lyrnessus and Pedasus; Jove indeed saved me in that he vouchsafed me strength to fly, else had I fallen by the hands of Achilles and Minerva, who went before him to protect him and urged him to fall upon the Lelegae and Trojans.
No man may fight Achilles, for one of the gods is always with him as his guardian angel, and even were it not so, his weapon flies ever straight, and fails not to pierce the flesh of him who is against him; if heaven would let me fight him on even terms he should not soon overcome me, though he boasts that he is made of bronze."
Then said King Apollo, son to Jove," Nay, hero, pray to the everliving gods, for men say that you were born of Jove 's daughter Venus, whereas Achilles is son to a goddess of inferior rank.
Venus is child to Jove, while Thetis is but daughter to the old man of the sea.
Bring, therefore, your spear to bear upon him, and let him not scare you with his taunts and menaces."
As he spoke he put courage into the heart of the shepherd of his people, and he strode in full armour among the ranks of the foremost fighters.
Nor did the son of Anchises escape the notice of whitearmed Juno, as he went forth into the throng to meet Achilles.
She called the gods about her, and said," Look to it, you two, Neptune and Minerva, and consider how this shall be; Phoebus Apollo has been sending Aeneas clad in full armour to fight Achilles.
Shall we turn him back at once, or shall one of us stand by Achilles and endow him with strength so that his heart fail not, and he may learn that the chiefs of the immortals are on his side, while the others who have all along been defending the Trojans are but vain helpers?
Let us all come down from Olympus and join in the fight, that this day he may take no hurt at the hands of the Trojans.
Hereafter let him suffer whatever fate may have spun out for him when he was begotten and his mother bore him.
If Achilles be not thus assured by the voice of a god, he may come to fear presently when one of us meets him in battle, for the gods are terrible if they are seen face to face."
Neptune lord of the earthquake answered her saying," Juno, restrain your fury; it is not well; I am not in favour of forcing the other gods to fight us, for the advantage is too greatly on our own side; let us take our places on some hill out of the beaten track, and let mortals fight it out among themselves.
If Mars or Phoebus Apollo begin fighting, or keep Achilles in check so that he can not fight, we too, will at once raise the cry of battle, and in that case they will soon leave the field and go back vanquished to Olympus among the other gods."
With these words the darkhaired god led the way to the high earthbarrow of Hercules, built round solid masonry, and made by the Trojans and Pallas Minerva for him to fly to when the seamonster was chasing him from the shore on to the plain.
Here Neptune and those that were with him took their seats, wrapped in a thick cloud of darkness; but the other gods seated themselves on the brow of Callicolone round you, O Phoebus, and Mars the waster of cities.
Thus did the gods sit apart and form their plans, but neither side was willing to begin battle with the other, and Jove from his seat on high was in command over them all.
Meanwhile the whole plain was alive with men and horses, and blazing with the gleam of armour.
The earth rang again under the tramp of their feet as they rushed towards each other, and two champions, by far the foremost of them all, met between the hosts to fight— to wit, Aeneas son of Anchises, and noble Achilles.
Aeneas was first to stride forward in attack, his doughty helmet tossing defiance as he came on.
He held his strong shield before his breast, and brandished his bronze spear.
The son of Peleus from the other side sprang forth to meet him, like some fierce lion that the whole countryside has met to hunt and kill— at first he bodes no ill, but when some daring youth has struck him with a spear, he crouches openmouthed, his jaws foam, he roars with fury, he lashes his tail from side to side about his ribs and loins, and glares as he springs straight before him, to find out whether he is to slay, or be slain among the foremost of his foes— even with such fury did Achilles burn to spring upon Aeneas.
When they were now close up with one another Achilles was first to speak."
Aeneas," said he," why do you stand thus out before the host to fight me?
Is it that you hope to reign over the Trojans in the seat of Priam?
Nay, though you kill me Priam will not hand his kingdom over to you.
He is a man of sound judgement, and he has sons of his own.
Or have the Trojans been allotting you a demesne of passing richness, fair with orchard lawns and corn lands, if you should slay me?
This you shall hardly do.
I have discomfited you once already.
Have you forgotten how when you were alone I chased you from your herds helterskelter down the slopes of Ida?
You did not turn round to look behind you; you took refuge in Lyrnessus, but I attacked the city, and with the help of Minerva and father Jove I sacked it and carried its women into captivity, though Jove and the other gods rescued you.
You think they will protect you now, but they will not do so; therefore I say go back into the host, and do not face me, or you will rue it.
Even a fool may be wise after the event."
Then Aeneas answered," Son of Peleus, think not that your words can scare me as though I were a child.
I too, if I will, can brag and talk unseemly.
We know one another 's race and parentage as matters of common fame, though neither have you ever seen my parents nor I yours.
Men say that you are son to noble Peleus, and that your mother is Thetis, fairhaired daughter of the sea.
I have noble Anchises for my father, and Venus for my mother; the parents of one or other of us shall this day mourn a son, for it will be more than silly talk that shall part us when the fight is over.
Learn, then, my lineage if you will— and it is known to many.
"In the beginning Dardanus was the son of Jove, and founded Dardania, for Ilius was not yet stablished on the plain for men to dwell in, and her people still abode on the spurs of manyfountained Ida.
Dardanus had a son, king Erichthonius, who was wealthiest of all men living; he had three thousand mares that fed by the watermeadows, they and their foals with them.
Boreas was enamoured of them as they were feeding, and covered them in the semblance of a darkmaned stallion.
Twelve filly foals did they conceive and bear him, and these, as they sped over the rich plain, would go bounding on over the ripe ears of corn and not break them; or again when they would disport themselves on the broad back of Ocean they could gallop on the crest of a breaker.
Erichthonius begat Tros, king of the Trojans, and Tros had three noble sons, Ilus, Assaracus, and Ganymede who was comeliest of mortal men; wherefore the gods carried him off to be Jove 's cupbearer, for his beauty 's sake, that he might dwell among the immortals.
Ilus begat Laomedon, and Laomedon begat Tithonus, Priam, Lampus, Clytius, and Hiketaon of the stock of Mars.
But Assaracus was father to Capys, and Capys to Anchises, who was my father, while Hector is son to Priam.
"Such do I declare my blood and lineage, but as for valour, Jove gives it or takes it as he will, for he is lord of all.
And now let there be no more of this prating in mid battle as though we were children.
We could fling taunts without end at one another; a hundredoared galley would not hold them.
The tongue can run all whithers and talk all wise; it can go here and there, and as a man says, so shall he be gainsaid.
What is the use of our bandying hard like women who when they fall foul of one another go out and wrangle in the streets, one half true and the other lies, as rage inspires them?
No words of yours shall turn me now that I am fain to fight— therefore let us make trial of one another with our spears."
As he spoke he drove his spear at the great and terrible shield of Achilles, which rang out as the point struck it.
The son of Peleus held the shield before him with his strong hand, and he was afraid, for he deemed that Aeneas 's spear would go through it quite easily, not reflecting that the god 's glorious gifts were little likely to yield before the blows of mortal men; and indeed Aeneas 's spear did not pierce the shield, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point.
It went through two layers, but the god had made the shield in five, two of bronze, the two innermost ones of tin, and one of gold; it was in this that the spear was stayed.
Achilles in his turn threw, and struck the round shield of Aeneas at the very edge, where the bronze was thinnest; the spear of Pelian ash went clean through, and the shield rang under the blow; Aeneas was afraid, and crouched backwards, holding the shield away from him; the spear, however, flew over his back, and stuck quivering in the ground, after having gone through both circles of the sheltering shield.
Aeneas though he had avoided the spear, stood still, blinded with fear and grief because the weapon had gone so near him; then Achilles sprang furiously upon him, with a cry as of death and with his keen blade drawn, and Aeneas seized a great stone, so huge that two men, as men now are, would be unable to lift it, but Aeneas wielded it quite easily.
Aeneas would then have struck Achilles as he was springing towards him, either on the helmet, or on the shield that covered him, and Achilles would have closed with him and despatched him with his sword, had not Neptune lord of the earthquake been quick to mark, and said forthwith to the immortals," Alas, I am sorry for great Aeneas, who will now go down to the house of Hades, vanquished by the son of Peleus.
Fool that he was to give ear to the counsel of Apollo.
Apollo will never save him from destruction.
Why should this man suffer when he is guiltless, to no purpose, and in another 's quarrel?
Has he not at all times offered acceptable sacrifice to the gods that dwell in heaven?
Let us then snatch him from death 's jaws, lest the son of Saturn be angry should Achilles slay him.
It is fated, moreover, that he should escape, and that the race of Dardanus, whom Jove loved above all the sons born to him of mortal women, shall not perish utterly without seed or sign.
For now indeed has Jove hated the blood of Priam, while Aeneas shall reign over the Trojans, he and his children 's children that shall be born hereafter."
Then answered Juno," Earthshaker, look to this matter yourself, and consider concerning Aeneas, whether you will save him, or suffer him, brave though he be, to fall by the hand of Achilles son of Peleus.
For of a truth we two, I and Pallas Minerva, have sworn full many a time before all the immortals, that never would we shield Trojans from destruction, not even when all Troy is burning in the flames that the Achaeans shall kindle."
When earthencircling Neptune heard this he went into the battle amid the clash of spears, and came to the place where Achilles and Aeneas were.
Forthwith he shed a darkness before the eyes of the son of Peleus, drew the bronzeheaded ashen spear from the shield of Aeneas, and laid it at the feet of Achilles.
Then he lifted Aeneas on high from off the earth and hurried him away.
Over the heads of many a band of warriors both horse and foot did he soar as the god 's hand sped him, till he came to the very fringe of the battle where the Cauconians were arming themselves for fight.
Neptune, shaker of the earth, then came near to him and said," Aeneas, what god has egged you on to this folly in fighting the son of Peleus, who is both a mightier man of valour and more beloved of heaven than you are?
Give way before him whensoever you meet him, lest you go down to the house of Hades even though fate would have it otherwise.
When Achilles is dead you may then fight among the foremost undaunted, for none other of the Achaeans shall slay you."
The god left him when he had given him these instructions, and at once removed the darkness from before the eyes of Achilles, who opened them wide indeed and said in great anger," Alas!
what marvel am I now beholding?
Here is my spear upon the ground, but I see not him whom I meant to kill when I hurled it.
Of a truth Aeneas also must be under heaven 's protection, although I had thought his boasting was idle.
Let him go hang; he will be in no mood to fight me further, seeing how narrowly he has missed being killed.
I will now give my orders to the Danaans and attack some other of the Trojans."
He sprang forward along the line and cheered his men on as he did so."
Let not the Trojans," he cried," keep you at arm 's length, Achaeans, but go for them and fight them man for man.
However valiant I may be, I can not give chase to so many and fight all of them.
Even Mars, who is an immortal, or Minerva, would shrink from flinging himself into the jaws of such a fight and laying about him; nevertheless, so far as in me lies I will show no slackness of hand or foot nor want of endurance, not even for a moment; I will utterly break their ranks, and woe to the Trojan who shall venture within reach of my spear."
Thus did he exhort them.
Meanwhile Hector called upon the Trojans and declared that he would fight Achilles.
"Be not afraid, proud Trojans," said he," to face the son of Peleus; I could fight gods myself if the battle were one of words only, but they would be more than a match for me, if we had to use our spears.
Even so the deed of Achilles will fall somewhat short of his word; he will do in part, and the other part he will clip short.
I will go up against him though his hands be as fire— though his hands be fire and his strength iron."
Thus urged the Trojans lifted up their spears against the Achaeans, and raised the cry of battle as they flung themselves into the midst of their ranks.
But Phoebus Apollo came up to Hector and said," Hector, on no account must you challenge Achilles to single combat; keep a lookout for him while you are under cover of the others and away from the thick of the fight, otherwise he will either hit you with a spear or cut you down at close quarters."
Thus he spoke, and Hector drew back within the crowd, for he was afraid when he heard what the god had said to him.
Achilles then sprang upon the Trojans with a terrible cry, clothed in valour as with a garment.
First he killed Iphition son of Otrynteus, a leader of much people whom a naiad nymph had borne to Otrynteus waster of cities, in the land of Hyde under the snowy heights of Mt.
Tmolus.
Achilles struck him full on the head as he was coming on towards him, and split it clean in two; whereon he fell heavily to the ground and Achilles vaunted over him saying," You be low, son of Otrynteus, mighty hero; your death is here, but your lineage is on the Gygaean lake where your father 's estate lies, by Hyllus, rich in fish, and the eddying waters of Hermus."
Thus did he vaunt, but darkness closed the eyes of the other.
The chariots of the Achaeans cut him up as their wheels passed over him in the front of the battle, and after him Achilles killed Demoleon, a valiant man of war and son to Antenor.
He struck him on the temple through his bronzecheeked helmet.
The helmet did not stay the spear, but it went right on, crushing the bone so that the brain inside was shed in all directions, and his lust of fighting was ended.
Then he struck Hippodamas in the midriff as he was springing down from his chariot in front of him, and trying to escape.
He breathed his last, bellowing like a bull bellows when young men are dragging him to offer him in sacrifice to the King of Helice, and the heart of the earthshaker is glad; even so did he bellow as he lay dying.
Achilles then went in pursuit of Polydorus son of Priam, whom his father had always forbidden to fight because he was the youngest of his sons, the one he loved best, and the fastest runner.
He, in his folly and showing off the fleetness of his feet, was rushing about among front ranks until he lost his life, for Achilles struck him in the middle of the back as he was darting past him: he struck him just at the golden fastenings of his belt and where the two pieces of the double breastplate overlapped.
The point of the spear pierced him through and came out by the navel, whereon he fell groaning on to his knees and a cloud of darkness overshadowed him as he sank holding his entrails in his hands.
When Hector saw his brother Polydorus with his entrails in his hands and sinking down upon the ground, a mist came over his eyes, and he could not bear to keep longer at a distance; he therefore poised his spear and darted towards Achilles like a flame of fire.
When Achilles saw him he bounded forward and vaunted saying," This is he that has wounded my heart most deeply and has slain my beloved comrade.
Not for long shall we two quail before one another on the highways of war."
He looked fiercely on Hector and said," Draw near, that you may meet your doom the sooner."
Hector feared him not and answered," Son of Peleus, think not that your words can scare me as though I were a child; I too if I will can brag and talk unseemly ;I know that you are a mighty warrior, mightier by far than I, nevertheless the issue lies in the lap of heaven whether I, worse man though I be, may not slay you with my spear, for this too has been found keen ere now."
He hurled his spear as he spoke, but Minerva breathed upon it, and though she breathed but very lightly she turned it back from going towards Achilles, so that it returned to Hector and lay at his feet in front of him.
Achilles then sprang furiously on him with a loud cry, bent on killing him, but Apollo caught him up easily as a god can, and hid him in a thick darkness.
Thrice did Achilles spring towards him spear in hand, and thrice did he waste his blow upon the air.
When he rushed forward for the fourth time as though he were a god, he shouted aloud saying," Hound, this time too you have escaped death— but of a truth it came exceedingly near you.
Phoebus Apollo, to whom it seems you pray before you go into battle, has again saved you; but if I too have any friend among the gods I will surely make an end of you when I come across you at some other time.
Now, however, I will pursue and overtake other Trojans."
On this he struck Dryops with his spear, about the middle of his neck, and he fell headlong at his feet.
There he let him lie and stayed Demouchus son of Philetor, a man both brave and of great stature, by hitting him on the knee with a spear; then he smote him with his sword and killed him.
After this he sprang on Laogonus and Dardanus, sons of Bias, and threw them from their chariot, the one with a blow from a thrown spear, while the other he cut down in handtohand fight.
There was also Tros the son of Alastor— he came up to Achilles and clasped his knees in the hope that he would spare him and not kill him but let him go, because they were both of the same age.
Fool, he might have known that he should not prevail with him, for the man was in no mood for pity or forbearance but was in grim earnest.
Therefore when Tros laid hold of his knees and sought a hearing for his prayers, Achilles drove his sword into his liver, and the liver came rolling out, while his bosom was all covered with the black blood that welled from the wound.
Thus did death close his eyes as he lay lifeless.
Achilles then went up to Mulius and struck him on the ear with a spear, and the bronze spearhead came right out at the other ear.
He also struck Echeclus son of Agenor on the head with his sword, which became warm with the blood, while death and stern fate closed the eyes of Echeclus.
Next in order the bronze point of his spear wounded Deucalion in the forearm where the sinews of the elbow are united, whereon he waited Achilles ' onset with his arm hanging down and death staring him in the face.
Achilles cut his head off with a blow from his sword and flung it helmet and all away from him, and the marrow came oozing out of his backbone as he lay.
He then went in pursuit of Rhigmus, noble son of Peires, who had come from fertile Thrace, and struck him through the middle with a spear which fixed itself in his belly, so that he fell headlong from his chariot.
He also speared Areithous squire to Rhigmus in the back as he was turning his horses in flight, and thrust him from his chariot, while the horses were struck with panic.
As a fire raging in some mountain glen after long drought— and the dense forest is in a blaze, while the wind carries great tongues of fire in every direction— even so furiously did Achilles rage, wielding his spear as though he were a god, and giving chase to those whom he would slay, till the dark earth ran with blood.
Or as one who yokes broadbrowed oxen that they may tread barley in a threshingfloor— and it is soon bruised small under the feet of the lowing cattle— even so did the horses of Achilles trample on the shields and bodies of the slain.
The axle underneath and the railing that ran round the car were bespattered with clots of blood thrown up by the horses ' hoofs, and from the tyres of the wheels; but the son of Peleus pressed on to win still further glory, and his hands were bedrabbled with gore.
CHAPTER VIII Harriet slept at Hartfield that night.
For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present.
She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose.
Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.
"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and go out for a quarter of an hour.
As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can.
I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley.
We invalids think we are privileged people."
"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me."
"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter.
Emma will be happy to entertain you.
And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns--my winter walk."
"You cannot do better, sir."
"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey."
"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think the sooner you go the better.
I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you."
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat.
He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.
"I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition.
Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman."
"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be wanting."
"Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you that you have improved her.
You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle; she really does you credit."
"Thank you.
I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may.
You do not often overpower me with it."
"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"
"Almost every moment.
She has been gone longer already than she intended."
"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps."
"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!"
"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would."
Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing.
He presently added, with a smile, "I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage."
"Indeed!
how so?
of what sort?"
"A very serious sort, I assure you;" still smiling.
"Very serious!
I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her?
Who makes you their confidant?"
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him.
"I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:--Robert Martin is the man.
Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business.
He is desperately in love and means to marry her."
"He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him?"
"Well, well, means to make her an offer then.
Will that do?
He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it.
He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his best friends.
He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered (especially since your making so much of her) as in a line of society above him.
I was very much pleased with all that he said.
I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin.
He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging.
He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage.
He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother.
I had no hesitation in advising him to marry.
He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better.
I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy.
If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had.
This happened the night before last.
Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch."
"Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself through a great part of this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?"
"Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but it may be inferred.
Was not she the whole day with you?"
"Come," said she, "I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me.
He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was refused."
This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said, "Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.
What is the foolish girl about?"
"Oh!
to be sure," cried Emma, "it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage.
A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her."
"Nonsense!
a man does not imagine any such thing.
But what is the meaning of this?
Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin?
madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken."
"I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer."
"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too.
Emma, this is your doing.
You persuaded her to refuse him."
"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel that I had done wrong.
Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her.
By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples.
It is a pity that they were ever got over."
"Not Harriet's equal!"
exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation.
Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.
What are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher than Robert Martin?
She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations.
She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school.
She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information.
She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself.
At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her.
She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all.
My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him.
I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse.
But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.
The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck.
Even your satisfaction I made sure of.
It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well.
I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'"
"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any such thing.
What!
think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!
Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own!
I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings.
I assure you mine are very different.
I must think your statement by no means fair.
You are not just to Harriet's claims.
They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in which she moves is much above his.--It would be a degradation."
"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!"
"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense.
She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that she associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."
"Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.
After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance.
Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it was good enough.
She desired nothing better herself.
Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it.
She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.
She had no sense of superiority then.
If she has it now, you have given it.
You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma.
Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him.
I know him well.
He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion.
And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know.
Depend upon it he had encouragement."
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again.
"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are unjust to Harriet.
Harriet's claims to marry well are not so contemptible as you represent them.
She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly.
Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a claim to be nice.
Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be pleased with other people.
I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess."
"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so too.
Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do."
"To be sure!"
cried she playfully.
"I know that is the feeling of you all.
I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment.
Oh!
Harriet may pick and chuse.
Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.
And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives?
No--pray let her have time to look about her."
"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet.
You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.
Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief.
Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high.
Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl.
Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.
Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed.
Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master's son."
"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there can be no use in canvassing it.
We shall only be making each other more angry.
But as to my letting her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application.
She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do.
His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now.
I can imagine, that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him.
He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable.
But the case is altered now.
She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet."
"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!"
cried Mr.
Knightley.--"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand."
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone.
She did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.
Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer.
He was thinking.
The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.
"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it will not be long before he does.
Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain."
Emma laughed and disclaimed.
He continued, "Depend upon it, Elton will not do.
Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match.
He knows the value of a good income as well as any body.
Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally.
He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.
He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away.
I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece."
"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again.
"If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself.
I have done with match-making indeed.
I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls.
I shall leave off while I am well."
"Good morning to you,"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly.
He was very much vexed.
He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his.
She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley.
He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her.
She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives.
Harriet's staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy.
The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas.
The dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's friendship and woman's feelings would not justify.
He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about.
He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives.
Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.
Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton.
Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight.
Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a very particular way indeed, that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious.
Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.
Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, "that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness."
CHAPTER IX Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself.
He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven.
She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted.
Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow.
It was much easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon.
Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in.
"So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he wondered he could not remember them!
but he hoped he should in time."
And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition.
Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked.
He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips.
They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade, My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destin'd to feel And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal.-made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already.
"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr.
Elton?"
said she; "that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you."
"Oh no!
he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life.
The stupidest fellow!
He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he stopt a moment--"or Miss Smith could inspire him."
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration.
He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he.
"Being my friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand.
There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend's.
He was gone the next moment:--after another moment's pause, "Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet--"it is for you.
Take your own."
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss-CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth!
their luxury and ease.
Another view of man, my second brings, Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah!
united, what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, May its approval beam in that soft eye!
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed.
I have read worse charades.
Courtship--a very good hint.
I give you credit for it.
This is feeling your way.
This is saying very plainly--'Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you.
Approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance.'
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Harriet exactly.
Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the justest that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph--Harriet's ready wit!
All the better.
A man must be very much in love, indeed, to describe her so.
Ah!
Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think this would convince you.
For once in your life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken.
An excellent charade indeed!
and very much to the purpose.
Things must come to a crisis soon now."
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.
"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be?
I have not an idea--I cannot guess it in the least.
What can it possibly be?
Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse.
Do help me.
I never saw any thing so hard.
Is it kingdom?
I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady.
Do you think it is a good one?
Can it be woman?
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Can it be Neptune?
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
Or a trident?
or a mermaid?
or a shark?
Oh, no!
shark is only one syllable.
It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it.
Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"
"Mermaids and sharks!
Nonsense!
My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of?
Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark?
Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ------, read Miss Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth!
their luxury and ease.
That is court.
Another view of man, my second brings; Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is ship;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.
But ah!
united, (courtship, you know,) what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending.
Read it in comfort to yourself.
There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you."
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion.
She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness.
She could not speak.
But she was not wanted to speak.
It was enough for her to feel.
Emma spoke for her.
"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment," said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions.
You are his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of it.
I thought it must be so.
I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.
Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that has happened.
I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural.
Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other!
I am very happy.
I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart.
This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating.
This is a connexion which offers nothing but good.
It will give you every thing that you want--consideration, independence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever.
This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us."
"Dear Miss Woodhouse!"
--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought.
Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
"Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not have imagined it.
It is so much beyond any thing I deserve.
Mr. Elton, who might marry any body!
There cannot be two opinions about him.
He is so very superior.
Only think of those sweet verses--'To Miss ------.'
Dear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?"
"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that.
It is a certainty.
Receive it on my judgment.
It is a sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose."
"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected.
I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take place!"
"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes.
Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls.
There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth-A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage."
"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people, who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas!
And he, the very handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley!
His company so sought after, that every body says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are days in the week.
And so excellent in the Church!
Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury.
Dear me!
When I look back to the first time I saw him!
How little did I think!--The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured.
And how beautiful we thought he looked!
He was arm-in-arm with Mr.
Cole."
"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools.
If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them."
"Yes, very true.
How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.
You understand every thing.
You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other.
This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it."
"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday."
"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."
"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."
"It is as long again as almost all we have had before."
"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.
Such things in general cannot be too short."
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear.
The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.
"It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this."
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose.
"Such sweet lines!"
continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?"
"Leave it to me.
You do nothing.
He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming.
Trust to me."
"Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book!
I am sure I have not got one half so good."
"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book."
"Oh!
but those two lines are"---"The best of all.
Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them.
They are not at all the less written you know, because you divide them.
The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change.
But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection.
Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion.
A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither.
Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you."
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love.
It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.
"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased.
But here is my father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him.
It will be giving him so much pleasure!
He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment.
He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it to him."
Harriet looked grave.
"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it.
Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration.
If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you.
Do not let us be too solemn on the business.
He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade."
"Oh!
no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it.
Do as you please."
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?"
"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh.
A piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in."
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said.
Very true.
'Woman, lovely woman.'
It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so prettily, but you, Emma."
Emma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very tender sigh, he added, "Ah!
it is no difficulty to see who you take after!
Your dear mother was so clever at all those things!
If I had but her memory!
But I can remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, Kindled a flame I yet deplore, The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid, Though of his near approach afraid, So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all the way through.
But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."
"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page.
We copied it from the Elegant Extracts.
It was Garrick's, you know."
"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama.
I hope we shall have her here next week.
Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what room there will be for the children?"
"Oh!
yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always has;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you know.
Why should there be any change?"
"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not since last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr.
John Knightley's being a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken away from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!"
"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."
"I do not know, my dear.
I am sure I was very much surprized when I first heard she was going to be married."
"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is here."
"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she is coming for only one week.
There will not be time for any thing."
"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of necessity.
Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the Abbey.
Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him, than with us."
"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be anywhere but at Hartfield."
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own.
He sat musing a little while, and then said, "But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does.
I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us.
She and the children might stay very well."
"Ah!
papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will.
Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband."
This was too true for contradiction.
Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here.
I am sure she will be pleased with the children.
We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa?
I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?"
"Aye, I wonder which she will.
Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come.
They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."
"I dare say they are, sir.
I am sure I do not know who is not."
"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama.
Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father.
John, the second, is named after his father.
Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her.
And he is a very clever boy, indeed.
They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways.
They will come and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?'
and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas.
I think their father is too rough with them very often."
"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough.
He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father.
The children are all fond of him."
"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way!"
"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much.
It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other."
"Well, I cannot understand it."
"That is the case with us all, papa.
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again.
Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up.
His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield.
If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber.
He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-"Oh!
here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it.
We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection.
Your friend will not take it amiss I hope.
Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines."
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say.
He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively.
With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two.
He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."
"I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as I do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as I see it, (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life."
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible.
Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh.
She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.
CHAPTER V In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield.
To Highbury in general it brought no material change.
The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more.
He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma.
That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story.
But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax.
He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination.
She was not present when the suspicion first arose.
He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place.
When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, "Myself creating what I saw," brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield.
Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met.
They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him.
The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.
The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
"By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?"
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had any such plan."
"Nay, I had it from you.
You wrote me word of it three months ago."
"Me!
impossible!"
"Indeed you did.
I remember it perfectly.
You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon.
Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it.
It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm.
You must remember it now?"
"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment."
"Never!
really, never!--Bless me!
how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired.
You will not be sorry to find yourself at home."
"What is this?--What is this?"
cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a carriage?
Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank?
I am glad he can afford it.
You had it from himself, had you?"
"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream.
I am a great dreamer.
I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
Perry."
"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe.
Perry's setting up his carriage!
and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature.
What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is!
Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.
Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?"
Emma was out of hearing.
She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint.
"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days.
Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed.
Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home?
I forget where we had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls.
Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of.
At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware.
I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not.
I am not like Jane; I wish I were.
I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world.
Where is she?--Oh!
just behind.
Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!"
They were entering the hall.
Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane.
From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl.
Mr. Weston had walked in.
The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass.
Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her intently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation.
The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded.
Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away their alphabets--their box of letters?
It used to stand here.
Where is it?
This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer.
We had great amusement with those letters one morning.
I want to puzzle you again."
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves.
They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled.
The quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the "poor little boys," or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax.
She gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to it.
Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation.
The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away.
If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work.
She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.
The word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible.
Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension.
How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!
He feared there must be some decided involvement.
Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn.
These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick.
It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions.
He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure.
He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense!
for shame!"
He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?"
--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth.
"No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed."
It was done however.
This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it.
Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be Dixon.
Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged.
She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered.
Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.
"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--"I was just going to say the same thing.
It is time for us to be going indeed.
The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us.
My dear sir, you are too obliging.
We really must wish you good night."
Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived.
She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined.
She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question.
He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her.
It was his duty.
"Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax?
I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other."
Emma was extremely confused.
She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.
"Oh!"
she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves."
"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr.
Churchill."
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not.
She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak.
He sat a little while in doubt.
A variety of evils crossed his mind.
Interference--fruitless interference.
Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged.
Yet he would speak.
He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"
"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax?
Oh!
yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"
"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?"
"Never, never!"
she cried with a most open eagerness--"Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me.
And how could it possibly come into your head?"
"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public."
"Oh!
you amuse me excessively.
I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do.
There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be.
That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on his.
I will answer for the gentleman's indifference."
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley.
She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers.
He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking.
That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.
CHAPTER IV A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began: "Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it will be over."
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak.
There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary.
"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on this subject.
As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it.
I do not want to say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me."
"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do."
"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..."
cried Harriet, warmly.
"It seems like madness!
I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown.
Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?"
said she, with a conscious look.
"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"
"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much."
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words Most precious treasures on the top.
Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience.
Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
"Now," said Harriet, "you must recollect."
"No, indeed I do not."
"Dear me!
I should not have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me.
And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat."
"My dearest Harriet!"
cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it?
Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh!
my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what else?"
"And had you really some at hand yourself?
I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally."
"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement.
And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me!
when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about!
I never was equal to this."
"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something still more valuable, I mean that has been more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure.
It was the end of an old pencil,--the part without any lead.
"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not.
But one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer.
Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing.
But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment."
"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh!
yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too.
I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he?
I have an idea he was standing just here."
"Ah!
I do not know.
I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.--Mr.
Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now."
-"Well, go on."
"Oh!
that's all.
I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it."
"My poor dear Harriet!
and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?"
"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them.
It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married.
I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them."
"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful."
"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet.
"It has a disagreeable look to me.
I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven!
of Mr.
Elton."
"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr.
Churchill?"
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had told no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly.
Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable.
She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry."
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, "Never marry!--This is a new resolution."
"It is one that I shall never change, however."
After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope it is not in compliment to Mr.
Elton?"
"Mr. Elton indeed!"
cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh!
no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr.
Elton!"
She then took a longer time for consideration.
Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know.
Plain dealing was always best.
She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided, and thus spoke-"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning.
Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you.
Is not it so?"
"Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose-Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially."
"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet.
The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart."
"Service!
oh!
it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before.
Such a change!
In one moment such a change!
From perfect misery to perfect happiness!"
"It is very natural.
It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise.
I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet.
I do not by any means engage for its being returned.
Consider what you are about.
Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you.
Be observant of him.
Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations.
I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject.
I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter.
Let no name ever pass our lips.
We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity.
But take care of yourself.
I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to him, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value."
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.
Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.
CALYPSO—ULYSSES REACHES SCHERIA ON A RAFT.
And now, as Dawn rose from her couch beside Tithonus— harbinger of light alike to mortals and immortals— the gods met in council and with them, Jove the lord of thunder, who is their king.
Thereon Minerva began to tell them of the many sufferings of Ulysses, for she pitied him away there in the house of the nymph Calypso.
"Father Jove," said she," and all you other gods that live in everlasting bliss ,I hope there may never be such a thing as a kind and welldisposed ruler any more, nor one who will govern equitably.
I hope they will be all henceforth cruel and unjust, for there is not one of his subjects but has forgotten Ulysses, who ruled them as though he were their father.
There he is, lying in great pain in an island where dwells the nymph Calypso, who will not let him go; and he can not get back to his own country, for he can find neither ships nor sailors to take him over the sea.
Furthermore, wicked people are now trying to murder his only son Telemachus, who is coming home from Pylos and Lacedaemon, where he has been to see if he can get news of his father."
"What, my dear, are you talking about?"
replied her father," did you not send him there yourself, because you thought it would help Ulysses to get home and punish the suitors?
Besides, you are perfectly able to protect Telemachus, and to see him safely home again, while the suitors have to come hurryskurrying back without having killed him."
When he had thus spoken, he said to his son Mercury," Mercury, you are our messenger, go therefore and tell Calypso we have decreed that poor Ulysses is to return home.
He is to be convoyed neither by gods nor men, but after a perilous voyage of twenty days upon a raft he is to reach fertile Scheria the land of the Phaeacians, who are near of kin to the gods, and will honour him as though he were one of ourselves.
They will send him in a ship to his own country, and will give him more bronze and gold and raiment than he would have brought back from Troy, if he had had all his prize money and had got home without disaster.
This is how we have settled that he shall return to his country and his friends."
Thus he spoke, and Mercury, guide and guardian, slayer of Argus, did as he was told.
Forthwith he bound on his glittering golden sandals with which he could fly like the wind over land and sea.
He took the wand with which he seals men 's eyes in sleep or wakes them just as he pleases, and flew holding it in his hand over Pieria; then he swooped down through the firmament till he reached the level of the sea, whose waves he skimmed like a cormorant that flies fishing every hole and corner of the ocean, and drenching its thick plumage in the spray.
He flew and flew over many a weary wave, but when at last he got to the island which was his journey 's end, he left the sea and went on by land till he came to the cave where the nymph Calypso lived.
He found her at home.
There was a large fire burning on the hearth, and one could smell from far the fragrant reek of burning cedar and sandal wood.
As for herself, she was busy at her loom, shooting her golden shuttle through the warp and singing beautifully.
Round her cave there was a thick wood of alder, poplar, and sweet smelling cypress trees, wherein all kinds of great birds had built their nests— owls, hawks, and chattering seacrows that occupy their business in the waters.
A vine loaded with grapes was trained and grew luxuriantly about the mouth of the cave; there were also four running rills of water in channels cut pretty close together, and turned hither and thither so as to irrigate the beds of violets and luscious herbage over which they flowed.
Even a god could not help being charmed with such a lovely spot, so Mercury stood still and looked at it; but when he had admired it sufficiently he went inside the cave.
Calypso knew him at once— for the gods all know each other, no matter how far they live from one another— but Ulysses was not within; he was on the seashore as usual, looking out upon the barren ocean with tears in his eyes, groaning and breaking his heart for sorrow.
Calypso gave Mercury a seat and said:" Why have you come to see me, Mercury— honoured, and ever welcome— for you do not visit me often?
Say what you want; I will do it for you at once if I can, and if it can be done at all; but come inside, and let me set refreshment before you."
As she spoke she drew a table loaded with ambrosia beside him and mixed him some red nectar, so Mercury ate and drank till he had had enough, and then said: "We are speaking god and goddess to one another, and you ask me why I have come here, and I will tell you truly as you would have me do.
Jove sent me; it was no doing of mine; who could possibly want to come all this way over the sea where there are no cities full of people to offer me sacrifices or choice hecatombs?
Nevertheless I had to come, for none of us other gods can cross Jove, nor transgress his orders.
He says that you have here the most illstarred of all those who fought nine years before the city of King Priam and sailed home in the tenth year after having sacked it.
On their way home they sinned against Minerva who raised both wind and waves against them, so that all his brave companions perished, and he alone was carried hither by wind and tide.
Jove says that you are to let this man go at once, for it is decreed that he shall not perish here, far from his own people, but shall return to his house and country and see his friends again."
Calypso trembled with rage when she heard this," You gods," she exclaimed," ought to be ashamed of yourselves.
You are always jealous and hate seeing a goddess take a fancy to a mortal man, and live with him in open matrimony.
So when rosyfingered Dawn made love to Orion, you precious gods were all of you furious till Diana went and killed him in Ortygia.
So again when Ceres fell in love with Iasion, and yielded to him in a thriceploughed fallow field, Jove came to hear of it before so very long and killed Iasion with his thunderbolts.
And now you are angry with me too because I have a man here.
I found the poor creature sitting all alone astride of a keel, for Jove had struck his ship with lightning and sunk it in mid ocean, so that all his crew were drowned, while he himself was driven by wind and waves on to my island.
I got fond of him and cherished him, and had set my heart on making him immortal, so that he should never grow old all his days; still I can not cross Jove, nor bring his counsels to nothing; therefore, if he insists upon it, let the man go beyond the seas again; but I can not send him anywhere myself for I have neither ships nor men who can take him.
Nevertheless I will readily give him such advice, in all good faith, as will be likely to bring him safely to his own country."
"Then send him away," said Mercury," or Jove will be angry with you and punish you".
On this he took his leave, and Calypso went out to look for Ulysses, for she had heard Jove 's message.
She found him sitting upon the beach with his eyes ever filled with tears, and dying of sheer home sickness; for he had got tired of Calypso, and though he was forced to sleep with her in the cave by night, it was she, not he, that would have it so.
As for the day time, he spent it on the rocks and on the sea shore, weeping, crying aloud for his despair, and always looking out upon the sea.
Calypso then went close up to him said: "My poor fellow, you shall not stay here grieving and fretting your life out any longer.
I am going to send you away of my own free will; so go, cut some beams of wood, and make yourself a large raft with an upper deck that it may carry you safely over the sea.
I will put bread, wine, and water on board to save you from starving.
I will also give you clothes, and will send you a fair wind to take you home, if the gods in heaven so will it— for they know more about these things, and can settle them better than I can."
Ulysses shuddered as he heard her."
Now goddess," he answered," there is something behind all this; you can not be really meaning to help me home when you bid me do such a dreadful thing as put to sea on a raft.
Not even a well found ship with a fair wind could venture on such a distant voyage: nothing that you can say or do shall make me go on board a raft unless you first solemnly swear that you mean me no mischief."
Calypso smiled at this and caressed him with her hand:" You know a great deal," said she," but you are quite wrong here.
May heaven above and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx— and this is the most solemn oath which a blessed god can take— that I mean you no sort of harm, and am only advising you to do exactly what I should do myself in your place.
I am dealing with you quite straightforwardly; my heart is not made of iron, and I am very sorry for you."
When she had thus spoken she led the way rapidly before him, and Ulysses followed in her steps; so the pair, goddess and man, went on and on till they came to Calypso 's cave, where Ulysses took the seat that Mercury had just left.
Calypso set meat and drink before him of the food that mortals eat; but her maids brought ambrosia and nectar for herself, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them.
When they had satisfied themselves with meat and drink, Calypso spoke, saying: "Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, so you would start home to your own land at once?
Good luck go with you, but if you could only know how much suffering is in store for you before you get back to your own country, you would stay where you are, keep house along with me, and let me make you immortal, no matter how anxious you may be to see this wife of yours, of whom you are thinking all the time day after day; yet I flatter myself that I am no whit less tall or welllooking than she is, for it is not to be expected that a mortal woman should compare in beauty with an immortal."
"Goddess," replied Ulysses," do not be angry with me about this.
I am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so beautiful as yourself.
She is only a woman, whereas you are an immortal.
Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing else.
If some god wrecks me when I am on the sea, I will bear it and make the best of it.
I have had infinite trouble both by land and sea already, so let this go with the rest."
Presently the sun set and it became dark, whereon the pair retired into the inner part of the cave and went to bed.
When the child of morning rosyfingered Dawn appeared, Ulysses put on his shirt and cloak, while the goddess wore a dress of a light gossamer fabric, very fine and graceful, with a beautiful golden girdle about her waist and a veil to cover her head.
She at once set herself to think how she could speed Ulysses on his way.
So she gave him a great bronze axe that suited his hands; it was sharpened on both sides, and had a beautiful olivewood handle fitted firmly on to it.
She also gave him a sharp adze, and then led the way to the far end of the island where the largest trees grew— alder, poplar and pine, that reached the sky— very dry and well seasoned, so as to sail light for him in the water.
Then, when she had shown him where the best trees grew, Calypso went home, leaving him to cut them, which he soon finished doing.
He cut down twenty trees in all and adzed them smooth, squaring them by rule in good workmanlike fashion.
Meanwhile Calypso came back with some augers, so he bored holes with them and fitted the timbers together with bolts and rivets.
He made the raft as broad as a skilled shipwright makes the beam of a large vessel, and he fixed a deck on top of the ribs, and ran a gunwale all round it.
He also made a mast with a yard arm, and a rudder to steer with.
He fenced the raft all round with wicker hurdles as a protection against the waves, and then he threw on a quantity of wood.
By and by Calypso brought him some linen to make the sails, and he made these too, excellently, making them fast with braces and sheets.
Last of all, with the help of levers, he drew the raft down into the water.
In four days he had completed the whole work, and on the fifth Calypso sent him from the island after washing him and giving him some clean clothes.
She gave him a goat skin full of black wine, and another larger one of water; she also gave him a wallet full of provisions, and found him in much good meat.
Moreover, she made the wind fair and warm for him, and gladly did Ulysses spread his sail before it, while he sat and guided the raft skilfully by means of the rudder.
He never closed his eyes, but kept them fixed on the Pleiads, on latesetting Bootes, and on the Bear— which men also call the wain, and which turns round and round where it is, facing Orion, and alone never dipping into the stream of Oceanus— for Calypso had told him to keep this to his left.
Days seven and ten did he sail over the sea, and on the eighteenth the dim outlines of the mountains on the nearest part of the Phaeacian coast appeared, rising like a shield on the horizon.
But King Neptune, who was returning from the Ethiopians, caught sight of Ulysses a long way off, from the mountains of the Solymi.
He could see him sailing upon the sea, and it made him very angry, so he wagged his head and muttered to himself, saying," Good heavens, so the gods have been changing their minds about Ulysses while I was away in Ethiopia, and now he is close to the land of the Phaeacians, where it is decreed that he shall escape from the calamities that have befallen him.
Still, he shall have plenty of hardship yet before he has done with it."
Thereon he gathered his clouds together, grasped his trident, stirred it round in the sea, and roused the rage of every wind that blows till earth, sea, and sky were hidden in cloud, and night sprang forth out of the heavens.
Winds from East, South, North, and West fell upon him all at the same time, and a tremendous sea got up, so that Ulysses ' heart began to fail him."
Alas," he said to himself in his dismay," what ever will become of me?
I am afraid Calypso was right when she said I should have trouble by sea before I got back home.
It is all coming true.
How black is Jove making heaven with his clouds, and what a sea the winds are raising from every quarter at once.
I am now safe to perish.
Blest and thrice blest were those Danaans who fell before Troy in the cause of the sons of Atreus.
Would that I had been killed on the day when the Trojans were pressing me so sorely about the dead body of Achilles, for then I should have had due burial and the Achaeans would have honoured my name; but now it seems that I shall come to a most pitiable end."
As he spoke a sea broke over him with such terrific fury that the raft reeled again, and he was carried overboard a long way off.
He let go the helm, and the force of the hurricane was so great that it broke the mast half way up, and both sail and yard went over into the sea.
For a long time Ulysses was under water, and it was all he could do to rise to the surface again, for the clothes Calypso had given him weighed him down; but at last he got his head above water and spat out the bitter brine that was running down his face in streams.
In spite of all this, however, he did not lose sight of his raft, but swam as fast as he could towards it, got hold of it, and climbed on board again so as to escape drowning.
The sea took the raft and tossed it about as Autumn winds whirl thistledown round and round upon a road.
It was as though the South, North, East, and West winds were all playing battledore and shuttlecock with it at once.
When he was in this plight, Ino daughter of Cadmus, also called Leucothea, saw him.
She had formerly been a mere mortal, but had been since raised to the rank of a marine goddess.
Seeing in what great distress Ulysses now was, she had compassion upon him, and, rising like a seagull from the waves, took her seat upon the raft.
"My poor good man," said she," why is Neptune so furiously angry with you?
He is giving you a great deal of trouble, but for all his bluster he will not kill you.
You seem to be a sensible person, do then as I bid you; strip, leave your raft to drive before the wind, and swim to the Phaeacian coast where better luck awaits you.
And here, take my veil and put it round your chest; it is enchanted, and you can come to no harm so long as you wear it.
As soon as you touch land take it off, throw it back as far as you can into the sea, and then go away again."
With these words she took off her veil and gave it him.
Then she dived down again like a seagull and vanished beneath the dark blue waters.
But Ulysses did not know what to think."
Alas," he said to himself in his dismay," this is only some one or other of the gods who is luring me to ruin by advising me to quit my raft.
At any rate I will not do so at present, for the land where she said I should be quit of all troubles seemed to be still a good way off.
I know what I will do— I am sure it will be best— no matter what happens I will stick to the raft as long as her timbers hold together, but when the sea breaks her up I will swim for it; I do not see how I can do any better than this."
While he was thus in two minds, Neptune sent a terrible great wave that seemed to rear itself above his head till it broke right over the raft, which then went to pieces as though it were a heap of dry chaff tossed about by a whirlwind.
Ulysses got astride of one plank and rode upon it as if he were on horseback; he then took off the clothes Calypso had given him, bound Ino 's veil under his arms, and plunged into the sea— meaning to swim on shore.
King Neptune watched him as he did so, and wagged his head, muttering to himself and saying," There now, swim up and down as you best can till you fall in with welltodo people.
I do not think you will be able to say that I have let you off too lightly.
"On this he lashed his horses and drove to Aegae where his palace is.
But Minerva resolved to help Ulysses, so she bound the ways of all the winds except one, and made them lie quite still; but she roused a good stiff breeze from the North that should lay the waters till Ulysses reached the land of the Phaeacians where he would be safe.
Thereon he floated about for two nights and two days in the water, with a heavy swell on the sea and death staring him in the face; but when the third day broke, the wind fell and there was a dead calm without so much as a breath of air stirring.
As he rose on the swell he looked eagerly ahead, and could see land quite near.
Then, as children rejoice when their dear father begins to get better after having for a long time borne sore affliction sent him by some angry spirit, but the gods deliver him from evil, so was Ulysses thankful when he again saw land and trees, and swam on with all his strength that he might once more set foot upon dry ground.
When, however, he got within earshot, he began to hear the surf thundering up against the rocks, for the swell still broke against them with a terrific roar.
Everything was enveloped in spray; there were no harbours where a ship might ride, nor shelter of any kind, but only headlands, lowlying rocks, and mountain tops.
Ulysses ' heart now began to fail him, and he said despairingly to himself," Alas, Jove has let me see land after swimming so far that I had given up all hope, but I can find no landing place, for the coast is rocky and surfbeaten, the rocks are smooth and rise sheer from the sea, with deep water close under them so that I can not climb out for want of foot hold.
I am afraid some great wave will lift me off my legs and dash me against the rocks as I leave the water— which would give me a sorry landing.
If, on the other hand, I swim further in search of some shelving beach or harbour, a hurricane may carry me out to sea again sorely against my will, or heaven may send some great monster of the deep to attack me; for Amphitrite breeds many such, and I know that Neptune is very angry with me."
While he was thus in two minds a wave caught him and took him with such force against the rocks that he would have been smashed and torn to pieces if Minerva had not shown him what to do.
He caught hold of the rock with both hands and clung to it groaning with pain till the wave retired, so he was saved that time; but presently the wave came on again and carried him back with it far into the sea— tearing his hands as the suckers of a polypus are torn when some one plucks it from its bed, and the stones come up along with it— even so did the rocks tear the skin from his strong hands, and then the wave drew him deep down under the water.
Here poor Ulysses would have certainly perished even in spite of his own destiny, if Minerva had not helped him to keep his wits about him.
He swam seaward again, beyond reach of the surf that was beating against the land, and at the same time he kept looking towards the shore to see if he could find some haven, or a spit that should take the waves aslant.
By and by, as he swam on, he came to the mouth of a river, and here he thought would be the best place, for there were no rocks, and it afforded shelter from the wind.
He felt that there was a current, so he prayed inwardly and said: "Hear me, O King, whoever you may be, and save me from the anger of the seagod Neptune, for I approach you prayerfully.
Any one who has lost his way has at all times a claim even upon the gods, wherefore in my distress I draw near to your stream, and cling to the knees of your riverhood.
Have mercy upon me, O king, for I declare myself your suppliant."
Then the god staid his stream and stilled the waves, making all calm before him, and bringing him safely into the mouth of the river.
Here at last Ulysses ' knees and strong hands failed him, for the sea had completely broken him.
His body was all swollen, and his mouth and nostrils ran down like a river with seawater, so that he could neither breathe nor speak, and lay swooning from sheer exhaustion; presently, when he had got his breath and came to himself again, he took off the scarf that Ino had given him and threw it back into the salt stream of the river, whereon Ino received it into her hands from the wave that bore it towards her.
Then he left the river, laid himself down among the rushes, and kissed the bounteous earth.
"Alas," he cried to himself in his dismay," what ever will become of me, and how is it all to end?
If I stay here upon the river bed through the long watches of the night, I am so exhausted that the bitter cold and damp may make an end of me— for towards sunrise there will be a keen wind blowing from off the river.
If, on the other hand, I climb the hill side, find shelter in the woods, and sleep in some thicket, I may escape the cold and have a good night 's rest, but some savage beast may take advantage of me and devour me."
In the end he deemed it best to take to the woods, and he found one upon some high ground not far from the water.
There he crept beneath two shoots of olive that grew from a single stock— the one an ungrafted sucker, while the other had been grafted.
No wind, however squally, could break through the cover they afforded, nor could the sun 's rays pierce them, nor the rain get through them, so closely did they grow into one another.
Ulysses crept under these and began to make himself a bed to lie on, for there was a great litter of dead leaves lying about— enough to make a covering for two or three men even in hard winter weather.
He was glad enough to see this, so he laid himself down and heaped the leaves all round him.
Then, as one who lives alone in the country, far from any neighbor, hides a brand as fireseed in the ashes to save himself from having to get a light elsewhere, even so did Ulysses cover himself up with leaves; and Minerva shed a sweet sleep upon his eyes, closed his eyelids, and made him lose all memories of his sorrows.
MINERVA SUMMONS TELEMACHUS FROM LACEDAEMON—HE MEETS WITH THEOCLYMENUS AT PYLOS AND BRINGS HIM TO ITHACA—ON LANDING HE GOES TO THE HUT OF EUMAEUS.
But Minerva went to the fair city of Lacedaemon to tell Ulysses ' son that he was to return at once.
She found him and Pisistratus sleeping in the forecourt of Menelaus 's house; Pisistratus was fast asleep, but Telemachus could get no rest all night for thinking of his unhappy father, so Minerva went close up to him and said: "Telemachus, you should not remain so far away from home any longer, nor leave your property with such dangerous people in your house; they will eat up everything you have among them, and you will have been on a fool 's errand.
Ask Menelaus to send you home at once if you wish to find your excellent mother still there when you get back.
Her father and brothers are already urging her to marry Eurymachus, who has given her more than any of the others, and has been greatly increasing his wedding presents.
I hope nothing valuable may have been taken from the house in spite of you, but you know what women are— they always want to do the best they can for the man who marries them, and never give another thought to the children of their first husband, nor to their father either when he is dead and done with.
Go home, therefore, and put everything in charge of the most respectable woman servant that you have, until it shall please heaven to send you a wife of your own.
Let me tell you also of another matter which you had better attend to.
The chief men among the suitors are lying in wait for you in the Strait between Ithaca and Samos, and they mean to kill you before you can reach home.
I do not much think they will succeed; it is more likely that some of those who are now eating up your property will find a grave themselves.
Sail night and day, and keep your ship well away from the islands; the god who watches over you and protects you will send you a fair wind.
As soon as you get to Ithaca send your ship and men on to the town, but yourself go straight to the swineherd who has charge of your pigs; he is well disposed towards you, stay with him, therefore, for the night, and then send him to Penelope to tell her that you have got back safe from Pylos."
Then she went back to Olympus; but Telemachus stirred Pisistratus with his heel to rouse him, and said," Wake up Pisistratus, and yoke the horses to the chariot, for we must set off home."
But Pisistratus said," No matter what hurry we are in we can not drive in the dark.
It will be morning soon; wait till Menelaus has brought his presents and put them in the chariot for us; and let him say good bye to us in the usual way.
So long as he lives a guest should never forget a host who has shown him kindness."
As he spoke day began to break, and Menelaus, who had already risen, leaving Helen in bed, came towards them.
When Telemachus saw him he put on his shirt as fast as he could, threw a great cloak over his shoulders, and went out to meet him. "
Menelaus," said he," let me go back now to my own country, for I want to get home."
And Menelaus answered," Telemachus, if you insist on going I will not detain you.
I do not like to see a host either too fond of his guest or too rude to him.
Moderation is best in all things, and not letting a man go when he wants to do so is as bad as telling him to go if he would like to stay.
One should treat a guest well as long as he is in the house and speed him when he wants to leave it.
Wait, then, till I can get your beautiful presents into your chariot, and till you have yourself seen them.
I will tell the women to prepare a sufficient dinner for you of what there may be in the house; it will be at once more proper and cheaper for you to get your dinner before setting out on such a long journey.
If, moreover, you have a fancy for making a tour in Hellas or in the Peloponnese, I will yoke my horses, and will conduct you myself through all our principal cities.
No one will send us away empty handed; every one will give us something— a bronze tripod, a couple of mules, or a gold cup."
"Menelaus," replied Telemachus," I want to go home at once, for when I came away I left my property without protection, and fear that while looking for my father I shall come to ruin myself, or find that something valuable has been stolen during my absence."
When Menelaus heard this he immediately told his wife and servants to prepare a sufficient dinner from what there might be in the house.
At this moment Eteoneus joined him, for he lived close by and had just got up; so Menelaus told him to light the fire and cook some meat, which he at once did.
Then Menelaus went down into his fragrant store room not alone, but Helen went too, with Megapenthes.
When he reached the place where the treasures of his house were kept, he selected a double cup, and told his son Megapenthes to bring also a silver mixing bowl.
Meanwhile Helen went to the chest where she kept the lovely dresses which she had made with her own hands, and took out one that was largest and most beautifully enriched with embroidery; it glittered like a star, and lay at the very bottom of the chest.
Then they all came back through the house again till they got to Telemachus, and Menelaus said," Telemachus, may Jove, the mighty husband of Juno, bring you safely home according to your desire.
I will now present you with the finest and most precious piece of plate in all my house.
It is a mixing bowl of pure silver, except the rim, which is inlaid with gold, and it is the work of Vulcan.
Phaedimus king of the Sidonians made me a present of it in the course of a visit that I paid him while I was on my return home.
I should like to give it to you."
With these words he placed the double cup in the hands of Telemachus, while Megapenthes brought the beautiful mixing bowl and set it before him.
Hard by stood lovely Helen with the robe ready in her hand.
"I too, my son," said she," have something for you as a keepsake from the hand of Helen; it is for your bride to wear upon her wedding day.
Till then, get your dear mother to keep it for you; thus may you go back rejoicing to your own country and to your home."
So saying she gave the robe over to him and he received it gladly.
Then Pisistratus put the presents into the chariot, and admired them all as he did so.
Presently Menelaus took Telemachus and Pisistratus into the house, and they both of them sat down to table.
A maid servant brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them; an upper servant brought them bread and offered them many good things of what there was in the house.
Eteoneus carved the meat and gave them each their portions, while Megapenthes poured out the wine.
Then they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus and Pisistratus yoked the horses, and took their places in the chariot.
They drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court, and Menelaus came after them with a golden goblet of wine in his right hand that they might make a drinkoffering before they set out.
He stood in front of the horses and pledged them, saying," Farewell to both of you; see that you tell Nestor how I have treated you, for he was as kind to me as any father could be while we Achaeans were fighting before Troy."
"We will be sure, sir," answered Telemachus," to tell him everything as soon as we see him.
I wish I were as certain of finding Ulysses returned when I get back to Ithaca, that I might tell him of the very great kindness you have shown me and of the many beautiful presents I am taking with me."
As he was thus speaking a bird flew on his right hand— an eagle with a great white goose in its talons which it had carried off from the farm yard— and all the men and women were running after it and shouting.
It came quite close up to them and flew away on their right hands in front of the horses.
When they saw it they were glad, and their hearts took comfort within them ,whereon Pisistratus said," Tell me, Menelaus, has heaven sent this omen for us or for you?"
Menelaus was thinking what would be the most proper answer for him to make, but Helen was too quick for him and said," I will read this matter as heaven has put it in my heart, and as I doubt not that it will come to pass.
The eagle came from the mountain where it was bred and has its nest, and in like manner Ulysses, after having travelled far and suffered much, will return to take his revenge— if indeed he is not back already and hatching mischief for the suitors."
"May Jove so grant it," replied Telemachus," if it should prove to be so, I will make vows to you as though you were a god, even when I am at home."
As he spoke he lashed his horses and they started off at full speed through the town towards the open country.
They swayed the yoke upon their necks and travelled the whole day long till the sun set and darkness was over all the land.
Then they reached Pherae, where Diocles lived who was son of Ortilochus, the son of Alpheus.
There they passed the night and were treated hospitably.
When the child of morning, rosyfingered Dawn, appeared, they again yoked their horses and their places in the chariot.
They drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court.
Then Pisistratus lashed his horses on and they flew forward nothing loath; ere long they came to Pylos, and then Telemachus said: "Pisistratus, I hope you will promise to do what I am going to ask you.
You know our fathers were old friends before us; moreover, we are both of an age, and this journey has brought us together still more closely; do not, therefore, take me past my ship, but leave me there, for if I go to your father 's house he will try to keep me in the warmth of his good will towards me, and I must go home at once."
Pisistratus thought how he should do as he was asked, and in the end he deemed it best to turn his horses towards the ship, and put Menelaus 's beautiful presents of gold and raiment in the stern of the vessel.
Then he said," Go on board at once and tell your men to do so also before I can reach home to tell my father.
I know how obstinate he is, and am sure he will not let you go; he will come down here to fetch you, and he will not go back without you.
But he will be very angry."
With this he drove his goodly steeds back to the city of the Pylians and soon reached his home, but Telemachus called the men together and gave his orders.
"Now, my men," said he," get everything in order on board the ship, and let us set out home."
Thus did he speak, and they went on board even as he had said.
But as Telemachus was thus busied, praying also and sacrificing to Minerva in the ship 's stern, there came to him a man from a distant country, a seer, who was flying from Argos because he had killed a man.
He was descended from Melampus, who used to live in Pylos, the land of sheep; he was rich and owned a great house, but he was driven into exile by the great and powerful king Neleus.
Neleus seized his goods and held them for a whole year, during which he was a close prisoner in the house of king Phylacus, and in much distress of mind both on account of the daughter of Neleus and because he was haunted by a great sorrow that dread Erinys had laid upon him.
In the end, however, he escaped with his life, drove the cattle from Phylace to Pylos, avenged the wrong that had been done him, and gave the daughter of Neleus to his brother.
Then he left the country and went to Argos, where it was ordained that he should reign over much people.
There he married, established himself, and had two famous sons Antiphates and Mantius.
Antiphates became father of Oicleus, and Oicleus of Amphiaraus, who was dearly loved both by Jove and by Apollo, but he did not live to old age, for he was killed in Thebes by reason of a woman 's gifts.
His sons were Alcmaeon and Amphilochus.
Mantius, the other son of Melampus, was father to Polypheides and Cleitus.
Aurora, throned in gold, carried off Cleitus for his beauty 's sake, that he might dwell among the immortals, but Apollo made Polypheides the greatest seer in the whole world now that Amphiaraus was dead.
He quarrelled with his father and went to live in Hyperesia, where he remained and prophesied for all men.
His son, Theoclymenus, it was who now came up to Telemachus as he was making drinkofferings and praying in his ship. "
Friend," said he," now that I find you sacrificing in this place, I beseech you by your sacrifices themselves, and by the god to whom you make them, I pray you also by your own head and by those of your followers tell me the truth and nothing but the truth.
Who and whence are you?
Tell me also of your town and parents."
Telemachus said," I will answer you quite truly.
I am from Ithaca, and my father is Ulysses, as surely as that he ever lived.
But he has come to some miserable end.
Therefore I have taken this ship and got my crew together to see if I can hear any news of him, for he has been away a long time."
"I too," answered Theoclymenus," am an exile, for I have killed a man of my own race.
He has many brothers and kinsmen in Argos, and they have great power among the Argives.
I am flying to escape death at their hands, and am thus doomed to be a wanderer on the face of the earth.
I am your suppliant; take me, therefore, on board your ship that they may not kill me, for I know they are in pursuit."
"I will not refuse you," replied Telemachus," if you wish to join us.
Come, therefore, and in Ithaca we will treat you hospitably according to what we have."
On this he received Theoclymenus ' spear and laid it down on the deck of the ship.
He went on board and sat in the stern, bidding Theoclymenus sit beside him; then the men let go the hawsers.
Telemachus told them to catch hold of the ropes, and they made all haste to do so.
They set the mast in its socket in the cross plank, raised it and made it fast with the forestays, and they hoisted their white sails with sheets of twisted ox hide.
Minerva sent them a fair wind that blew fresh and strong to take the ship on her course as fast as possible.
Thus then they passed by Crouni and Chalcis.
Presently the sun set and darkness was over all the land.
The vessel made a quick passage to Pheae and thence on to Elis, where the Epeans rule.
Telemachus then headed her for the flying islands wondering within himself whether he should escape death or should be taken prisoner.
Meanwhile Ulysses and the swineherd were eating their supper in the hut, and the men supped with them.
As soon as they had had to eat and drink, Ulysses began trying to prove the swineherd and see whether he would continue to treat him kindly, and ask him to stay on at the station or pack him off to the city; so he said: "Eumaeus, and all of you, tomorrow I want to go away and begin begging about the town, so as to be no more trouble to you or to your men.
Give me your advice therefore, and let me have a good guide to go with me and show me the way.
I will go the round of the city begging as I needs must, to see if any one will give me a drink and a piece of bread.
I should like also to go to the house of Ulysses and bring news of her husband to Queen Penelope.
I could then go about among the suitors and see if out of all their abundance they will give me a dinner.
I should soon make them an excellent servant in all sorts of ways.
Listen and believe when I tell you that by the blessing of Mercury who gives grace and good name to the works of all men, there is no one living who would make a more handy servant than I should— to put fresh wood on the fire, chop fuel, carve, cook, pour out wine, and do all those services that poor men have to do for their betters."
The swineherd was very much disturbed when he heard this. "
Heaven help me," he exclaimed," what ever can have put such a notion as that into your head?
If you go near the suitors you will be undone to a certainty, for their pride and insolence reach the very heavens.
They would never think of taking a man like you for a servant.
Their servants are all young men, well dressed, wearing good cloaks and shirts, with well looking faces and their hair always tidy, the tables are kept quite clean and are loaded with bread, meat, and wine.
Stay where you are, then ;you are not in anybody 's way; I do not mind your being here, no more do any of the others, and when Telemachus comes home he will give you a shirt and cloak and will send you wherever you want to go."
Ulysses answered," I hope you may be as dear to the gods as you are to me, for having saved me from going about and getting into trouble; there is nothing worse than being always on the tramp; still, when men have once got low down in the world they will go through a great deal on behalf of their miserable bellies.
Since, however, you press me to stay here and await the return of Telemachus, tell me about Ulysses ' mother, and his father whom he left on the threshold of old age when he set out for Troy.
Are they still living or are they already dead and in the house of Hades?"
"I will tell you all about them," replied Eumaeus," Laertes is still living and prays heaven to let him depart peacefully in his own house, for he is terribly distressed about the absence of his son, and also about the death of his wife, which grieved him greatly and aged him more than anything else did.
She came to an unhappy end through sorrow for her son: may no friend or neighbour who has dealt kindly by me come to such an end as she did.
As long as she was still living, though she was always grieving, I used to like seeing her and asking her how she did, for she brought me up along with her daughter Ctimene, the youngest of her children; we were boy and girl together, and she made little difference between us.
When, however, we both grew up, they sent Ctimene to Same and received a splendid dowry for her.
As for me, my mistress gave me a good shirt and cloak with a pair of sandals for my feet, and sent me off into the country, but she was just as fond of me as ever.
This is all over now.
Still it has pleased heaven to prosper my work in the situation which I now hold.
I have enough to eat and drink, and can find something for any respectable stranger who comes here; but there is no getting a kind word or deed out of my mistress, for the house has fallen into the hands of wicked people.
Servants want sometimes to see their mistress and have a talk with her; they like to have something to eat and drink at the house, and something too to take back with them into the country.
This is what will keep servants in a good humour."
Ulysses answered," Then you must have been a very little fellow, Eumaeus, when you were taken so far away from your home and parents.
Tell me, and tell me true, was the city in which your father and mother lived sacked and pillaged, or did some enemies carry you off when you were alone tending sheep or cattle, ship you off here, and sell you for whatever your master gave them?"
"Stranger," replied Eumaeus," as regards your question: sit still, make yourself comfortable, drink your wine, and listen to me.
The nights are now at their longest; there is plenty of time both for sleeping and sitting up talking together; you ought not to go to bed till bed time, too much sleep is as bad as too little ;if any one of the others wishes to go to bed let him leave us and do so; he can then take my master 's pigs out when he has done breakfast in the morning.
We too will sit here eating and drinking in the hut, and telling one another stories about our misfortunes; for when a man has suffered much, and been buffeted about in the world, he takes pleasure in recalling the memory of sorrows that have long gone by.
As regards your question, then, my tale is as follows: "You may have heard of an island called Syra that lies over above Ortygia where the land begins to turn round and look in another direction.
It is not very thickly peopled, but the soil is good, with much pasture fit for cattle and sheep, and it abounds with wine and wheat.
Dearth never comes there, nor are the people plagued by any sickness, but when they grow old Apollo comes with Diana and kills them with his painless shafts.
It contains two communities, and the whole country is divided between these two.
My father Ctesius son of Ormenus, a man comparable to the gods, reigned over both.
"Now to this place there came some cunning traders from Phoenicia( for the Phoenicians are great mariners) in a ship which they had freighted with gewgaws of all kinds.
There happened to be a Phoenician woman in my father 's house, very tall and comely, and an excellent servant; these scoundrels got hold of her one day when she was washing near their ship, seduced her, and cajoled her in ways that no woman can resist, no matter how good she may be by nature.
The man who had seduced her asked her who she was and where she came from, and on this she told him her father 's name.'
I come from Sidon,' said she,' and am daughter to Arybas, a man rolling in wealth.
One day as I was coming into the town from the country, some Taphian pirates seized me and took me here over the sea, where they sold me to the man who owns this house, and he gave them their price for me.'
"The man who had seduced her then said,' Would you like to come along with us to see the house of your parents and your parents themselves?
They are both alive and are said to be well off.'
"'I will do so gladly,' answered she,' if you men will first swear me a solemn oath that you will do me no harm by the way.'
"They all swore as she told them, and when they had completed their oath the woman said,' Hush; and if any of your men meets me in the street or at the well, do not let him speak to me, for fear some one should go and tell my master, in which case he would suspect something.
He would put me in prison, and would have all of you murdered; keep your own counsel therefore; buy your merchandise as fast as you can, and send me word when you have done loading.
I will bring as much gold as I can lay my hands on, and there is something else also that I can do towards paying my fare.
I am nurse to the son of the good man of the house, a funny little fellow just able to run about.
I will carry him off in your ship, and you will get a great deal of money for him if you take him and sell him in foreign parts.'
"On this she went back to the house.
The Phoenicians stayed a whole year till they had loaded their ship with much precious merchandise, and then, when they had got freight enough, they sent to tell the woman.
Their messenger, a very cunning fellow, came to my father 's house bringing a necklace of gold with amber beads strung among it; and while my mother and the servants had it in their hands admiring it and bargaining about it, he made a sign quietly to the woman and then went back to the ship, whereon she took me by the hand and led me out of the house.
In the fore part of the house she saw the tables set with the cups of guests who had been feasting with my father, as being in attendance on him; these were now all gone to a meeting of the public assembly, so she snatched up three cups and carried them off in the bosom of her dress, while I followed her, for I knew no better.
The sun was now set, and darkness was over all the land, so we hurried on as fast as we could till we reached the harbour, where the Phoenician ship was lying.
When they had got on board they sailed their ways over the sea, taking us with them, and Jove sent then a fair wind; six days did we sail both night and day, but on the seventh day Diana struck the woman and she fell heavily down into the ship 's hold as though she were a sea gull alighting on the water; so they threw her overboard to the seals and fishes, and I was left all sorrowful and alone.
Presently the winds and waves took the ship to Ithaca, where Laertes gave sundry of his chattels for me, and thus it was that ever I came to set eyes upon this country."
Ulysses answered," Eumaeus, I have heard the story of your misfortunes with the most lively interest and pity, but Jove has given you good as well as evil, for in spite of everything you have a good master, who sees that you always have enough to eat and drink; and you lead a good life, whereas I am still going about begging my way from city to city."
Thus did they converse, and they had only a very little time left for sleep, for it was soon daybreak.
In the mean time Telemachus and his crew were nearing land, so they loosed the sails, took down the mast, and rowed the ship into the harbour.
They cast out their mooring stones and made fast the hawsers; they then got out upon the sea shore, mixed their wine, and got dinner ready.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus said," Take the ship on to the town, but leave me here, for I want to look after the herdsmen on one of my farms.
In the evening, when I have seen all I want, I will come down to the city, and tomorrow morning in return for your trouble I will give you all a good dinner with meat and wine."
Then Theoclymenus said," And what, my dear young friend, is to become of me?
To whose house, among all your chief men, am I to repair?
or shall I go straight to your own house and to your mother?"
"At any other time," replied Telemachus," I should have bidden you go to my own house, for you would find no want of hospitality; at the present moment, however, you would not be comfortable there, for I shall be away, and my mother will not see you; she does not often show herself even to the suitors, but sits at her loom weaving in an upper chamber, out of their way; but I can tell you a man whose house you can go to— I mean Eurymachus the son of Polybus, who is held in the highest estimation by every one in Ithaca.
He is much the best man and the most persistent wooer, of all those who are paying court to my mother and trying to take Ulysses ' place.
Jove, however, in heaven alone knows whether or no they will come to a bad end before the marriage takes place."
As he was speaking a bird flew by upon his right hand— a hawk, Apollo 's messenger.
It held a dove in its talons, and the feathers, as it tore them off fell to the ground midway between Telemachus and the ship.
On this Theoclymenus called him apart and caught him by the hand. "
Telemachus," said he," that bird did not fly on your right hand without having been sent there by some god.
As soon as I saw it I knew it was an omen; it means that you will remain powerful and that there will be no house in Ithaca more royal than your own."
"I wish it may prove so," answered Telemachus.
"If it does, I will show you so much good will and give you so many presents that all who meet you will congratulate you."
Then he said to his friend Piraeus," Piraeus, son of Clytius, you have throughout shown yourself the most willing to serve me of all those who have accompanied me to Pylos; I wish you would take this stranger to your own house and entertain him hospitably till I can come for him."
And Piraeus answered," Telemachus, you may stay away as long as you please, but I will look after him for you, and he shall find no lack of hospitality."
As he spoke he went on board, and bade the others do so also and loose the hawsers, so they took their places in the ship.
But Telemachus bound on his sandals, and took a long and doughty spear with a head of sharpened bronze from the deck of the ship.
Then they loosed the hawsers, thrust the ship off from land, and made on towards the city as they had been told to do, while Telemachus strode on as fast as he could, till he reached the homestead where his countless herds of swine were feeding, and where dwelt the excellent swineherd, who was so devoted a servant to his master.
The fight between Achilles and the river Scamander—The gods fight among themselves—Achilles drives the Trojans within their gates.
Now when they came to the ford of the fullflowing river Xanthus, begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut their forces in two: one half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that the Achaeans had taken when flying panicstricken on the preceding day with Hector in full triumph; this way did they fly pellmell, and Juno sent down a thick mist in front of them to stay them.
The other half were hemmed in by the deep silvereddying stream, and fell into it with a great uproar.
The waters resounded, and the banks rang again, as they swam hither and thither with loud cries amid the whirling eddies.
As locusts flying to a river before the blast of a grass fire— the flame comes on and on till at last it overtakes them and they huddle into the water— even so was the eddying stream of Xanthus filled with the uproar of men and horses, all struggling in confusion before Achilles.
Forthwith the hero left his spear upon the bank, leaning it against a tamarisk bush, and plunged into the river like a god, armed with his sword only.
Fell was his purpose as he hewed the Trojans down on every side.
Their dying groans rose hideous as the sword smote them, and the river ran red with blood.
As when fish fly scared before a huge dolphin, and fill every nook and corner of some fair haven— for he is sure to eat all he can catch— even so did the Trojans cower under the banks of the mighty river, and when Achilles ' arms grew weary with killing them, he drew twelve youths alive out of the water, to sacrifice in revenge for Patroclus son of Menoetius.
He drew them out like dazed fawns, bound their hands behind them with the girdles of their own shirts, and gave them over to his men to take back to the ships.
Then he sprang into the river, thirsting for still further blood.
There he found Lycaon, son of Priam seed of Dardanus, as he was escaping out of the water; he it was whom he had once taken prisoner when he was in his father 's vineyard, having set upon him by night, as he was cutting young shoots from a wild figtree to make the wicker sides of a chariot.
Achilles then caught him to his sorrow unawares, and sent him by sea to Lemnos, where the son of Jason bought him.
But a guestfriend, Eetion of Imbros, freed him with a great sum, and sent him to Arisbe, whence he had escaped and returned to his father 's house.
He had spent eleven days happily with his friends after he had come from Lemnos, but on the twelfth heaven again delivered him into the hands of Achilles, who was to send him to the house of Hades sorely against his will.
He was unarmed when Achilles caught sight of him, and had neither helmet nor shield; nor yet had he any spear, for he had thrown all his armour from him on to the bank, and was sweating with his struggles to get out of the river, so that his strength was now failing him.
Then Achilles said to himself in his surprise," What marvel do I see here?
If this man can come back alive after having been sold over into Lemnos, I shall have the Trojans also whom I have slain rising from the world below.
Could not even the waters of the grey sea imprison him, as they do many another whether he will or no?
This time let him taste my spear, that I may know for certain whether mother earth who can keep even a strong man down, will be able to hold him, or whether thence too he will return."
Thus did he pause and ponder.
But Lycaon came up to him dazed and trying hard to embrace his knees, for he would fain live, not die.
Achilles thrust at him with his spear, meaning to kill him, but Lycaon ran crouching up to him and caught his knees, whereby the spear passed over his back, and stuck in the ground, hungering though it was for blood.
With one hand he caught Achilles ' knees as he besought him, and with the other he clutched the spear and would not let it go.
Then he said," Achilles, have mercy upon me and spare me, for I am your suppliant.
It was in your tents that I first broke bread on the day when you took me prisoner in the vineyard; after which you sold me away to Lemnos far from my father and my friends, and I brought you the price of a hundred oxen.
I have paid three times as much to gain my freedom; it is but twelve days that I have come to Ilius after much suffering, and now cruel fate has again thrown me into your hands.
Surely father Jove must hate me, that he has given me over to you a second time.
Short of life indeed did my mother Laothoe bear me, daughter of aged Altes— of Altes who reigns over the warlike Lelegae and holds steep Pedasus on the river Satnioeis.
Priam married his daughter along with many other women and two sons were born of her, both of whom you will have slain.
Your spear slew noble Polydorus as he was fighting in the front ranks, and now evil will here befall me, for I fear that I shall not escape you since heaven has delivered me over to you.
Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, spare me, for I am not of the same womb as Hector who slew your brave and noble comrade."
With such words did the princely son of Priam beseech Achilles; but Achilles answered him sternly. "
Idiot," said he," talk not to me of ransom.
Until Patroclus fell I preferred to give the Trojans quarter, and sold beyond the sea many of those whom I had taken alive; but now not a man shall live of those whom heaven delivers into my hands before the city of Ilius— and of all Trojans it shall fare hardest with the sons of Priam.
Therefore, my friend, you too shall die.
Why should you whine in this way?
Patroclus fell, and he was a better man than you are.
I too— see you not how I am great and goodly?
I am son to a noble father, and have a goddess for my mother, but the hands of doom and death overshadow me all as surely.
The day will come, either at dawn or dark, or at the noontide, when one shall take my life also in battle, either with his spear, or with an arrow sped from his bow."
Thus did he speak, and Lycaon 's heart sank within him.
He loosed his hold of the spear, and held out both hands before him; but Achilles drew his keen blade, and struck him by the collarbone on his neck; he plunged his twoedged sword into him to the very hilt, whereon he lay at full length on the ground, with the dark blood welling from him till the earth was soaked.
Then Achilles caught him by the foot and flung him into the river to go down stream, vaunting over him the while, and saying," Lie there among the fishes, who will lick the blood from your wound and gloat over it; your mother shall not lay you on any bier to mourn you, but the eddies of Scamander shall bear you into the broad bosom of the sea.
There shall the fishes feed on the fat of Lycaon as they dart under the dark ripple of the waters— so perish all of you till we reach the citadel of strong Ilius— you in flight, and I following after to destroy you.
The river with its broad silver stream shall serve you in no stead, for all the bulls you offered him and all the horses that you flung living into his waters.
None the less miserably shall you perish till there is not a man of you but has paid in full for the death of Patroclus and the havoc you wrought among the Achaeans whom you have slain while I held aloof from battle."
So spoke Achilles, but the river grew more and more angry, and pondered within himself how he should stay the hand of Achilles and save the Trojans from disaster.
Meanwhile the son of Peleus, spear in hand, sprang upon Asteropaeus son of Pelegon to kill him.
He was son to the broad river Axius and Periboea eldest daughter of Acessamenus; for the river had lain with her.
Asteropaeus stood up out of the water to face him with a spear in either hand, and Xanthus filled him with courage, being angry for the death of the youths whom Achilles was slaying ruthlessly within his waters.
When they were close up with one another Achilles was first to speak.
"Who and whence are you," said he," who dare to face me?
Woe to the parents whose son stands up against me."
And the son of Pelegon answered," Great son of Peleus, why should you ask my lineage.
I am from the fertile land of far Paeonia, captain of the Paeonians, and it is now eleven days that I am at Ilius.
I am of the blood of the river Axius— of Axius that is the fairest of all rivers that run.
He begot the famed warrior Pelegon, whose son men call me.
Let us now fight, Achilles."
Thus did he defy him, and Achilles raised his spear of Pelian ash.
Asteropaeus failed with both his spears, for he could use both hands alike; with the one spear he struck Achilles ' shield, but did not pierce it, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point; with the other spear he grazed the elbow of Achilles ' right arm drawing dark blood, but the spear itself went by him and fixed itself in the ground, foiled of its bloody banquet.
Then Achilles, fain to kill him, hurled his spear at Asteropaeus, but failed to hit him and struck the steep bank of the river, driving the spear half its length into the earth.
The son of Peleus then drew his sword and sprang furiously upon him.
Asteropaeus vainly tried to draw Achilles ' spear out of the bank by main force; thrice did he tug at it, trying with all his might to draw it out, and thrice he had to leave off trying; the fourth time he tried to bend and break it, but ere he could do so Achilles smote him with his sword and killed him.
He struck him in the belly near the navel, so that all his bowels came gushing out on to the ground, and the darkness of death came over him as he lay gasping.
Then Achilles set his foot on his chest and spoiled him of his armour, vaunting over him and saying," Lie there— begotten of a river though you be, it is hard for you to strive with the offspring of Saturn 's son.
You declare yourself sprung from the blood of a broad river, but I am of the seed of mighty Jove.
My father is Peleus, son of Aeacus ruler over the many Myrmidons, and Aeacus was the son of Jove.
Therefore as Jove is mightier than any river that flows into the sea, so are his children stronger than those of any river whatsoever.
Moreover you have a great river hard by if he can be of any use to you, but there is no fighting against Jove the son of Saturn, with whom not even King Achelous can compare, nor the mighty stream of deepflowing Oceanus, from whom all rivers and seas with all springs and deep wells proceed; even Oceanus fears the lightnings of great Jove, and his thunder that comes crashing out of heaven."
With this he drew his bronze spear out of the bank, and now that he had killed Asteropaeus, he let him lie where he was on the sand, with the dark water flowing over him and the eels and fishes busy nibbling and gnawing the fat that was about his kidneys.
Then he went in chase of the Paeonians, who were flying along the bank of the river in panic when they saw their leader slain by the hands of the son of Peleus.
Therein he slew Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Oeneus, and Ophelestes, and he would have slain yet others, had not the river in anger taken human form, and spoken to him from out the deep waters saying," Achilles, if you excel all in strength, so do you also in wickedness, for the gods are ever with you to protect you: if, then, the son of Saturn has vouchsafed it to you to destroy all the Trojans, at any rate drive them out of my stream, and do your grim work on land.
My fair waters are now filled with corpses, nor can I find any channel by which I may pour myself into the sea for I am choked with dead, and yet you go on mercilessly slaying.
I am in despair, therefore, O captain of your host, trouble me no further."
Achilles answered," So be it, Scamander, Jovedescended; but I will never cease dealing out death among the Trojans, till I have pent them up in their city, and made trial of Hector face to face, that I may learn whether he is to vanquish me, or I him."
As he spoke he set upon the Trojans with a fury like that of the gods.
But the river said to Apollo," Surely, son of Jove, lord of the silver bow, you are not obeying the commands of Jove who charged you straitly that you should stand by the Trojans and defend them, till twilight fades, and darkness is over the earth."
Meanwhile Achilles sprang from the bank into mid stream, whereon the river raised a high wave and attacked him.
He swelled his stream into a torrent, and swept away the many dead whom Achilles had slain and left within his waters.
These he cast out on to the land, bellowing like a bull the while, but the living he saved alive, hiding them in his mighty eddies.
The great and terrible wave gathered about Achilles, falling upon him and beating on his shield, so that he could not keep his feet; he caught hold of a great elmtree, but it came up by the roots, and tore away the bank, damming the stream with its thick branches and bridging it all across; whereby Achilles struggled out of the stream, and fled full speed over the plain, for he was afraid.
But the mighty god ceased not in his pursuit, and sprang upon him with a darkcrested wave, to stay his hands and save the Trojans from destruction.
The son of Peleus darted away a spear 's throw from him; swift as the swoop of a black huntereagle which is the strongest and fleetest of all birds, even so did he spring forward, and the armour rang loudly about his breast.
He fled on in front, but the river with a loud roar came tearing after.
As one who would water his garden leads a stream from some fountain over his plants, and all his ground— spade in hand he clears away the dams to free the channels, and the little stones run rolling round and round with the water as it goes merrily down the bank faster than the man can follow— even so did the river keep catching up with Achilles albeit he was a fleet runner, for the gods are stronger than men.
As often as he would strive to stand his ground, and see whether or no all the gods in heaven were in league against him, so often would the mighty wave come beating down upon his shoulders, and he would have to keep flying on and on in great dismay; for the angry flood was tiring him out as it flowed past him and ate the ground from under his feet.
Then the son of Peleus lifted up his voice to heaven saying," Father Jove, is there none of the gods who will take pity upon me, and save me from the river?
I do not care what may happen to me afterwards.
I blame none of the other dwellers on Olympus so severely as I do my dear mother, who has beguiled and tricked me.
She told me I was to fall under the walls of Troy by the flying arrows of Apollo; would that Hector, the best man among the Trojans, might there slay me; then should I fall a hero by the hand of a hero; whereas now it seems that I shall come to a most pitiable end, trapped in this river as though I were some swineherd 's boy, who gets carried down a torrent while trying to cross it during a storm."
As soon as he had spoken thus, Neptune and Minerva came up to him in the likeness of two men, and took him by the hand to reassure him.
Neptune spoke first.
"Son of Peleus," said he," be not so exceeding fearful; we are two gods, come with Jove 's sanction to assist you, I, and Pallas Minerva.
It is not your fate to perish in this river; he will abate presently as you will see; moreover we strongly advise you, if you will be guided by us, not to stay your hand from fighting till you have pent the Trojan host within the famed walls of Ilius— as many of them as may escape.
Then kill Hector and go back to the ships, for we will vouchsafe you a triumph over him."
When they had so said they went back to the other immortals, but Achilles strove onward over the plain, encouraged by the charge the gods had laid upon him.
All was now covered with the flood of waters, and much goodly armour of the youths that had been slain was rifting about, as also many corpses, but he forced his way against the stream, speeding right onwards, nor could the broad waters stay him, for Minerva had endowed him with great strength.
Nevertheless Scamander did not slacken in his pursuit, but was still more furious with the son of Peleus.
He lifted his waters into a high crest and cried aloud to Simois saying," Dear brother, let the two of us unite to save this man, or he will sack the mighty city of King Priam, and the Trojans will not hold out against him.
Help me at once; fill your streams with water from their sources, rouse all your torrents to a fury; raise your wave on high, and let snags and stones come thundering down you that we may make an end of this savage creature who is now lording it as though he were a god.
Nothing shall serve him longer, not strength nor comeliness, nor his fine armour, which forsooth shall soon be lying low in the deep waters covered over with mud.
I will wrap him in sand, and pour tons of shingle round him, so that the Achaeans shall not know how to gather his bones for the silt in which I shall have hidden him, and when they celebrate his funeral they need build no barrow."
On this he upraised his tumultuous flood high against Achilles, seething as it was with foam and blood and the bodies of the dead.
The dark waters of the river stood upright and would have overwhelmed the son of Peleus, but Juno, trembling lest Achilles should be swept away in the mighty torrent, lifted her voice on high and called out to Vulcan her son. "
Crookfoot," she cried," my child, be up and doing, for I deem it is with you that Xanthus is fain to fight; help us at once, kindle a fierce fire; I will then bring up the west and the white south wind in a mighty hurricane from the sea, that shall bear the flames against the heads and armour of the Trojans and consume them, while you go along the banks of Xanthus burning his trees and wrapping him round with fire.
Let him not turn you back neither by fair words nor foul, and slacken not till I shout and tell you.
Then you may stay your flames."
On this Vulcan kindled a fierce fire, which broke out first upon the plain and burned the many dead whom Achilles had killed and whose bodies were lying about in great numbers; by this means the plain was dried and the flood stayed.
As the north wind, blowing on an orchard that has been sodden with autumn rain, soon dries it, and the heart of the owner is glad— even so the whole plain was dried and the dead bodies were consumed.
Then he turned tongues of fire on to the river.
He burned the elms the willows and the tamarisks, the lotus also, with the rushes and marshy herbage that grew abundantly by the banks of the river.
The eels and fishes that go darting about everywhere in the water, these, too, were sorely harassed by the flames that cunning Vulcan had kindled, and the river himself was scalded, so that he spoke saying," Vulcan, there is no god can hold his own against you.
I can not fight you when you flare out your flames in this way; strive with me no longer.
Let Achilles drive the Trojans out of their city immediately.
What have I to do with quarrelling and helping people?"
He was boiling as he spoke, and all his waters were seething.
As a cauldron upon a large fire boils when it is melting the lard of some fatted hog, and the lard keeps bubbling up all over when the dry faggots blaze under it— even so were the goodly waters of Xanthus heated with the fire till they were boiling.
He could flow no longer but stayed his stream, so afflicted was he by the blasts of fire which cunning Vulcan had raised.
Then he prayed to Juno and besought her saying," Juno, why should your son vex my stream with such especial fury?
I am not so much to blame as all the others are who have been helping the Trojans.
I will leave off, since you so desire it, and let your son leave off also.
Furthermore I swear never again will I do anything to save the Trojans from destruction, not even when all Troy is burning in the flames which the Achaeans will kindle."
As soon as Juno heard this she said to her son Vulcan," Son Vulcan, hold now your flames; we ought not to use such violence against a god for the sake of mortals."
When she had thus spoken Vulcan quenched his flames, and the river went back once more into his own fair bed.
Xanthus was now beaten, so these two left off fighting, for Juno stayed them though she was still angry; but a furious quarrel broke out among the other gods, for they were of divided counsels.
They fell on one another with a mighty uproar— earth groaned, and the spacious firmament rang out as with a blare of trumpets.
Jove heard as he was sitting on Olympus, and laughed for joy when he saw the gods coming to blows among themselves.
They were not long about beginning, and Mars piercer of shields opened the battle.
Sword in hand he sprang at once upon Minerva and reviled her. "
Why, vixen," said he," have you again set the gods by the ears in the pride and haughtiness of your heart?
Have you forgotten how you set Diomed son of Tydeus on to wound me, and yourself took visible spear and drove it into me to the hurt of my fair body?
You shall now suffer for what you then did to me."
As he spoke he struck her on the terrible tasselled aegis— so terrible that not even can Jove 's lightning pierce it.
Here did murderous Mars strike her with his great spear.
She drew back and with her strong hand seized a stone that was lying on the plain— great and rugged and black— which men of old had set for the boundary of a field.
With this she struck Mars on the neck, and brought him down.
Nine roods did he cover in his fall, and his hair was all soiled in the dust, while his armour rang rattling round him.
But Minerva laughed and vaunted over him saying," Idiot, have you not learned how far stronger I am than you, but you must still match yourself against me?
Thus do your mother 's curses now roost upon you, for she is angry and would do you mischief because you have deserted the Achaeans and are helping the Trojans."
She then turned her two piercing eyes elsewhere, whereon Jove 's daughter Venus took Mars by the hand and led him away groaning all the time, for it was only with great difficulty that he had come to himself again.
When Queen Juno saw her, she said to Minerva," Look, daughter of aegisbearing Jove, unweariable, that vixen Venus is again taking Mars through the crowd out of the battle; go after her at once."
Thus she spoke.
Minerva sped after Venus with a will, and made at her, striking her on the bosom with her strong hand so that she fell fainting to the ground, and there they both lay stretched at full length.
Then Minerva vaunted over her saying," May all who help the Trojans against the Argives prove just as redoubtable and stalwart as Venus did when she came across me while she was helping Mars.
Had this been so ,we should long since have ended the war by sacking the strong city of Ilius."
Juno smiled as she listened.
Meanwhile King Neptune turned to Apollo saying," Phoebus, why should we keep each other at arm 's length?
it is not well, now that the others have begun fighting; it will be disgraceful to us if we return to Jove 's bronzefloored mansion on Olympus without having fought each other; therefore come on, you are the younger of the two, and I ought not to attack you, for I am older and have had more experience.
Idiot, you have no sense, and forget how we two alone of all the gods fared hardly round about Ilius when we came from Jove 's house and worked for Laomedon a whole year at a stated wage and he gave us his orders.
I built the Trojans the wall about their city, so wide and fair that it might be impregnable, while you, Phoebus, herded cattle for him in the dales of many valleyed Ida.
When, however, the glad hours brought round the time of payment, mighty Laomedon robbed us of all our hire and sent us off with nothing but abuse.
He threatened to bind us hand and foot and sell us over into some distant island.
He tried, moreover, to cut off the ears of both of us, so we went away in a rage, furious about the payment he had promised us, and yet withheld; in spite of all this, you are now showing favour to his people, and will not join us in compassing the utter ruin of the proud Trojans with their wives and children."
And King Apollo answered," Lord of the earthquake, you would have no respect for me if I were to fight you about a pack of miserable mortals, who come out like leaves in summer and eat the fruit of the field, and presently fall lifeless to the ground.
Let us stay this fighting at once and let them settle it among themselves."
He turned away as he spoke, for he would lay no hand on the brother of his own father.
But his sister the huntress Diana, patroness of wild beasts, was very angry with him and said," So you would fly, FarDarter, and hand victory over to Neptune with a cheap vaunt to boot.
Baby, why keep your bow thus idle?
Never let me again hear you bragging in my father 's house, as you have often done in the presence of the immortals, that you would stand up and fight with Neptune."
Apollo made her no answer, but Jove 's august queen was angry and upbraided her bitterly."
Bold vixen," she cried," how dare you cross me thus?
For all your bow you will find it hard to hold your own against me.
Jove made you as a lion among women, and lets you kill them whenever you choose.
You will find it better to chase wild beasts and deer upon the mountains than to fight those who are stronger than you are.
If you would try war, do so, and find out by pitting yourself against me, how far stronger I am than you are."
She caught both Diana 's wrists with her left hand as she spoke, and with her right she took the bow from her shoulders, and laughed as she beat her with it about the ears while Diana wriggled and writhed under her blows.
Her swift arrows were shed upon the ground, and she fled weeping from under Juno 's hand as a dove that flies before a falcon to the cleft of some hollow rock, when it is her good fortune to escape.
Even so did she fly weeping away, leaving her bow and arrows behind her.
Then the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, said to Leto," Leto, I shall not fight you; it is ill to come to blows with any of Jove 's wives.
Therefore boast as you will among the immortals that you worsted me in fair fight."
Leto then gathered up Diana 's bow and arrows that had fallen about amid the whirling dust, and when she had got them she made all haste after her daughter.
Diana had now reached Jove 's bronzefloored mansion on Olympus, and sat herself down with many tears on the knees of her father, while her ambrosial raiment was quivering all about her.
The son of Saturn drew her towards him, and laughing pleasantly the while began to question her saying," Which of the heavenly beings, my dear child, has been treating you in this cruel manner, as though you had been misconducting yourself in the face of everybody?"
and the faircrowned goddess of the chase answered," It was your wife Juno, father, who has been beating me; it is always her doing when there is any quarrelling among the immortals."
Thus did they converse, and meanwhile Phoebus Apollo entered the strong city of Ilius, for he was uneasy lest the wall should not hold out and the Danaans should take the city then and there, before its hour had come; but the rest of the everliving gods went back, some angry and some triumphant to Olympus, where they took their seats beside Jove lord of the storm cloud, while Achilles still kept on dealing out death alike on the Trojans and on their horses.
As when the smoke from some burning city ascends to heaven when the anger of the gods has kindled it— there is then toil for all, and sorrow for not a few— even so did Achilles bring toil and sorrow on the Trojans.
Old King Priam stood on a high tower of the wall looking down on huge Achilles as the Trojans fled panicstricken before him, and there was none to help them.
Presently he came down from off the tower and with many a groan went along the wall to give orders to the brave warders of the gate.
"Keep the gates," said he," wide open till the people come flying into the city, for Achilles is hard by and is driving them in rout before him.
I see we are in great peril.
As soon as our people are inside and in safety, close the strong gates for I fear lest that terrible man should come bounding inside along with the others."
As he spoke they drew back the bolts and opened the gates, and when these were opened there was a haven of refuge for the Trojans.
Apollo then came full speed out of the city to meet them and protect them.
Right for the city and the high wall, parched with thirst and grimy with dust, still they fied on, with Achilles wielding his spear furiously behind them.
For he was as one possessed, and was thirsting after glory.
Then had the sons of the Achaeans taken the lofty gates of Troy if Apollo had not spurred on Agenor, valiant and noble son to Antenor.
He put courage into his heart, and stood by his side to guard him, leaning against a beech tree and shrouded in thick darkness.
When Agenor saw Achilles he stood still and his heart was clouded with care."
Alas," said he to himself in his dismay," if I fly before mighty Achilles, and go where all the others are being driven in rout, he will none the less catch me and kill me for a coward.
How would it be were I to let Achilles drive the others before him, and then fly from the wall to the plain that is behind Ilius till I reach the spurs of Ida and can hide in the underwood that is thereon?
I could then wash the sweat from off me in the river and in the evening return to Ilius.
But why commune with myself in this way?
Like enough he would see me as I am hurrying from the city over the plain, and would speed after me till he had caught me— I should stand no chance against him, for he is mightiest of all mankind.
What, then, if I go out and meet him in front of the city?
His flesh too, I take it, can be pierced by pointed bronze.
Life is the same in one and all, and men say that he is but mortal despite the triumph that Jove son of Saturn vouchsafes him."
So saying he stood on his guard and awaited Achilles, for he was now fain to fight him.
As a leopardess that bounds from out a thick covert to attack a hunter— she knows no fear and is not dismayed by the baying of the hounds; even though the man be too quick for her and wound her either with thrust or spear, still, though the spear has pierced her she will not give in till she has either caught him in her grip or been killed outright— even so did noble Agenor son of Antenor refuse to fly till he had made trial of Achilles, and took aim at him with his spear, holding his round shield before him and crying with a loud voice."
Of a truth," said he," noble Achilles, you deem that you shall this day sack the city of the proud Trojans.
Fool, there will be trouble enough yet before it, for there is many a brave man of us still inside who will stand in front of our dear parents with our wives and children, to defend Ilius.
Here therefore, huge and mighty warrior though you be, here shall you die."
As he spoke his strong hand hurled his javelin from him, and the spear struck Achilles on the leg beneath the knee; the greave of newly wrought tin rang loudly, but the spear recoiled from the body of him whom it had struck, and did not pierce it, for the god 's gift stayed it.
Achilles in his turn attacked noble Agenor, but Apollo would not vouchsafe him glory, for he snatched Agenor away and hid him in a thick mist, sending him out of the battle unmolested.
Then he craftily drew the son of Peleus away from going after the host, for he put on the semblance of Agenor and stood in front of Achilles, who ran towards him to give him chase and pursued him over the corn lands of the plain, turning him towards the deep waters of the river Scamander.
Apollo ran but a little way before him and beguiled Achilles by making him think all the time that he was on the point of overtaking him.
Meanwhile the rabble of routed Trojans was thankful to crowd within the city till their numbers thronged it; no longer did they dare wait for one another outside the city walls, to learn who had escaped and who were fallen in fight, but all whose feet and knees could still carry them poured pellmell into the town.
CHAPTER ECONOMY WHEN I WROTE the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only.
I lived there two years and two months.
At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.
I should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if very particular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning my mode of life, which some would call impertinent, though they do not appear to me at all impertinent, but, considering the circumstances, very natural and pertinent.
Some have asked what I got to eat; if I did not feel lonesome; if I was not afraid; and the like.
Others have been curious to learn what portion of my income I devoted to charitable purposes; and some, who have large families, how many poor children I maintained.
I will therefore ask those of my readers who feel no particular interest in me to pardon me if I undertake to answer some of these questions in this book.
In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference.
We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking.
I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.
Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience.
Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me.
Perhaps these pages are more particularly addressed to poor students.
As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them.
I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.
I would fain say something, not so much concerning the Chinese and Sandwich Islanders as you who read these pages, who are said to live in New England; something about your condition, especially your outward condition or circumstances in this world, in this town, what it is, whether it is necessary that it be as bad as it is, whether it cannot be improved as well as not.
I have travelled a good deal in Concord; and everywhere, in shops, and offices, and fields, the inhabitants have appeared to me to be doing penance in a thousand remarkable ways.
What I have heard of Bramins sitting exposed to four fires and looking in the face of the sun; or hanging suspended, with their heads downward, over flames; or looking at the heavens over their shoulders "until it becomes impossible for them to resume their natural position, while from the twist of the neck nothing but liquids can pass into the stomach"; or dwelling, chained for life, at the foot of a tree; or measuring with their bodies, like caterpillars, the breadth of vast empires; or standing on one leg on the tops of pillarseven these forms of conscious penance are hardly more incredible and astonishing than the scenes which I daily witness.
The twelve labors of Hercules were trifling in comparison with those which my neighbors have undertaken; for they were only twelve, and had an end; but I could never see that these men slew or captured any monster or finished any labor.
They have no friend Iolaus to burn with a hot iron the root of the hydra's head, but as soon as one head is crushed, two spring up.
I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms, houses, barns, cattle, and farming tools; for these are more easily acquired than got rid of.
Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they were called to labor in.
Who made them serfs of the soil?
Why should they eat their sixty acres, when man is condemned to eat only his peck of dirt?
Why should they begin digging their graves as soon as they are born?
They have got to live a man's life, pushing all these things before them, and get on as well as they can.
How many a poor immortal soul have I met well-nigh crushed and smothered under its load, creeping down the road of life, pushing before it a barn seventy-five feet by forty, its Augean stables never cleansed, and one hundred acres of land, tillage, mowing, pasture, and woodlot!
The portionless, who struggle with no such unnecessary inherited encumbrances, find it labor enough to subdue and cultivate a few cubic feet of flesh.
But men labor under a mistake.
The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost.
By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal.
It is a fool's life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before.
It is said that Deucalion and Pyrrha created men by throwing stones over their heads behind them: Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum, Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati.
Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way, "From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care, Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are."
So much for a blind obedience to a blundering oracle, throwing the stones over their heads behind them, and not seeing where they fell.
Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them.
Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that.
Actually, the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market.
He has no time to be anything but a machine.
How can he remember well his ignorancewhich his growth requireswho has so often to use his knowledge?
We should feed and clothe him gratuitously sometimes, and recruit him with our cordials, before we judge of him.
The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling.
Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.
Some of you, we all know, are poor, find it hard to live, are sometimes, as it were, gasping for breath.
I have no doubt that some of you who read this book are unable to pay for all the dinners which you have actually eaten, or for the coats and shoes which are fast wearing or are already worn out, and have come to this page to spend borrowed or stolen time, robbing your creditors of an hour.
It is very evident what mean and sneaking lives many of you live, for my sight has been whetted by experience; always on the limits, trying to get into business and trying to get out of debt, a very ancient slough, called by the Latins aes alienum, another's brass, for some of their coins were made of brass; still living, and dying, and buried by this other's brass; always promising to pay, promising to pay, tomorrow, and dying today, insolvent; seeking to curry favor, to get custom, by how many modes, only not state-prison offences; lying, flattering, voting, contracting yourselves into a nutshell of civility or dilating into an atmosphere of thin and vaporous generosity, that you may persuade your neighbor to let you make his shoes, or his hat, or his coat, or his carriage, or import his groceries for him; making yourselves sick, that you may lay up something against a sick day, something to be tucked away in an old chest, or in a stocking behind the plastering, or, more safely, in the brick bank; no matter where, no matter how much or how little.
I sometimes wonder that we can be so frivolous, I may almost say, as to attend to the gross but somewhat foreign form of servitude called Negro Slavery, there are so many keen and subtle masters that enslave both North and South.
It is hard to have a Southern overseer; it is worse to have a Northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of yourself.
Talk of a divinity in man!
Look at the teamster on the highway, wending to market by day or night; does any divinity stir within him?
His highest duty to fodder and water his horses!
What is his destiny to him compared with the shipping interests?
Does not he drive for Squire Make-a-stir?
How godlike, how immortal, is he?
See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds.
Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion.
What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.
Self-emancipation even in the West Indian provinces of the fancy and imaginationwhat Wilberforce is there to bring that about?
Think, also, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the last day, not to betray too green an interest in their fates!
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.
What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.
From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats.
A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind.
There is no play in them, for this comes after work.
But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.
When we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to any other.
Yet they honestly think there is no choice left.
But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear.
It is never too late to give up our prejudices.
No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof.
What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields.
What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can.
Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new.
Old people did not know enough once, perchance, to fetch fresh fuel to keep the fire a-going; new people put a little dry wood under a pot, and are whirled round the globe with the speed of birds, in a way to kill old people, as the phrase is.
Age is no better, hardly so well, qualified for an instructor as youth, for it has not profited so much as it has lost.
One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living.
Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe; and it may be that they have some faith left which belies that experience, and they are only less young than they were.
I have lived some thirty years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from my seniors.
They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose.
Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it.
If I have any experience which I think valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my Mentors said nothing about.
One farmer says to me, "You cannot live on vegetable food solely, for it furnishes nothing to make bones with"; and so he religiously devotes a part of his day to supplying his system with the raw material of bones; walking all the while he talks behind his oxen, which, with vegetable-made bones, jerk him and his lumbering plow along in spite of every obstacle.
Some things are really necessaries of life in some circles, the most helpless and diseased, which in others are luxuries merely, and in others still are entirely unknown.
The whole ground of human life seems to some to have been gone over by their predecessors, both the heights and the valleys, and all things to have been cared for.
According to Evelyn, "the wise Solomon prescribed ordinances for the very distances of trees; and the Roman praetors have decided how often you may go into your neighbor's land to gather the acorns which fall on it without trespass, and what share belongs to that neighbor."
Hippocrates has even left directions how we should cut our nails; that is, even with the ends of the fingers, neither shorter nor longer.
Undoubtedly the very tedium and ennui which presume to have exhausted the variety and the joys of life are as old as Adam.
But man's capacities have never been measured; nor are we to judge of what he can do by any precedents, so little has been tried.
Whatever have been thy failures hitherto, "be not afflicted, my child, for who shall assign to thee what thou hast left undone?"
We might try our lives by a thousand simple tests; as, for instance, that the same sun which ripens my beans illumines at once a system of earths like ours.
If I had remembered this it would have prevented some mistakes.
This was not the light in which I hoed them.
The stars are the apexes of what wonderful triangles!
What distant and different beings in the various mansions of the universe are contemplating the same one at the same moment!
Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions.
Who shall say what prospect life offers to another?
Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?
We should live in all the ages of the world in an hour; ay, in all the worlds of the ages.
History, Poetry, Mythology!I know of no reading of another's experience so startling and informing as this would be.
The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior.
What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?
You may say the wisest thing you can, old manyou who have lived seventy years, not without honor of a kindI hear an irresistible voice which invites me away from all that.
One generation abandons the enterprises of another like stranded vessels.
I think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do.
We may waive just so much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere.
Nature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength.
The incessant anxiety and strain of some is a well-nigh incurable form of disease.
We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do; and yet how much is not done by us!
or, what if we had been taken sick?
How vigilant we are!
determined not to live by faith if we can avoid it; all the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties.
So thoroughly and sincerely are we compelled to live, reverencing our life, and denying the possibility of change.
This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre.
All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.
Confucius said, "To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge."
When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men at length establish their lives on that basis.
Let us consider for a moment what most of the trouble and anxiety which I have referred to is about, and how much it is necessary that we be troubled, or at least careful.
It would be some advantage to live a primitive and frontier life, though in the midst of an outward civilization, if only to learn what are the gross necessaries of life and what methods have been taken to obtain them; or even to look over the old day-books of the merchants, to see what it was that men most commonly bought at the stores, what they stored, that is, what are the grossest groceries.
For the improvements of ages have had but little influence on the essential laws of man's existence: as our skeletons, probably, are not to be distinguished from those of our ancestors.
By the words, necessary of life, I mean whatever, of all that man obtains by his own exertions, has been from the first, or from long use has become, so important to human life that few, if any, whether from savageness, or poverty, or philosophy, ever attempt to do without it.
To many creatures there is in this sense but one necessary of life, Food.
To the bison of the prairie it is a few inches of palatable grass, with water to drink; unless he seeks the Shelter of the forest or the mountain's shadow.
None of the brute creation requires more than Food and Shelter.
The necessaries of life for man in this climate may, accurately enough, be distributed under the several heads of Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel; for not till we have secured these are we prepared to entertain the true problems of life with freedom and a prospect of success.
Man has invented, not only houses, but clothes and cooked food; and possibly from the accidental discovery of the warmth of fire, and the consequent use of it, at first a luxury, arose the present necessity to sit by it.
We observe cats and dogs acquiring the same second nature.
By proper Shelter and Clothing we legitimately retain our own internal heat; but with an excess of these, or of Fuel, that is, with an external heat greater than our own internal, may not cookery properly be said to begin?
Darwin, the naturalist, says of the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, that while his own party, who were well clothed and sitting close to a fire, were far from too warm, these naked savages, who were farther off, were observed, to his great surprise, "to be streaming with perspiration at undergoing such a roasting."
So, we are told, the New Hollander goes naked with impunity, while the European shivers in his clothes.
Is it impossible to combine the hardiness of these savages with the intellectualness of the civilized man?
According to Liebig, man's body is a stove, and food the fuel which keeps up the internal combustion in the lungs.
In cold weather we eat more, in warm less.
The animal heat is the result of a slow combustion, and disease and death take place when this is too rapid; or for want of fuel, or from some defect in the draught, the fire goes out.
Of course the vital heat is not to be confounded with fire; but so much for analogy.
It appears, therefore, from the above list, that the expression, animal life, is nearly synonymous with the expression, animal heat; for while Food may be regarded as the Fuel which keeps up the fire within usand Fuel serves only to prepare that Food or to increase the warmth of our bodies by addition from withoutShelter and Clothing also serve only to retain the heat thus generated and absorbed.
The grand necessity, then, for our bodies, is to keep warm, to keep the vital heat in us.
What pains we accordingly take, not only with our Food, and Clothing, and Shelter, but with our beds, which are our night-clothes, robbing the nests and breasts of birds to prepare this shelter within a shelter, as the mole has its bed of grass and leaves at the end of its burrow!
The poor man is wont to complain that this is a cold world; and to cold, no less physical than social, we refer directly a great part of our ails.
The summer, in some climates, makes possible to man a sort of Elysian life.
Fuel, except to cook his Food, is then unnecessary; the sun is his fire, and many of the fruits are sufficiently cooked by its rays; while Food generally is more various, and more easily obtained, and Clothing and Shelter are wholly or half unnecessary.
At the present day, and in this country, as I find by my own experience, a few implements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a wheelbarrow, etc., and for the studious, lamplight, stationery, and access to a few books, rank next to necessaries, and can all be obtained at a trifling cost.
Yet some, not wise, go to the other side of the globe, to barbarous and unhealthy regions, and devote themselves to trade for ten or twenty years, in order that they may livethat is, keep comfortably warmand die in New England at last.
The luxuriously rich are not simply kept comfortably warm, but unnaturally hot; as I implied before, they are cooked, of course a la mode.
Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.
With respect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meagre life than the poor.
The ancient philosophers, Chinese, Hindoo, Persian, and Greek, were a class than which none has been poorer in outward riches, none so rich in inward.
We know not much about them.
It is remarkable that we know so much of them as we do.
The same is true of the more modern reformers and benefactors of their race.
None can be an impartial or wise observer of human life but from the vantage ground of what we should call voluntary poverty.
Of a life of luxury the fruit is luxury, whether in agriculture, or commerce, or literature, or art.
There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers.
Yet it is admirable to profess because it was once admirable to live.
To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust.
It is to solve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.
The success of great scholars and thinkers is commonly a courtier-like success, not kingly, not manly.
They make shift to live merely by conformity, practically as their fathers did, and are in no sense the progenitors of a noble race of men.
But why do men degenerate ever?
What makes families run out?
What is the nature of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations?
Are we sure that there is none of it in our own lives?
The philosopher is in advance of his age even in the outward form of his life.
He is not fed, sheltered, clothed, warmed, like his contemporaries.
How can a man be a philosopher and not maintain his vital heat by better methods than other men?
When a man is warmed by the several modes which I have described, what does he want next?
Surely not more warmth of the same kind, as more and richer food, larger and more splendid houses, finer and more abundant clothing, more numerous, incessant, and hotter fires, and the like.
When he has obtained those things which are necessary to life, there is another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; and that is, to adventure on life now, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced.
The soil, it appears, is suited to the seed, for it has sent its radicle downward, and it may now send its shoot upward also with confidence.
Why has man rooted himself thus firmly in the earth, but that he may rise in the same proportion into the heavens above?for the nobler plants are valued for the fruit they bear at last in the air and light, far from the ground, and are not treated like the humbler esculents, which, though they may be biennials, are cultivated only till they have perfected their root, and often cut down at top for this purpose, so that most would not know them in their flowering season.
I do not mean to prescribe rules to strong and valiant natures, who will mind their own affairs whether in heaven or hell, and perchance build more magnificently and spend more lavishly than the richest, without ever impoverishing themselves, not knowing how they liveif, indeed, there are any such, as has been dreamed; nor to those who find their encouragement and inspiration in precisely the present condition of things, and cherish it with the fondness and enthusiasm of loversand, to some extent, I reckon myself in this number; I do not speak to those who are well employed, in whatever circumstances, and they know whether they are well employed or not;but mainly to the mass of men who are discontented, and idly complaining of the hardness of their lot or of the times, when they might improve them.
There are some who complain most energetically and inconsolably of any, because they are, as they say, doing their duty.
I also have in my mind that seemingly wealthy, but most terribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross, but know not how to use it, or get rid of it, and thus have forged their own golden or silver fetters.
If I should attempt to tell how I have desired to spend my life in years past, it would probably surprise those of my readers who are somewhat acquainted with its actual history; it would certainly astonish those who know nothing about it.
I will only hint at some of the enterprises which I have cherished.
In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.
You will pardon some obscurities, for there are more secrets in my trade than in most men's, and yet not voluntarily kept, but inseparable from its very nature.
I would gladly tell all that I know about it, and never paint "No Admittance" on my gate.
I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail.
Many are the travellers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to.
I have met one or two who had heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves.
To anticipate, not the sunrise and the dawn merely, but, if possible, Nature herself!
How many mornings, summer and winter, before yet any neighbor was stirring about his business, have I been about mine!
No doubt, many of my townsmen have met me returning from this enterprise, farmers starting for Boston in the twilight, or woodchoppers going to their work.
It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising, but, doubt not, it was of the last importance only to be present at it.
So many autumn, ay, and winter days, spent outside the town, trying to hear what was in the wind, to hear and carry it express!
I well-nigh sunk all my capital in it, and lost my own breath into the bargain, running in the face of it.
If it had concerned either of the political parties, depend upon it, it would have appeared in the Gazette with the earliest intelligence.
At other times watching from the observatory of some cliff or tree, to telegraph any new arrival; or waiting at evening on the hill-tops for the sky to fall, that I might catch something, though I never caught much, and that, manna-wise, would dissolve again in the sun.
For a long time I was reporter to a journal, of no very wide circulation, whose editor has never yet seen fit to print the bulk of my contributions, and, as is too common with writers, I got only my labor for my pains.
However, in this case my pains were their own reward.
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and rain-storms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then of forest paths and all acrosslot routes, keeping them open, and ravines bridged and passable at all seasons, where the public heel had testified to their utility.
I have looked after the wild stock of the town, which give a faithful herdsman a good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and I have had an eye to the unfrequented nooks and corners of the farm; though I did not always know whether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field today; that was none of my business.
I have watered the red huckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettle-tree, the red pine and the black ash, the white grape and the yellow violet, which might have withered else in dry seasons.
In short, I went on thus for a long time (I may say it without boasting), faithfully minding my business, till it became more and more evident that my townsmen would not after all admit me into the list of town officers, nor make my place a sinecure with a moderate allowance.
My accounts, which I can swear to have kept faithfully, I have, indeed, never got audited, still less accepted, still less paid and settled.
However, I have not set my heart on that.
Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of a well-known lawyer in my neighborhood.
"Do you wish to buy any baskets?"
he asked.
"No, we do not want any," was the reply.
"What!"
exclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, "do you mean to starve us?"
Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well offthat the lawyer had only to weave arguments, and, by some magic, wealth and standing followedhe had said to himself: I will go into business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do.
Thinking that when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be the white man's to buy them.
He had not discovered that it was necessary for him to make it worth the other's while to buy them, or at least make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would be worth his while to buy.
I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one's while to buy them.
Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them.
The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind.
Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?
Finding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in the court house, or any curacy or living anywhere else, but I must shift for myself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the woods, where I was better known.
I determined to go into business at once, and not wait to acquire the usual capital, using such slender means as I had already got.
My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles; to be hindered from accomplishing which for want of a little common sense, a little enterprise and business talent, appeared not so sad as foolish.
I have always endeavored to acquire strict business habits; they are indispensable to every man.
If your trade is with the Celestial Empire, then some small counting house on the coast, in some Salem harbor, will be fixture enough.
You will export such articles as the country affords, purely native products, much ice and pine timber and a little granite, always in native bottoms.
These will be good ventures.
To oversee all the details yourself in person; to be at once pilot and captain, and owner and underwriter; to buy and sell and keep the accounts; to read every letter received, and write or read every letter sent; to superintend the discharge of imports night and day; to be upon many parts of the coast almost at the same timeoften the richest freight will be discharged upon a Jersey shore;to be your own telegraph, unweariedly sweeping the horizon, speaking all passing vessels bound coastwise; to keep up a steady despatch of commodities, for the supply of such a distant and exorbitant market; to keep yourself informed of the state of the markets, prospects of war and peace everywhere, and anticipate the tendencies of trade and civilizationtaking advantage of the results of all exploring expeditions, using new passages and all improvements in navigation;charts to be studied, the position of reefs and new lights and buoys to be ascertained, and ever, and ever, the logarithmic tables to be corrected, for by the error of some calculator the vessel often splits upon a rock that should have reached a friendly pierthere is the untold fate of La Perouse;universal science to be kept pace with, studying the lives of all great discoverers and navigators, great adventurers and merchants, from Hanno and the Phoenicians down to our day; in fine, account of stock to be taken from time to time, to know how you stand.
It is a labor to task the faculties of a mansuch problems of profit and loss, of interest, of tare and tret, and gauging of all kinds in it, as demand a universal knowledge.
I have thought that Walden Pond would be a good place for business, not solely on account of the railroad and the ice trade; it offers advantages which it may not be good policy to divulge; it is a good port and a good foundation.
No Neva marshes to be filled; though you must everywhere build on piles of your own driving.
It is said that a flood-tide, with a westerly wind, and ice in the Neva, would sweep St. Petersburg from the face of the earth.
As this business was to be entered into without the usual capital, it may not be easy to conjecture where those means, that will still be indispensable to every such undertaking, were to be obtained.
As for Clothing, to come at once to the practical part of the question, perhaps we are led oftener by the love of novelty and a regard for the opinions of men, in procuring it, than by a true utility.
Let him who has work to do recollect that the object of clothing is, first, to retain the vital heat, and secondly, in this state of society, to cover nakedness, and he may judge how much of any necessary or important work may be accomplished without adding to his wardrobe.
Kings and queens who wear a suit but once, though made by some tailor or dressmaker to their majesties, cannot know the comfort of wearing a suit that fits.
They are no better than wooden horses to hang the clean clothes on.
Every day our garments become more assimilated to ourselves, receiving the impress of the wearer's character, until we hesitate to lay them aside without such delay and medical appliances and some such solemnity even as our bodies.
No man ever stood the lower in my estimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there is greater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience.
But even if the rent is not mended, perhaps the worst vice betrayed is improvidence.
I sometimes try my acquaintances by such tests as thisWho could wear a patch, or two extra seams only, over the knee?
Most behave as if they believed that their prospects for life would be ruined if they should do it.
It would be easier for them to hobble to town with a broken leg than with a broken pantaloon.
Often if an accident happens to a gentleman's legs, they can be mended; but if a similar accident happens to the legs of his pantaloons, there is no help for it; for he considers, not what is truly respectable, but what is respected.
We know but few men, a great many coats and breeches.
Dress a scarecrow in your last shift, you standing shiftless by, who would not soonest salute the scarecrow?
Passing a cornfield the other day, close by a hat and coat on a stake, I recognized the owner of the farm.
He was only a little more weatherbeaten than when I saw him last.
I have heard of a dog that barked at every stranger who approached his master's premises with clothes on, but was easily quieted by a naked thief.
It is an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if they were divested of their clothes.
Could you, in such a case, tell surely of any company of civilized men which belonged to the most respected class?
When Madam Pfeiffer, in her adventurous travels round the world, from east to west, had got so near home as Asiatic Russia, she says that she felt the necessity of wearing other than a travelling dress, when she went to meet the authorities, for she "was now in a civilized country, where... people are judged of by their clothes."
Even in our democratic New England towns the accidental possession of wealth, and its manifestation in dress and equipage alone, obtain for the possessor almost universal respect.
But they yield such respect, numerous as they are, are so far heathen, and need to have a missionary sent to them.
Beside, clothes introduced sewing, a kind of work which you may call endless; a woman's dress, at least, is never done.
A man who has at length found something to do will not need to get a new suit to do it in; for him the old will do, that has lain dusty in the garret for an indeterminate period.
Old shoes will serve a hero longer than they have served his valetif a hero ever has a valetbare feet are older than shoes, and he can make them do.
Only they who go to soirees and legislative balls must have new coats, coats to change as often as the man changes in them.
But if my jacket and trousers, my hat and shoes, are fit to worship God in, they will do; will they not?
Who ever saw his old clotheshis old coat, actually worn out, resolved into its primitive elements, so that it was not a deed of charity to bestow it on some poor boy, by him perchance to be bestowed on some poorer still, or shall we say richer, who could do with less?
I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.
If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit?
If you have any enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes.
All men want, not something to do with, but something to do, or rather something to be.
Perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until we have so conducted, so enterprised or sailed in some way, that we feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keeping new wine in old bottles.
Our moulting season, like that of the fowls, must be a crisis in our lives.
The loon retires to solitary ponds to spend it.
Thus also the snake casts its slough, and the caterpillar its wormy coat, by an internal industry and expansion; for clothes are but our outmost cuticle and mortal coil.
Otherwise we shall be found sailing under false colors, and be inevitably cashiered at last by our own opinion, as well as that of mankind.
We don garment after garment, as if we grew like exogenous plants by addition without.
Our outside and often thin and fanciful clothes are our epidermis, or false skin, which partakes not of our life, and may be stripped off here and there without fatal injury; our thicker garments, constantly worn, are our cellular integument, or cortex; but our shirts are our liber, or true bark, which cannot be removed without girdling and so destroying the man.
I believe that all races at some seasons wear something equivalent to the shirt.
It is desirable that a man be clad so simply that he can lay his hands on himself in the dark, and that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly that, if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gate empty-handed without anxiety.
While one thick garment is, for most purposes, as good as three thin ones, and cheap clothing can be obtained at prices really to suit customers; while a thick coat can be bought for five dollars, which will last as many years, thick pantaloons for two dollars, cowhide boots for a dollar and a half a pair, a summer hat for a quarter of a dollar, and a winter cap for sixty-two and a half cents, or a better be made at home at a nominal cost, where is he so poor that, clad in such a suit, of his own earning, there will not be found wise men to do him reverence?
When I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me gravely, "They do not make them so now," not emphasizing the "They" at all, as if she quoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I find it difficult to get made what I want, simply because she cannot believe that I mean what I say, that I am so rash.
When I hear this oracular sentence, I am for a moment absorbed in thought, emphasizing to myself each word separately that I may come at the meaning of it, that I may find out by what degree of consanguinity 'They' are related to me, and what authority they may have in an affair which affects me so nearly; and, finally, I am inclined to answer her with equal mystery, and without any more emphasis of the "they""It is true, they did not make them so recently, but they do now."
Of what use this measuring of me if she does not measure my character, but only the breadth of my shoulders, as it were a peg to bang the coat on?
We worship not the Graces, nor the Parcee, but Fashion.
She spins and weaves and cuts with full authority.
The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveller's cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same.
I sometimes despair of getting anything quite simple and honest done in this world by the help of men.
They would have to be passed through a powerful press first, to squeeze their old notions out of them, so that they would not soon get upon their legs again; and then there would be some one in the company with a maggot in his head, hatched from an egg deposited there nobody knows when, for not even fire kills these things, and you would have lost your labor.
Nevertheless, we will not forget that some Egyptian wheat was handed down to us by a mummy.
On the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art.
At present men make shift to wear what they can get.
Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at each other's masquerade.
Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.
We are amused at beholding the costume of Henry VIII, or Queen Elizabeth, as much as if it was that of the King and Queen of the Cannibal Islands.
All costume off a man is pitiful or grotesque.
It is only the serious eye peering from and the sincere life passed within it which restrain laughter and consecrate the costume of any people.
Let Harlequin be taken with a fit of the colic and his trappings will have to serve that mood too.
When the soldier is hit by a cannon-ball, rags are as becoming as purple.
The childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps how many shaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may discover the particular figure which this generation requires today.
The manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical.
Of two patterns which differ only by a few threads more or less of a particular color, the one will be sold readily, the other lie on the shelf, though it frequently happens that after the lapse of a season the latter becomes the most fashionable.
Comparatively, tattooing is not the hideous custom which it is called.
It is not barbarous merely because the printing is skin-deep and unalterable.
I cannot believe that our factory system is the best mode by which men may get clothing.
The condition of the operatives is becoming every day more like that of the English; and it cannot be wondered at, since, as far as I have heard or observed, the principal object is, not that mankind may be well and honestly clad, but, unquestionably, that corporations may be enriched.
In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high.
As for a Shelter, I will not deny that this is now a necessary of life, though there are instances of men having done without it for long periods in colder countries than this.
Samuel Laing says that "the Laplander in his skin dress, and in a skin bag which he puts over his head and shoulders, will sleep night after night on the snow... in a degree of cold which would extinguish the life of one exposed to it in any woollen clothing."
He had seen them asleep thus.
Yet he adds, "They are not hardier than other people."
But, probably, man did not live long on the earth without discovering the convenience which there is in a house, the domestic comforts, which phrase may have originally signified the satisfactions of the house more than of the family; though these must be extremely partial and occasional in those climates where the house is associated in our thoughts with winter or the rainy season chiefly, and two thirds of the year, except for a parasol, is unnecessary.
In our climate, in the summer, it was formerly almost solely a covering at night.
In the Indian gazettes a wigwam was the symbol of a day's march, and a row of them cut or painted on the bark of a tree signified that so many times they had camped.
Man was not made so large limbed and robust but that he must seek to narrow his world and wall in a space such as fitted him.
He was at first bare and out of doors; but though this was pleasant enough in serene and warm weather, by daylight, the rainy season and the winter, to say nothing of the torrid sun, would perhaps have nipped his race in the bud if he had not made haste to clothe himself with the shelter of a house.
Adam and Eve, according to the fable, wore the bower before other clothes.
Man wanted a home, a place of warmth, or comfort, first of warmth, then the warmth of the affections.
We may imagine a time when, in the infancy of the human race, some enterprising mortal crept into a hollow in a rock for shelter.
Every child begins the world again, to some extent, and loves to stay outdoors, even in wet and cold.
It plays house, as well as horse, having an instinct for it.
Who does not remember the interest with which, when young, he looked at shelving rocks, or any approach to a cave?
It was the natural yearning of that portion, any portion of our most primitive ancestor which still survived in us.
From the cave we have advanced to roofs of palm leaves, of bark and boughs, of linen woven and stretched, of grass and straw, of boards and shingles, of stones and tiles.
At last, we know not what it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more senses than we think.
From the hearth the field is a great distance.
It would be well, perhaps, if we were to spend more of our days and nights without any obstruction between us and the celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much from under a roof, or the saint dwell there so long.
Birds do not sing in caves, nor do doves cherish their innocence in dovecots.
However, if one designs to construct a dwelling-house, it behooves him to exercise a little Yankee shrewdness, lest after all he find himself in a workhouse, a labyrinth without a clue, a museum, an almshouse, a prison, or a splendid mausoleum instead.
Consider first how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary.
I have seen Penobscot Indians, in this town, living in tents of thin cotton cloth, while the snow was nearly a foot deep around them, and I thought that they would be glad to have it deeper to keep out the wind.
Formerly, when how to get my living honestly, with freedom left for my proper pursuits, was a question which vexed me even more than it does now, for unfortunately I am become somewhat callous, I used to see a large box by the railroad, six feet long by three wide, in which the laborers locked up their tools at night; and it suggested to me that every man who was hard pushed might get such a one for a dollar, and, having bored a few auger holes in it, to admit the air at least, get into it when it rained and at night, and hook down the lid, and so have freedom in his love, and in his soul be free.
This did not appear the worst, nor by any means a despicable alternative.
You could sit up as late as you pleased, and, whenever you got up, go abroad without any landlord or house-lord dogging you for rent.
Many a man is harassed to death to pay the rent of a larger and more luxurious box who would not have frozen to death in such a box as this.
I am far from jesting.
Economy is a subject which admits of being treated with levity, but it cannot so be disposed of.
A comfortable house for a rude and hardy race, that lived mostly out of doors, was once made here almost entirely of such materials as Nature furnished ready to their hands.
Gookin, who was superintendent of the Indians subject to the Massachusetts Colony, writing in 1674, says, "The best of their houses are covered very neatly, tight and warm, with barks of trees, slipped from their bodies at those seasons when the sap is up, and made into great flakes, with pressure of weighty timber, when they are green....
The meaner sort are covered with mats which they make of a kind of bulrush, and are also indifferently tight and warm, but not so good as the former....
Some I have seen, sixty or a hundred feet long and thirty feet broad....
I have often lodged in their wigwams, and found them as warm as the best English houses."
He adds that they were commonly carpeted and lined within with well-wrought embroidered mats, and were furnished with various utensils.
The Indians had advanced so far as to regulate the effect of the wind by a mat suspended over the hole in the roof and moved by a string.
Such a lodge was in the first instance constructed in a day or two at most, and taken down and put up in a few hours; and every family owned one, or its apartment in one.
In the savage state every family owns a shelter as good as the best, and sufficient for its coarser and simpler wants; but I think that I speak within bounds when I say that, though the birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams, in modern civilized society not more than one half the families own a shelter.
In the large towns and cities, where civilization especially prevails, the number of those who own a shelter is a very small fraction of the whole.
The rest pay an annual tax for this outside garment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, which would buy a village of Indian wigwams, but now helps to keep them poor as long as they live.
I do not mean to insist here on the disadvantage of hiring compared with owning, but it is evident that the savage owns his shelter because it costs so little, while the civilized man hires his commonly because he cannot afford to own it; nor can he, in the long run, any better afford to hire.
But, answers one, by merely paying this tax, the poor civilized man secures an abode which is a palace compared with the savage's.
An annual rent of from twenty-five to a hundred dollars (these are the country rates) entitles him to the benefit of the improvements of centuries, spacious apartments, clean paint and paper, Rumford fireplace, back plastering, Venetian blinds, copper pump, spring lock, a commodious cellar, and many other things.
But how happens it that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a poor civilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a savage?
If it is asserted that civilization is a real advance in the condition of manand I think that it is, though only the wise improve their advantagesit must be shown that it has produced better dwellings without making them more costly; and the cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.
An average house in this neighborhood costs perhaps eight hundred dollars, and to lay up this sum will take from ten to fifteen years of the laborer's life, even if he is not encumbered with a familyestimating the pecuniary value of every man's labor at one dollar a day, for if some receive more, others receive less;so that he must have spent more than half his life commonly before his wigwam will be earned.
If we suppose him to pay a rent instead, this is but a doubtful choice of evils.
Would the savage have been wise to exchange his wigwam for a palace on these terms?
It may be guessed that I reduce almost the whole advantage of holding this superfluous property as a fund in store against the future, so far as the individual is concerned, mainly to the defraying of funeral expenses.
But perhaps a man is not required to bury himself.
Nevertheless this points to an important distinction between the civilized man and the savage; and, no doubt, they have designs on us for our benefit, in making the life of a civilized people an institution, in which the life of the individual is to a great extent absorbed, in order to preserve and perfect that of the race.
But I wish to show at what a sacrifice this advantage is at present obtained, and to suggest that we may possibly so live as to secure all the advantage without suffering any of the disadvantage.
What mean ye by saying that the poor ye have always with you, or that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge?
"As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not have occasion any more to use this proverb in Israel.
"Behold all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die."
When I consider my neighbors, the farmers of Concord, who are at least as well off as the other classes, I find that for the most part they have been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years, that they may become the real owners of their farms, which commonly they have inherited with encumbrances, or else bought with hired moneyand we may regard one third of that toil as the cost of their housesbut commonly they have not paid for them yet.
It is true, the encumbrances sometimes outweigh the value of the farm, so that the farm itself becomes one great encumbrance, and still a man is found to inherit it, being well acquainted with it, as he says.
On applying to the assessors, I am surprised to learn that they cannot at once name a dozen in the town who own their farms free and clear.
If you would know the history of these homesteads, inquire at the bank where they are mortgaged.
The man who has actually paid for his farm with labor on it is so rare that every neighbor can point to him.
I doubt if there are three such men in Concord.
What has been said of the merchants, that a very large majority, even ninety-seven in a hundred, are sure to fail, is equally true of the farmers.
With regard to the merchants, however, one of them says pertinently that a great part of their failures are not genuine pecuniary failures, but merely failures to fulfil their engagements, because it is inconvenient; that is, it is the moral character that breaks down.
But this puts an infinitely worse face on the matter, and suggests, beside, that probably not even the other three succeed in saving their souls, but are perchance bankrupt in a worse sense than they who fail honestly.
Bankruptcy and repudiation are the springboards from which much of our civilization vaults and turns its somersets, but the savage stands on the unelastic plank of famine.
Yet the Middlesex Cattle Show goes off here with eclat annually, as if all the joints of the agricultural machine were suent.
The farmer is endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a formula more complicated than the problem itself.
To get his shoestrings he speculates in herds of cattle.
With consummate skill he has set his trap with a hair springe to catch comfort and independence, and then, as he turned away, got his own leg into it.
This is the reason he is poor; and for a similar reason we are all poor in respect to a thousand savage comforts, though surrounded by luxuries.
As Chapman sings, "The false society of men-for earthly greatness All heavenly comforts rarefies to air."
And when the farmer has got his house, he may not be the richer but the poorer for it, and it be the house that has got him.
As I understand it, that was a valid objection urged by Momus against the house which Minerva made, that she "had not made it movable, by which means a bad neighborhood might be avoided"; and it may still be urged, for our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to be avoided is our own scurvy selves.
I know one or two families, at least, in this town, who, for nearly a generation, have been wishing to sell their houses in the outskirts and move into the village, but have not been able to accomplish it, and only death will set them free.
Granted that the majority are able at last either to own or hire the modern house with all its improvements.
While civilization has been improving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them.
It has created palaces, but it was not so easy to create noblemen and kings.
And if the civilized man's pursuits are no worthier than the savage's, if he is employed the greater part of his life in obtaining gross necessaries and comforts merely, why should he have a better dwelling than the former?
But how do the poor minority fare?
Perhaps it will be found that just in proportion as some have been placed in outward circumstances above the savage, others have been degraded below him.
The luxury of one class is counterbalanced by the indigence of another.
On the one side is the palace, on the other are the almshouse and "silent poor."
The myriads who built the pyramids to be the tombs of the Pharaohs were fed on garlic, and it may be were not decently buried themselves.
The mason who finishes the cornice of the palace returns at night perchance to a hut not so good as a wigwam.
It is a mistake to suppose that, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition of a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded as that of savages.
I refer to the degraded poor, not now to the degraded rich.
To know this I should not need to look farther than to the shanties which everywhere border our railroads, that last improvement in civilization; where I see in my daily walks human beings living in sties, and all winter with an open door, for the sake of light, without any visible, often imaginable, wood-pile, and the forms of both old and young are permanently contracted by the long habit of shrinking from cold and misery, and the development of all their limbs and faculties is checked.
It certainly is fair to look at that class by whose labor the works which distinguish this generation are accomplished.
Such too, to a greater or less extent, is the condition of the operatives of every denomination in England, which is the great workhouse of the world.
Or I could refer you to Ireland, which is marked as one of the white or enlightened spots on the map.
Contrast the physical condition of the Irish with that of the North American Indian, or the South Sea Islander, or any other savage race before it was degraded by contact with the civilized man.
Yet I have no doubt that that people's rulers are as wise as the average of civilized rulers.
Their condition only proves what squalidness may consist with civilization.
I hardly need refer now to the laborers in our Southern States who produce the staple exports of this country, and are themselves a staple production of the South.
But to confine myself to those who are said to be in moderate circumstances.
Most men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are actually though needlessly poor all their lives because they think that they must have such a one as their neighbors have.
As if one were to wear any sort of coat which the tailor might cut out for him, or, gradually leaving off palm-leaf hat or cap of woodchuck skin, complain of hard times because he could not afford to buy him a crown!
It is possible to invent a house still more convenient and luxurious than we have, which yet all would admit that man could not afford to pay for.
Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes to be content with less?
Shall the respectable citizen thus gravely teach, by precept and example, the necessity of the young man's providing a certain number of superfluous glowshoes, and umbrellas, and empty guest chambers for empty guests, before he dies?
Why should not our furniture be as simple as the Arab's or the Indian's?
When I think of the benefactors of the race, whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any carload of fashionable furniture.
Or what if I were to allowwould it not be a singular allowance?that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab's, in proportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors!
At present our houses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good housewife would sweep out the greater part into the dust hole, and not leave her morning's work undone.
Morning work!
By the blushes of Aurora and the music of Memnon, what should be man's morning work in this world?
I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and threw them out the window in disgust.
How, then, could I have a furnished house?
I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.
It is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd so diligently follow.
The traveller who stops at the best houses, so called, soon discovers this, for the publicans presume him to be a Sardanapalus, and if he resigned himself to their tender mercies he would soon be completely emasculated.
I think that in the railroad car we are inclined to spend more on luxury than on safety and convenience, and it threatens without attaining these to become no better than a modern drawing-room, with its divans, and ottomans, and sun-shades, and a hundred other oriental things, which we are taking west with us, invented for the ladies of the harem and the effeminate natives of the Celestial Empire, which Jonathan should be ashamed to know the names of.
I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion.
I would rather ride on earth in an ox cart, with a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train and breathe a malaria all the way.
The very simplicity and nakedness of man's life in the primitive ages imply this advantage, at least, that they left him still but a sojourner in nature.
When he was refreshed with food and sleep, he contemplated his journey again.
He dwelt, as it were, in a tent in this world, and was either threading the valleys, or crossing the plains, or climbing the mountain-tops.
But lo!
men have become the tools of their tools.
The man who independently plucked the fruits when he was hungry is become a farmer; and he who stood under a tree for shelter, a housekeeper.
We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on earth and forgotten heaven.
We have adopted Christianity merely as an improved method of agriculture.
We have built for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb.
The best works of art are the expression of man's struggle to free himself from this condition, but the effect of our art is merely to make this low state comfortable and that higher state to be forgotten.
There is actually no place in this village for a work of fine art, if any had come down to us, to stand, for our lives, our houses and streets, furnish no proper pedestal for it.
There is not a nail to hang a picture on, nor a shelf to receive the bust of a hero or a saint.
When I consider how our houses are built and paid for, or not paid for, and their internal economy managed and sustained, I wonder that the floor does not give way under the visitor while he is admiring the gewgaws upon the mantelpiece, and let him through into the cellar, to some solid and honest though earthy foundation.
I cannot but perceive that this so-called rich and refined life is a thing jumped at, and I do not get on in the enjoyment of the fine arts which adorn it, my attention being wholly occupied with the jump; for I remember that the greatest genuine leap, due to human muscles alone, on record, is that of certain wandering Arabs, who are said to have cleared twenty-five feet on level ground.
Without factitious support, man is sure to come to earth again beyond that distance.
The first question which I am tempted to put to the proprietor of such great impropriety is, Who bolsters you?
Are you one of the ninety-seven who fail, or the three who succeed?
Answer me these questions, and then perhaps I may look at your bawbles and find them ornamental.
The cart before the horse is neither beautiful nor useful.
Before we can adorn our houses with beautiful objects the walls must be stripped, and our lives must be stripped, and beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living be laid for a foundation: now, a taste for the beautiful is most cultivated out of doors, where there is no house and no housekeeper.
Old Johnson, in his "Wonder-Working Providence," speaking of the first settlers of this town, with whom he was contemporary, tells us that "they burrow themselves in the earth for their first shelter under some hillside, and, casting the soil aloft upon timber, they make a smoky fire against the earth, at the highest side."
They did not "provide them houses," says he, "till the earth, by the Lord's blessing, brought forth bread to feed them," and the first year's crop was so light that "they were forced to cut their bread very thin for a long season."
The secretary of the Province of New Netherland, writing in Dutch, in 1650, for the information of those who wished to take up land there, states more particularly that "those in New Netherland, and especially in New England, who have no means to build farmhouses at first according to their wishes, dig a square pit in the ground, cellar fashion, six or seven feet deep, as long and as broad as they think proper, case the earth inside with wood all round the wall, and line the wood with the bark of trees or something else to prevent the caving in of the earth; floor this cellar with plank, and wainscot it overhead for a ceiling, raise a roof of spars clear up, and cover the spars with bark or green sods, so that they can live dry and warm in these houses with their entire families for two, three, and four years, it being understood that partitions are run through those cellars which are adapted to the size of the family.
The wealthy and principal men in New England, in the beginning of the colonies, commenced their first dwelling-houses in this fashion for two reasons: firstly, in order not to waste time in building, and not to want food the next season; secondly, in order not to discourage poor laboring people whom they brought over in numbers from Fatherland.
In the course of three or four years, when the country became adapted to agriculture, they built themselves handsome houses, spending on them several thousands."
In this course which our ancestors took there was a show of prudence at least, as if their principle were to satisfy the more pressing wants first.
But are the more pressing wants satisfied now?
When I think of acquiring for myself one of our luxurious dwellings, I am deterred, for, so to speak, the country is not yet adapted to human culture, and we are still forced to cut our spiritual bread far thinner than our forefathers did their wheaten.
Not that all architectural ornament is to be neglected even in the rudest periods; but let our houses first be lined with beauty, where they come in contact with our lives, like the tenement of the shellfish, and not overlaid with it.
But, alas!
I have been inside one or two of them, and know what they are lined with.
Though we are not so degenerate but that we might possibly live in a cave or a wigwam or wear skins today, it certainly is better to accept the advantages, though so dearly bought, which the invention and industry of mankind offer.
In such a neighborhood as this, boards and shingles, lime and bricks, are cheaper and more easily obtained than suitable caves, or whole logs, or bark in sufficient quantities, or even well-tempered clay or flat stones.
I speak understandingly on this subject, for I have made myself acquainted with it both theoretically and practically.
With a little more wit we might use these materials so as to become richer than the richest now are, and make our civilization a blessing.
The civilized man is a more experienced and wiser savage.
But to make haste to my own experiment.
Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to the woods by Walden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house, and began to cut down some tall, arrowy white pines, still in their youth, for timber.
It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit your fellow-men to have an interest in your enterprise.
The owner of the axe, as he released his hold on it, said that it was the apple of his eye; but I returned it sharper than I received it.
It was a pleasant hillside where I worked, covered with pine woods, through which I looked out on the pond, and a small open field in the woods where pines and hickories were springing up.
The ice in the pond was not yet dissolved, though there were some open spaces, and it was all dark-colored and saturated with water.
There were some slight flurries of snow during the days that I worked there; but for the most part when I came out on to the railroad, on my way home, its yellow sand-heap stretched away gleaming in the hazy atmosphere, and the rails shone in the spring sun, and I heard the lark and pewee and other birds already come to commence another year with us.
They were pleasant spring days, in which the winter of man's discontent was thawing as well as the earth, and the life that had lain torpid began to stretch itself.
One day, when my axe had come off and I had cut a green hickory for a wedge, driving it with a stone, and had placed the whole to soak in a pond-hole in order to swell the wood, I saw a striped snake run into the water, and he lay on the bottom, apparently without inconvenience, as long as I stayed there, or more than a quarter of an hour; perhaps because he had not yet fairly come out of the torpid state.
It appeared to me that for a like reason men remain in their present low and primitive condition; but if they should feel the influence of the spring of springs arousing them, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life.
I had previously seen the snakes in frosty mornings in my path with portions of their bodies still numb and inflexible, waiting for the sun to thaw them.
On the 1st of April it rained and melted the ice, and in the early part of the day, which was very foggy, I heard a stray goose groping about over the pond and cackling as if lost, or like the spirit of the fog.
So I went on for some days cutting and hewing timber, and also studs and rafters, all with my narrow axe, not having many communicable or scholar-like thoughts, singing to myself, Men say they know many things; But lo!
they have taken wingsThe arts and sciences, And a thousand appliances; The wind that blows Is all that anybody knows.
I hewed the main timbers six inches square, most of the studs on two sides only, and the rafters and floor timbers on one side, leaving the rest of the bark on, so that they were just as straight and much stronger than sawed ones.
Each stick was carefully mortised or tenoned by its stump, for I had borrowed other tools by this time.
My days in the woods were not very long ones; yet I usually carried my dinner of bread and butter, and read the newspaper in which it was wrapped, at noon, sitting amid the green pine boughs which I had cut off, and to my bread was imparted some of their fragrance, for my hands were covered with a thick coat of pitch.
Before I had done I was more the friend than the foe of the pine tree, though I had cut down some of them, having become better acquainted with it.
Sometimes a rambler in the wood was attracted by the sound of my axe, and we chatted pleasantly over the chips which I had made.
By the middle of April, for I made no haste in my work, but rather made the most of it, my house was framed and ready for the raising.
I had already bought the shanty of James Collins, an Irishman who worked on the Fitchburg Railroad, for boards.
James Collins' shanty was considered an uncommonly fine one.
When I called to see it he was not at home.
I walked about the outside, at first unobserved from within, the window was so deep and high.
It was of small dimensions, with a peaked cottage roof, and not much else to be seen, the dirt being raised five feet all around as if it were a compost heap.
The roof was the soundest part, though a good deal warped and made brittle by the sun.
Doorsill there was none, but a perennial passage for the hens under the door-board.
Mrs. C. came to the door and asked me to view it from the inside.
The hens were driven in by my approach.
It was dark, and had a dirt floor for the most part, dank, clammy, and aguish, only here a board and there a board which would not bear removal.
She lighted a lamp to show me the inside of the roof and the walls, and also that the board floor extended under the bed, warning me not to step into the cellar, a sort of dust hole two feet deep.
In her own words, they were good boards overhead, good boards all around, and a good window"of two whole squares originally, only the cat had passed out that way lately.
There was a stove, a bed, and a place to sit, an infant in the house where it was born, a silk parasol, gilt-framed looking-glass, and a patent new coffee-mill nailed to an oak sapling, all told.
The bargain was soon concluded, for James had in the meanwhile returned.
I to pay four dollars and twenty-five cents tonight, he to vacate at five tomorrow morning, selling to nobody else meanwhile: I to take possession at six.
It were well, he said, to be there early, and anticipate certain indistinct but wholly unjust claims on the score of ground rent and fuel.
This he assured me was the only encumbrance.
At six I passed him and his family on the road.
One large bundle held their allbed, coffee-mill, looking-glass, hensall but the cat; she took to the woods and became a wild cat, and, as I learned afterward, trod in a trap set for woodchucks, and so became a dead cat at last.
I took down this dwelling the same morning, drawing the nails, and removed it to the pond-side by small cartloads, spreading the boards on the grass there to bleach and warp back again in the sun.
One early thrush gave me a note or two as I drove along the woodland path.
I was informed treacherously by a young Patrick that neighbor Seeley, an Irishman, in the intervals of the carting, transferred the still tolerable, straight, and drivable nails, staples, and spikes to his pocket, and then stood when I came back to pass the time of day, and look freshly up, unconcerned, with spring thoughts, at the devastation; there being a dearth of work, as he said.
He was there to represent spectatordom, and help make this seemingly insignificant event one with the removal of the gods of Troy.
I dug my cellar in the side of a hill sloping to the south, where a woodchuck had formerly dug his burrow, down through sumach and blackberry roots, and the lowest stain of vegetation, six feet square by seven deep, to a fine sand where potatoes would not freeze in any winter.
The sides were left shelving, and not stoned; but the sun having never shone on them, the sand still keeps its place.
It was but two hours' work.
I took particular pleasure in this breaking of ground, for in almost all latitudes men dig into the earth for an equable temperature.
Under the most splendid house in the city is still to be found the cellar where they store their roots as of old, and long after the superstructure has disappeared posterity remark its dent in the earth.
The house is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a burrow.
At length, in the beginning of May, with the help of some of my acquaintances, rather to improve so good an occasion for neighborliness than from any necessity, I set up the frame of my house.
No man was ever more honored in the character of his raisers than I.
They are destined, I trust, to assist at the raising of loftier structures one day.
I began to occupy my house on the 4th of July, as soon as it was boarded and roofed, for the boards were carefully feather-edged and lapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain, but before boarding I laid the foundation of a chimney at one end, bringing two cartloads of stones up the hill from the pond in my arms.
I built the chimney after my hoeing in the fall, before a fire became necessary for warmth, doing my cooking in the meanwhile out of doors on the ground, early in the morning: which mode I still think is in some respects more convenient and agreeable than the usual one.
When it stormed before my bread was baked, I fixed a few boards over the fire, and sat under them to watch my loaf, and passed some pleasant hours in that way.
In those days, when my hands were much employed, I read but little, but the least scraps of paper which lay on the ground, my holder, or tablecloth, afforded me as much entertainment, in fact answered the same purpose as the Iliad.
It would be worth the while to build still more deliberately than I did, considering, for instance, what foundation a door, a window, a cellar, a garret, have in the nature of man, and perchance never raising any superstructure until we found a better reason for it than our temporal necessities even.
There is some of the same fitness in a man's building his own house that there is in a bird's building its own nest.
Who knows but if men constructed their dwellings with their own hands, and provided food for themselves and families simply and honestly enough, the poetic faculty would be universally developed, as birds universally sing when they are so engaged?
But alas!
we do like cowbirds and cuckoos, which lay their eggs in nests which other birds have built, and cheer no traveller with their chattering and unmusical notes.
Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to the carpenter?
What does architecture amount to in the experience of the mass of men?
I never in all my walks came across a man engaged in so simple and natural an occupation as building his house.
We belong to the community.
It is not the tailor alone who is the ninth part of a man; it is as much the preacher, and the merchant, and the farmer.
Where is this division of labor to end?
and what object does it finally serve?
No doubt another may also think for me; but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my thinking for myself.
True, there are architects so called in this country, and I have heard of one at least possessed with the idea of making architectural ornaments have a core of truth, a necessity, and hence a beauty, as if it were a revelation to him.
All very well perhaps from his point of view, but only a little better than the common dilettantism.
A sentimental reformer in architecture, he began at the cornice, not at the foundation.
It was only how to put a core of truth within the ornaments, that every sugarplum, in fact, might have an almond or caraway seed in itthough I hold that almonds are most wholesome without the sugarand not how the inhabitant, the indweller, might build truly within and without, and let the ornaments take care of themselves.
What reasonable man ever supposed that ornaments were something outward and in the skin merelythat the tortoise got his spotted shell, or the shell-fish its mother-o'-pearl tints, by such a contract as the inhabitants of Broadway their Trinity Church?
But a man has no more to do with the style of architecture of his house than a tortoise with that of its shell: nor need the soldier be so idle as to try to paint the precise color of his virtue on his standard.
The enemy will find it out.
He may turn pale when the trial comes.
This man seemed to me to lean over the cornice, and timidly whisper his half truth to the rude occupants who really knew it better than he.
What of architectural beauty I now see, I know has gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is the only builderout of some unconscious truthfulness, and nobleness, without ever a thought for the appearance and whatever additional beauty of this kind is destined to be produced will be preceded by a like unconscious beauty of life.
The most interesting dwellings in this country, as the painter knows, are the most unpretending, humble log huts and cottages of the poor commonly; it is the life of the inhabitants whose shells they are, and not any peculiarity in their surfaces merely, which makes them picturesque; and equally interesting will be the citizen's suburban box, when his life shall be as simple and as agreeable to the imagination, and there is as little straining after effect in the style of his dwelling.
A great proportion of architectural ornaments are literally hollow, and a September gale would strip them off, like borrowed plumes, without injury to the substantials.
They can do without architecture who have no olives nor wines in the cellar.
What if an equal ado were made about the ornaments of style in literature, and the architects of our bibles spent as much time about their cornices as the architects of our churches do?
So are made the belles-lettres and the beaux-arts and their professors.
Much it concerns a man, forsooth, how a few sticks are slanted over him or under him, and what colors are daubed upon his box.
It would signify somewhat, if, in any earnest sense, he slanted them and daubed it; but the spirit having departed out of the tenant, it is of a piece with constructing his own coffinthe architecture of the graveand "carpenter" is but another name for "coffin-maker."
One man says, in his despair or indifference to life, take up a handful of the earth at your feet, and paint your house that color.
Is he thinking of his last and narrow house?
Toss up a copper for it as well.
What an abundance of leisure be must have!
Why do you take up a handful of dirt?
Better paint your house your own complexion; let it turn pale or blush for you.
An enterprise to improve the style of cottage architecture!
When you have got my ornaments ready, I will wear them.
Before winter I built a chimney, and shingled the sides of my house, which were already impervious to rain, with imperfect and sappy shingles made of the first slice of the log, whose edges I was obliged to straighten with a plane.
I have thus a tight shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by fifteen long, and eight-feet posts, with a garret and a closet, a large window on each side, two trap-doors, one door at the end, and a brick fireplace opposite.
The exact cost of my house, paying the usual price for such materials as I used, but not counting the work, all of which was done by myself, was as follows; and I give the details because very few are able to tell exactly what their houses cost, and fewer still, if any, the separate cost of the various materials which compose them: Boards................................$ 8.03 1/2, (mostly shanty boards.)
Refuse shingles for roof and sides.... 4.00 Laths................................. 1.25 Two second-hand windows with glass.... 2.43 One thousand old brick................ 4.00 Two casks of lime..................... 2.40 (That was high.)
Hair.................................. 0.31 (More than I needed.)
Mantle-tree iron...................... 0.15 Nails................................. 3.90 Hinges and screws..................... 0.14 Latch................................. 0.10 Chalk................................. 0.01 Transportation........................ 1.40 (I carried a good part on my back.)
----In all................................$ 28.12 1/2 These are all the materials, excepting the timber, stones, and sand, which I claimed by squatter's right.
I have also a small woodshed adjoining, made chiefly of the stuff which was left after building the house.
I intend to build me a house which will surpass any on the main street in Concord in grandeur and luxury, as soon as it pleases me as much and will cost me no more than my present one.
I thus found that the student who wishes for a shelter can obtain one for a lifetime at an expense not greater than the rent which he now pays annually.
If I seem to boast more than is becoming, my excuse is that I brag for humanity rather than for myself; and my shortcomings and inconsistencies do not affect the truth of my statement.
Notwithstanding much cant and hypocrisychaff which I find it difficult to separate from my wheat, but for which I am as sorry as any manI will breathe freely and stretch myself in this respect, it is such a relief to both the moral and physical system; and I am resolved that I will not through humility become the devil's attorney.
I will endeavor to speak a good word for the truth.
At Cambridge College the mere rent of a student's room, which is only a little larger than my own, is thirty dollars each year, though the corporation had the advantage of building thirty-two side by side and under one roof, and the occupant suffers the inconvenience of many and noisy neighbors, and perhaps a residence in the fourth story.
I cannot but think that if we had more true wisdom in these respects, not only less education would be needed, because, forsooth, more would already have been acquired, but the pecuniary expense of getting an education would in a great measure vanish.
Those conveniences which the student requires at Cambridge or elsewhere cost him or somebody else ten times as great a sacrifice of life as they would with proper management on both sides.
Those things for which the most money is demanded are never the things which the student most wants.
Tuition, for instance, is an important item in the term bill, while for the far more valuable education which he gets by associating with the most cultivated of his contemporaries no charge is made.
The mode of founding a college is, commonly, to get up a subscription of dollars and cents, and then, following blindly the principles of a division of labor to its extremea principle which should never be followed but with circumspectionto call in a contractor who makes this a subject of speculation, and he employs Irishmen or other operatives actually to lay the foundations, while the students that are to be are said to be fitting themselves for it; and for these oversights successive generations have to pay.
I think that it would be better than this, for the students, or those who desire to be benefited by it, even to lay the foundation themselves.
The student who secures his coveted leisure and retirement by systematically shirking any labor necessary to man obtains but an ignoble and unprofitable leisure, defrauding himself of the experience which alone can make leisure fruitful.
"But," says one, "you do not mean that the students should go to work with their hands instead of their heads?"
I do not mean that exactly, but I mean something which he might think a good deal like that; I mean that they should not play life, or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from beginning to end.
How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living?
Methinks this would exercise their minds as much as mathematics.
If I wished a boy to know something about the arts and sciences, for instance, I would not pursue the common course, which is merely to send him into the neighborhood of some professor, where anything is professed and practised but the art of life;to survey the world through a telescope or a microscope, and never with his natural eye; to study chemistry, and not learn how his bread is made, or mechanics, and not learn how it is earned; to discover new satellites to Neptune, and not detect the motes in his eyes, or to what vagabond he is a satellite himself; or to be devoured by the monsters that swarm all around him, while contemplating the monsters in a drop of vinegar.
Which would have advanced the most at the end of a monththe boy who had made his own jackknife from the ore which he had dug and smelted, reading as much as would be necessary for thisor the boy who had attended the lectures on metallurgy at the Institute in the meanwhile, and had received a Rodgers penknife from his father?
Which would be most likely to cut his fingers?...
To my astonishment I was informed on leaving college that I had studied navigation!why, if I had taken one turn down the harbor I should have known more about it.
Even the poor student studies and is taught only political economy, while that economy of living which is synonymous with philosophy is not even sincerely professed in our colleges.
The consequence is, that while he is reading Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Say, he runs his father in debt irretrievably.
As with our colleges, so with a hundred "modern improvements"; there is an illusion about them; there is not always a positive advance.
The devil goes on exacting compound interest to the last for his early share and numerous succeeding investments in them.
Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious things.
They are but improved means to an unimproved end, an end which it was already but too easy to arrive at; as railroads lead to Boston or New York.
We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.
Either is in such a predicament as the man who was earnest to be introduced to a distinguished deaf woman, but when he was presented, and one end of her ear trumpet was put into his hand, had nothing to say.
As if the main object were to talk fast and not to talk sensibly.
We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the Old World some weeks nearer to the New; but perchance the first news that will leak through into the broad, flapping American ear will be that the Princess Adelaide has the whooping cough.
After all, the man whose horse trots a mile in a minute does not carry the most important messages; he is not an evangelist, nor does he come round eating locusts and wild honey.
I doubt if Flying Childers ever carried a peck of corn to mill.
One says to me, "I wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to travel; you might take the cars and go to Fitchburg today and see the country."
But I am wiser than that.
I have learned that the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot.
I say to my friend, Suppose we try who will get there first.
The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents.
That is almost a day's wages.
I remember when wages were sixty cents a day for laborers on this very road.
Well, I start now on foot, and get there before night; I have travelled at that rate by the week together.
You will in the meanwhile have earned your fare, and arrive there some time tomorrow, or possibly this evening, if you are lucky enough to get a job in season.
Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will be working here the greater part of the day.
And so, if the railroad reached round the world, I think that I should keep ahead of you; and as for seeing the country and getting experience of that kind, I should have to cut your acquaintance altogether.
Such is the universal law, which no man can ever outwit, and with regard to the railroad even we may say it is as broad as it is long.
To make a railroad round the world available to all mankind is equivalent to grading the whole surface of the planet.
Men have an indistinct notion that if they keep up this activity of joint stocks and spades long enough all will at length ride somewhere, in next to no time, and for nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, and the conductor shouts "All aboard!"
when the smoke is blown away and the vapor condensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are run overand it will be called, and will be, "A melancholy accident."
No doubt they can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that is, if they survive so long, but they will probably have lost their elasticity and desire to travel by that time.
This spending of the best part of one's life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet.
He should have gone up garret at once.
"What!"
exclaim a million Irishmen starting up from all the shanties in the land, "is not this railroad which we have built a good thing?"
Yes, I answer, comparatively good, that is, you might have done worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that you could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt.
Before I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by some honest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses, I planted about two acres and a half of light and sandy soil near it chiefly with beans, but also a small part with potatoes, corn, peas, and turnips.
The whole lot contains eleven acres, mostly growing up to pines and hickories, and was sold the preceding season for eight dollars and eight cents an acre.
One farmer said that it was "good for nothing but to raise cheeping squirrels on."
I put no manure whatever on this land, not being the owner, but merely a squatter, and not expecting to cultivate so much again, and I did not quite hoe it all once.
I got out several cords of stumps in plowing, which supplied me with fuel for a long time, and left small circles of virgin mould, easily distinguishable through the summer by the greater luxuriance of the beans there.
The dead and for the most part unmerchantable wood behind my house, and the driftwood from the pond, have supplied the remainder of my fuel.
I was obliged to hire a team and a man for the plowing, though I held the plow myself.
My farm outgoes for the first season were, for implements, seed, work, etc., $14.72 1/2.
The seed corn was given me.
This never costs anything to speak of, unless you plant more than enough.
I got twelve bushels of beans, and eighteen bushels of potatoes, beside some peas and sweet corn.
The yellow corn and turnips were too late to come to anything.
My whole income from the farm was $ 23.44 Deducting the outgoes............. 14.72 1/2 ----There are left....................$ 8.71 1/2 beside produce consumed and on hand at the time this estimate was made of the value of $4.50the amount on hand much more than balancing a little grass which I did not raise.
All things considered, that is, considering the importance of a man's soul and of today, notwithstanding the short time occupied by my experiment, nay, partly even because of its transient character, I believe that that was doing better than any farmer in Concord did that year.
The next year I did better still, for I spaded up all the land which I required, about a third of an acre, and I learned from the experience of both years, not being in the least awed by many celebrated works on husbandry, Arthur Young among the rest, that if one would live simply and eat only the crop which he raised, and raise no more than he ate, and not exchange it for an insufficient quantity of more luxurious and expensive things, he would need to cultivate only a few rods of ground, and that it would be cheaper to spade up that than to use oxen to plow it, and to select a fresh spot from time to time than to manure the old, and he could do all his necessary farm work as it were with his left hand at odd hours in the summer; and thus he would not be tied to an ox, or horse, or cow, or pig, as at present.
I desire to speak impartially on this point, and as one not interested in the success or failure of the present economical and social arrangements.
I was more independent than any farmer in Concord, for I was not anchored to a house or farm, but could follow the bent of my genius, which is a very crooked one, every moment.
Beside being better off than they already, if my house had been burned or my crops had failed, I should have been nearly as well off as before.
I am wont to think that men are not so much the keepers of herds as herds are the keepers of men, the former are so much the freer.
Men and oxen exchange work; but if we consider necessary work only, the oxen will be seen to have greatly the advantage, their farm is so much the larger.
Man does some of his part of the exchange work in his six weeks of haying, and it is no boy's play.
Certainly no nation that lived simply in all respects, that is, no nation of philosophers, would commit so great a blunder as to use the labor of animals.
True, there never was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers, nor am I certain it is desirable that there should be.
However, I should never have broken a horse or bull and taken him to board for any work he might do for me, for fear I should become a horseman or a herdsman merely; and if society seems to be the gainer by so doing, are we certain that what is one man's gain is not another's loss, and that the stable-boy has equal cause with his master to be satisfied?
Granted that some public works would not have been constructed without this aid, and let man share the glory of such with the ox and horse; does it follow that he could not have accomplished works yet more worthy of himself in that case?
When men begin to do, not merely unnecessary or artistic, but luxurious and idle work, with their assistance, it is inevitable that a few do all the exchange work with the oxen, or, in other words, become the slaves of the strongest.
Man thus not only works for the animal within him, but, for a symbol of this, he works for the animal without him.
Though we have many substantial houses of brick or stone, the prosperity of the farmer is still measured by the degree to which the barn overshadows the house.
This town is said to have the largest houses for oxen, cows, and horses hereabouts, and it is not behindhand in its public buildings; but there are very few halls for free worship or free speech in this county.
It should not be by their architecture, but why not even by their power of abstract thought, that nations should seek to commemorate themselves?
How much more admirable the Bhagvat-Geeta than all the ruins of the East!
Towers and temples are the luxury of princes.
A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of any prince.
Genius is not a retainer to any emperor, nor is its material silver, or gold, or marble, except to a trifling extent.
To what end, pray, is so much stone hammered?
In Arcadia, when I was there, I did not see any hammering stone.
Nations are possessed with an insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave.
What if equal pains were taken to smooth and polish their manners?
One piece of good sense would be more memorable than a monument as high as the moon.
I love better to see stones in place.
The grandeur of Thebes was a vulgar grandeur.
More sensible is a rod of stone wall that bounds an honest man's field than a hundred-gated Thebes that has wandered farther from the true end of life.
The religion and civilization which are barbaric and heathenish build splendid temples; but what you might call Christianity does not.
Most of the stone a nation hammers goes toward its tomb only.
It buries itself alive.
As for the Pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs.
I might possibly invent some excuse for them and him, but I have no time for it.
As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank.
It costs more than it comes to.
The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter.
Mr. Balcom, a promising young architect, designs it on the back of his Vitruvius, with hard pencil and ruler, and the job is let out to Dobson & Sons, stonecutters.
When the thirty centuries begin to look down on it, mankind begin to look up at it.
As for your high towers and monuments, there was a crazy fellow once in this town who undertook to dig through to China, and he got so far that, as he said, he heard the Chinese pots and kettles rattle; but I think that I shall not go out of my way to admire the hole which he made.
Many are concerned about the monuments of the West and the Eastto know who built them.
For my part, I should like to know who in those days did not build themwho were above such trifling.
But to proceed with my statistics.
By surveying, carpentry, and day-labor of various other kinds in the village in the meanwhile, for I have as many trades as fingers, I had earned $13.34.
The expense of food for eight months, namely, from July 4th to March 1st, the time when these estimates were made, though I lived there more than two yearsnot counting potatoes, a little green corn, and some peas, which I had raised, nor considering the value of what was on hand at the last datewas Rice......................$ 1.73 1/2 Molasses.................. 1.73 (Cheapest form of the saccharine.)
Rye meal.................. 1.04 3/4 Indian meal............... 0.99 3/4 (Cheaper than rye.)
Pork...................... 0.22 (All Experiments Which Failed) Flour..................... 0.88 (Costs more than Indian meal, both money and trouble.)
Sugar..................... 0.80 Lard...................... 0.65 Apples.................... 0.25 Dried apple............... 0.22 Sweet potatoes............ 0.10 One pumpkin............... 0.06 One watermelon............ 0.02 Salt...................... 0.03 Yes, I did eat $8.74, all told; but I should not thus unblushingly publish my guilt, if I did not know that most of my readers were equally guilty with myself, and that their deeds would look no better in print.
The next year I sometimes caught a mess of fish for my dinner, and once I went so far as to slaughter a woodchuck which ravaged my bean-fieldeffect his transmigration, as a Tartar would sayand devour him, partly for experiment's sake; but though it afforded me a momentary enjoyment, notwithstanding a musky flavor, I saw that the longest use would not make that a good practice, however it might seem to have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village butcher.
Clothing and some incidental expenses within the same dates, though little can be inferred from this item, amounted to $ 8.40 3/4 Oil and some household utensils......... 2.00 So that all the pecuniary outgoes, excepting for washing and mending, which for the most part were done out of the house, and their bills have not yet been receivedand these are all and more than all the ways by which money necessarily goes out in this part of the worldwere House...................................$ 28.12 1/2 Farm one year........................... 14.72 1/2 Food eight months....................... 8.74 Clothing, etc., eight months............ 8.40 3/4 Oil, etc., eight months................. 2.00 ----In all..................................$ 61.99 3/4 I address myself now to those of my readers who have a living to get.
And to meet this I have for farm produce sold $ 23.44 Earned by day-labor..................... 13.34 ----In all..................................$ 36.78 which subtracted from the sum of the outgoes leaves a balance of $25.21 3/4 on the one sidethis being very nearly the means with which I started, and the measure of expenses to be incurredand on the other, beside the leisure and independence and health thus secured, a comfortable house for me as long as I choose to occupy it.
These statistics, however accidental and therefore uninstructive they may appear, as they have a certain completeness, have a certain value also.
Nothing was given me of which I have not rendered some account.
It appears from the above estimate, that my food alone cost me in money about twenty-seven cents a week.
It was, for nearly two years after this, rye and Indian meal without yeast, potatoes, rice, a very little salt pork, molasses, and salt; and my drink, water.
It was fit that I should live on rice, mainly, who love so well the philosophy of India.
To meet the objections of some inveterate cavillers, I may as well state, that if I dined out occasionally, as I always had done, and I trust shall have opportunities to do again, it was frequently to the detriment of my domestic arrangements.
But the dining out, being, as I have stated, a constant element, does not in the least affect a comparative statement like this.
I learned from my two years' experience that it would cost incredibly little trouble to obtain one's necessary food, even in this latitude; that a man may use as simple a diet as the animals, and yet retain health and strength.
I have made a satisfactory dinner, satisfactory on several accounts, simply off a dish of purslane (Portulaca oleracea) which I gathered in my cornfield, boiled and salted.
I give the Latin on account of the savoriness of the trivial name.
And pray what more can a reasonable man desire, in peaceful times, in ordinary noons, than a sufficient number of ears of green sweet corn boiled, with the addition of salt?
Even the little variety which I used was a yielding to the demands of appetite, and not of health.
Yet men have come to such a pass that they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries, but for want of luxuries; and I know a good woman who thinks that her son lost his life because he took to drinking water only.
The reader will perceive that I am treating the subject rather from an economic than a dietetic point of view, and he will not venture to put my abstemiousness to the test unless he has a well-stocked larder.
Bread I at first made of pure Indian meal and salt, genuine hoe-cakes, which I baked before my fire out of doors on a shingle or the end of a stick of timber sawed off in building my house; but it was wont to get smoked and to have a piny flavor, I tried flour also; but have at last found a mixture of rye and Indian meal most convenient and agreeable.
In cold weather it was no little amusement to bake several small loaves of this in succession, tending and turning them as carefully as an Egyptian his hatching eggs.
They were a real cereal fruit which I ripened, and they had to my senses a fragrance like that of other noble fruits, which I kept in as long as possible by wrapping them in cloths.
I made a study of the ancient and indispensable art of bread-making, consulting such authorities as offered, going back to the primitive days and first invention of the unleavened kind, when from the wildness of nuts and meats men first reached the mildness and refinement of this diet, and travelling gradually down in my studies through that accidental souring of the dough which, it is supposed, taught the leavening process, and through the various fermentations thereafter, till I came to "good, sweet, wholesome bread," the staff of life.
Leaven, which some deem the soul of bread, the spiritus which fills its cellular tissue, which is religiously preserved like the vestal firesome precious bottleful, I suppose, first brought over in the Mayflower, did the business for America, and its influence is still rising, swelling, spreading, in cerealian billows over the landthis seed I regularly and faithfully procured from the village, till at length one morning I forgot the rules, and scalded my yeast; by which accident I discovered that even this was not indispensablefor my discoveries were not by the synthetic but analytic processand I have gladly omitted it since, though most housewives earnestly assured me that safe and wholesome bread without yeast might not be, and elderly people prophesied a speedy decay of the vital forces.
Yet I find it not to be an essential ingredient, and after going without it for a year am still in the land of the living; and I am glad to escape the trivialness of carrying a bottleful in my pocket, which would sometimes pop and discharge its contents to my discomfiture.
It is simpler and more respectable to omit it.
Man is an animal who more than any other can adapt himself to all climates and circumstances.
Neither did I put any sal-soda, or other acid or alkali, into my bread.
It would seem that I made it according to the recipe which Marcus Porcius Cato gave about two centuries before Christ.
"Panem depsticium sic facito.
Manus mortariumque bene lavato.
Farinam in mortarium indito, aquae paulatim addito, subigitoque pulchre.
Ubi bene subegeris, defingito, coquitoque sub testu."
Which I take to mean,"Make kneaded bread thus.
Wash your hands and trough well.
Put the meal into the trough, add water gradually, and knead it thoroughly.
When you have kneaded it well, mould it, and bake it under a cover," that is, in a baking-kettle.
Not a word about leaven.
But I did not always use this staff of life.
At one time, owing to the emptiness of my purse, I saw none of it for more than a month.
Every New Englander might easily raise all his own breadstuffs in this land of rye and Indian corn, and not depend on distant and fluctuating markets for them.
Yet so far are we from simplicity and independence that, in Concord, fresh and sweet meal is rarely sold in the shops, and hominy and corn in a still coarser form are hardly used by any.
For the most part the farmer gives to his cattle and hogs the grain of his own producing, and buys flour, which is at least no more wholesome, at a greater cost, at the store.
I saw that I could easily raise my bushel or two of rye and Indian corn, for the former will grow on the poorest land, and the latter does not require the best, and grind them in a hand-mill, and so do without rice and pork; and if I must have some concentrated sweet, I found by experiment that I could make a very good molasses either of pumpkins or beets, and I knew that I needed only to set out a few maples to obtain it more easily still, and while these were growing I could use various substitutes beside those which I have named.
"For," as the Forefathers sang, "we can make liquor to sweeten our lips Of pumpkins and parsnips and walnut-tree chips."
Finally, as for salt, that grossest of groceries, to obtain this might be a fit occasion for a visit to the seashore, or, if I did without it altogether, I should probably drink the less water.
I do not learn that the Indians ever troubled themselves to go after it.
Thus I could avoid all trade and barter, so far as my food was concerned, and having a shelter already, it would only remain to get clothing and fuel.
The pantaloons which I now wear were woven in a farmer's familythank Heaven there is so much virtue still in man; for I think the fall from the farmer to the operative as great and memorable as that from the man to the farmer;and in a new country, fuel is an encumbrance.
As for a habitat, if I were not permitted still to squat, I might purchase one acre at the same price for which the land I cultivated was soldnamely, eight dollars and eight cents.
But as it was, I considered that I enhanced the value of the land by squatting on it.
There is a certain class of unbelievers who sometimes ask me such questions as, if I think that I can live on vegetable food alone; and to strike at the root of the matter at oncefor the root is faithI am accustomed to answer such, that I can live on board nails.
If they cannot understand that, they cannot understand much that I have to say.
For my part, I am glad to bear of experiments of this kind being tried; as that a young man tried for a fortnight to live on hard, raw corn on the ear, using his teeth for all mortar.
The squirrel tribe tried the same and succeeded.
The human race is interested in these experiments, though a few old women who are incapacitated for them, or who own their thirds in mills, may be alarmed.
My furniture, part of which I made myselfand the rest cost me nothing of which I have not rendered an accountconsisted of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass three inches in diameter, a pair of tongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a frying-pan, a dipper, a wash-bowl, two knives and forks, three plates, one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned lamp.
None is so poor that he need sit on a pumpkin.
That is shiftlessness.
There is a plenty of such chairs as I like best in the village garrets to be had for taking them away.
Furniture!
Thank God, I can sit and I can stand without the aid of a furniture warehouse.
What man but a philosopher would not be ashamed to see his furniture packed in a cart and going up country exposed to the light of heaven and the eyes of men, a beggarly account of empty boxes?
That is Spaulding's furniture.
I could never tell from inspecting such a load whether it belonged to a so-called rich man or a poor one; the owner always seemed poverty-stricken.
Indeed, the more you have of such things the poorer you are.
Each load looks as if it contained the contents of a dozen shanties; and if one shanty is poor, this is a dozen times as poor.
Pray, for what do we move ever but to get rid of our furniture, our exuviae; at last to go from this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be burned?
It is the same as if all these traps were buckled to a man's belt, and he could not move over the rough country where our lines are cast without dragging themdragging his trap.
He was a lucky fox that left his tail in the trap.
The muskrat will gnaw his third leg off to be free.
No wonder man has lost his elasticity.
How often he is at a dead set!
"Sir, if I may be so bold, what do you mean by a dead set?"
If you are a seer, whenever you meet a man you will see all that he owns, ay, and much that he pretends to disown, behind him, even to his kitchen furniture and all the trumpery which he saves and will not burn, and he will appear to be harnessed to it and making what headway he can.
I think that the man is at a dead set who has got through a knot-hole or gateway where his sledge load of furniture cannot follow him.
I cannot but feel compassion when I hear some trig, compact-looking man, seemingly free, all girded and ready, speak of his "furniture," as whether it is insured or not.
"But what shall I do with my furniture?
"My gay butterfly is entangled in a spider's web then.
Even those who seem for a long while not to have any, if you inquire more narrowly you will find have some stored in somebody's barn.
I look upon England today as an old gentleman who is travelling with a great deal of baggage, trumpery which has accumulated from long housekeeping, which he has not the courage to burn; great trunk, little trunk, bandbox, and bundle.
Throw away the first three at least.
It would surpass the powers of a well man nowadays to take up his bed and walk, and I should certainly advise a sick one to lay down his bed and run.
When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which contained his alllooking like an enormous well which had grown out of the nape of his neckI have pitied him, not because that was his all, but because he had all that to carry.
If I have got to drag my trap, I will take care that it be a light one and do not nip me in a vital part.
But perchance it would be wisest never to put one's paw into it.
I would observe, by the way, that it costs me nothing for curtains, for I have no gazers to shut out but the sun and moon, and I am willing that they should look in.
The moon will not sour milk nor taint meat of mine, nor will the sun injure my furniture or fade my carpet; and if he is sometimes too warm a friend, I find it still better economy to retreat behind some curtain which nature has provided, than to add a single item to the details of housekeeping.
A lady once offered me a mat, but as I had no room to spare within the house, nor time to spare within or without to shake it, I declined it, preferring to wipe my feet on the sod before my door.
It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.
Not long since I was present at the auction of a deacon's effects, for his life had not been ineffectual: "The evil that men do lives after them."
As usual, a great proportion was trumpery which had begun to accumulate in his father's day.
Among the rest was a dried tapeworm.
And now, after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these things were not burned; instead of a bonfire, or purifying destruction of them, there was an auction, or increasing of them.
The neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie there till their estates are settled, when they will start again.
When a man dies he kicks the dust.
The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably imitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting their slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they have the reality or not.
Would it not be well if we were to celebrate such a "busk," or "feast of first fruits," as Bartram describes to have been the custom of the Mucclasse Indians?
"When a town celebrates the busk," says he, "having previously provided themselves with new clothes, new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture, they collect all their worn out clothes and other despicable things, sweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole town of their filth, which with all the remaining grain and other old provisions they cast together into one common heap, and consume it with fire.
After having taken medicine, and fasted for three days, all the fire in the town is extinguished.
During this fast they abstain from the gratification of every appetite and passion whatever.
A general amnesty is proclaimed; all malefactors may return to their town."
"On the fourth morning, the high priest, by rubbing dry wood together, produces new fire in the public square, from whence every habitation in the town is supplied with the new and pure flame."
They then feast on the new corn and fruits, and dance and sing for three days, "and the four following days they receive visits and rejoice with their friends from neighboring towns who have in like manner purified and prepared themselves."
The Mexicans also practised a similar purification at the end of every fifty-two years, in the belief that it was time for the world to come to an end.
I have scarcely heard of a truer sacrament, that is, as the dictionary defines it,outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace," than this, and I have no doubt that they were originally inspired directly from Heaven to do thus, though they have no Biblical record of the revelation.
For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found that, by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living.
The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study.
I have thoroughly tried schoolkeeping, and found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income, for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain.
As I did not teach for the good of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure.
I have tried trade; but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil.
I was actually afraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a good business.
When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its small profits might sufficefor my greatest skill has been to want but littleso little capital it required, so little distraction from my wonted moods, I foolishly thought.
While my acquaintances went unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I contemplated this occupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick the berries which came in my way, and thereafter carelessly dispose of them; so, to keep the flocks of Admetus.
I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods, even to the city, by hay-cart loads.
But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.
As I preferred some things to others, and especially valued my freedom, as I could fare hard and yet succeed well, I did not wish to spend my time in earning rich carpets or other fine furniture, or delicate cookery, or a house in the Grecian or the Gothic style just yet.
If there are any to whom it is no interruption to acquire these things, and who know how to use them when acquired, I relinquish to them the pursuit.
Some are "industrious," and appear to love labor for its own sake, or perhaps because it keeps them out of worse mischief; to such I have at present nothing to say.
Those who would not know what to do with more leisure than they now enjoy, I might advise to work twice as hard as they dowork till they pay for themselves, and get their free papers.
For myself I found that the occupation of a day-laborer was the most independent of any, especially as it required only thirty or forty days in a year to support one.
The laborer's day ends with the going down of the sun, and he is then free to devote himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of his labor; but his employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respite from one end of the year to the other.
In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one's self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial.
It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do.
One young man of my acquaintance, who has inherited some acres, told me that he thought he should live as I did, if he had the means.
I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account; for, beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there may be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father's or his mother's or his neighbor's instead.
The youth may build or plant or sail, only let him not be hindered from doing that which he tells me he would like to do.
It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, as the sailor or the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that is sufficient guidance for all our life.
We may not arrive at our port within a calculable period, but we would preserve the true course.
Undoubtedly, in this case, what is true for one is truer still for a thousand, as a large house is not proportionally more expensive than a small one, since one roof may cover, one cellar underlie, and one wall separate several apartments.
But for my part, I preferred the solitary dwelling.
Moreover, it will commonly be cheaper to build the whole yourself than to convince another of the advantage of the common wall; and when you have done this, the common partition, to be much cheaper, must be a thin one, and that other may prove a bad neighbor, and also not keep his side in repair.
The only cooperation which is commonly possible is exceedingly partial and superficial; and what little true cooperation there is, is as if it were not, being a harmony inaudible to men.
If a man has faith, he will cooperate with equal faith everywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he is joined to.
To cooperate in the highest as well as the lowest sense, means to get our living together.
I heard it proposed lately that two young men should travel together over the world, the one without money, earning his means as he went, before the mast and behind the plow, the other carrying a bill of exchange in his pocket.
It was easy to see that they could not long be companions or cooperate, since one would not operate at all.
They would part at the first interesting crisis in their adventures.
Above all, as I have implied, the man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off.
But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say.
I confess that I have hitherto indulged very little in philanthropic enterprises.
I have made some sacrifices to a sense of duty, and among others have sacrificed this pleasure also.
There are those who have used all their arts to persuade me to undertake the support of some poor family in the town; and if I had nothing to dofor the devil finds employment for the idleI might try my hand at some such pastime as that.
However, when I have thought to indulge myself in this respect, and lay their Heaven under an obligation by maintaining certain poor persons in all respects as comfortably as I maintain myself, and have even ventured so far as to make them the offer, they have one and all unhesitatingly preferred to remain poor.
While my townsmen and women are devoted in so many ways to the good of their fellows, I trust that one at least may be spared to other and less humane pursuits.
You must have a genius for charity as well as for anything else.
As for Doing-good, that is one of the professions which are full.
Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my constitution.
Probably I should not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it.
But I would not stand between any man and his genius; and to him who does this work, which I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, I would say, Persevere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is most likely they will.
I am far from supposing that my case is a peculiar one; no doubt many of my readers would make a similar defence.
At doing somethingI will not engage that my neighbors shall pronounce it goodI do not hesitate to say that I should be a capital fellow to hire; but what that is, it is for my employer to find out.
What good I do, in the common sense of that word, must be aside from my main path, and for the most part wholly unintended.
Men say, practically, Begin where you are and such as you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with kindness aforethought go about doing good.
If I were to preach at all in this strain, I should say rather, Set about being good.
As if the sun should stop when he had kindled his fires up to the splendor of a moon or a star of the sixth magnitude, and go about like a Robin Goodfellow, peeping in at every cottage window, inspiring lunatics, and tainting meats, and making darkness visible, instead of steadily increasing his genial heat and beneficence till he is of such brightness that no mortal can look him in the face, and then, and in the meanwhile too, going about the world in his own orbit, doing it good, or rather, as a truer philosophy has discovered, the world going about him getting good.
When Phaeton, wishing to prove his heavenly birth by his beneficence, had the sun's chariot but one day, and drove out of the beaten track, he burned several blocks of houses in the lower streets of heaven, and scorched the surface of the earth, and dried up every spring, and made the great desert of Sahara, till at length Jupiter hurled him headlong to the earth with a thunderbolt, and the sun, through grief at his death, did not shine for a year.
There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted.
It is human, it is divine, carrion.
If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to mesome of its virus mingled with my blood.
Noin this case I would rather suffer evil the natural way.
A man is not a good man to me because he will feed me if I should be starving, or warm me if I should be freezing, or pull me out of a ditch if I should ever fall into one.
I can find you a Newfoundland dog that will do as much.
Philanthropy is not love for one's fellow-man in the broadest sense.
Howard was no doubt an exceedingly kind and worthy man in his way, and has his reward; but, comparatively speaking, what are a hundred Howards to us, if their philanthropy do not help us in our best estate, when we are most worthy to be helped?
I never heard of a philanthropic meeting in which it was sincerely proposed to do any good to me, or the like of me.
The Jesuits were quite balked by those indians who, being burned at the stake, suggested new modes of torture to their tormentors.
Being superior to physical suffering, it sometimes chanced that they were superior to any consolation which the missionaries could offer; and the law to do as you would be done by fell with less persuasiveness on the ears of those who, for their part, did not care how they were done by, who loved their enemies after a new fashion, and came very near freely forgiving them all they did.
Be sure that you give the poor the aid they most need, though it be your example which leaves them far behind.
If you give money, spend yourself with it, and do not merely abandon it to them.
We make curious mistakes sometimes.
Often the poor man is not so cold and hungry as he is dirty and ragged and gross.
It is partly his taste, and not merely his misfortune.
If you give him money, he will perhaps buy more rags with it.
I was wont to pity the clumsy Irish laborers who cut ice on the pond, in such mean and ragged clothes, while I shivered in my more tidy and somewhat more fashionable garments, till, one bitter cold day, one who had slipped into the water came to my house to warm him, and I saw him strip off three pairs of pants and two pairs of stockings ere he got down to the skin, though they were dirty and ragged enough, it is true, and that he could afford to refuse the extra garments which I offered him, he had so many intra ones.
This ducking was the very thing he needed.
Then I began to pity myself, and I saw that it would be a greater charity to bestow on me a flannel shirt than a whole slop-shop on him.
There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root, and it may be that he who bestows the largest amount of time and money on the needy is doing the most by his mode of life to produce that misery which he strives in vain to relieve.
It is the pious slave-breeder devoting the proceeds of every tenth slave to buy a Sunday's liberty for the rest.
Some show their kindness to the poor by employing them in their kitchens.
Would they not be kinder if they employed themselves there?
You boast of spending a tenth part of your income in charity; maybe you should spend the nine tenths so, and done with it.
Society recovers only a tenth part of the property then.
Is this owing to the generosity of him in whose possession it is found, or to the remissness of the officers of justice?
Philanthropy is almost the only virtue which is sufficiently appreciated by mankind.
Nay, it is greatly overrated; and it is our selfishness which overrates it.
A robust poor man, one sunny day here in Concord, praised a fellow-townsman to me, because, as he said, he was kind to the poor; meaning himself.
The kind uncles and aunts of the race are more esteemed than its true spiritual fathers and mothers.
I once heard a reverend lecturer on England, a man of learning and intelligence, after enumerating her scientific, literary, and political worthies, Shakespeare, Bacon, Cromwell, Milton, Newton, and others, speak next of her Christian heroes, whom, as if his profession required it of him, he elevated to a place far above all the rest, as the greatest of the great.
They were Penn, Howard, and Mrs. Fry.
Every one must feel the falsehood and cant of this.
The last were not England's best men and women; only, perhaps, her best philanthropists.
I would not subtract anything from the praise that is due to philanthropy, but merely demand justice for all who by their lives and works are a blessing to mankind.
I do not value chiefly a man's uprightness and benevolence, which are, as it were, his stem and leaves.
Those plants of whose greenness withered we make herb tea for the sick serve but a humble use, and are most employed by quacks.
I want the flower and fruit of a man; that some fragrance be wafted over from him to me, and some ripeness flavor our intercourse.
His goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, which costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious.
This is a charity that hides a multitude of sins.
The philanthropist too often surrounds mankind with the remembrance of his own castoff griefs as an atmosphere, and calls it sympathy.
We should impart our courage, and not our despair, our health and ease, and not our disease, and take care that this does not spread by contagion.
From what southern plains comes up the voice of wailing?
Under what latitudes reside the heathen to whom we would send light?
Who is that intemperate and brutal man whom we would redeem?
If anything ail a man, so that he does not perform his functions, if he have a pain in his bowels evenfor that is the seat of sympathyhe forthwith sets about reformingthe world.
Being a microcosm himself, he discoversand it is a true discovery, and he is the man to make itthat the world has been eating green apples; to his eyes, in fact, the globe itself is a great green apple, which there is danger awful to think of that the children of men will nibble before it is ripe; and straightway his drastic philanthropy seeks out the Esquimau and the Patagonian, and embraces the populous Indian and Chinese villages; and thus, by a few years of philanthropic activity, the powers in the meanwhile using him for their own ends, no doubt, he cures himself of his dyspepsia, the globe acquires a faint blush on one or both of its cheeks, as if it were beginning to be ripe, and life loses its crudity and is once more sweet and wholesome to live.
I never dreamed of any enormity greater than I have committed.
I never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself.
I believe that what so saddens the reformer is not his sympathy with his fellows in distress, but, though he be the holiest son of God, is his private ail.
Let this be righted, let the spring come to him, the morning rise over his couch, and he will forsake his generous companions without apology.
My excuse for not lecturing against the use of tobacco is, that I never chewed it, that is a penalty which reformed tobacco-chewers have to pay; though there are things enough I have chewed which I could lecture against.
If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing.
Rescue the drowning and tie your shoestrings.
Take your time, and set about some free labor.
Our manners have been corrupted by communication with the saints.
Our hymn-books resound with a melodious cursing of God and enduring Him forever.
One would say that even the prophets and redeemers had rather consoled the fears than confirmed the hopes of man.
There is nowhere recorded a simple and irrepressible satisfaction with the gift of life, any memorable praise of God.
All health and success does me good, however far off and withdrawn it may appear; all disease and failure helps to make me sad and does me evil, however much sympathy it may have with me or I with it.
If, then, we would indeed restore mankind by truly Indian, botanic, magnetic, or natural means, let us first be as simple and well as Nature ourselves, dispel the clouds which hang over our own brows, and take up a little life into our pores.
Do not stay to be an overseer of the poor, but endeavor to become one of the worthies of the world.
I read in the Gulistan, or Flower Garden, of Sheik Sadi of Shiraz, that "they asked a wise man, saying: Of the many celebrated trees which the Most High God has created lofty and umbrageous, they call none azad, or free, excepting the cypress, which bears no fruit; what mystery is there in this?
He replied: Each has its appropriate produce, and appointed season, during the continuance of which it is fresh and blooming, and during their absence dry and withered; to neither of which states is the cypress exposed, being always flourishing; and of this nature are the azads, or religious independents.Fix not thy heart on that which is transitory; for the Dijlah, or Tigris, will continue to flow through Bagdad after the race of caliphs is extinct: if thy hand has plenty, be liberal as the date tree; but if it affords nothing to give away, be an azad, or free man, like the cypress."
CHAPTER XV Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared.
Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation.
Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa.
He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair, lovely, amiable friend.
"Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably."
And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint.
He began with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the present--to entreat her to promise him not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her.
She was vexed.
It did appear--there was no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!
and she had difficulty in behaving with temper.
He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection?
He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she give him her influence in procuring it?"
"So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for herself!
She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself.
Is this fair, Mrs.
Weston?--Judge between us.
Have not I some right to complain?
I am sure of your kind support and aid."
Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose.
She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse: "This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.
Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer.
Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
"I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.
Every body must have seen the snow coming on.
I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well.
Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand.
I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight."
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away.
As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty.
He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.
"What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?"
was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.
To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.
His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own.
The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.
"You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk.
I am not at all afraid.
I should not mind walking half the way.
I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold."
"Indeed!"
replied he.
"Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold.
Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say.
It will be bad enough for the horses."
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan.
Mrs. Weston could only approve.
Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence.
He had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over.
He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls.
He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus-"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?"
"I am ready, if the others are."
"Shall I ring the bell?"
"Yes, do."
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for.
A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over.
The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for.
"He was afraid they should have a very bad drive.
He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it.
And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.
He did not know what they had best do.
They must keep as much together as they could;" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive.
It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one.
But now, she would rather it had not happened.
She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her subject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible.
It really was so.
Without scruple--without apology--without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover.
She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all.
Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak.
She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour.
Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied, "I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton.
This to me!
you forget yourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to me, if you please."
"Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly mean!"
--And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness, "Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct!
and I can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner.
Command yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it."
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects.
He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied, "It is impossible for me to doubt any longer.
You have made yourself too clear.
Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express.
After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!
Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions."
"Good Heaven!"
cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?--Miss Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend.
If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh!
Miss Woodhouse!
who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near!
No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character.
I have thought only of you.
I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else.
Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself.
You cannot really, seriously, doubt it.
No!--(in an accent meant to be insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me."
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost.
She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed-"Charming Miss Woodhouse!
allow me to interpret this interesting silence.
It confesses that you have long understood me."
"No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing.
So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment.
As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings--Nothing could be farther from my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent.
Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you have never thought seriously of her?"
"Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you.
I think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled.
I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss.
I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!--No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received--" "Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it.
I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend.
In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance.
I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it does.
Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of.
But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting.
I have no thoughts of matrimony at present."
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace.
If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment.
Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another syllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night.
The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in strange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party, except herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.
CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour.
Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was.
To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself.
She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival.
Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma.
Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.
The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion.
Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined?
can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"
--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners.
For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to.
She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her.
She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she were to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition.
He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her.
She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of.
That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends' imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr.
Weston.--So it proved;--for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, "We want only two more to be just the right number.
I should like to see two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were quite complete.
I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.
I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight."
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete.
"He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time.
He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January."
"What a very great pleasure it will be to you!
and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself."
"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do.
The case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room.
There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off.
If they are not put off, he cannot stir.
But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.
I have not the smallest doubt of the issue.
I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing."
"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston.
If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe."
"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him.
I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes).
And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper."
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming.
I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston.
I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing.
Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?"
"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world."
"My Emma!"
replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty of caprice?"
Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks.
It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper.
To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth.
Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him."
"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion.
To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful.
It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery.
What a blessing, that she never had any children!
Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!"
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston.
She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge.
But at present there was nothing more to be said.
Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room.
To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure.
Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable.
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying, "And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain.
I am sorry for it.
The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."
"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays.
Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us.
I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves.
There is jealousy.
They are jealous even of his regard for his father.
In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."
"He ought to come," said Emma.
"If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that.
A young woman, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young man's being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it."
"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston.
"One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: she is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."
"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite.
Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards him, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all."
"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.
I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand when it will be."
Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes."
"He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us."
CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma.
He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.
"A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--"particularly pleasant.
You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music.
I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.
I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma.
You left nothing undone.
I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence."
"I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."
"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "that I am sure you are not.
There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are.
If any thing, you are too attentive.
The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough."
"No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension.
I think you understand me, therefore."
An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved."
"I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence.
What arises from discretion must be honoured."
"You think her diffident.
I do not see it."
"My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening."
"Oh!
no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained."
"I am disappointed," was his only answer.
"I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way.
"I had.
Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.
Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick.
However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way.
I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed.
She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma."
"True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax."
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from.
I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart."
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-"It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined!
a great pity indeed!
and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?"
"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter.
I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like."
"That's right, my dear, very right.
I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way.
They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome."
"Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you.
You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you."
"News!
Oh!
yes, I always like news.
What is it?--why do you smile so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?"
He had time only to say, "No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room.
Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.
Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him.
"Oh!
my dear sir, how are you this morning?
My dear Miss Woodhouse--I come quite over-powered.
Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork!
You are too bountiful!
Have you heard the news?
Mr. Elton is going to be married."
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound.
"There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them.
"But where could you hear it?"
cried Miss Bates.
"Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley?
For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out--I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane was standing in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough.
So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead?
for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!
my dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note.
A Miss Hawkins--that's all I know.
A Miss Hawkins of Bath.
But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it?
for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me.
A Miss Hawkins--" "I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago.
He had just read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly."
"Well!
that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting.
My dear sir, you really are too bountiful.
My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her."
"We consider our Hartfield pork," replied Mr. Woodhouse--"indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than--" "Oh!
my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us.
If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.
We may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.'
Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--" "It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of course."
-Here was a sly glance at Emma.
"He had been so fortunate as to--I forget the precise words--one has no business to remember them.
The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins.
By his style, I should imagine it just settled."
"Mr. Elton going to be married!"
said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
"He will have every body's wishes for his happiness."
"He is very young to settle," was Mr. Woodhouse's observation.
"He had better not be in a hurry.
He seemed to me very well off as he was.
We were always glad to see him at Hartfield."
"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!"
said Miss Bates, joyfully; "my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress.
This is great news, indeed.
Jane, you have never seen Mr.
Elton!--no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him."
Jane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her.
"No--I have never seen Mr. Elton," she replied, starting on this appeal; "is he--is he a tall man?"
"Who shall answer that question?"
cried Emma.
"My father would say 'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the happy medium.
When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind."
"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will.
He is the very best young man--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry.
Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an excellent young woman.
His extreme attention to my mother--wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick.
Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf.
He fancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says it did him no lasting benefit.
Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.
And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him.
It is such a happiness when good people get together--and they always do.
Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry.
I say, sir," turning to Mr. Woodhouse, "I think there are few places with such society as Highbury.
I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.--My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork--a roast loin of pork--" "As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known.
One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance.
He has been gone only four weeks."
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma said, "You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest in this news.
You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins."
"When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be interested--but I believe it requires that with me.
And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off."
"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said, 'No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man--but'--In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries.
I do not pretend to it.
What is before me, I see.
At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly.
She knows I would not offend for the world.
How does Miss Smith do?
She seems quite recovered now.
Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately?
Oh!
those dear little children.
Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley.
I mean in person--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative."
"Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all."
"Very odd!
but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it.
Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?"
"Handsome!
Oh!
no--far from it--certainly plain.
I told you he was plain."
"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself--" "Oh!
as for me, my judgment is worth nothing.
Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking.
But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain."
"Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away.
The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy.
You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave.
This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed.
I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the better for Highbury already.
Thank you, we do indeed.
I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but boiled pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing.
Good morning to you, my dear sir.
Oh!
Mr. Knightley is coming too.
Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr.
Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good morning to you."
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject.
It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from others.
It was now about the time that she was likely to call.
If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.
The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!"
which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation.
As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell.
"She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's."
--Ford's was the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--Dear Miss Woodhouse!
only think.
I thought I should have fainted.
I did not know what to do.
I was sitting near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella.
I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh!
dear; I was so miserable!
I am sure I must have been as white as my gown.
I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there.--Oh!
dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another.
I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)
--for presently she came forward--came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would.
She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to try to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind!
Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable!
By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain.
Oh!
dear, I thought it would have been the death of me!
So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it.
Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly.
And Elizabeth, too.
Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again."
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power.
She was obliged to stop and think.
She was not thoroughly comfortable herself.
The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them.
As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour.
But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion?
It was folly to be disturbed by it.
Of course, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry.
Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified.
They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what signified her praise?
She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on, "It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about it."
Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but still she talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance with her!
Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived.
Though she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting.
It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any influence to alarm.
As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with any necessity, or even any power of speech.
CHAPTER II Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter.
The marriage of Lieut.
Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.
By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny.
This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life.
These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power.
When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her.
He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education.
It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible.
To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.
Such was Jane Fairfax's history.
She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education.
Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters.
Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with.
Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it.
The evil day was put off.
It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements.
That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents.
They continued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning.
She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period.
With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did.
As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon.
Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished.
Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment.
She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told.
It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else.
Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years' absence.
Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought!
Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her.
But "she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other."
These were her reasons--she had no better.
It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years' interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.
Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance.
Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two.
Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty.
Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom.
It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury.
There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer.
When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself.
In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first.
If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone.
She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her.
These were charming feelings--but not lasting.
Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!"
Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.
Former provocations reappeared.
The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again.
They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance.
She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious!
There was no getting at her real opinion.
Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing.
She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing.
She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match.
It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.
It did her no service however.
Her caution was thrown away.
Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises.
There probably was something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics.
She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time.
It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was.
"Was he handsome?"
--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man."
"Was he agreeable?"
--"He was generally thought so."
"Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"
--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points.
Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill.
She believed every body found his manners pleasing."
Emma could not forgive her.
The fight around the body of Patroclus.
Brave Menelaus son of Atreus now came to know that Patroclus had fallen, and made his way through the front ranks clad in full armour to bestride him.
As a cow stands lowing over her first calf, even so did yellowhaired Menelaus bestride Patroclus.
He held his round shield and his spear in front of him, resolute to kill any who should dare face him.
But the son of Panthous had also noted the body, and came up to Menelaus saying," Menelaus, son of Atreus, draw back, leave the body, and let the bloodstained spoils be.
I was first of the Trojans and their brave allies to drive my spear into Patroclus, let me, therefore, have my full glory among the Trojans, or I will take aim and kill you."
To this Menelaus answered in great anger" By father Jove, boasting is an ill thing.
The pard is not more bold, nor the lion nor savage wildboar, which is fiercest and most dauntless of all creatures, than are the proud sons of Panthous.
Yet Hyperenor did not see out the days of his youth when he made light of me and withstood me, deeming me the meanest soldier among the Danaans.
His own feet never bore him back to gladden his wife and parents.
Even so shall I make an end of you too, if you withstand me; get you back into the crowd and do not face me, or it shall be worse for you.
Even a fool may be wise after the event."
Euphorbus would not listen, and said," Now indeed, Menelaus, shall you pay for the death of my brother over whom you vaunted, and whose wife you widowed in her bridal chamber, while you brought grief unspeakable on his parents.
I shall comfort these poor people if I bring your head and armour and place them in the hands of Panthous and noble Phrontis.
The time is come when this matter shall be fought out and settled, for me or against me."
As he spoke he struck Menelaus full on the shield, but the spear did not go through, for the shield turned its point.
Menelaus then took aim, praying to father Jove as he did so; Euphorbus was drawing back, and Menelaus struck him about the roots of his throat, leaning his whole weight on the spear, so as to drive it home.
The point went clean through his neck, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
His hair which was like that of the Graces, and his locks so deftly bound in bands of silver and gold, were all bedrabbled with blood.
As one who has grown a fine young olive tree in a clear space where there is abundance of water— the plant is full of promise, and though the winds beat upon it from every quarter it puts forth its white blossoms till the blasts of some fierce hurricane sweep down upon it and level it with the ground— even so did Menelaus strip the fair youth Euphorbus of his armour after he had slain him.
Or as some fierce lion upon the mountains in the pride of his strength fastens on the finest heifer in a herd as it is feeding— first he breaks her neck with his strong jaws, and then gorges on her blood and entrails; dogs and shepherds raise a hue and cry against him, but they stand aloof and will not come close to him, for they are pale with fear— even so no one had the courage to face valiant Menelaus.
The son of Atreus would have then carried off the armour of the son of Panthous with ease, had not Phoebus Apollo been angry, and in the guise of Mentes chief of the Cicons incited Hector to attack him. "
Hector," said he," you are now going after the horses of the noble son of Aeacus, but you will not take them; they can not be kept in hand and driven by mortal man, save only by Achilles, who is son to an immortal mother.
Meanwhile Menelaus son of Atreus has bestridden the body of Patroclus and killed the noblest of the Trojans, Euphorbus son of Panthous, so that he can fight no more."
The god then went back into the toil and turmoil, but the soul of Hector was darkened with a cloud of grief; he looked along the ranks and saw Euphorbus lying on the ground with the blood still flowing from his wound, and Menelaus stripping him of his armour.
On this he made his way to the front like a flame of fire, clad in his gleaming armour, and crying with a loud voice.
When the son of Atreus heard him, he said to himself in his dismay," Alas!
what shall I do?
I may not let the Trojans take the armour of Patroclus who has fallen fighting on my behalf, lest some Danaan who sees me should cry shame upon me.
Still if for my honour 's sake I fight Hector and the Trojans singlehanded, they will prove too many for me, for Hector is bringing them up in force.
Why, however, should I thus hesitate?
When a man fights in despite of heaven with one whom a god befriends, he will soon rue it.
Let no Danaan think ill of me if I give place to Hector, for the hand of heaven is with him.
Yet, if I could find Ajax, the two of us would fight Hector and heaven too, if we might only save the body of Patroclus for Achilles son of Peleus.
This, of many evils would be the least."
While he was thus in two minds, the Trojans came up to him with Hector at their head; he therefore drew back and left the body, turning about like some bearded lion who is being chased by dogs and men from a stockyard with spears and hue and cry, whereon he is daunted and slinks sulkily off— even so did Menelaus son of Atreus turn and leave the body of Patroclus.
When among the body of his men, he looked around for mighty Ajax son of Telamon, and presently saw him on the extreme left of the fight, cheering on his men and exhorting them to keep on fighting, for Phoebus Apollo had spread a great panic among them.
He ran up to him and said," Ajax, my good friend, come with me at once to dead Patroclus, if so be that we may take the body to Achilles— as for his armour, Hector already has it."
These words stirred the heart of Ajax, and he made his way among the front ranks, Menelaus going with him.
Hector had stripped Patroclus of his armour, and was dragging him away to cut off his head and take the body to fling before the dogs of Troy.
But Ajax came up with his shield like wall before him, on which Hector withdrew under shelter of his men, and sprang on to his chariot, giving the armour over to the Trojans to take to the city, as a great trophy for himself; Ajax, therefore, covered the body of Patroclus with his broad shield and bestrode him; as a lion stands over his whelps if hunters have come upon him in a forest when he is with his little ones— in the pride and fierceness of his strength he draws his knit brows down till they cover his eyes— even so did Ajax bestride the body of Patroclus, and by his side stood Menelaus son of Atreus, nursing great sorrow in his heart.
Then Glaucus son of Hippolochus looked fiercely at Hector and rebuked him sternly. "
Hector," said he," you make a brave show, but in fight you are sadly wanting.
A runaway like yourself has no claim to so great a reputation.
Think how you may now save your town and citadel by the hands of your own people born in Ilius; for you will get no Lycians to fight for you, seeing what thanks they have had for their incessant hardships.
Are you likely, sir, to do anything to help a man of less note, after leaving Sarpedon, who was at once your guest and comrade in arms, to be the spoil and prey of the Danaans?
So long as he lived he did good service both to your city and yourself; yet you had no stomach to save his body from the dogs.
If the Lycians will listen to me, they will go home and leave Troy to its fate.
If the Trojans had any of that daring fearless spirit which lays hold of men who are fighting for their country and harassing those who would attack it, we should soon bear off Patroclus into Ilius.
Could we get this dead man away and bring him into the city of Priam, the Argives would readily give up the armour of Sarpedon, and we should get his body to boot.
For he whose squire has been now killed is the foremost man at the ships of the Achaeans— he and his closefighting followers.
Nevertheless you dared not make a stand against Ajax, nor face him, eye to eye, with battle all round you, for he is a braver man than you are."
Hector scowled at him and answered," Glaucus, you should know better.
I have held you so far as a man of more understanding than any in all Lycia, but now I despise you for saying that I am afraid of Ajax.
I fear neither battle nor the din of chariots, but Jove 's will is stronger than ours; Jove at one time makes even a strong man draw back and snatches victory from his grasp, while at another he will set him on to fight.
Come hither then, my friend, stand by me and see indeed whether I shall play the coward the whole day through as you say, or whether I shall not stay some even of the boldest Danaans from fighting round the body of Patroclus."
As he spoke he called loudly on the Trojans saying," Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close combat, be men, my friends, and fight might and main, while I put on the goodly armour of Achilles, which I took when I killed Patroclus."
With this Hector left the fight, and ran full speed after his men who were taking the armour of Achilles to Troy, but had not yet got far.
Standing for a while apart from the woeful fight, he changed his armour.
His own he sent to the strong city of Ilius and to the Trojans, while he put on the immortal armour of the son of Peleus, which the gods had given to Peleus, who in his age gave it to his son; but the son did not grow old in his father 's armour.
When Jove, lord of the stormcloud, saw Hector standing aloof and arming himself in the armour of the son of Peleus, he wagged his head and muttered to himself saying," A!
poor wretch, you arm in the armour of a hero, before whom many another trembles, and you reck nothing of the doom that is already close upon you.
You have killed his comrade so brave and strong, but it was not well that you should strip the armour from his head and shoulders.
I do indeed endow you with great might now, but as against this you shall not return from battle to lay the armour of the son of Peleus before Andromache."
The son of Saturn bowed his portentous brows, and Hector fitted the armour to his body, while terrible Mars entered into him, and filled his whole body with might and valour.
With a shout he strode in among the allies, and his armour flashed about him so that he seemed to all of them like the great son of Peleus himself.
He went about among them and cheered them on— Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Asteropaeus, Deisenor and Hippothous, Phorcys, Chromius and Ennomus the augur.
All these did he exhort saying," Hear me, allies from other cities who are here in your thousands, it was not in order to have a crowd about me that I called you hither each from his several city, but that with heart and soul you might defend the wives and little ones of the Trojans from the fierce Achaeans.
For this do I oppress my people with your food and the presents that make you rich.
Therefore turn, and charge at the foe, to stand or fall as is the game of war; whoever shall bring Patroclus, dead though he be, into the hands of the Trojans, and shall make Ajax give way before him, I will give him one half of the spoils while I keep the other.
He will thus share like honour with myself."
When he had thus spoken they charged full weight upon the Danaans with their spears held out before them, and the hopes of each ran high that he should force Ajax son of Telamon to yield up the body— fools that they were, for he was about to take the lives of many.
Then Ajax said to Menelaus," My good friend Menelaus, you and I shall hardly come out of this fight alive.
I am less concerned for the body of Patroclus, who will shortly become meat for the dogs and vultures of Troy, than for the safety of my own head and yours.
Hector has wrapped us round in a storm of battle from every quarter, and our destruction seems now certain.
Call then upon the princes of the Danaans if there is any who can hear us."
Menelaus did as he said, and shouted to the Danaans for help at the top of his voice. "
My friends," he cried," princes and counsellors of the Argives, all you who with Agamemnon and Menelaus drink at the public cost, and give orders each to his own people as Jove vouchsafes him power and glory, the fight is so thick about me that I can not distinguish you severally; come on, therefore, every man unbidden, and think it shame that Patroclus should become meat and morsel for Trojan hounds."
Fleet Ajax son of Oileus heard him and was first to force his way through the fight and run to help him.
Next came Idomeneus and Meriones his esquire, peer of murderous Mars.
As for the others that came into the fight after these, who of his own self could name them?
The Trojans with Hector at their head charged in a body.
As a great wave that comes thundering in at the mouth of some heavenborn river, and the rocks that jut into the sea ring with the roar of the breakers that beat and buffet them— even with such a roar did the Trojans come on; but the Achaeans in singleness of heart stood firm about the son of Menoetius, and fenced him with their bronze shields.
Jove, moreover, hid the brightness of their helmets in a thick cloud, for he had borne no grudge against the son of Menoetius while he was still alive and squire to the descendant of Aeacus; therefore he was loth to let him fall a prey to the dogs of his foes the Trojans, and urged his comrades on to defend him.
At first the Trojans drove the Achaeans back, and they withdrew from the dead man daunted.
The Trojans did not succeed in killing any one, nevertheless they drew the body away.
But the Achaeans did not lose it long, for Ajax, foremost of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus alike in stature and prowess, quickly rallied them and made towards the front like a wild boar upon the mountains when he stands at bay in the forest glades and routs the hounds and lusty youths that have attacked him— even so did Ajax son of Telamon passing easily in among the phalanxes of the Trojans, disperse those who had bestridden Patroclus and were most bent on winning glory by dragging him off to their city.
At this moment Hippothous brave son of the Pelasgian Lethus, in his zeal for Hector and the Trojans, was dragging the body off by the foot through the press of the fight, having bound a strap round the sinews near the ancle; but a mischief soon befell him from which none of those could save him who would have gladly done so, for the son of Telamon sprang forward and smote him on his bronzecheeked helmet.
The plumed headpiece broke about the point of the weapon, struck at once by the spear and by the strong hand of Ajax, so that the bloody brain came oozing out through the crestsocket.
His strength then failed him and he let Patroclus ' foot drop from his hand, as he fell full length dead upon the body; thus he died far from the fertile land of Larissa, and never repaid his parents the cost of bringing him up, for his life was cut short early by the spear of mighty Ajax.
Hector then took aim at Ajax with a spear, but he saw it coming and just managed to avoid it; the spear passed on and struck Schedius son of noble Iphitus, captain of the Phoceans, who dwelt in famed Panopeus and reigned over much people; it struck him under the middle of the collarbone the bronze point went right through him, coming out at the bottom of his shoulderblade, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Ajax in his turn struck noble Phorcys son of Phaenops in the middle of the belly as he was bestriding Hippothous, and broke the plate of his cuirass; whereon the spear tore out his entrails and he clutched the ground in his palm as he fell to earth.
Hector and those who were in the front rank then gave ground, while the Argives raised a loud cry of triumph, and drew off the bodies of Phorcys and Hippothous which they stripped presently of their armour.
The Trojans would now have been worsted by the brave Achaeans and driven back to Ilius through their own cowardice, while the Argives, so great was their courage and endurance, would have achieved a triumph even against the will of Jove, if Apollo had not roused Aeneas, in the likeness of Periphas son of Epytus, an attendant who had grown old in the service of Aeneas ' aged father, and was at all times devoted to him.
In his likeness, then, Apollo said," Aeneas, can you not manage, even though heaven be against us, to save high Ilius?
I have known men, whose numbers, courage, and selfreliance have saved their people in spite of Jove, whereas in this case he would much rather give victory to us than to the Danaans, if you would only fight instead of being so terribly afraid."
Aeneas knew Apollo when he looked straight at him, and shouted to Hector saying," Hector and all other Trojans and allies, shame on us if we are beaten by the Achaeans and driven back to Ilius through our own cowardice.
A god has just come up to me and told me that Jove the supreme disposer will be with us.
Therefore let us make for the Danaans, that it may go hard with them ere they bear away dead Patroclus to the ships."
As he spoke he sprang out far in front of the others, who then rallied and again faced the Achaeans.
Aeneas speared Leiocritus son of Arisbas, a valiant follower of Lycomedes, and Lycomedes was moved with pity as he saw him fall; he therefore went close up, and speared Apisaon son of Hippasus shepherd of his people in the liver under the midriff, so that he died; he had come from fertile Paeonia and was the best man of them all after Asteropaeus.
Asteropaeus flew forward to avenge him and attack the Danaans, but this might no longer be, inasmuch as those about Patroclus were well covered by their shields, and held their spears in front of them, for Ajax had given them strict orders that no man was either to give ground, or to stand out before the others, but all were to hold well together about the body and fight hand to hand.
Thus did huge Ajax bid them, and the earth ran red with blood as the corpses fell thick on one another alike on the side of the Trojans and allies, and on that of the Danaans; for these last, too, fought no bloodless fight though many fewer of them perished, through the care they took to defend and stand by one another.
Thus did they fight as it were a flaming fire; it seemed as though it had gone hard even with the sun and moon, for they were hidden over all that part where the bravest heroes were fighting about the dead son of Menoetius, whereas the other Danaans and Achaeans fought at their ease in full daylight with brilliant sunshine all round them, and there was not a cloud to be seen neither on plain nor mountain.
These last moreover would rest for a while and leave off fighting, for they were some distance apart and beyond the range of one another 's weapons, whereas those who were in the thick of the fray suffered both from battle and darkness.
All the best of them were being worn out by the great weight of their armour, but the two valiant heroes, Thrasymedes and Antilochus, had not yet heard of the death of Patroclus, and believed him to be still alive and leading the van against the Trojans; they were keeping themselves in reserve against the death or rout of their own comrades, for so Nestor had ordered when he sent them from the ships into battle.
Thus through the livelong day did they wage fierce war, and the sweat of their toil rained ever on their legs under them, and on their hands and eyes, as they fought over the squire of the fleet son of Peleus.
It was as when a man gives a great oxhide all drenched in fat to his men, and bids them stretch it; whereon they stand round it in a ring and tug till the moisture leaves it, and the fat soaks in for the many that pull at it, and it is well stretched— even so did the two sides tug the dead body hither and thither within the compass of but a little space— the Trojans steadfastly set on dragging it into Ilius, while the Achaeans were no less so on taking it to their ships; and fierce was the fight between them.
Not Mars himself the lord of hosts, nor yet Minerva, even in their fullest fury could make light of such a battle.
Such fearful turmoil of men and horses did Jove on that day ordain round the body of Patroclus.
Meanwhile Achilles did not know that he had fallen, for the fight was under the wall of Troy a long way off the ships.
He had no idea, therefore, that Patroclus was dead, and deemed that he would return alive as soon as he had gone close up to the gates.
He knew that he was not to sack the city neither with nor without himself, for his mother had often told him this when he had sat alone with her, and she had informed him of the counsels of great Jove.
Now, however, she had not told him how great a disaster had befallen him in the death of the one who was far dearest to him of all his comrades.
The others still kept on charging one another round the body with their pointed spears and killing each other.
Then would one say," My friends, we can never again show our faces at the ships— better, and greatly better, that earth should open and swallow us here in this place, than that we should let the Trojans have the triumph of bearing off Patroclus to their city."
The Trojans also on their part spoke to one another saying," Friends, though we fall to a man beside this body, let none shrink from fighting."
With such words did they exhort each other.
They fought and fought, and an iron clank rose through the void air to the brazen vault of heaven.
The horses of the descendant of Aeacus stood out of the fight and wept when they heard that their driver had been laid low by the hand of murderous Hector.
Automedon, valiant son of Diores, lashed them again and again; many a time did he speak kindly to them, and many a time did he upbraid them, but they would neither go back to the ships by the waters of the broad Hellespont, nor yet into battle among the Achaeans; they stood with their chariot stock still, as a pillar set over the tomb of some dead man or woman, and bowed their heads to the ground.
Hot tears fell from their eyes as they mourned the loss of their charioteer, and their noble manes drooped all wet from under the yokestraps on either side the yoke.
The son of Saturn saw them and took pity upon their sorrow.
He wagged his head, and muttered to himself, saying," Poor things, why did we give you to King Peleus who is a mortal, while you are yourselves ageless and immortal?
Was it that you might share the sorrows that befall mankind?
for of all creatures that live and move upon the earth there is none so pitiable as he is— still, Hector son of Priam shall drive neither you nor your chariot.
I will not have it.
It is enough that he should have the armour over which he vaunts so vainly.
Furthermore I will give you strength of heart and limb to bear Automedon safely to the ships from battle, for I shall let the Trojans triumph still further, and go on killing till they reach the ships; whereon night shall fall and darkness overshadow the land."
As he spoke he breathed heart and strength into the horses so that they shook the dust from out of their manes, and bore their chariot swiftly into the fight that raged between Trojans and Achaeans.
Behind them fought Automedon full of sorrow for his comrade, as a vulture amid a flock of geese.
In and out, and here and there, full speed he dashed amid the throng of the Trojans, but for all the fury of his pursuit he killed no man, for he could not wield his spear and keep his horses in hand when alone in the chariot; at last, however, a comrade, Alcimedon, son of Laerces son of Haemon caught sight of him and came up behind his chariot. "
Automedon," said he," what god has put this folly into your heart and robbed you of your right mind, that you fight the Trojans in the front rank singlehanded?
He who was your comrade is slain, and Hector plumes himself on being armed in the armour of the descendant of Aeacus."
Automedon son of Diores answered," Alcimedon, there is no one else who can control and guide the immortal steeds so well as you can, save only Patroclus— while he was alive— peer of gods in counsel.
Take then the whip and reins, while I go down from the car and fight."
Alcimedon sprang on to the chariot, and caught up the whip and reins, while Automedon leaped from off the car.
When Hector saw him he said to Aeneas who was near him," Aeneas, counsellor of the mailclad Trojans, I see the steeds of the fleet son of Aeacus come into battle with weak hands to drive them.
I am sure, if you think well, that we might take them; they will not dare face us if we both attack them."
The valiant son of Anchises was of the same mind, and the pair went right on, with their shoulders covered under shields of tough dry oxhide, overlaid with much bronze.
Chromius and Aretus went also with them, and their hearts beat high with hope that they might kill the men and capture the horses— fools that they were, for they were not to return scatheless from their meeting with Automedon, who prayed to father Jove and was forthwith filled with courage and strength abounding.
He turned to his trusty comrade Alcimedon and said," Alcimedon, keep your horses so close up that I may feel their breath upon my back; I doubt that we shall not stay Hector son of Priam till he has killed us and mounted behind the horses; he will then either spread panic among the ranks of the Achaeans, or himself be killed among the foremost."
On this he cried out to the two Ajaxes and Menelaus," Ajaxes captains of the Argives, and Menelaus, give the dead body over to them that are best able to defend it, and come to the rescue of us living; for Hector and Aeneas who are the two best men among the Trojans, are pressing us hard in the full tide of war.
Nevertheless the issue lies on the lap of heaven, I will therefore hurl my spear and leave the rest to Jove."
He poised and hurled as he spoke, whereon the spear struck the round shield of Aretus, and went right through it for the shield stayed it not, so that it was driven through his belt into the lower part of his belly.
As when some sturdy youth, axe in hand, deals his blow behind the horns of an ox and severs the tendons at the back of its neck so that it springs forward and then drops, even so did Aretus give one bound and then fall on his back the spear quivering in his body till it made an end of him.
Hector then aimed a spear at Automedon but he saw it coming and stooped forward to avoid it, so that it flew past him and the point stuck in the ground, while the buttend went on quivering till Mars robbed it of its force.
They would then have fought hand to hand with swords had not the two Ajaxes forced their way through the crowd when they heard their comrade calling, and parted them for all their fury— for Hector, Aeneas, and Chromius were afraid and drew back, leaving Aretus to lie there struck to the heart.
Automedon, peer of fleet Mars, then stripped him of his armour and vaunted over him saying," I have done little to assuage my sorrow for the son of Menoetius, for the man I have killed is not so good as he was."
As he spoke he took the bloodstained spoils and laid them upon his chariot; then he mounted the car with his hands and feet all steeped in gore as a lion that has been gorging upon a bull.
And now the fierce groanful fight again raged about Patroclus, for Minerva came down from heaven and roused its fury by the command of farseeing Jove, who had changed his mind and sent her to encourage the Danaans.
As when Jove bends his bright bow in heaven in token to mankind either of war or of the chill storms that stay men from their labour and plague the flocks— even so, wrapped in such radiant raiment, did Minerva go in among the host and speak man by man to each.
First she took the form and voice of Phoenix and spoke to Menelaus son of Atreus, who was standing near her."
Menelaus," said she," it will be shame and dishonour to you, if dogs tear the noble comrade of Achilles under the walls of Troy.
Therefore be staunch, and urge your men to be so also."
Menelaus answered," Phoenix, my good old friend, may Minerva vouchsafe me strength and keep the darts from off me, for so shall I stand by Patroclus and defend him; his death has gone to my heart, but Hector is as a raging fire and deals his blows without ceasing, for Jove is now granting him a time of triumph."
Minerva was pleased at his having named herself before any of the other gods.
Therefore she put strength into his knees and shoulders, and made him as bold as a fly, which, though driven off will yet come again and bite if it can, so dearly does it love man 's blood— even so bold as this did she make him as he stood over Patroclus and threw his spear.
Now there was among the Trojans a man named Podes, son of Eetion, who was both rich and valiant.
Hector held him in the highest honour for he was his comrade and boon companion; the spear of Menelaus struck this man in the girdle just as he had turned in flight, and went right through him.
Whereon he fell heavily forward, and Menelaus son of Atreus drew off his body from the Trojans into the ranks of his own people.
Apollo then went up to Hector and spurred him on to fight, in the likeness of Phaenops son of Asius who lived in Abydos and was the most favoured of all Hector 's guests.
In his likeness Apollo said," Hector, who of the Achaeans will fear you henceforward now that you have quailed before Menelaus who has ever been rated poorly as a soldier?
Yet he has now got a corpse away from the Trojans singlehanded, and has slain your own true comrade, a man brave among the foremost, Podes son of Eetion."
A dark cloud of grief fell upon Hector as he heard, and he made his way to the front clad in full armour.
Thereon the son of Saturn seized his bright tasselled aegis, and veiled Ida in cloud: he sent forth his lightnings and his thunders, and as he shook his aegis he gave victory to the Trojans and routed the Achaeans.
The panic was begun by Peneleos the Boeotian, for while keeping his face turned ever towards the foe he had been hit with a spear on the upper part of the shoulder; a spear thrown by Polydamas had grazed the top of the bone, for Polydamas had come up to him and struck him from close at hand.
Then Hector in close combat struck Leitus son of noble Alectryon in the hand by the wrist, and disabled him from fighting further.
He looked about him in dismay, knowing that never again should he wield spear in battle with the Trojans.
While Hector was in pursuit of Leitus, Idomeneus struck him on the breastplate over his chest near the nipple; but the spear broke in the shaft, and the Trojans cheered aloud.
Hector then aimed at Idomeneus son of Deucalion as he was standing on his chariot, and very narrowly missed him, but the spear hit Coiranus, a follower and charioteer of Meriones who had come with him from Lyctus.
Idomeneus had left the ships on foot and would have afforded a great triumph to the Trojans if Coiranus had not driven quickly up to him, he therefore brought life and rescue to Idomeneus, but himself fell by the hand of murderous Hector.
For Hector hit him on the jaw under the ear; the end of the spear drove out his teeth and cut his tongue in two pieces, so that he fell from his chariot and let the reins fall to the ground.
Meriones gathered them up from the ground and took them into his own hands, then he said to Idomeneus," Lay on, till you get back to the ships, for you must see that the day is no longer ours."
On this Idomeneus lashed the horses to the ships, for fear had taken hold upon him.
Ajax and Menelaus noted how Jove had turned the scale in favour of the Trojans, and Ajax was first to speak."
Alas," said he," even a fool may see that father Jove is helping the Trojans.
All their weapons strike home; no matter whether it be a brave man or a coward that hurls them, Jove speeds all alike, whereas ours fall each one of them without effect.
What, then, will be best both as regards rescuing the body, and our return to the joy of our friends who will be grieving as they look hitherwards; for they will make sure that nothing can now check the terrible hands of Hector, and that he will fling himself upon our ships.
I wish that some one would go and tell the son of Peleus at once, for I do not think he can have yet heard the sad news that the dearest of his friends has fallen.
But I can see not a man among the Achaeans to send, for they and their chariots are alike hidden in darkness.
O father Jove, lift this cloud from over the sons of the Achaeans; make heaven serene, and let us see; if you will that we perish, let us fall at any rate by daylight."
Father Jove heard him and had compassion upon his tears.
Forthwith he chased away the cloud of darkness, so that the sun shone out and all the fighting was revealed.
Ajax then said to Menelaus," Look, Menelaus, and if Antilochus son of Nestor be still living, send him at once to tell Achilles that by far the dearest to him of all his comrades has fallen."
Menelaus heeded his words and went his way as a lion from a stockyard— the lion is tired of attacking the men and hounds, who keep watch the whole night through and will not let him feast on the fat of their herd.
In his lust of meat he makes straight at them but in vain, for darts from strong hands assail him, and burning brands which daunt him for all his hunger, so in the morning he slinks sulkily away— even so did Menelaus sorely against his will leave Patroclus, in great fear lest the Achaeans should be driven back in rout and let him fall into the hands of the foe.
He charged Meriones and the two Ajaxes straitly saying," Ajaxes and Meriones, leaders of the Argives, now indeed remember how good Patroclus was; he was ever courteous while alive, bear it in mind now that he is dead."
With this Menelaus left them, looking round him as keenly as an eagle, whose sight they say is keener than that of any other bird— however high he may be in the heavens, not a hare that runs can escape him by crouching under bush or thicket, for he will swoop down upon it and make an end of it— even so, O Menelaus ,did your keen eyes range round the mighty host of your followers to see if you could find the son of Nestor still alive.
Presently Menelaus saw him on the extreme left of the battle cheering on his men and exhorting them to fight boldly.
Menelaus went up to him and said," Antilochus, come here and listen to sad news, which I would indeed were untrue.
You must see with your own eyes that heaven is heaping calamity upon the Danaans, and giving victory to the Trojans.
Patroclus has fallen, who was the bravest of the Achaeans, and sorely will the Danaans miss him.
Run instantly to the ships and tell Achilles, that he may come to rescue the body and bear it to the ships.
As for the armour, Hector already has it."
Antilochus was struck with horror.
For a long time he was speechless; his eyes filled with tears and he could find no utterance, but he did as Menelaus had said, and set off running as soon as he had given his armour to a comrade, Laodocus, who was wheeling his horses round, close beside him.
Thus, then, did he run weeping from the field, to carry the bad news to Achilles son of Peleus.
Nor were you, O Menelaus, minded to succour his harassed comrades, when Antilochus had left the Pylians— and greatly did they miss him— but he sent them noble Thrasymedes, and himself went back to Patroclus.
He came running up to the two Ajaxes and said," I have sent Antilochus to the ships to tell Achilles, but rage against Hector as he may, he can not come, for he can not fight without armour.
What then will be our best plan both as regards rescuing the dead, and our own escape from death amid the battlecries of the Trojans?"
Ajax answered," Menelaus, you have said well: do you, then, and Meriones stoop down, raise the body, and bear it out of the fray, while we two behind you keep off Hector and the Trojans, one in heart as in name, and long used to fighting side by side with one another."
On this Menelaus and Meriones took the dead man in their arms and lifted him high aloft with a great effort.
The Trojan host raised a hue and cry behind them when they saw the Achaeans bearing the body away, and flew after them like hounds attacking a wounded boar at the loo of a band of young huntsmen.
For a while the hounds fly at him as though they would tear him in pieces, but now and again he turns on them in a fury, scaring and scattering them in all directions— even so did the Trojans for a while charge in a body, striking with sword and with spears pointed at both the ends, but when the two Ajaxes faced them and stood at bay, they would turn pale and no man dared press on to fight further about the dead.
In this wise did the two heroes strain every nerve to bear the body to the ships out of the fight.
The battle raged round them like fierce flames that when once kindled spread like wildfire over a city, and the houses fall in the glare of its burning— even such was the roar and tramp of men and horses that pursued them as they bore Patroclus from the field.
Or as mules that put forth all their strength to draw some beam or great piece of ship 's timber down a rough mountaintrack, and they pant and sweat as they go— even so did Menelaus and pant and sweat as they bore the body of Patroclus.
Behind them the two Ajaxes held stoutly out.
As some wooded mountainspur that stretches across a plain will turn water and check the flow even of a great river, nor is there any stream strong enough to break through it— even so did the two Ajaxes face the Trojans and stem the tide of their fighting though they kept pouring on towards them and foremost among them all was Aeneas son of Anchises with valiant Hector.
As a flock of daws or starlings fall to screaming and chattering when they see a falcon, foe to all small birds, come soaring near them, even so did the Achaean youth raise a babel of cries as they fled before Aeneas and Hector, unmindful of their former prowess.
In the rout of the Danaans much goodly armour fell round about the trench, and of fighting there was no end.
Hector and Ajax fight—Hector is getting worsted when night comes on and parts them—They exchange presents—The burial of the dead, and the building of a wall round their ships by the Achaeans—The Achaeans buy their wine of Agamemnon and Menelaus.
With these words Hector passed through the gates, and his brother Alexandrus with him, both eager for the fray.
As when heaven sends a breeze to sailors who have long looked for one in vain, and have laboured at their oars till they are faint with toil, even so welcome was the sight of these two heroes to the Trojans.
Thereon Alexandrus killed Menesthius the son of Areithous; he lived in Arne, and was son of Areithous the Maceman, and of Phylomedusa.
Hector threw a spear at Eioneus and struck him dead with a wound in the neck under the bronze rim of his helmet.
Glaucus, moreover, son of Hippolochus, captain of the Lycians, in hard handtohand fight smote Iphinous son of Dexius on the shoulder, as he was springing on to his chariot behind his fleet mares; so he fell to earth from the car, and there was no life left in him.
When, therefore, Minerva saw these men making havoc of the Argives, she darted down to Ilius from the summits of Olympus, and Apollo, who was looking on from Pergamus, went out to meet her; for he wanted the Trojans to be victorious.
The pair met by the oak tree, and King Apollo son of Jove was first to speak.
"What would you have," said he," daughter of great Jove, that your proud spirit has sent you hither from Olympus?
Have you no pity upon the Trojans, and would you incline the scales of victory in favour of the Danaans?
Let me persuade you— for it will be better thus— stay the combat for today, but let them renew the fight hereafter till they compass the doom of Ilius, since you goddesses have made up your minds to destroy the city."
And Minerva answered," So be it, FarDarter; it was in this mind that I came down from Olympus to the Trojans and Achaeans.
Tell me, then, how do you propose to end this present fighting?"
Apollo, son of Jove, replied," Let us incite great Hector to challenge some one of the Danaans in single combat; on this the Achaeans will be shamed into finding a man who will fight him."
Minerva assented, and Helenus son of Priam divined the counsel of the gods; he therefore went up to Hector and said," Hector son of Priam, peer of gods in counsel, I am your brother, let me then persuade you.
Bid the other Trojans and Achaeans all of them take their seats, and challenge the best man among the Achaeans to meet you in single combat.
I have heard the voice of the everliving gods, and the hour of your doom is not yet come."
Hector was glad when he heard this saying, and went in among the Trojans, grasping his spear by the middle to hold them back, and they all sat down.
Agamemnon also bade the Achaeans be seated.
But Minerva and Apollo, in the likeness of vultures, perched on father Jove 's high oak tree, proud of their men; and the ranks sat close ranged together, bristling with shield and helmet and spear.
As when the rising west wind furs the face of the sea and the waters grow dark beneath it, so sat the companies of Trojans and Achaeans upon the plain.
And Hector spoke thus:— "Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, that I may speak even as I am minded; Jove on his high throne has brought our oaths and covenants to nothing, and foreshadows ill for both of us, till you either take the towers of Troy, or are yourselves vanquished at your ships.
The princes of the Achaeans are here present in the midst of you; let him, then, that will fight me stand forward as your champion against Hector.
Thus I say, and may Jove be witness between us.
If your champion slay me, let him strip me of my armour and take it to your ships, but let him send my body home that the Trojans and their wives may give me my dues of fire when I am dead.
In like manner, if Apollo vouchsafe me glory and I slay your champion, I will strip him of his armour and take it to the city of Ilius, where I will hang it in the temple of Apollo, but I will give up his body, that the Achaeans may bury him at their ships, and the build him a mound by the wide waters of the Hellespont.
Then will one say hereafter as he sails his ship over the sea,' This is the monument of one who died long since a champion who was slain by mighty Hector.'
Thus will one say, and my fame shall not be lost."
Thus did he speak, but they all held their peace, ashamed to decline the challenge, yet fearing to accept it, till at last Menelaus rose and rebuked them, for he was angry."
Alas," he cried," vain braggarts, women forsooth not men, doubledyed indeed will be the stain upon us if no man of the Danaans will now face Hector.
May you be turned every man of you into earth and water as you sit spiritless and inglorious in your places.
I will myself go out against this man, but the upshot of the fight will be from on high in the hands of the immortal gods."
With these words he put on his armour; and then, O Menelaus, your life would have come to an end at the hands of hands of Hector, for he was far better the man, had not the princes of the Achaeans sprung upon you and checked you.
King Agamemnon caught him by the right hand and said," Menelaus, you are mad; a truce to this folly.
Be patient in spite of passion, do not think of fighting a man so much stronger than yourself as Hector son of Priam, who is feared by many another as well as you.
Even Achilles, who is far more doughty than you are, shrank from meeting him in battle.
Sit down your own people, and the Achaeans will send some other champion to fight Hector; fearless and fond of battle though he be, I ween his knees will bend gladly under him if he comes out alive from the hurlyburly of this fight."
With these words of reasonable counsel he persuaded his brother, whereon his squires gladly stripped the armour from off his shoulders.
Then Nestor rose and spoke," Of a truth," said he," the Achaean land is fallen upon evil times.
The old knight Peleus, counsellor and orator among the Myrmidons, loved when I was in his house to question me concerning the race and lineage of all the Argives.
How would it not grieve him could he hear of them as now quailing before Hector?
Many a time would he lift his hands in prayer that his soul might leave his body and go down within the house of Hades.
Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I were still young and strong as when the Pylians and Arcadians were gathered in fight by the rapid river Celadon under the walls of Pheia, and round about the waters of the river Iardanus.
The godlike hero Ereuthalion stood forward as their champion, with the armour of King Areithous upon his shoulders— Areithous whom men and women had surnamed' the Maceman,' because he fought neither with bow nor spear, but broke the battalions of the foe with his iron mace.
Lycurgus killed him, not in fair fight, but by entrapping him in a narrow way where his mace served him in no stead; for Lycurgus was too quick for him and speared him through the middle, so he fell to earth on his back.
Lycurgus then spoiled him of the armour which Mars had given him, and bore it in battle thenceforward; but when he grew old and stayed at home, he gave it to his faithful squire Ereuthalion, who in this same armour challenged the foremost men among us.
The others quaked and quailed, but my high spirit bade me fight him though none other would venture; I was the youngest man of them all; but when I fought him Minerva vouchsafed me victory.
He was the biggest and strongest man that ever I killed, and covered much ground as he lay sprawling upon the earth.
Would that I were still young and strong as I then was, for the son of Priam would then soon find one who would face him.
But you, foremost among the whole host though you be, have none of you any stomach for fighting Hector."
Thus did the old man rebuke them, and forthwith nine men started to their feet.
Foremost of all uprose King Agamemnon, and after him brave Diomed the son of Tydeus.
Next were the two Ajaxes, men clothed in valour as with a garment, and then Idomeneus, and Meriones his brother in arms.
After these Eurypylus son of Euaemon, Thoas the son of Andraemon, and Ulysses also rose.
Then Nestor knight of Gerene again spoke, saying:" Cast lots among you to see who shall be chosen.
If he come alive out of this fight he will have done good service alike to his own soul and to the Achaeans."
Thus he spoke, and when each of them had marked his lot, and had thrown it into the helmet of Agamemnon son of Atreus, the people lifted their hands in prayer, and thus would one of them say as he looked into the vault of heaven," Father Jove, grant that the lot fall on Ajax, or on the son of Tydeus, or upon the king of rich Mycene himself."
As they were speaking, Nestor knight of Gerene shook the helmet, and from it there fell the very lot which they wanted— the lot of Ajax.
The herald bore it about and showed it to all the chieftains of the Achaeans, going from left to right; but they none of them owned it.
When, however, in due course he reached the man who had written upon it and had put it into the helmet, brave Ajax held out his hand, and the herald gave him the lot.
When Ajax saw his mark he knew it and was glad; he threw it to the ground and said," My friends, the lot is mine, and I rejoice, for I shall vanquish Hector.
I will put on my armour; meanwhile, pray to King Jove in silence among yourselves that the Trojans may not hear you— or aloud if you will, for we fear no man.
None shall overcome me, neither by force nor cunning, for I was born and bred in Salamis, and can hold my own in all things."
With this they fell praying to King Jove the son of Saturn, and thus would one of them say as he looked into the vault of heaven," Father Jove that rulest from Ida, most glorious in power, vouchsafe victory to Ajax, and let him win great glory: but if you wish well to Hector also and would protect him, grant to each of them equal fame and prowess."
Thus they prayed, and Ajax armed himself in his suit of gleaming bronze.
When he was in full array he sprang forward as monstrous Mars when he takes part among men whom Jove has set fighting with one another— even so did huge Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans, spring forward with a grim smile on his face as he brandished his long spear and strode onward.
The Argives were elated as they beheld him, but the Trojans trembled in every limb, and the heart even of Hector beat quickly, but he could not now retreat and withdraw into the ranks behind him, for he had been the challenger.
Ajax came up bearing his shield in front of him like a wall— a shield of bronze with seven folds of oxhide— the work of Tychius, who lived in Hyle and was by far the best worker in leather.
He had made it with the hides of seven fullfed bulls, and over these he had set an eighth layer of bronze.
Holding this shield before him, Ajax son of Telamon came close up to Hector, and menaced him saying," Hector, you shall now learn, man to man, what kind of champions the Danaans have among them even besides lionhearted Achilles cleaver of the ranks of men.
He now abides at the ships in anger with Agamemnon shepherd of his people, but there are many of us who are well able to face you; therefore begin the fight."
And Hector answered," Noble Ajax, son of Telamon, captain of the host, treat me not as though I were some puny boy or woman that can not fight.
I have been long used to the blood and butcheries of battle.
I am quick to turn my leathern shield either to right or left, for this I deem the main thing in battle.
I can charge among the chariots and horsemen, and in hand to hand fighting can delight the heart of Mars; howbeit I would not take such a man as you are off his guard— but I will smite you openly if I can."
He poised his spear as he spoke, and hurled it from him.
It struck the sevenfold shield in its outermost layer— the eighth, which was of bronze— and went through six of the layers but in the seventh hide it stayed.
Then Ajax threw in his turn, and struck the round shield of the son of Priam.
The terrible spear went through his gleaming shield, and pressed onward through his cuirass of cunning workmanship; it pierced the shirt against his side, but he swerved and thus saved his life.
They then each of them drew out the spear from his shield, and fell on one another like savage lions or wild boars of great strength and endurance: the son of Priam struck the middle of Ajax 's shield, but the bronze did not break, and the point of his dart was turned.
Ajax then sprang forward and pierced the shield of Hector; the spear went through it and staggered him as he was springing forward to attack; it gashed his neck and the blood came pouring from the wound, but even so Hector did not cease fighting; he gave ground, and with his brawny hand seized a stone, rugged and huge, that was lying upon the plain; with this he struck the shield of Ajax on the boss that was in its middle, so that the bronze rang again.
But Ajax in turn caught up a far larger stone, swung it aloft, and hurled it with prodigious force.
This millstone of a rock broke Hector 's shield inwards and threw him down on his back with the shield crushing him under it, but Apollo raised him at once.
Thereon they would have hacked at one another in close combat with their swords, had not heralds, messengers of gods and men, come forward, one from the Trojans and the other from the Achaeans— Talthybius and Idaeus both of them honourable men; these parted them with their staves, and the good herald Idaeus said," My sons, fight no longer, you are both of you valiant, and both are dear to Jove; we know this; but night is now falling, and the behests of night may not be well gainsaid."
Ajax son of Telamon answered," Idaeus, bid Hector say so, for it was he that challenged our princes.
Let him speak first and I will accept his saying."
Then Hector said," Ajax, heaven has vouchsafed you stature and strength, and judgement; and in wielding the spear you excel all others of the Achaeans.
Let us for this day cease fighting; hereafter we will fight anew till heaven decide between us, and give victory to one or to the other; night is now falling, and the behests of night may not be well gainsaid.
Gladden, then, the hearts of the Achaeans at your ships, and more especially those of your own followers and clansmen, while I, in the great city of King Priam, bring comfort to the Trojans and their women, who vie with one another in their prayers on my behalf.
Let us, moreover, exchange presents that it may be said among the Achaeans and Trojans,' They fought with might and main, but were reconciled and parted in friendship.'"
On this he gave Ajax a silverstudded sword with its sheath and leathern baldric, and in return Ajax gave him a girdle dyed with purple.
Thus they parted, the one going to the host of the Achaeans, and the other to that of the Trojans, who rejoiced when they saw their hero come to them safe and unharmed from the strong hands of mighty Ajax.
They led him, therefore, to the city as one that had been saved beyond their hopes.
On the other side the Achaeans brought Ajax elated with victory to Agamemnon.
When they reached the quarters of the son of Atreus, Agamemnon sacrificed for them a fiveyearold bull in honour of Jove the son of Saturn.
They flayed the carcass, made it ready, and divided it into joints; these they cut carefully up into smaller pieces, putting them on the spits, roasting them sufficiently, and then drawing them off.
When they had done all this and had prepared the feast, they ate it, and every man had his full and equal share, so that all were satisfied, and King Agamemnon gave Ajax some slices cut lengthways down the loin, as a mark of special honour.
As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest began to speak; with all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:— "Son of Atreus, and other chieftains, inasmuch as many of the Achaeans are now dead, whose blood Mars has shed by the banks of the Scamander, and their souls have gone down to the house of Hades, it will be well when morning comes that we should cease fighting; we will then wheel our dead together with oxen and mules and burn them not far from the ships, that when we sail hence we may take the bones of our comrades home to their children.
Hard by the funeral pyre we will build a barrow that shall be raised from the plain for all in common; near this let us set about building a high wall, to shelter ourselves and our ships, and let it have wellmade gates that there may be a way through them for our chariots.
Close outside we will dig a deep trench all round it to keep off both horse and foot, that the Trojan chieftains may not bear hard upon us."
Thus he spoke, and the princess shouted in applause.
Meanwhile the Trojans held a council, angry and full of discord, on the acropolis by the gates of King Priam 's palace; and wise Antenor spoke. "
Hear me," he said," Trojans, Dardanians, and allies, that I may speak even as I am minded.
Let us give up Argive Helen and her wealth to the sons of Atreus, for we are now fighting in violation of our solemn covenants, and shall not prosper till we have done as I say."
He then sat down and Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen rose to speak."
Antenor," said he," your words are not to my liking; you can find a better saying than this if you will; if, however, you have spoken in good earnest, then indeed has heaven robbed you of your reason.
I will speak plainly, and hereby notify to the Trojans that I will not give up the woman; but the wealth that I brought home with her from Argos I will restore, and will add yet further of my own."
On this, when Paris had spoken and taken his seat, Priam of the race of Dardanus, peer of gods in council, rose and with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:" Hear me, Trojans, Dardanians, and allies, that I may speak even as I am minded.
Get your suppers now as hitherto throughout the city, but keep your watches and be wakeful.
At daybreak let Idaeus go to the ships, and tell Agamemnon and Menelaus sons of Atreus the saying of Alexandrus through whom this quarrel has come about; and let him also be instant with them that they now cease fighting till we burn our dead; hereafter we will fight anew, till heaven decide between us and give victory to one or to the other."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
They took supper in their companies and at daybreak Idaeus went his way to the ships.
He found the Danaans, servants of Mars, in council at the stern of Agamemnon 's ship, and took his place in the midst of them."
Son of Atreus," he said," and princes of the Achaean host, Priam and the other noble Trojans have sent me to tell you the saying of Alexandrus through whom this quarrel has come about, if so be that you may find it acceptable.
All the treasure he took with him in his ships to Troy— would that he had sooner perished— he will restore, and will add yet further of his own, but he will not give up the wedded wife of Menelaus, though the Trojans would have him do so.
Priam bade me inquire further if you will cease fighting till we burn our dead; hereafter we will fight anew, till heaven decide between us and give victory to one or to the other."
They all held their peace, but presently Diomed of the loud warcry spoke, saying," Let there be no taking, neither treasure, nor yet Helen ,for even a child may see that the doom of the Trojans is at hand."
The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words that Diomed had spoken, and thereon King Agamemnon said to Idaeus," Idaeus, you have heard the answer the Achaeans make youand I with them.
But as concerning the dead, I give you leave to burn them, for when men are once dead there should be no grudging them the rites of fire.
Let Jove the mighty husband of Juno be witness to this covenant."
As he spoke he upheld his sceptre in the sight of all the gods, and Idaeus went back to the strong city of Ilius.
The Trojans and Dardanians were gathered in council waiting his return; when he came, he stood in their midst and delivered his message.
As soon as they heard it they set about their twofold labour, some to gather the corpses, and others to bring in wood.
The Argives on their part also hastened from their ships, some to gather the corpses, and others to bring in wood.
The sun was beginning to beat upon the fields, fresh risen into the vault of heaven from the slow still currents of deep Oceanus, when the two armies met.
They could hardly recognise their dead, but they washed the clotted gore from off them, shed tears over them, and lifted them upon their waggons.
Priam had forbidden the Trojans to wail aloud, so they heaped their dead sadly and silently upon the pyre, and having burned them went back to the city of Ilius.
The Achaeans in like manner heaped their dead sadly and silently on the pyre, and having burned them went back to their ships.
Now in the twilight when it was not yet dawn, chosen bands of the Achaeans were gathered round the pyre and built one barrow that was raised in common for all, and hard by this they built a high wall to shelter themselves and their ships; they gave it strong gates that there might be a way through them for their chariots, and close outside it they dug a trench deep and wide, and they planted it within with stakes.
Thus did the Achaeans toil, and the gods, seated by the side of Jove the lord of lightning, marvelled at their great work; but Neptune, lord of the earthquake, spoke, saying," Father Jove, what mortal in the whole world will again take the gods into his counsel?
See you not how the Achaeans have built a wall about their ships and driven a trench all round it, without offering hecatombs to the gods?
The fame of this wall will reach as far as dawn itself, and men will no longer think anything of the one which Phoebus Apollo and myself built with so much labour for Laomedon."
Jove was displeased and answered," What, O shaker of the earth, are you talking about?
A god less powerful than yourself might be alarmed at what they are doing, but your fame reaches as far as dawn itself.
Surely when the Achaeans have gone home with their ships, you can shatter their wall and fling it into the sea; you can cover the beach with sand again, and the great wall of the Achaeans will then be utterly effaced."
Thus did they converse, and by sunset the work of the Achaeans was completed; they then slaughtered oxen at their tents and got their supper.
Many ships had come with wine from Lemnos, sent by Euneus the son of Jason, born to him by Hypsipyle.
The son of Jason freighted them with ten thousand measures of wine, which he sent specially to the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus.
From this supply the Achaeans bought their wine, some with bronze, some with iron, some with hides, some with whole heifers, and some again with captives.
They spread a goodly banquet and feasted the whole night through, as also did the Trojans and their allies in the city.
But all the time Jove boded them ill and roared with his portentous thunder.
Pale fear got hold upon them, and they spilled the wine from their cups on to the ground, nor did any dare drink till he had made offerings to the most mighty son of Saturn.
Then they laid themselves down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
PENELOPE EVENTUALLY RECOGNISES HER HUSBAND—EARLY IN THE MORNING ULYSSES, TELEMACHUS, EUMAEUS, AND PHILOETIUS LEAVE THE TOWN.
Euryclea now went upstairs laughing to tell her mistress that her dear husband had come home.
Her aged knees became young again and her feet were nimble for joy as she went up to her mistress and bent over her head to speak to her. "
Wake up Penelope, my dear child," she exclaimed," and see with your own eyes something that you have been wanting this long time past.
Ulysses has at last indeed come home again, and has killed the suitors who were giving so much trouble in his house, eating up his estate and ill treating his son."
"My good nurse," answered Penelope," you must be mad.
The gods sometimes send some very sensible people out of their minds, and make foolish people become sensible.
This is what they must have been doing to you; for you always used to be a reasonable person.
Why should you thus mock me when I have trouble enough already— talking such nonsense, and waking me up out of a sweet sleep that had taken possession of my eyes and closed them?
I have never slept so soundly from the day my poor husband went to that city with the illomened name.
Go back again into the women 's room; if it had been any one else who had woke me up to bring me such absurd news I should have sent her away with a severe scolding.
As it is your age shall protect you."
"My dear child," answered Euryclea," I am not mocking you.
It is quite true as I tell you that Ulysses is come home again.
He was the stranger whom they all kept on treating so badly in the cloister.
Telemachus knew all the time that he was come back, but kept his father 's secret that he might have his revenge on all these wicked people."
Then Penelope sprang up from her couch, threw her arms round Euryclea, and wept for joy.
"But my dear nurse," said she," explain this to me; if he has really come home as you say, how did he manage to overcome the wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number of them there always were?"
"I was not there," answered Euryclea," and do not know; I only heard them groaning while they were being killed.
We sat crouching and huddled up in a corner of the women 's room with the doors closed, till your son came to fetch me because his father sent him.
Then I found Ulysses standing over the corpses that were lying on the ground all round him, one on top of the other.
You would have enjoyed it if you could have seen him standing there all bespattered with blood and filth, and looking just like a lion.
But the corpses are now all piled up in the gatehouse that is in the outer court, and Ulysses has lit a great fire to purify the house with sulphur.
He has sent me to call you, so come with me that you may both be happy together after all; for now at last the desire of your heart has been fulfilled; your husband is come home to find both wife and son alive and well, and to take his revenge in his own house on the suitors who behaved so badly to him."
"My dear nurse," said Penelope," do not exult too confidently over all this.
You know how delighted every one would be to see Ulysses come home— more particularly myself, and the son who has been born to both of us; but what you tell me can not be really true.
It is some god who is angry with the suitors for their great wickedness, and has made an end of them; for they respected no man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, and they have come to a bad end in consequence of their iniquity; Ulysses is dead far away from the Achaean land; he will never return home again."
Then nurse Euryclea said," My child, what are you talking about?
but you were all hard of belief and have made up your mind that your husband is never coming, although he is in the house and by his own fire side at this very moment.
Besides I can give you another proof; when I was washing him I perceived the scar which the wild boar gave him, and I wanted to tell you about it, but in his wisdom he would not let me, and clapped his hands over my mouth; so come with me and I will make this bargain with you —if I am deceiving you, you may have me killed by the most cruel death you can think of."
"My dear nurse," said Penelope," however wise you may be you can hardly fathom the counsels of the gods.
Nevertheless, we will go in search of my son, that I may see the corpses of the suitors, and the man who has killed them."
On this she came down from her upper room, and while doing so she considered whether she should keep at a distance from her husband and question him, or whether she should at once go up to him and embrace him.
When, however, she had crossed the stone floor of the cloister, she sat down opposite Ulysses by the fire, against the wall at right angles[ to that by which she had entered], while Ulysses sat near one of the bearingposts, looking upon the ground, and waiting to see what his brave wife would say to him when she saw him.
For a long time she sat silent and as one lost in amazement.
At one moment she looked him full in the face, but then again directly, she was misled by his shabby clothes and failed to recognise him till Telemachus began to reproach her and said: "Mother— but you are so hard that I can not call you by such a name —why do you keep away from my father in this way?
Why do you not sit by his side and begin talking to him and asking him questions?
No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much; but your heart always was as hard as a stone."
Penelope answered," My son, I am so lost in astonishment that I can find no words in which either to ask questions or to answer them.
I can not even look him straight in the face.
Still, if he really is Ulysses come back to his own home again, we shall get to understand one another better by and by, for there are tokens with which we two are alone acquainted, and which are hidden from all others."
Ulysses smiled at this, and said to Telemachus," Let your mother put me to any proof she likes; she will make up her mind about it presently.
She rejects me for the moment and believes me to be somebody else, because I am covered with dirt and have such bad clothes on; let us, however, consider what we had better do next.
When one man has killed another— even though he was not one who would leave many friends to take up his quarrel— the man who has killed him must still say good bye to his friends and fly the country; whereas we have been killing the stay of a whole town, and all the picked youth of Ithaca.
I would have you consider this matter."
"Look to it yourself, father," answered Telemachus," for they say you are the wisest counsellor in the world, and that there is no other mortal man who can compare with you.
We will follow you with right good will, nor shall you find us fail you in so far as our strength holds out."
"I will say what I think will be best," answered Ulysses. "
First wash and put your shirts on; tell the maids also to go to their own room and dress; Phemius shall then strike up a dance tune on his lyre, so that if people outside hear, or any of the neighbours, or some one going along the street happens to notice it, they may think there is a wedding in the house, and no rumours about the death of the suitors will get about in the town, before we can escape to the woods upon my own land.
Once there, we will settle which of the courses heaven vouchsafes us shall seem wisest."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said.
First they washed and put their shirts on, while the women got ready.
Then Phemius took his lyre and set them all longing for sweet song and stately dance.
The house re echoed with the sound of men and women dancing, and the people outside said," I suppose the queen has been getting married at last.
She ought to be ashamed of herself for not continuing to protect her husband 's property until he comes home."
This was what they said, but they did not know what it was that had been happening.
The upper servant Eurynome washed and anointed Ulysses in his own house and gave him a shirt and cloak, while Minerva made him look taller and stronger than before; she also made the hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders just as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan or Minerva— and his work is full of beauty— enriches a piece of silver plate by gilding it.
He came from the bath looking like one of the immortals, and sat down opposite his wife on the seat he had left. "
My dear," said he," heaven has endowed you with a heart more unyielding than woman ever yet had.
No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much.
But come, nurse, get a bed ready for me; I will sleep alone, for this woman has a heart as hard as iron."
"My dear," answered Penelope," I have no wish to set myself up, nor to depreciate you; but I am not struck by your appearance, for I very well remember what kind of a man you were when you set sail from Ithaca.
Nevertheless, Euryclea, take his bed outside the bed chamber that he himself built.
Bring the bed outside this room, and put bedding upon it with fleeces, good coverlets, and blankets."
She said this to try him, but Ulysses was very angry and said," Wife, I am much displeased at what you have just been saying.
Who has been taking my bed from the place in which I left it?
He must have found it a hard task, no matter how skilled a workman he was, unless some god came and helped him to shift it.
There is no man living, however strong and in his prime, who could move it from its place, for it is a marvellous curiosity which I made with my very own hands.
There was a young olive growing within the precincts of the house, in full vigour, and about as thick as a bearingpost.
I built my room round this with strong walls of stone and a roof to cover them, and I made the doors strong and wellfitting.
Then I cut off the top boughs of the olive tree and left the stump standing.
This I dressed roughly from the root upwards and then worked with carpenter 's tools well and skilfully, straightening my work by drawing a line on the wood, and making it into a bedprop.
I then bored a hole down the middle, and made it the centrepost of my bed, at which I worked till I had finished it, inlaying it with gold and silver; after this I stretched a hide of crimson leather from one side of it to the other.
So you see I know all about it, and I desire to learn whether it is still there, or whether any one has been removing it by cutting down the olive tree at its roots."
When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly broke down.
She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
"Do not be angry with me Ulysses," she cried," you, who are the wisest of mankind.
We have suffered, both of us.
Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you.
I have been shuddering all the time through fear that someone might come here and deceive me with a lying story; for there are many very wicked people going about.
Jove 's daughter Helen would never have yielded herself to a man from a foreign country, if she had known that the sons of Achaeans would come after her and bring her back.
Heaven put it in her heart to do wrong, and she gave no thought to that sin, which has been the source of all our sorrows.
Now, however, that you have convinced me by showing that you know all about our bed( which no human being has ever seen but you and I and a single maidservant, the daughter of Actor, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and who keeps the doors of our room) hard of belief though I have been I can mistrust no longer."
Then Ulysses in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and faithful wife to his bosom.
As the sight of land is welcome to men who are swimming towards the shore, when Neptune has wrecked their ship with the fury of his winds and waves; a few alone reach the land, and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find themselves on firm ground and out of danger— even so was her husband welcome to her as she looked upon him, and she could not tear her two fair arms from about his neck.
Indeed they would have gone on indulging their sorrow till rosyfingered morn appeared, had not Minerva determined otherwise, and held night back in the far west, while she would not suffer Dawn to leave Oceanus, nor to yoke the two steeds Lampus and Phaethon that bear her onward to break the day upon mankind.
At last, however, Ulysses said," Wife, we have not yet reached the end of our troubles.
I have an unknown amount of toil still to undergo.
It is long and difficult, but I must go through with it, for thus the shade of Teiresias prophesied concerning me, on the day when I went down into Hades to ask about my return and that of my companions.
But now let us go to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep."
"You shall go to bed as soon as you please," replied Penelope," now that the gods have sent you home to your own good house and to your country.
But as heaven has put it in your mind to speak of it, tell me about the task that lies before you.
I shall have to hear about it later, so it is better that I should be told at once."
"My dear," answered Ulysses," why should you press me to tell you?
Still, I will not conceal it from you, though you will not like it.
I do not like it myself, for Teiresias bade me travel far and wide, carrying an oar, till I came to a country where the people have never heard of the sea, and do not even mix salt with their food.
They know nothing about ships, nor oars that are as the wings of a ship.
He gave me this certain token which I will not hide from you.
He said that a wayfarer should meet me and ask me whether it was a winnowing shovel that I had on my shoulder.
On this, I was to fix my oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune; after which I was to go home and offer hecatombs to all the gods in heaven, one after the other.
As for myself, he said that death should come to me from the sea, and that my life should ebb away very gently when I was full of years and peace of mind, and my people should bless me.
All this, he said, should surely come to pass."
And Penelope said," If the gods are going to vouchsafe you a happier time in your old age, you may hope then to have some respite from misfortune."
Thus did they converse.
Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse took torches and made the bed ready with soft coverlets; as soon as they had laid them, the nurse went back into the house to go to her rest, leaving the bed chamber woman Eurynome to show Ulysses and Penelope to bed by torch light.
When she had conducted them to their room she went back, and they then came joyfully to the rites of their own old bed.
Telemachus, Philoetius, and the swineherd now left off dancing, and made the women leave off also.
They then laid themselves down to sleep in the cloisters.
When Ulysses and Penelope had had their fill of love they fell talking with one another.
She told him how much she had had to bear in seeing the house filled with a crowd of wicked suitors who had killed so many sheep and oxen on her account, and had drunk so many casks of wine.
Ulysses in his turn told her what he had suffered, and how much trouble he had himself given to other people.
He told her everything, and she was so delighted to listen that she never went to sleep till he had ended his whole story.
He began with his victory over the Cicons, and how he thence reached the fertile land of the Lotuseaters.
He told her all about the Cyclops and how he had punished him for having so ruthlessly eaten his brave comrades; how he then went on to Aeolus, who received him hospitably and furthered him on his way, but even so he was not to reach home, for to his great grief a hurricane carried him out to sea again; how he went on to the Laestrygonian city Telepylos, where the people destroyed all his ships with their crews, save himself and his own ship only.
Then he told of cunning Circe and her craft, and how he sailed to the chill house of Hades, to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias, and how he saw his old comrades in arms, and his mother who bore him and brought him up when he was a child; how he then heard the wondrous singing of the Sirens, and went on to the wandering rocks and terrible Charybdis and to Scylla, whom no man had ever yet passed in safety; how his men then ate the cattle of the sungod, and how Jove therefore struck the ship with his thunderbolts, so that all his men perished together, himself alone being left alive; how at last he reached the Ogygian island and the nymph Calypso, who kept him there in a cave, and fed him, and wanted him to marry her, in which case she intended making him immortal so that he should never grow old, but she could not persuade him to let her do so; and how after much suffering he had found his way to the Phaeacians, who had treated him as though he had been a god, and sent him back in a ship to his own country after having given him gold, bronze, and raiment in great abundance.
This was the last thing about which he told her, for here a deep sleep took hold upon him and eased the burden of his sorrows.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter.
When she deemed that Ulysses had had both of his wife and of repose, she bade goldenthroned Dawn rise out of Oceanus that she might shed light upon mankind.
On this, Ulysses rose from his comfortable bed and said to Penelope," Wife, we have both of us had our full share of troubles, you, here, in lamenting my absence, and I in being prevented from getting home though I was longing all the time to do so.
Now, however, that we have at last come together, take care of the property that is in the house.
As for the sheep and goats which the wicked suitors have eaten, I will take many myself by force from other people, and will compel the Achaeans to make good the rest till they shall have filled all my yards.
I am now going to the wooded lands out in the country to see my father who has so long been grieved on my account, and to yourself I will give these instructions, though you have little need of them.
At sunrise it will at once get abroad that I have been killing the suitors; go upstairs, therefore and stay there with your women.
See nobody and ask no questions."
As he spoke he girded on his armour.
Then he roused Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, and told them all to put on their armour also.
This they did, and armed themselves.
When they had done so, they opened the gates and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way.
It was now daylight, but Minerva nevertheless concealed them in darkness and led them quickly out of the town.