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 BY \A^ILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON. 
 
 CROWlSr Svo. 
 
 Preparatory Greek Course in English, _ - - $l.OO 
 
 College " << « << . _ . - i.oo 
 
 Preparatory and College Latin Course in English, 1.30 
 
 Classic French Course in English, _ - - _ I.OO 
 
 " German " " " . _ - - . I.OO
 
 THE AFTER-SCHOOL SERIES. 
 
 CLASSIC 
 
 GREEK COURSE 
 
 IN ENGLISH 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM CLEAVER, WILKINSON 
 
 -~»4-^^».»« 
 
 NE\A/ YORK 
 
 C H A U TA UQUA PRESS 
 
 C. L. S. C. Department, ISO Fifth Avenue 
 
 1892
 
 Copyright, 1892, by 
 
 HUNT & EATON, 
 
 New York. 
 
 Electrotypsd, printed, and bound by 
 
 HUNT &. EATON, 
 
 150 Fifth Avenue, New York.
 
 PA , 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This volume belongs to a series of books, now four in 
 number, devoted to a presentation in English of various for- 
 eign literatures, ancient and modern. The primary design 
 of the series is to enable persons born to the use of English 
 speech and precluded from accomplishing a course of school 
 and college training in the foreign languages in which the 
 literatures concerned were originally written, to enjoy an 
 advantage as nearly as possible equivalent through the me- 
 dium of their native tongue. 
 
 These books are, none of them, histories of the literatures 
 treated. They are those literatures thefnseives, in specimen, pre- 
 sented through translation, with accompaniment of such com- 
 ment, historical, biographical, critical, and explanatory, as was 
 judged necessary to make them, in the highest degree possi- 
 ble within very narrow limits, effectively known. They are, 
 it is believed, somewhat different in purpose and in method 
 from any other books existing. 
 
 The present volume is the result of selection and abridg- 
 ment from two earlier volumes, each of about the same size 
 with this, entitled, respectively, *' Preparatory Greek Course 
 in English " and "College Greek Course in English." These 
 fuller volumes are still kept in print for such readers as may 
 desire to go a little more thoroughly into the study of Greek 
 literature. 
 
 156,'i077
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. PAGB 
 
 Greek Literature .. = . 9 
 
 II. 
 Xenophon 13 
 
 III. 
 Homer 44 
 
 IV. 
 Herodotus 124 
 
 V. 
 Thucydides 151 
 
 VI. 
 Plato 173 
 
 VII. 
 
 yEsCHYLUS 202 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Sophocles 221 
 
 IX. 
 Euripides 246 
 
 X. 
 Aristophanes 267 
 
 XI. 
 Pindar (Sappho, Siinonides) 274 
 
 XII. 
 Theocritus (Bion, Moschus) 282 
 
 XIII. 
 Demosthenes (/lischines) 292 
 
 Index 313
 
 C. L. S. C. REQUIRED BOOKS FOR 1892-93. 
 
 Grecian History. J. R. Joy, $i.oo 
 
 Callias, an Historical Romance. A. J. Church, - - - - i.oo 
 
 The United States and Foreign Powers. W. E. Curtis, - - i.oo 
 
 Greek Architecture and Sculpture. Smith and Redford, - .50 
 
 Classic Greek Course in English. W. C. Wilkinson, - - - i.oo 
 
 A Manual of Christian Evidences. G.P.Fisher, ... .5*
 
 CLASSIC GREEK COURSE IN ENGLISH. 
 
 -^■*-*- 
 
 I. 
 
 GREEK LITERATURE. 
 
 Of all that the Greeks did in the world, nothing remains to 
 us recognizably in the form given it by their cunning brain 
 and hand, save perhaps a few coins, a few noble architectural 
 ruins, a few inimitable, though mutilated, antique pieces of 
 sculpture, and, last and chief, some masterpieces of literary 
 composition. Good literature is, perhaps, on the whole, the 
 most enduring of all the products of human activity. Dead, 
 we call the languages of Greece and Rome, and it is the 
 fashion now to ridicule the idea of devoting so much time in 
 our schools and colleges to the study of dead Greek and 
 Latin. The " new education," so called, lauds the study of 
 science above the study of the ancient classics — the study of 
 nature, that is to say, above the study of man. But is not 
 man at least a part of nature ? And is not language the no- 
 blest outward attribute of man ? Science includes, for in- 
 stance, what used to be called natural history. The devotees 
 of this branch of scientific inquiry think it a not unworthy 
 employment of time to spend years, or perhaps a life, in ob- 
 serving and discussing the habits of some single species of 
 the lower animals. It might very well happen that an ich- 
 thyologist would reckon it a good account to render of him- 
 self if, as the result of investigations covering years of his 
 life, he is able to present to the world at last an approxi- 
 mately exhaustive enumeration, description, classification of
 
 lo Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 the various fossil and extinct species of fishes that may be 
 found, in faint traces of their prehistoric existence, among 
 the stratified rocks of the planet. 
 
 We are far from wishing to disparage the value of such 
 scientific explorations. By all means let us learn the most 
 we can of whatever there is to be known. But surely man 
 himself also is one, and a not insignificant one, among ani- 
 mals, and it is science — why not ? — to study man in the mon- 
 uments that he has left behind him from the distant ages of 
 his life and activity on the earth. The languages in which 
 the ruling races of mankind did their speaking and their 
 writing, generation after generation, the literatures which 
 embalmed for all future time the thought, the feeling, the 
 fancy, and the recorded actions, of those millions on millions 
 of the foremost of our fellow-men — surely, say we, these lan- 
 guages and these literatures are worthy of the attention from 
 us that they have commanded, and that they command, if it 
 be only on the score of their being a part of science itself. 
 Is not man, even as just an interesting animal, an object of 
 study at least equal in importance to fishes ? And shall we 
 not continue, as lovers of science, if no longer as classical 
 linguists, to teach our children how the world's gray fathers 
 spoke and wrote, and what they thought, felt, fancied } and 
 this, although their languages be now dead, if languages can 
 indeed be dead that live in literatures which are immortal. 
 
 The literature of Greece is remarkable equally for its mat- 
 ter and for its form. The Greek mind was curious, bold, 
 enterprising, sagacious, acute, subtle ; if it loved light too 
 well to be distinctively deep, as we say, yet it loved light so 
 well as almost always, at least, to be clear ; it was extremely 
 hospitable and penetrable to ideas ; it was agile, graceful, 
 gay, open to sensuous impression, passionately fond of 
 beauty ; as it was gifted with a sense divine of measure, pro- 
 portion, and harmony, so, too, it was instinctively enamored of 
 the perfect in whatever it attempted, and it was capable of
 
 Greek Literature. ii 
 
 great patience ; it was exquisite in taste and judgment, while, 
 by necessary complement and contrast, it was electrically 
 alive to every thing grotesque or ridiculous. These qualities 
 of the Greek mind impressed themselves, as the seal impresses 
 itself upon the wax, upon Greek literature. There never has 
 been, anywhere else in the world, so much writing approaching 
 so nearly to ideal perfection in form as among the Greeks. 
 For the purposes of study in style there is nothing else 
 equal to Greek literature. The French genius and literature 
 are, perhaps, in modern civilization, likest at this point to 
 those of the Greeks. The Greeks, however, enjoyed one im- 
 mense advantage over the French. The Greek language far 
 surpassed the French as an instrument of expression. 
 
 But the ancient Greeks did their work under limitations. 
 They were pagans. They had not the light of the sun to see 
 by. They groped for truth, and they missed it oftener than 
 they found it. This, at least, was the case in their philoso- 
 phy, mental and moral. So that you will look in vain for the 
 substance of valuable thought, throughout the greater part, 
 for instance, of Pla'to's entrancing pages. It is the form of 
 expression, it is the ineffably light, exercised, infallible play 
 of reason, of taste, and of fancy, not, alas, the solid gold of 
 truth, that rewards you in reading and studying Plato. 
 
 Soc'rates, Plato's master, a man second, perhaps, in inter- 
 est to no figure whatever in Hellenic history, never wrote a 
 word that has survived. But he was the cause of some of 
 the noblest writing in classical Greek literature. He was the 
 most practical and fruitful of all the Greek philosophers. 
 Still, even Socrates, with his unrivaled common sense (he 
 brought philosophy down from the clouds to walk among 
 men on the ground), indulged, if we may trust our best ac- 
 counts of him, not seldom, in sorry futilities of barren refine- 
 ment and (iuibble. 
 
 In the Greek poetry, too, we have to forgive at the same 
 time that we admire. Inwoven witli all the tissue of the
 
 12 Classic Greek Course in E fig its h. 
 
 verse there is so much idolatry and mythology, and so much 
 sentiment born of these, which we either cannot understand 
 at all, or, understanding, have to reject with reprobation, or 
 what, for the matter of aesthetic enjoyment, is almost worse, 
 with pity and contempt — in short, there is such a wide mar- 
 gin of allowance to be made for differences of standards be- 
 tween them and us, differences in which we cannot but feel 
 our own superiority to them, that we are compelled to force 
 our judgment somewhat, or wait to acquire a taste not natu- 
 ral to us, before we can say from our hearts that we thor- 
 oughly relish the Greeks in their poetry. But what a testimony 
 it is to the genius of this people that, though what we have 
 now said is true, the names of Ho'mer, of He'siod, of Pindar, 
 of Sappho (Saffo), of ^s'chylus, and Soph'ocles, and Eurip'- 
 ides, of sweet-flowing Theoc'ritus, are yet such charms to our 
 imaginations ! Alien to us as, in so many ways, these poets 
 were, they were one with us in nature, they possessed the 
 secret of genius, and we cannot wholly escape their thrall. 
 
 In history we find less to check our admiration of the 
 Greeks, Herod'otus fascinates us with his artfully artless, 
 simple, fluent, wonder-loving, yet truth-telling narrative ; 
 Thucyd'ides puts us willing pupils to school to learn from 
 him how philosophical history should be written ; and Xen'o- 
 phon contents and delights us with picturesque journals of 
 march and fight, irreproachably well conceived and com- 
 posed — all without our needing to lose much from our pleas- 
 ure, or to abate much from our applause, for any reason of 
 difference between the ancient and the modern, the heathen 
 and the Christian. The heathenism of the Greeks was too 
 humane, or the Christianity of Christians is too far from per- 
 fect, to make the contrast of tone and treatment between 
 Thucydides and Macaulay very painfully broad and striking. 
 
 In eloquence, and in the literature of rhetoric, of taste, and 
 of criticism — that is, the literature concerning literature, we 
 not merely have not to make allowance for the Greeks in
 
 Greek Literature. 13 
 
 admiring them, but we have without reserve to acknowledge 
 their supremacy. Demosthenes is a synonym for eloquence, 
 and what critic or rhetorician is not a grateful learner at the 
 feet of Aristotle, or, to make a long skip forward in time, of 
 Longi'nus ? 
 
 The golden age of Greek literature, as of Greek art and 
 Greek arms, was the age of Pericles. But there was in 
 Demosthenes a fit of splendid revival from later decline, and 
 the decline that afterward proceeded again was splendid and 
 gradual and long. Chrys'ostom, in an early Christian age, 
 who still wielded at will that "fierce democratie " that used 
 to muster by thousands to hear and to applaud with tumultu- 
 ary cheers their favorite preacher, in the basilicas of Antioch 
 and Constantinople, was no unworthy successor, in a lineage 
 of eloquence that included the names of Pericles, Isoc'rates, 
 ^schines, and Demosthenes. The newspapers of yesterday 
 and to-day contain literary tidings from modern Greece that 
 seem to foretoken close at hand a signal renascence of Greek 
 literature among the proudest monuments of its ancient glory, 
 and on the very spot of its origin. 
 
 II. 
 XENOPHON. 
 
 For the study of Greek literature in the original text, 
 Xenophon, as prose writer, and Homer, as poet, furnish the 
 works that are almost universally first read. This fact may 
 be taken to constitute a sufficient reason for the course which 
 we adopt, in these two instances, in disregarding chronolog- 
 ical order and beginning here ourselves with the same authors. 
 
 The "Anabasis "of Xenophon is a monograph in history, 
 possessing no very serious importance in itself alone, yet 
 highly interesting, first, as a specimen of literary art, and,
 
 14 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 second, as strikingly illustrative of the Greek spirit and char- 
 acter. 
 
 Anabasis is a Greek word meaning literally ** a march up- 
 ward " — that is, from the sea. It may well enough be repre- 
 sented by the English word, made from Latin, " expedition." 
 The book is an account of an expedition undertaken by a 
 considerable body of Greeks into Central Asia, for the pur- 
 pose, on the part of their employer, Cyrus, brother to the 
 Persian king, of supporting, in connection with an army of 
 Oriental soldiers, his rival pretensions to the Persian throne. 
 The real destination of this expeditionary Greek force was con- 
 cealed by Cyrus from all but one of his Greek generals, under 
 the pretext of a different and less formidable object. When 
 the two Persian brothers, king and pretender, finally met in 
 the collision of arms, Cyrus was slain. This event, of course, 
 at once ended the expedition, or anabasis proper. The Greeks 
 now had it for their sole business to secure their own safety 
 in withdrawing homeward from the enemy's country. 
 
 But where the real anabasis ends, there the highest inter- 
 est of the book, misnamed " Anabasis " begins. For the main 
 interest of the " Anabasis," as a narrative, lies rather in the 
 retreat than in the advance. The reader follows, in a de- 
 lightfully life-like and simple story, the fortunes of a force of 
 somewhat more than ten thousand Greek mercenary soldiers, 
 starting, with no resource but their arms, their skill, and their 
 valor, from a point many hundreds of miles distant, and suc- 
 cessfully making their way home through a region formidable 
 to the adventurers, alike from its natural features and from 
 its hostile populations. 
 
 The whole matter of the famous advance and retreat of 
 the Ten Thousand derives grave secondary importance from 
 the fact that it resulted in revealing to Greece the essential 
 weakness and vulnerableness of the imposing Persian Empire. 
 The indirect historical consequences were thus very moment- 
 ous, of what was in itself a mere episode of history. Many
 
 Xenophon. \ 5 
 
 considerations, therefore, conspire to render Xenophon's 
 "Anabasis" a work worthy of the attention that in all ages 
 since it was written it has received. 
 
 Xenophon was born about 431 B.C., being thus not far from 
 contemporary with the Hebrew prophet Malachi. He was 
 one of the pupils of Socrates, less brilliant than his famous 
 fellow-pupil, Plato, but no whit less loyal to their common 
 master than he. Socrates, though this rests on doubtful au- 
 thority, is said to have borne Xenophon off on his shoulders 
 from a field of battle, in which, having been wounded, the 
 young Athenian knight had fallen helpless from his horse. 
 Xenophon joined the expedition of Cyrus as one adventuring 
 on his own private account, he having at first no regular official 
 relation with the army of the Greeks. Soon after the death of 
 Cyrus at the battle of Cunax'a, five principal commanders of 
 the Greeks having been treacherously put to death by the Per- 
 sian general Tis'sa-pher'nes, Xenophon's presence of mind 
 and practical wisdom, called out by the crisis in which the 
 Greeks found themselves involved, immediately gave him a 
 kind of leadership in the retreat, which he maintained until 
 a prosperous issue was reached on the shores of Greece. 
 Xenophon's opportunities were accordingly the best that 
 could possibly be enjoyed, for knowing the facts which he 
 undertook to relate. His own part in the transactions is 
 given, not entirely without betrayal of self-consciousness, but 
 on' the whole with admirably well-bred modesty ; and you 
 cannot resist the impression that the writer who writes so well, 
 acquitted himself well also as a man of affairs. Xenophon 
 was not, to be sure, a very great man, but it is not quite easy 
 to see what good ground Macaulay could allege for suspect- 
 ing, as he says he does, that he had *' rather a weak head." 
 Weaknesses he had, no doubt, and weaknesses they were of 
 the head ; for instance, he was superstitious, being a believer 
 in dreams. He suffers, too, in comparison with Plato, as re- 
 porter of Socrates ; but this simply means that he was not a
 
 1 6 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 philosopher. He was, instead, a shrewd and enterprising 
 practical man of affairs. At all events, " a rather weak head " 
 would hardly have been the qualification for the masterly 
 conduct that Xenophon achieved, of the long, eventful, and 
 on the whole remarkably prosperous, retreat of that high- 
 spirited, independent, almost mutinous horde of ten thousand 
 mercenary Greek soldiers. More just, probably, is the esti- 
 mate which Grote, the great historian of Greece, indicates 
 of Xenophon, as " one in whom a full measure of soldierly 
 strength and courage was combined with the education of an 
 Athenian, a democrat, and a philosopher." 
 
 Xenophon retired in later life to a landed estate where, in 
 the enjoyment of comfortable, if not elegant, leisure, he devoted 
 himself to literary pursuits. He is supposed to have lived 
 to ninety years of age. Diogenes Laer'tius has an interesting, 
 though not wholly trustworthy, biography of Xenophon. Our 
 readers should be advised that the skeptical spirit of literary 
 criticism has not left the genuineness of the " Anabasis " 
 unassailed. It has been gravely argued that Xenophon was 
 not its real author. The Bible, it will be seen, is far from 
 being the only sufferer at iconoclastic critical hands. 
 
 Xenophon's fame, notwithstanding his creditable part in 
 this expedition, is that of an author rather than that of a 
 soldier. Among his other chief works is the "Cy'ro-pae- 
 di'a," purporting to be an account of Cyrus, surnamed the 
 Elder, or the Great, the founder of the Persian Empire. 
 "Cyropaedia" is another misnomer. It means literally the 
 education of Cyrus. The book is really much more than an 
 account of its subject's earlier years. It is, however, rather 
 a romance than a history. Xenophon in it seems to aim at 
 giving a description of the ideal civil society or state. It 
 is written in the spirit of praise to despotism, as contrasted 
 with democracy. This may seem singular in an Athenian, 
 as was Xenophon ; but the fact is, Xenophon was but an 
 indifferent patriot — for, having in the course of his quest of
 
 Xcfwphon. 1 7 
 
 fortune attached himself to the Spartan monarchy, he came 
 once openly to bear arms against his native country. It 
 is possible to suppose that in the " Cyropasdia " Xenophon 
 meant to stimulate his countrymen by the ideal representa- 
 tion of manners better than their own. Such was probably 
 the patriotic purpose of Tac'itus in his "Germania." We 
 should thus relieve Xenophon's reputation somewhat. But 
 the simple truth is that Greek patriotism has, through the 
 eloquent commonplaces of orators, come to be popularly esti- 
 mated as far more exemplary than in fact it was. 
 
 A less romantic work of Xenophon's is that known as the 
 Memorabilia (" Things worthy to be remembered or re- 
 corded," namely, of Socrates). This will presently be spoken 
 of, with brief exemplification by extracts. There are several 
 other works from Xenophon's pen, with mention, however, of 
 which it is hardly worth while here to trouble the reader. 
 Without being in any sense a great, Xenophon was a merito- 
 rious and important, as well as interesting, writer. 
 
 The "Anabasis" is divided into " books," seven in number, 
 each book being also divided into chapters. These divi- 
 sions we shall not need here carefully to mark. 
 
 The book is, in large part, an itinerary — that is, a journal of 
 halts and marches. Such a recital would, of course, be te- 
 dious, but for the incidents of disturbance within, of attack 
 from without, of forays for food, of encounter with strange 
 peoples, of observation of strange ways and habits, and for 
 interspersed notices pertaining to the fauna and the flora of 
 the regions traversed. There are some highly entertaining 
 passages reporting the speeches of various personages, made 
 on occasion perhaps of a popular tendency developing itself 
 to resist the plans of the generals, and there are some very 
 good characterizations of men that figured conspicuously 
 in the expedition. The whole narrative is enlivened with the 
 Greek spirit, now and again disporting itself in those plays of 
 wit for which it is remarkable.
 
 1 8 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Cyrus the Younger, so ealled to distinguish him from Cyrus 
 the Great, which latter is the subject of the " Cyropaedia," 
 was accused to his brother Ar'-ta-xerx'es, the reigning mon- 
 arch of Persia, of plotting against his throne. Cyrus was put 
 under arrest, but at the intercession of his mother, with whom 
 he seems to have been a favorite son, he was released and 
 allowed to return to the province of which he had been made 
 by his father subordinate governor (or satrap, to transfer, as 
 the Greek too does, the Persian term). Hereupon Cyrus 
 showed his gratitude by secretly levying an army, composed 
 in part of Greek mercenaries, to wage open war against his 
 brother. He made Sardis, near the coast of the Grecian 
 Archipelago, the starting-point of his long and adventurous 
 expedition. Sardis is the city of that name mentioned in the 
 book of Revelation. It was the capital of Lydia, and Cyrus 
 had it as the seat of government for his satrapy. It was 
 even at this time, 401 B.C., an ancient city. 
 
 From Sardis to Coloss'se (it was to the Christians here that, 
 four hundred years later, the apostle Paul wrote " Colos- 
 sians "). A' halt, and then an advance to Ce-lae'-nse, in Phry- 
 gia, where another halt. Here the forces of Cyrus, aug- 
 mented from point to point, were found to be 13,000 men. 
 The reader will, perhaps, be ready to raise with himself the 
 questions, first. How should there have been this number of 
 Greek soldiers of fortune prepared to enter into a distant 
 foreign service ? and, second, How should a subordinate gov- 
 ernor in the Persian state have been able to muster them for 
 the purpose of a rebellion and usurpation like that which Cy- 
 rus proposed .-* To these questions it may be briefly answered : 
 On the one hand the states of Greece, especially perhaps the 
 Athenian state, were always fond of colonizing. There was 
 an almost continuous line of Greek colonies stretched along 
 the neighboring shores of Asia Minor. To these colonies 
 resorted, in considerable numbers, such strenuous and enter- 
 prising citizens of the parent states as, having exposed them-
 
 Xenaphon. 19 
 
 selves to the displeasure of the people, had been brought 
 under sentence of exile. At this particular time, a war hav- 
 ing just closed that had made Athens subject to Sparta, the 
 internal condition of Greece was such as to render the num- 
 ber of unemployed solders unusually great. The restless, 
 overflowing energy of Greek life thus furnished both leaders 
 and troops in abundant supply for engaging in whatever service 
 might seem to them to promise fame or fortune to their ef- 
 forts. Any Greek with qualifications for leadership might 
 easily muster a following of soldiers, with which he could sell 
 himself, almost at his own price, to king or conqueror, the 
 exigencies of whose condition might require such mercenary 
 aid. This, on the one hand ; and on the other, the Persian 
 Empire, though widely extended in territory, was in reality 
 weak — so weak, indeed, that the central cohesive force of 
 eminent administrative genius in the sovereign being at any 
 moment withdrawn, the component parts of the immense ag- 
 gregation seemed always ready at the first strong and bold 
 hostile stroke to fall asunder. 
 
 Nothing could more strikingly illustrate the disorganized 
 and moribund condition of the Persian power, together with 
 the weakness of the then reigning king, than a singular state- 
 ment made by Xenophon. Xenophon says that Artaxerxes 
 was prevented from suspecting Cyrus of plotting against 
 himself by the supposition which he indulged that Cyrus was 
 raising troops for war with Tis'sa-pher'nes. This Tissapher- 
 nes was the Persian governor of certain parts near the satrapy 
 of Cyrus. He it was who preferred the original accusation 
 against Cyrus of pretending to the throne of his brother. 
 The king, Xenophon says — an astonishing statement — was 
 not at all concerned at this strife between two of his subor- 
 dinate governors ! These circumstances rendered it possible 
 for Cyrus to proceed considerable lengths in the course of 
 his audacious undertaking without arousing suspicion, or at 
 any rate without encountering opposition, on the part of his
 
 20 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 brother, too easily contenting himself, a thousand miles or 
 more away, in his palace at Babylon. 
 
 The Greeks soon suspect that Cyrus is marching against 
 his brother, the king, and make difficulties about proceeding. 
 Cle-ar'chus, however, one of their leaders, a Spartan, over- 
 comes their reluctance — we must let Xenophon himself tell 
 our i^eaders how : 
 
 Clearchus, first of all, endeavored to compel his soldiers to proceed; 
 but, as soon as he began to advance, they pelted him and his baggage- 
 cattle with stones. Clearchus, indeed, on this occasion, had a narrow 
 escape of being stoned to death. At length, when he saw that he should 
 not be able to proceed by force, he called a meeting of his soldiers ; and 
 at first, standing before them, he continued for some time to shed tears, 
 while they, looking on, were struck with wonder, and remained silent. 
 He then addressed them to this efiect : 
 
 " Wonder not, soldiers, that I feel distressed at the present occur- 
 rences ; for Cyrus engaged himself to me by ties of hospitality, and hon- 
 ored me, when I was an exile from my country, both with other marks of 
 esteem, and by presenting me with ten thousand darics. On receiving 
 this money, I did not treasure it up for my own use, or squander it in 
 luxury, but spent it upon you. First of all, I made war upon the Thra- 
 cians, and, in the cause of Greece, and with your assistance, took ven- 
 geance upon them by expelling them from the Cher'so-ne'sus, when they 
 would have taken the country from its Grecian colonists. When Cyrus 
 summoned me, I set out to join him, taking you with me, that if he had 
 need of my aid, I might do him service in return for the benefits that I 
 had received from him, but since you are unwilling to accompany him 
 on this expedition, I am under the obligation, either, by deserting you, 
 to preserve the friendship of Cyrus, or, by proving false to him, to ad- 
 here to you. Whether I shall do right, I do not know ; but I shall give 
 you the preference, and will undergo with you whatever may be neces- 
 sary. Nor shall any one ever say that, after leading Greeks into a coun- 
 try of Barbarians, I deserted the Greeks, and adopted, in preference, the 
 friendship of the Barbarians. 
 
 *' Since, however, you decline to obey me, or to follow me, I will go 
 with you, and submit to whatever may be destined for us. For I look 
 upon you to be at once my country, my- friends, and my fellow-soldiers, 
 and consider that with you I shall be respected, wherever I maybe : but 
 that, if separated from you, I shall be unable either to afford assistance
 
 Xenophon. 2 1 
 
 to a friend, or to avenge myself upon an enemy. Feel assured, there- 
 fore, that I am resolved to accompany you wherever you go." 
 
 Thus he spoke : and the soldiers, as well those under his own com- 
 mand as the others, on hearing these assurances, applauded him for say- 
 ing that he would not march against the king ; and more than two thou- 
 sand of the troops of Xe'nias and Pa'sion, taking with them their arms 
 and baggage, went and encamped under Clearchus. 
 
 Cyrus, perplexed and grieved at these occurrences, sent for Clearchus ; 
 who, however, would not go, but sending a messenger to Cyrus without 
 the knowledge of the soldiers, bade him be of good courage, as these 
 matters would be arranged to his satisfaction. He also desired Cyrus 
 to send for him again, but, when Cyrus had done so, he again declined 
 to go. After\vard, having assembled his own soldiers, and those who 
 had recently gone over to him, and any of the rest that wished to be 
 present, he spoke to the following effect : 
 
 " It is evident, soldiers, that the situation of Cyrus with regard to us 
 is the same as ours with regard to him ; for we are no longer his soldiers, 
 since we refuse to follow him, nor is he any longer our paymaster. That 
 he considers himself wronged by us, however, I am well aware ; so that, 
 even when he sends for me, I am unwilling to go to him, principally 
 from feeling shame, because I am conscious of having been in all respects 
 false to him ; and in addition, from being afraid that, when he has me 
 in liis power, he may take vengeance on me for the matters in which he 
 conceives that lie has been injured. This, therefore, seems to me to be 
 no time for us to sleep, or to neglect our own safety ; but, on the con- 
 trary, to consider what we must do under these circumstances. As long 
 as we remain here, it seems necessary to consider how we may best re- 
 main with safety ; or, if we determine upon going at once, how we may 
 depart with the greatest security, and how we may olitain provisions ; 
 for without these the general and the private soldier are alike inefficient. 
 Cynis is indeed a most valuable friend to those to whom he is a friend, 
 but a most violent enemy to those to whom he is an enemy. He has 
 forces, too, both infantry and cavalry, as well as a naval power, as we all 
 alike see and know ; for we seem to me to be encamped at no great dis- 
 tance from him. It is therefore full time to say whatever any one thinks 
 to be best." Having spoken tlius, he made a pause. 
 
 Upon this, several rose to speak ; some, of their own accord, to ex- 
 press what they thought ; others, previously instructed by Clearchus, to 
 point out wliat difficulty there would be either in remaining or depart- 
 ing, without the consent of Cyrus. One of these, pretending to be eager 
 to proceed with all possible haste to Greece, proposed that they should
 
 22 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 choose other commanders without delay, if Clearchus were unwilling to 
 conduct them back ; that they should purchase provisions, as there was 
 a market in the Barbarian camp, and pack up their baggage ; that they 
 should go to Cyrus, and ask him to furnish them with ships, in which 
 they miglit sail home ; and, if he should not grant them, that they 
 should beg of him a guide, to conduct them back through such parts of 
 the country as were friendly toward them. But if he would not even 
 allow them a guide, that they should, without delay, form themselves in 
 warlike order, and send a detachment to take possession of the heights, 
 in order that neither Cyrus nor the Cilicians (" of whom," said he, " we 
 have many prisoners, and much money that we have taken ") maybe the 
 first to occupy them. Such were the suggestions that he offered ; but 
 after him Clearchus spoke as follows : 
 
 " Let no one of you mention me as likely to undertake this command ; 
 for I see many reasons why I ought not to do so ; but be assured, that 
 whatever person you may elect, I shall pay the greatest possible defer- 
 ence to him, that you may see that I know how to obey as well as any 
 other man." 
 
 After him another arose, who pointed out the folly of him who advised 
 them to ask for ships, just as if Cyrus were not about to sail back, and 
 who showed, too, how foolish it would be to request a guide of the very 
 person "whose plans," said he, "we are frustrating. And," he added, 
 " if we should trust the guide that Cyrus might assign us, what will hin- 
 der Cyrus from giving orders to occupy the heights before we reach 
 them ? For my own part, I should be reluctant to embark in any vessel 
 that he might grant us, lest he should send us and the galleys to the bot- 
 tom together ; I should also be afraid to follow any guide that he may 
 appoint, lest he should conduct us into places from whence there would 
 be no means of escape ; and I had rather, if I depart without the con- 
 sent of Cyrus, depart without his knowledge : but this is impossible. I 
 say, then, that such proposals are absurdities ; and my advice is, that 
 certain persons, such as are fit for the task, should accompany Clearchus 
 to Cyrus, and ask him in what service he wishes to employ us ; and if 
 the undertaking be similar to that in which he before employed foreign 
 troops, that we too should follow him, and not appear more cowardly 
 than those who previously went up with him. But if the present design 
 seem greater and more difficult, and more perilous than the former, that 
 they should ask, in that case, either to induce us to accompany him by 
 persuasion, or, yielding himself to our persuasions, to give us a passage 
 to a friendly country ; for thus, if we accompany him, we shall accompany 
 him as friends and zealous supporters, and if we leave him, we shall depart
 
 Xenophon. 23 
 
 in safety ; that they then report to us what answer he makes to this ap- 
 plication ; and that we, having heard his reply, take measures in accord- 
 ance with it." 
 
 These suggestions were approved ; and, having chosen certain persons, 
 they sent them with Clearchus to ask Cyrus the questions agreed upon 
 by the army. Cyrus answered that he had heard that A-broc'o-mas, an 
 enemy of his, was on the banks of the Euphrates, twelve days' march 
 distant ; and it was against him, he said, that he wished to march ; and 
 if Abrocomas should be there, he said that he longed to take due venge- 
 ance on him ; but if he should retreat, " we will consider there," he 
 added, " how to proceed." 
 
 The delegates, having heard this answer, reported it to the soldiers, 
 who had still a suspicion that he was leading them against the king, but 
 nevertheless resolved to accompany him. They then asked for an in- 
 crease of pay, and Cyrus promised to give them all half as much again 
 as they received before, that is to say, instead of a daric, three half- 
 darics a month for every soldier. But no one heard there, at least pub- 
 licly, that he was leading them against the king. 
 
 At Thap'sa-cus, on the river Euphrates, Cyrus openly told 
 the Greek captains that he was marching to Babylon against 
 the Great King. He desired them to make the disclosure to 
 their men. They did so. The men felt, or feigned, much 
 displeasure, and demanded a liberal donative. Lavish gifts 
 Cyrus was the last man to refuse the promise of, and the 
 soldiers were promptly made rich with prospective and con- 
 ditional wealth. The majority were prevailed upon to adhere 
 to Cyrus. The selfish thrift and cunning of the leading Greek 
 soldiers of fortune are well exhibited in the conduct of Menon 
 on the present occasion. This conduct is thus related by 
 Xenophon : 
 
 Before it was certain what the other soldiers would do, whether they 
 would accompany Cyrus or not, Menon assembled his own troops apart 
 from the rest, and spoke as follows : 
 
 " If you will follow my advice, soldiers, you will, without incurring 
 either danger or toil, make yourselves honored by Cyrus beyond the rest 
 of the army. What, then, would I have you do ? Cyrus is at this mo- 
 ment urgent with the Greeks to accompany him against the king; I
 
 24 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 therefore suggest that, before it is known how the other Greeks will 
 answer Cyrus, you should cross over the river Euphrates. For if they 
 should determine upon accompanying him, you will appear to have been 
 the cause of it, by being the first to pass the river ; and to you, as being 
 most forward with your services, Cyrus will feel and repay the obliga- 
 tion, as no one knows how to do better than himself But if the others 
 should determine not to go with him, we shall all of us return back 
 again ; but you, as having alone complied with his wishes, and as being 
 most worthy of his confidence, he will employ in garrison duty and posts 
 of authority ; and whatever else you may ask of him, I feel assured that, 
 as the friends of Cyrus, you will obtain it." 
 
 On hearing these proposals, they at once complied with them, and 
 crossed the river before the others had given their answer. And when 
 Cyrus perceived that they had crossed, he was much pleased, and des- 
 patched Glus to Menon's troops with this message : " I applaud your 
 conduct, my friends ; and it shall be my care that you may applaud me ; 
 or think me no longer Cyrus." The soldiers, in consequence, being 
 filled with great expectations, prayed that he might succeed ; and to 
 Menon Cyrus was said to have sent most magnificent presents. After 
 these transactions, he passed the river, and all the rest of the army fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 The remainder of Cyrus's advance lay along the river 
 Euphrates, on its left bank; but let us take a considerable 
 skip and come to the final fatal encounter of the two armies. 
 The first onset was from the Greeks. They broke the still- 
 ness with a shout, and actually ran to the attack. The Bar- 
 barians, panic-stricken, fled before them. Their scythed char- 
 iots, abandoned by the drivers, made indiscriminate havoc 
 among the two forces. The Greeks, however, opened their 
 ranks to let them pass, and the remarkable fact is recorded 
 by Xenophon that, with the doubtful exception of one man, 
 reported to have been hit with an arrow, no Greek received 
 any material injury in this battle. Cyrus noted with exulta- 
 tion the success of the Greeks ; but, though already saluted 
 as king by the eager worshipers of the rising sun about him, 
 with great presence of mind he refused to join in the pursuit 
 of the conquered. The king, owing to his enormous pre- 
 ponderance over Cyrus in numbers, was, while holding the
 
 Xenophon. 25 
 
 center of his own army, actually beyond the extreme left of 
 Cyrus's. Artaxerxes, accordhigly, encountering no opposi- 
 tion in his front, began to wheel round as if with the purpose 
 of inclosing his adversaries. Not unnaturally, Cyrus now 
 thought that the victorious Greeks, ardently engaged in pur- 
 suit, were in danger of being attacked in the rear. Under 
 this apprehension, he charges, with his 600 horse, directly on 
 his brother. The 6,000 of the king broke and fled, where- 
 upon Cyrus's 600 became dispersed in the ardor of headlong 
 pursuit. Thus left almost alone, Cyrus caught sight of the 
 king. Exclaiming, " I see the man," he rushed with such 
 impetuosity upon his brother, that his weapon pierced the 
 armor of Artaxerxes, and wounded him in the breast. But 
 this fratricidal attack had an issue that Providence ap- 
 pointed, not Cyrus; for Cyrus, in the very act of striking 
 his brother, was himself violently struck with a javelin under 
 the eye and slain. 
 
 Xenophon devotes a chapter to a careful portraiture of the 
 character of Cyrus. This chapter, in order that our readers 
 may get the insight which Xenophon, both consciously and 
 unconsciously, here furnishes us moderns the means of ob- 
 taining, into the standards and ideals of excellence that 
 were prevalent in the ancient world of enlightened pagan- 
 ism, we give nearly in full: 
 
 Whenever any one did liim a kindness or an injury he showed himself 
 anxious to go beyond him in those respects ; and some used to mention a 
 wisli of his, that " he desired to live long enough to outdo both those who 
 had done him good, and those wlio had done him ill, in the requital tiiat 
 he should make." Accordingly to him alone of the men of our days were 
 so great a number of people desirous of committing the disposal of their 
 property, their cities, and their own persons. 
 
 Yet no one could with truth say this of him, that he suffered the crim- 
 inal or unjust to deride his authority ; for he of all men inflicted punish- 
 ment most unsparingly ; and there were often to be seen, along the most 
 frequented roads, men deprived of their feet, or hands, or eyes ; so that 
 in Cyrus's dominions it was possible for any one, Greek or Barbarian,
 
 26 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 who did no wrong, to travel witliout fear whithersover he pleased, and 
 having with him whatever might suit his convenience. 
 
 To those who showed ability for war it is acknowledged that he paid 
 distinguished honor. His first war was with the Pisidians and Mysians ; 
 and, marching in person into these countries, he made those whom he 
 saw voluntarily hazarding their lives in his service governors over the 
 territory that he subdued, and distinguished them with rewards in other 
 ways. So that the brave appeared to be the most fortunate of men, 
 while the cowardly were deemed fit only to be their slaves. There were, 
 therefore, great numbers of persons who voluntarily exposed themselves 
 to danger wherever they thought that Cyrus would become aware of their 
 exertions. 
 
 With regard to justice, if any appeared to him inclined to display that 
 virtue, he made a point of making such men richer than those who sought 
 to profit by injustice. Accordingly, while in many other respects his 
 affairs were administered judiciously, he likewise possessed an army wor- 
 thy of the name. For it was not for money that generals and captains 
 came from foreign lands to enter into his service, but because they were 
 persuaded that to serve Cyrus well would be more profitable than any 
 amount of monthly pay. 
 
 Besides, if any one executed his orders in a superior manner, he 
 never suffered his diligence to go unrewarded ; consequently, in every 
 undertaking, the best qualified officers were said to be ready to assist 
 him. 
 
 If he noticed any one that was a skilful manager, with strict regard 
 to justice, stocking the land of which he had the direction, and securing 
 income from it, he would never take any thing from such a person, but 
 was ever ready to give him something in addition ; so that men labored 
 with cheerfulness, acquired property with confidence, and made no con- 
 cealment from Cyrus of what each possessed ; for he did not appear to 
 envy those who amassed riches openly, but to endeavor to bring into use 
 the wealth of those who concealed it. 
 
 Whatever friends he made, and felt to be well-disposed to him, and 
 considered to be capable of assisting him in any thing that he might wish 
 to accomplish, he is acknowledged by all to have been most successful in 
 attaching them to him. 
 
 For, on the very same account on which he thought that he himself 
 had need of friends, namely, that he might have co-operators in his un- 
 dertakings, did he endeavor to prove an efficient assistant to his friends 
 in whatever he perceived any of them desirous of effecting. 
 
 He received, for many reasons, more presents than perhaps any other
 
 Xenophon. 2 7 
 
 single individual ; and these he outdid every one else in distributing 
 among his friends, having a view to the character of each, and to what 
 he perceived each most needed. Whatever presents any one sent him of 
 articles of personal ornament, whether for warlike accoutrement, or merely 
 for dress, concerning these, they said, he used to remark, that he could 
 not decorate his own person with them all, but that he thought friends 
 well equipped were the greatest ornament a man could have. That he 
 should outdo his friends, indeed, in conferring great benefits, is not at 
 all wonderful, since he was so much more able ; but that he should sur- 
 pass his friends in kind attentions and anxious desire to oblige, appears 
 to me far more worthy of admiration. Frequently, when he had wine 
 served him of a peculiarly fine flavor, he would send half-emptied flagons 
 of it to some of his friends, with a message to this effect : " Cyrus has 
 not for some time met with pleasanter wine than this ; and he has there- 
 fore sent some of it to you, and begs you will drink it to-day with those 
 whom you love best." He would often, too, send geese partly eaten, and 
 the halves of loaves, and other such things, desiring the bearer to say, in 
 presenting them, " Cyrus has been delighted with these, and therefore 
 wishes you also to taste of them." 
 
 Wherever provender was scarce, but he himself, from having many at- 
 tendants, and from the care which he took, was able to procure some, he 
 would send it about, and desire his friends to give that provender to the 
 horses that carried them, so that hungry steeds might not carry his friends. 
 Whenever he rode out, and many were likely to see him, he would call to 
 him his friends, and hold earnest conversation with them, that he might 
 show whom he held in honor ; so that, from what I have heard, I should 
 think that no one was ever beloved by a greater number of persons, either 
 Greeks or Barbarians. Of this fact tlie following is a proof; that no one 
 deserted to the king from Cyrus, though only a subject (except that Orontes 
 attempted to do so ; but he soon found the person wliom he believed 
 faithful to him, more a friend to Cyrus than to himself), while many came 
 over to Cyrus from the king, after they became enemies to each other; 
 and these, too, men who were greatly beloved by the king ; for they felt 
 persuaded that if they proved themselves brave soldiers under Cyrus, they 
 would obtain from him more adequate rewards for their services than 
 from the king. 
 
 What occurred also at the time of his death is a great proof, as well 
 that he himself was a man of merit, as that he could accurately distin- 
 guish such as were trustworthy, well-disposed, and constant in their at- 
 tachment. For when he was killed, all his friends and the partakers of 
 his table who were with him fell fighting in his defense, except Ariaeus,
 
 28 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 who had been posted in command of the cavahy on the left ; and, when 
 he learned that Cyrus had fallen in the battle, he took to flight, with all 
 the troops which he had under his command. 
 
 The morning after the battle, a message from the king, 
 couched in true Oriental terms of despotic arrogance, in- 
 vited the Greeks to come to the royal palace unarmed and 
 sue for mercy. Clearchus, seldom unequal to the occasion, 
 spiritedly said that it was not for conquerors to give up their 
 arms. There is something about Clearchus that captivates 
 the interest of the reader. The impending tragedy of his 
 fate lends a kind of pathos to the few incidents illustrating 
 his character that still remain. Full of shifts as he was, he 
 had to deal with a man whose duplicity, as being that of an 
 Oriental, was an overmatch for the not too scrupulous sa- 
 gacity of the Greek. The wily Tissaphernes was soon to have 
 Clearchus in his toils. 
 
 Pha-li'nus, a plausible Greek in the service of Artaxerxes, 
 was one of the present embassy from the king. He, address- 
 ing himself to Clearchus, said — but the passage-at-arms of 
 witty reticence in which these two Greeks, Phalinus and 
 Clearchus, now engaged, is too good to be reported other- 
 wise than in the full text of Xenophon's narration : 
 
 "Your companions, O Clearchus, give each a different answer ; and 
 now tell us what you have to say." Clearclius then said, " I was glad to 
 see you, O Phalinus, and so, I dare say, were all the rest of us ; for you 
 are a Greek, as we also are ; and, being so many in number as you see, 
 and placed in such circumstances, we would advise with you how we 
 should act with regard to the message that you bring. Give us then, I 
 entreat you by the gods, such advice as seems to you most honorable 
 and advantageous, and such as will bring you honor in time to come, 
 when it is related that Phalinus, being once sent from the king to require 
 the Greeks to deliver up their arms, gave them, when they consulted 
 him, such and such counsel ; for you know that whatever counsel you do 
 give, will necessarily be reported in Greece." 
 
 Clearchus craftily threw out this suggestion, with the desire that the 
 very person who came as an envoy from the king should advise them not
 
 Xenophon. 29 
 
 to deliver up their arms, in order that the Greeks might be led to con- 
 ceive better hopes. But Phalinus, adroitly evading the appeal, spoke, 
 contrary to his expectation, as follows : " If, out of ten thousand hopeful 
 chances, you have any single one of saving yourselves by continuing in 
 arms against the king, I advise you not to deliver up your arms ; but if 
 you have not a single hope of safety in opposing the king's pleasure, I 
 advise you to save yourselves in the only way in \\hich it is possible." 
 Clearchus rejoined : " Such, then, is your advice ; but on our part re- 
 turn this answer, that we are of opinion that, if we are to be friends with 
 the king, we shall be more valuable friends if we retain our arms, than 
 if we surrender them to another ; but that if we must make war against 
 him, we should make war belter if we retain our arms than if we give 
 them up to another." Phalinus said, " This answer, then, we will re- 
 port ; but the king desired us also to inform you, that while you remain 
 in this place a truce is to be considered as existing between him and you ; 
 but, if you advance or retreat, there is to be war. Give us, therefore, 
 your answer on this point also ; whether you will remain here and a 
 truce to exist, or whether I shall announce from you that there is war." 
 Clearchus replied, " Report, therefore, on this point also, that our reso- 
 lution is the same as that of the king." "And what is that?" said 
 Phalinus. Clearchus replied, " If we stay here, a truce ; but if we re- 
 treat or advance, war." Phalinus again asked him, " Is it a truce or war 
 that I shall report?" Clearchus again made the same answer: "A 
 truce if we stay, and if we i-etrcat or advance, war." But of what he in- 
 tended to do he gave no intimation. 
 
 Tissaphernes palters with the Greeks under pretense of 
 amicably escorting them home to Greece. He finally over- 
 reached Clearchus sufficiently to get him, with four other 
 Greek generals, into his power. Then he sent them all cap- 
 tive to the king. They were beheaded. Twenty Greek 
 captains Tissaphernes himself treacherously had massacred. 
 
 Xenophon pauses in his narrative to portray the characters 
 of the five unfortunate Greek generals. The chapter is too 
 well written, and too valuable as affording insight into the 
 current and accepted moral and social ideas of the ancient 
 Greeks not to be inserted in full : 
 
 One of them, Clearchus, by the general consent of all who were ac- 
 quainted with him, appears to have been a man well qualified for war.
 
 3© Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 and extremely fond of military enterprise. For as long as the Lacedae- 
 monians were at war with the Athenians, he remained in the service of 
 his country ; but when the peace took place, having induced his gov- 
 ernment to believe that the Thracians were committing ravages on the 
 Greeks, and having gained his point, as well as he could, with the Eph'- 
 ori, he sailed from home to make war upon the Thracians that lie above 
 the Chersone'sus and Perin'thus. But when the Ephori, after he was 
 gone, having for some reason changed their mind, took measures to 
 oblige him to turn back from the Isthmus, he then no longer paid obe- 
 dience to their commands, but sailed away to the Hel'les-pont, and was 
 in consequence, condemned to death, for disobedience, by the chief mag- 
 istrates at Sparta. Being then an exile, he went to Cyrus ; and by what 
 methods he conciliated the favor of Cyrus has been told in another place. 
 Cyrus presented him with ten thousand darics ; and he, on receiving that 
 sum, did not give himself up to idleness, but having collected an army 
 with the money, made war upon the Thracians, and conquered them in 
 battle, and from that time plundered and laid waste their country, 
 and continued this warfare till Cyrus had need of his army, when 
 he went to him, for the purpose of again making war in concert with 
 him. 
 
 These seem to me to have been the proceedings of one fond of war, 
 who, when he might have lived in peace without disgrace or loss, chose 
 war in preference ; when he might have spent his time in idleness, vol- 
 untarily underwent toil for the sake of military adventure ; and when he 
 might have enjoyed riches in security, chose rather, by engaging in war- 
 fare, to diminish their amount. He was, indeed, led by inclination' to 
 spend his money in war, as he might have spent it in pursuits of gallan- 
 try, or any other pleasure ; to such a degree was he fond of war. He 
 appears also to have been qualified for military undertakings, as he liked 
 perilous adventure, was ready to march day and night against the 
 enemy, and was possessed of great presence of mind in circumstances of 
 difficulty, as those who were with him on all such occasions were univer- 
 sally ready to acknowledge. 
 
 For commanding troops he was said to be qualified in as great a de- 
 gree as was consistent with his temper ; for he was excelled by no one 
 in ability to contrive how an army might have provisions, and to pro- 
 cure them ; and he was equally fitted to impress on all around him the 
 necessity of obeying Clearchus. This he effected by severity ; for he was 
 of a stern countenance and harsh voice ; and he always punished vio- 
 lently, and sometimes in anger, so that he occasionally repented of what 
 he had done. He pnnished, too, on principle, for he thought that there
 
 Xenophon. 3 1 
 
 could be no efficiency in an army undisciplined by chastisement. He is 
 also reported to have said that a soldier ought to fear his commander 
 more than the enemy, if he would either keep guard well, or abstain 
 from doing injury to friends, or march without hesitation against foes. 
 In circumstances of danger, accordingly, the soldiers were willing 
 to obey him implicitly, and wished for no other leader ; for they said 
 that the sternness in his countenance then assumed an appearance of 
 cheerfulness, and that what was severe in it seemed undauntedness 
 against the enemy ; so that it appeared indicative of safety, and not of 
 austerity. But when they were out of danger, and were at liberty to 
 betake themselves to other chiefs, they deserted him in great numbers ; 
 for he had nothing attractive in him, but was always forbidding and re- 
 pulsive, so that the soldiers felt toward him as boys toward their master. 
 Hence it was that he never had any one who followed him out of friend- 
 ship and attachment to his person ; though such as followed him from 
 being appointed to the service by their country, or from being compelled 
 by want or other necessity, he found extremely submissive to him. And 
 when they began under his command to gain victories over the enemy, 
 there were many important circumstances that concurred to render his 
 troops excellent soldiers ; for their perfect confidence against the enemy 
 had its effect, and their dread of punishment from him rendered them 
 strictly observant of discipline. Such was his character as a com- 
 mander. But he was said to have been by no means willing to be 
 commanded by others. When he was put to death he was about fifty 
 years of age. 
 
 Prox'enus the Boeotian, from his earliest youth, felt a desire to become 
 a man capable of great undertakings ; and through this desire paid 
 Gorgias of Leon'tium for instruction. When he had passed some time 
 with him, and thought himself capable of command, and, if honored 
 with the friendship of the great, of making no inadequate return for 
 their favors, he proceeded to take a part in this enterprise with Cyrus ; 
 and expected to acquire in it a great name, extensive influence, and 
 abundant wealth. But, though he earnestly wished for these things, he 
 at the same time plainly showed that he was unwilling to acquire any of 
 them by injustice, but that he thought he ought to obtain them by just 
 and honorable means, or otherwise not at all. 
 
 He was, indeed, able to command orderly and well-disposed men, but' 
 incapable of inspiring ordinary soldiers with either respect or fear for 
 him ; he stood even more in awe of those under his command than they 
 of him, and evidently showed that he was more afraid of being disliked 
 by his soldiers than his soldiers of being disobedient to him. He tliought
 
 32 Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 A' 
 
 it sufficient both for being, and appearing, capable of command, to praise 
 him who did well, and withhold his praise from the offender. Such, 
 therefore, of his followers, as were of honorable and virtuous character, 
 were much attached to him ; but the unprincipled formed designs upon 
 him as a man easy to manage. He was about thirty years old when he 
 was put to death. 
 
 As for Menon the Thessalian, he ever manifested an excessive desire 
 for riches, being desirous of command that he might receive greater pay, 
 and desirous of honors that he might obtain greater perquisites ; and he 
 wished to be well with those in power, in order that when he did wrong 
 he might not suffer punishment. To accomplish what he desired, he 
 thought that the shortest road lay through perjury, falsehood, and deceit ; 
 while sincerity and truth he regarded as no better than folly. He evi- 
 dently had no affection for any man ; and as for those to whom he pro- 
 fessed to be a friend, he was unmistakably plotting mischief against 
 them. He never ridiculed an enemy, but always used to talk with his 
 associates as if ridiculing all of them. He formed no designs on the 
 property of his enemies (for he thought it difficult to take what belonged 
 to such as were on their guard against him), but looked upon himself as 
 the only person sensible how very easy it was to invade the unguarded 
 property of friends. 
 
 Those whom he saw given to perjury and injustice he feared as men 
 well armed ; but sought to practice on those who were pious and observ- 
 ant of truth as imbeciles. As another might take a pride in religion and 
 truth and justice, so Menon took a pride in being able to deceive, in de- 
 vising falsehoods, in sneering at friends ; and thought the man who was 
 guileless was to be regarded as deficient in knowledge of the world. He 
 believed that he must conciliate those in whose friendship he wished to 
 stand first, by calumniating such as already held the chief place in their 
 favor. The soldiers he tried to render obedient to him by being an ac- 
 complice in their dishonesty. He expected to be honored and courted, 
 by showing that he had the power and the will to inflict the greatest 
 injuries. When any one deserted him, he spoke of it as a favor on his 
 own part that, while he made use of his services, he did not work his 
 destruction. 
 
 As to such parts of his history as are little known, I might, if I were 
 to speak of them, say something untrue of him ; but those which every 
 one knows are these. While yet in the prime of youth he obtained, at 
 the hands of Ar'is-tip'pus, the command of his corps of mercenaries. 
 He was also, in his prime, most intimate with Ariaeus, though a Bar- 
 barian, as Ariseus delighted in beautiful youths. He himself, too, while
 
 (( 
 
 Xetiophon. t^t^ 
 
 yet a beardless youth, made a favorite of Thar'y-pas, who had arrived at 
 manhood. 
 
 When his fellow- officers were put to death because they had served 
 with Cyrus against the king, he, though he had done the same, was not 
 put to death with them ; but after the death of the other generals, he 
 died under a punishment inflicted by the king, not like Clearchus and 
 the other commanders, who were beheaded (which appears to be the 
 speediest kind of death) ; but after living a year in torture, like a male- 
 factor, he is said at length to have met his end. 
 
 A'gi-as the Arcadian, and Soc'ra-tes the Achiean, were also put to 
 death. These no one ever derided as wanting courage in battle, or 
 blamed for their conduct toward their friends. They were both about 
 five and thirty years of age. 
 
 We have now reached the end of the second "book " of the 
 
 Anabasis." 
 
 At the beginning of the third Xenophon, good literary art- 
 ist that he was, recapitulates in a sentence what had already 
 been narrated, and proceeds to draw a striking picture of the 
 present deplorable condition of the Greeks. Here is the 
 picttlre in his own words: 
 
 After the generals were made prisoners, and such of the captains and 
 soldiers as had accompanied them were put to death, the Greeks were in 
 great perplexity, reflecting that they were not far from the king's resi- 
 dence ; that there were around them, on all sides, many hostile nations 
 and cities ; that no one would any longer secure them opportunities of 
 purchasing provisions ; that they were distant from Greece not less than 
 ten thousand stadia ; that there was no one to guide them on the way ; 
 that impassable rivers would intercept them in the midst of their course ; 
 that the Barbarians who had gone up with Cyrus had deserted them ; 
 and that they were left utterly alone, having no cavalry to support them, 
 so that it was certain, even if they defeated their enemies, that they 
 would not kill a man of them, and that, if they were defeated, none of 
 themselves would be left alive. Reflecting, I say, on these circumstances, 
 and being disheartened at them, few of them tasted food for that even- 
 ing, few kindled fires, and many did not come to the place of arms dur- 
 ing that night, but lay down to rest where tliey severally happened to 
 be, unable to sleep for sorrow and longing for their country, their par- 
 ents, their wives and children, whom they never expected to see again. 
 In this state of mind they all went to their resting-places. 
 
 y
 
 34 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Xenophon himself is next sketched by his own hand into 
 his work, an interesting incident being retrospectively given 
 of his relation to Socrates as one taking a pupil's advice from 
 the sage respecting the propriety of his joining the expedition 
 of Cyrus. Xenophon, during that night of discomfort and 
 anxiety, dreamed a dream upon which he puts a twofold inter- 
 pretation of his own. The upshot of it was, that upon awak- 
 ing he arose and called together the captains whom Proxenus, 
 his special friend in the expedition, had commanded. He 
 makes these captains a sensible speech, and intimates that if 
 he should be chosen their leader, he, despite his youth, is not 
 the man to refuse to serve. All assented except a Boeotian. 
 Xenophon fell afoul of this unhappy dissentient, and got him 
 contumeliously expelled from his captaincy. The next step 
 was to call a general meeting of all the surviving officers of 
 the different bodies of the Greeks. The meeting thus called 
 took place about midnight. To the assembled officers Xeno- 
 phon made an address full of brave counsel, which the com- 
 placent historian is willing to admit won him much credit. 
 What he advised was, that new commanders be chosen to 
 take the place of those lost. This was done, Xenophon him- 
 self being put in the place of Proxenus, his friend. Day now 
 was just breaking, and the rank and file of the Greeks were 
 called together, and stoutly harangued by three men in suc- 
 cession. Xenophon was the last of the three, and made the 
 longest speech. At least, his speech as longest as reported, 
 which may be due to the historian's livelier interest and bet- 
 ter memory as to this particular speech. He lets his reader 
 understand that he dressed himself for the occasion as hand- 
 somely as he could. 
 
 From this time forward Xenophon bears a very active, and 
 always a highly creditable, part in the conduct of the retreat. 
 
 The Greeks had great variety of fortune on their way. 
 They encountered much hostility and much hardship. Let 
 the following, given in Xenophon's own words, serve for a
 
 XcnopJwn. 35 
 
 sample. It was winter in Armenia. The Greeks had quar- 
 tered themselves in certain clustering villages of the country : 
 
 Here they found all kinds of excellent provisions, cattle, corn, old 
 wines of great fragrance, dried grapes, and vegetables of all kinds. 
 Some of the soldiers, however, who had strolled away from the camp, 
 brought word that they had caught sight of an army, and that many 
 fires had been visible during the night. The generals thought it unsafe, 
 therefore, for the troops to quarter apaat, and resolved to bring the 
 whole army together again. They accordingly assembled, for it seemed 
 to be clearing up. But as they were passing the night here, there fell a 
 vast quantity of snow, so that it covered both the arms and the men as 
 they lay on the ground. The snow cramped the baggage-cattle, and tiicy 
 were very reluctant to rise ; for, as they lay, the snow that had fallen 
 upon them served to keep them warm, when it had not dropped off. 
 IJut when Xenophon was hardy enough to rise without his outer gar- 
 ment, and to cleave wood, some one else then rose, and taking the wood 
 from him, cleft it himself. Soon after the rest got up, and lighted tires 
 and anointed themselves ; for abundance of ointment was found there, 
 nade of hog's lard, sesamum, bitter almonds, and turpentine, which they 
 used instead of oil. Of the same materials also an odoriferous unguent 
 was found. After this it was resolved to quarter again throughout the 
 villages, under shelter ; and the soldiers went off with great shouting 
 and delight to the cottages and provisions. Those who had set fire to 
 the houses, when they quitted them before, paid the penalty of having 
 to encamp uncomfortably in the open air. 
 
 Day after day, in December, the half-clad Greeks floun- 
 dered on through snow six feet deep, and, part of the time, in 
 the teeth of a terrible north wind. A chance of rest came, 
 and not a day too soon. 
 
 Just at nightfall the vanguard came up so suddenly, and so 
 unannounced, to a village, that they surprised some women 
 and girls getting water at a spring outside the rampart. To 
 the women's question who they were, the interpreter replied 
 in Persian with prompt prevarication, that they were people 
 going from the king to the satrap. The satrap, the women 
 said, was about a parasang off. However, the party of the 
 Greeks went with the water-carriers to the head man of the
 
 36 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 village, and at this place Chirisophus, with as many troops 
 as could get through, encamped. The rest passed the night 
 amid the snow without food and without fire. We will let 
 Xenophon tell the story of that night, and of the relief that 
 followed, in his own graphic words : 
 
 Some of the enemy, too, who had collected themselves into a body, 
 pursued our rear, and seized any of the baggage-cattle that were unable 
 to proceed, fighting with one another for the possession of them. Such 
 of the soldiers, also, as had lost their sight from the effects of the snow, 
 or had had their toes mortified by the cold, were left behind. It was 
 found to be a relief to the eyes against the snow, if the soldiers kept 
 something black before them on the march, and to the feet, if they kept 
 constantly in motion, and allowed themselves no rest, and if they took off 
 their shoes in the night ; but as to such as slept with their shoes on, the 
 straps worked into their feet, and the soles were frozen about them ; for 
 when their old shoes had failed them, shoes of raw hides had been made 
 by the men themselves from the newly-skinned oxen. From such un- 
 avoidable sufferings, some of the soldiers were left behind, who, seeing 
 a piece of ground of a black appearance, from the snow having disap- 
 peared there, conjectured that it must have melted ; and it had in fact 
 melted in the spot from the effect of a fountain, which was sending up 
 vapor in a woody hollow close at hand. Turning aside thither, they sat 
 down and refused to proceed further. Xenophon, who was with the 
 rear-guard, as soon as he heard this, tried to prevail on them by every 
 art and means not to be left behind, telling them^ at the same time, that 
 the enemy were collected, and pursuing them in great numbers. At 
 last he grew angry ; and they told him to kill them, as they were quite 
 unable to go forward. He then thought it the best course to strike a 
 terror, if possible, into the enemy that were behind, lest they should fall 
 upon the exhausted soldiers. It was now dark, and tlie enemy were ad- 
 vancing with a great noise, quarreling about the booty that they had 
 taken, when such of the rear-guard as were not disabled, started up, and 
 rushed toward them, while the tired men, shouting as loud as they 
 could, clashed their spears against their shields. The enemy, struck 
 with alarm, threw themselves among the snow into the hollow, and no 
 one of them afterward made themselves heard from any quarter. 
 
 Xenophon, and those with him, telling the sick men that a party 
 should come to their relief next day, proceeded on their march, but 
 before they had gone four stadia, they found other soldiers resting by the
 
 XenopJion. 37 
 
 way in the snow, and covered up with it, no guard being stationed over 
 them. They roused them up, but they said that the head of the army 
 was not moving forward. Xenophon, going past them, and sending on 
 some of the ablest of the peltasts, ordered them to ascertain what it was 
 that hindered their progress. Tliey brought word that the whole army 
 was in that manner taking rest. Xenophon and his men, therefore, 
 stationing such a guard as they could, took up their quarters there with- 
 out fire or supper. When it was near day, he sent the youngest of his 
 men to the sick, telling them to roujse them and oblige them to proceed. 
 At this juncture Chirisophus sent some of his people from the village to 
 see how the rear were faring. The young men were rejoiced to see them, 
 and gave them the sick to conduct to the camp, while they themselves 
 went forward, and, before they had gone twenty stadia, found themselves 
 at the village in which Chirisophus was quartered. When they came 
 together, it was thought safe enough to lodge the troops up and down in 
 the villages. Chirisophus accordingly remained where he was, and the 
 other officers, appropriating by lot the several villages that they had in 
 sight, went to their respective quarters with their men. 
 
 Here Polyc'ra-tes, an Athenian captain, requested leave of absence, 
 and, taking with him the most active of his men, and hastening to the 
 village to which Xenophon had been allotted, surprised all the villagers, 
 and their head man, in their houses, together with seventeen colts that 
 were bred as a tribute for the king, and the head man's daughter, who 
 had been but nine days married ; her husband was gone out to hunt 
 hares, and was not found in any of the villages. Their houses were 
 underground, the entrance like the mouth of a well, but spacious below; 
 there were passages dug into them for the cattle, but the people de- 
 scended by ladders. In the houses were goats, sheep, cows, and fowls, 
 with their young ; all the cattle were kept on fodder within the walls. 
 There was also wheat, barley, leguminous vegetables and barley-wine, 
 in large bowls ; the grains of barley floated in it even with the brims of 
 the vessels, and reeds also lay in it, some larger and some smaller, with- 
 out joints ; and these, when any one was thirsty, he was to take in his 
 mouth and suck. The liquor was very strong, unless one mixed water 
 with it, and a very pleasant drink to those accustomed to it. 
 
 Xenophon made the chief man of his village sup with him, and told 
 him to be of good courage, assuring him that he should not be deprived 
 of his children, and that they would not go away without filling his 
 house with provisions in return for what they took, if he would but 
 prove himself the author of some service to the army till they should 
 reach another tribe. This he promised, and, to show his good-will,
 
 3^ Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 A ' 
 
 pointed out where some wine was buried. This night, therefore, the 
 soldiers rested in their several quarters in the midst of great abundance, 
 setting a guard over the chief, and keeping his children at the same time 
 under their eye. The following day Xenophon took the head man and 
 went with him to Chirisophus, and wherever he passed by a village, he 
 turned aside to visit those who were quartered in it, and found them in 
 all parts feasting and enjoying themselves ; nor would they anywhere let 
 them go till they had set refreshments before them ; and they placed 
 everywhere upon the same table lamb, kid, pork, veal, and fowl, with 
 plenty of bread both of wheat and barley. Whenever any person, to 
 pay a compliment, wished to drink to another, he took him to the large 
 bowl, where he had to stoop down and drink, sucking like an ox. The 
 chief they allowed to take whatever he pleased, but he accepted nothing 
 from them ; where he found any of his relatives, however, he took them 
 with him. 
 
 When they came to Chirisophus, they found his men also feasting in 
 their quarters, crowned with wreaths made of hay, and Armenian boys, 
 in their barbarian dresses, waiting upon them, to whom they made signs 
 what they were to do as if they had been deaf and dumb. When 
 Chirisophus and Xenophon had saluted one another, they both asked 
 the chief man, through the interpreter, who spoke the Persian language, 
 what country it was. He replied that it was Armenia. They then 
 asked him for whom the horses were bred ; and he said that they were a 
 tribute for the king, and added that the neighboring country was that 
 of Chal'y-bes, and told them in what direction the road lay. Xenophon 
 then went away, conducting the chief back to his family, giving him the 
 horse that he had taken, which was rather old, to fatten and offer in 
 sacrifice (for he had heard that it had been consecrated to the sun), 
 being afraid, indeed, that it might die, as it had been injured by the 
 journey. He then took some of the young horses, and gave one of them 
 to each of the other generals and captains. The horses in this country 
 were smaller than those of Persia, but far more spirited. The chief in- 
 structed the men to tie little bags round the feet of the horses, and other 
 cattle, when they drove them through the snow, for without such bags 
 they sunk up to their bellies. 
 
 The story of what occurred when at last the Greeks came 
 in sight of the sea and felt that they were almost home, is told 
 with such exquisite simplicity, half of nature, half of art, by 
 Xenophon, that it must be given in his own language ;
 
 Xenophon. 39 
 
 On the fifth day they came to the mountain ; and the name of it was 
 The'ches. When the men who were in the front had mounted the height 
 and looked down upon the sea, a great shout proceeded from them; and 
 Xenophon and the rear-guard, on hearing it, thought that some new ene- 
 mies were assailing the front ; for in the rear, too, the people from the 
 country that they had burned were following them, and the rear-guard, 
 by placing an ambuscade, had killed some and taken others prisoners, 
 and had captured about twenty shields made of raw ox-hides with the 
 hair on. But as the noise still increased, and drew nearer, and those 
 who came up from time to time kept running at full speed to join those 
 who were continually shouting, the cries becoming louder as the men be- 
 came more numerous, it appeared to Xenophon that it must be some- 
 thing of very great moment. Mounting his horse, therefore, and taking 
 with him Lyc'ius and the cavalry, he hastened forward to give aid, when 
 presently they heard the soldiers shouting, " The sea, the sea ! " and 
 cheering one another. They then all began to run, the rear-guard as 
 well as the rest, and the baggage-cattle and horses were put to their 
 speed ; and when they had all arrived at the top, the men embraced one 
 another, and their generals and captains, with tears in their eyes. Sud- 
 denly, whoever it was that suggested it, the soldiers brought stones, and 
 raised a large mound, on which they laid a number of raw ox-hides, staves, 
 and shields taken from the enemy. The shields the guide himself hacked 
 in pieces, and exhorted the rest to do the same. Soon after, the Greeks 
 sent away the guide, giving him presents from the common stock, a horse, 
 a silver cup, a Persian robe, and ten darics ; but he showed most desire 
 for the rings on their fingers, and obtained many of them from the sol- 
 diers. 
 
 Two days more bring the Greeks to the sea at Trebizond. 
 They here perform the vows of sacrifice made in their ex- 
 tremity. They also extemporize some games which Xeno- 
 phon describes in the true Greek spirit: 
 
 When the sacrifice was ended, they gave the hides to Dracon'tius, and 
 desired him to conduct them to the place where he had made the course. 
 Dracontius, pointing to the place where they were standing, said, " This 
 hill is an excellent place for running, in whatever direction the men may 
 wish." "But how will they be able," said they, "to wrestle on ground 
 so rough and bushy ? " " lie that falls," said he, " will suffer the more." 
 Boys, most of them from among the prisoners, contendetl in the short 
 course, and in tlie long course above sixty Cretans ran ; while others
 
 40 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 were matched in wrestling, boxing, and the pancratium. It was a fine 
 sight ; for many entered the lists, and as their friends were spectators, 
 there was great emulation. Horses also ran ; and they had to gallop 
 down the steep, and, turning round in the sea, to come up again to the 
 altar. In the descent many rolled down ; but in the ascent, against the 
 exceedingly steep ground, the horses could scarcely get up at a walking 
 pace. There was consequently great shouting and laughter and cheer- 
 ing from the people. 
 
 There are three books, out of the seven which compose the 
 "Anabasis," remaining untouched. But the main task of the 
 retreat has been successfully accomplished; and we may here 
 dismiss the delightfully-told story, with the above-described 
 " great shouting and laughter and cheering " for our own ap- 
 plause of Xenophon, the general and the author. 
 
 We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of offering still a 
 taste of Xenophon such as he appears in one of the best of 
 his books not the " Anabasis," his Meniorabil'ia of Socrates. 
 This work was designed by Xenophon to vindicate his mas- 
 ter's memory from the odium of guilt on those charges under 
 which he had suffered the penalty of death — that is, the 
 charges of impiety and of corrupting influence exerted on the 
 Athenian youth. The plan of the work is, largely, to relate 
 what Socrates did actually teach. 
 
 The Memorabilia of Xenophon is such a treasury of in- 
 teresting matter that it is hard, amid the embarrassment of 
 riches that on every hand dazzles and perplexes the mind, to 
 choose a single brief specimen extract. On the whole, per- 
 haps the dialogue which Xenophon reports as having taken 
 place between Socrates and his son, on the subject of filial 
 obligation toward the mother, will serve the various purposes 
 of the present undertaking, as well as any thing we could 
 select. 
 
 The fame of Socrates has associated the name of Xanthip'pe 
 with his own, in a very unenviable renown, as perhaps the 
 most celebrated scold in the world. We cannot but suspect
 
 Xenophon. 41 
 
 that poor dear Xanthippe suffers unjustly in this regard. She 
 had a shiftless husband; so Socrates must have seemed to her, 
 notable housewife as we hope she was, he spending most of 
 his time in lounging about the streets of Athens, with a train 
 of pupils trooping after him, and bringing home at night noth- 
 ing to stop the mouths of his hungry children. For our part, 
 we do not wonder if Xanthippe deemed it her bounden duty 
 to rate Socrates roundly for his thriftless ways. She was, be- 
 yond doubt, sorely put to it to keep the pot boiling. This, to 
 be sure, is constructed history; for all we know is, that Soc- 
 rates neglected his trade, which was that of a statuary, and 
 devoted himself to teaching without pay. And we know, too, 
 that he was poor. Who can question that Xanthippe felt 
 herself responsible for feeding the philosopher who was feed- 
 ing the world .-* 
 
 However all this may be, the following conversation of Soc- 
 rates with his son shows plainly enough that, in theory at 
 least, the supposably ill-providing husband of Xanthippe was 
 sound as to the duty of the child to the mother. Only let us 
 be careful how we attribute magnanimity to Socrates for be- 
 ing thus loyal to a termagant wife. Wait we until we hear 
 Xanthippe's side of the case. 
 
 The chief characteristic trait of the method of Socrates in 
 teaching was his art in asking questions. This is well exem- 
 plified in the present conversation: 
 
 Having learned one day that I.am'pro-cles, the eldest of his sons, had 
 exhibited anger against his mother: "Tell me, my son," said he, "do 
 you know tliat certain persons are called ungrateful?" "Certainly," 
 replied the youth. " And do you understand how it is they act that men 
 give them this appellation?" "I do," said Lamprocles, "for it is those 
 that have received a kindness, and that do not make a return when they 
 are able to make one, whom they call ungrateful." " Tliey then appear 
 , to you to class the ungrateful with tlie unjust?" " I tliink so." "And 
 have you ever considered whether, as it is thought unjust to make slaves 
 of our friends, but just to make slaves of our enemies, so it is unjust to 
 be ungrateful toward our friends, but just to be so toward our enemies ? "
 
 42 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 "I certainly have," answered Lamprocles, "and from whomsoever a 
 man receives a favor, whether friend or enemy, and does not endeavor to 
 make a return for it, he is, in my opinion, unjust." 
 
 "If such, then, be the case," pursued Socrates, "ingratitude must be 
 manifest injustice." Lamprocles expressed his assent. "The greater 
 benefits, therefore, a person has received, and makes no return, the more 
 unjust he must be." He assented to this position also. " Whom, then," 
 asked Socrates, " can we find receiving greater benefits from any persons 
 than children receive from their parents ? Children, whom their parents 
 have brought from non-existence into existence, to view so many beauti- 
 ful objects, and to share in so many blessings, as the gods grant to men ; 
 blessings which appear to us so inestimable that we shrink in the high- 
 est degree from relinquishing them ; and governments have made death 
 the penalty for the most heinous crimes in the supposition that they could 
 not suppress injustice by the terror of any greater evil. The man main- 
 tains his wife and provides for his children whatever he thinks will con- 
 duce to their support, in as great abundance as he can ; while the woman 
 receives and bears the burden ; oppressing and endangering her life, and 
 imparting a portion of the nutriment with which she herself is supported ; 
 and at length, after bearing it the full time and bringing it forth with 
 great pain, she suckles and cherishes it, though she has received no 
 previous benefit from it ; nor does the infant know by whom it is tended, 
 nor is it able to signify what it wants, but she, conjecturing what will 
 nourish and please it, tries to satisfy his calls, and feeds it for a long 
 time, both night and day, submitting to the trouble, and not knowing 
 what return she will receive for it. Nor does it satisfy the parents merely 
 to feed their offspring, but as soon as the children appear capable of 
 learning any thing, they teacht hem whatever they know that may be of 
 use for their conduct in life ; and whatever they consider another more 
 capable of communicating than themselves, they send their sons to him 
 at their own expense, and take care to adopt every course that their chil- 
 dren may be as much improved as possible." 
 
 Upon this the young man said, " But even if she has done all this, and 
 many times more than this, no one, assuredly, could endure her ill-humor." 
 "And which do you think," asked Socrates, " more difficult to be en- 
 dured, the ill-humor of a wild beast or that of a mother?" " I think," 
 replied Lamprocles, " that of a mother, at least of such a mother as mine 
 is." " Has she ever, then, inflicted any hurt upon you by biting or kick- 
 ing you, as many have often suffered from wild beasts?" " No; but, by 
 Jupiter, she says such things as no one would endure to hear, for the 
 value of all that he possesses." " And do you reflect," returned Socrates,
 
 Xenophon. 43 
 
 " how much grievous trouble you have given her by your peevishness by 
 voice and by action, in the day and in the night, and how much anxiety 
 you have caused her when you were ill?" ''But I have never said or 
 done any thing to her," replied Lamprocles, "at which she could feel 
 ashamed." "Do you think it, then," inquired Socrates, " a more diffi- 
 cult thing for you to listen to what she says than for actors to listen when 
 they utter the bitterest reproaches against one another in tragedies ? " 
 " But actors, I imagine, endure such reproaches easily, because they do 
 not think that, of the speakers, the one who utters reproaches utters them 
 with intent to do harm, or that the one who utters threats, utters them 
 with any evil purpose." " Yet you are displeased at your mother, although 
 you well know that whatever she says, she not only says nothing with in- 
 tent to do you harm, but that she wishes you more good than any other 
 human being. Or do you suppose that your mother meditates evil to- 
 ward you ?" " No, indeed," said Lamprocles, " that I do not imagine." 
 " Do you then say that this mother," rejoined Socrates, " who is so be- 
 nevolent to you, who, when you are ill takes care of you to the utmost 
 of her power, that you may recover your health, and that you may want 
 nothing that is necessary for you, and who, besides, entreats the gods for 
 many blessings on your head, and pays vows for you, is a harsh mother ? 
 For my part, I think that if you cannot endure such a mother, you can- 
 not endure any thing that is good. But tell me," continued he, " whether 
 you think that you ought to pay respect to any other human being, or 
 whether you are resolved to try to please nobody, and to follow or obey 
 neither a general nor any other commander?" "No, indeed," replied 
 Lamprocles, " I have formed no such resolutions." " Are you then will- 
 ing," inquired Socrates, " to cultivate the good-will of your neighbor, 
 that he may kindle a fire for you when you want it, or aid you in obtain- 
 ing some good, or if you happen to meet with any misfortune, may assist 
 you with willing and ready help? " " I am," replied he. " Or would it 
 make no difference," rejoined Socrates, " whether a fellow-traveler, or 
 fellow-voyager, or any other person that you met with, should be your 
 friend or enemy ? Or do you think that you ought to cultivate their 
 good-will?" "I think that I ought," replied Lamprocles. " You are 
 then prepared," returned Socrates, " to pay attention to such persons ; 
 and do you think that you ought to pay no respect to your mother, who 
 loves you more than any one else ? Do you not know that the state takes 
 no account of any other species of ingratitude, nor allows any action at 
 law for it, overlooking such as receive a favor and make no return for it, 
 but that if a person does not pay due regard to his parents, it imposes a 
 punishment on him, rejects his services, and does not allow him to hold
 
 44 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 the archonship, considering that such a person cannot piously perform 
 the sacrifices offered for the country, or discharge any other duty with 
 propriety and justice. Indeed, if any one does not keep up the sepul- 
 chers of his dead parents, the state inquires into it in the examination of 
 candidates for office. You, therefore, my son, if you are wise, will en- 
 treat the gods to pardon you if you have been wanting in respect toward 
 your mother, lest, regarding you as an ungrateful person, they should be 
 disinclined to do you good ; and you will have regard, also, to the opin- 
 ion of men, lest, observing you to be neglectful of your parents, they 
 should all condemn you, and you should then be found destitute of 
 friends ; for if men surmise that you are ungrateful toward your parents, 
 no one will believe that if he does you a kindness he will meet with 
 gratitude in return." 
 
 Our readers will be interested in comparing and contrast- 
 ing Xenophon, as reporter of Socrates, with Plato, hereafter 
 to be presented acting in the same ostensible capacity. 
 
 III. 
 
 HOMER. ' 
 
 I. — THE ILIAD. II. — THE ODYSSEY. 
 
 Homer's Iliad is, as every body knows, one of the master- 
 pieces of human genius. It is, indeed, beyond dispute the 
 most famous among poems. The literature that has accumu- 
 lated in all languages about it makes its pre-eminence per- 
 manent and secure. It is hardly possible to imagine any 
 mutations in human affairs, with the uncalculated changes of 
 that different order, short of the new heavens and the new 
 earth, foreshadowed in revelation, that can dislodge the Iliad 
 of Homer from its position as the leading poem of the 
 world. 
 
 This is here said without any implication intended as to 
 the right of the Iliad to occupy the position. In literature,
 
 Homer. 45 
 
 as in other spheres, often it is might that makes right. Pos- 
 session is nine points in the law. And possession, in Homer's 
 case, establishes his title to his fame. The title will never 
 be successfully disputed. Any challenge of the fame serves 
 but to confirm the fame. For the fame consists largely in 
 the literature of discussion, of criticism, of translation, of an- 
 notation, of allusion, and even of sheer skepticism, that has 
 been built up, and still continues to be built up, scarce less 
 actively now than ever, about this remarkable name. The 
 fact that Greek is virtually a dead language — virtually, we 
 say, for the Greek language nominally lives still, in the 
 mouths of the people of Greece, and virtually dead, we call 
 it, nevertheless, since as yet, though there are omens which 
 we have already alluded to, of imminent change, no great 
 productions of the human mind get themselves uttered in it 
 — the very fact that the speech of Homer is a dead speech, 
 helps make Homer's fame immortal, and immortally first 
 among poems in presumptive rank of genius. The world 
 can never grow any farther away from the Iliad than it is 
 to-day. Our readers will be glad to come into some closer 
 acquaintance wdth this great monument of the human mind. 
 Every body will have heard the noise of the wrangle that 
 has been made, especially of late, concerning the authorship 
 of the Iliad, and concerning the reality of the existence of 
 the man whom we know by the name of Homer. Whether, in 
 fact, the Iliad is properly to be regarded as one poem, whether 
 it may not better be considered a collection of different pieces, 
 strung together in a kind of mechanical continuity, not con- 
 stituting any true organic unity, whether such a personage as 
 Homer ever actually lived, and whether, if he did, he ever 
 composed the Iliad — these are some of the startling, the stag- 
 gering questions that have been not only seriously, but almost 
 acrimoniously, debated by recent scholars. We shall not at 
 this stage trouble our readers with any thing beyond the 
 present allusion to this redoubtable controversy. The one
 
 4^ Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 fact that stands, and stands foursquare to all the winds that 
 blow, is the Iliad itself Here is the Iliad, whoever wrote it, 
 and whatever it is. Let us go at once about our task of com- 
 prehending it as well as we can. 
 
 The Iliad is so entitled from the word Ilium, which is the 
 alternative name of Troy. The title is not a perfectly happy 
 one, but no matter for that. It is the title. Nobody will 
 ever succeed in substituting another. We could not call the 
 poem the Troad, if we wanted to, for that word is already 
 appropriated for the country or region of Asia Minor in 
 which Ilium, or Troy, was situated. Since the poet's own 
 opening lines give for the subject of the poem the wrath of 
 Achilles [A-kil'les], we might have as our title. The Achil- 
 lead, or, likening the word in form to the name of Virgil's 
 epic, The ^ne'id. The Achilleid. i 
 
 The siege of Troy is sometimes said to be the subject of 
 the Iliad. This, however, is not exactly the case. Not the 
 siege — the siege occupied ten years — but an episode of the 
 siege, namely, the wrath, or fit of sulks, as one might very 
 suitably call it, of Achilles, is the real subject. The time 
 covered by the poem is short, less than two months. The 
 action belongs to the last year of the siege; but the end of 
 the siege, the downfall of Troy, does not come within the 
 plan of the poem. 
 
 What occasioned the siege was the rape of Helen. Helen 
 was the lovely wife and queen of Men-e-la'us, a Grecian king. 
 Young prince Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy, was visiting 
 Menelaus, and he abused his privilege of guestship by seduc- 
 ing his host's wife to elope with him to Troy. Adding a 
 peculiar baseness to his perfidy, Paris bore off considerable 
 treasure along with the lady. All Greece made common 
 cause with outraged Menelaus. Having first spent years in 
 preparation for war, and then, through embassy, made 
 solemn requisition in vain for the return of both the beauty 
 and the booty, the confederate kings mustered their forces
 
 Homer. 47 
 
 and sailed across to the plain of Troy to besiege the city. 
 Ten years almost, the weary siege had prolonged itself, and 
 now, on an occasion well suited to bring out the fiercely ani- 
 mal appetites which animated the leading combatants, Achil- 
 les gets angry and sulks in his tent, his fellow chieftains 
 meantime trying their fortune in fight without him. The 
 occasion is the arbitrary interference of Agamemnon, the 
 commander-in-chief of the confederate Greeks, to deprive 
 Achilles of a female captive, Bri-se'is, and usurp her to 
 himself. It being conceded that either marauder had a 
 riglit to the lady, Achilles seems to have been indignant with 
 reason. 
 
 Such is the occasion of the famous wrath of Achilles. And 
 the wrath of Achilles is the subject of the most renowned of 
 poems. One cannot help feeling a little revolt at the un- 
 worthiness of the theme. The sentiment of such a revolt 
 Milton does not hesitate, in his large, free, lordly way, to ex- 
 press, in a passage of Paradise Lost. He is letting slip a bit 
 of his autobiography — with that lofty egotism of his, whose 
 very audacity vindicates it, to the admiring and sympathetic 
 reader. Milton admits his reader to his confidence about 
 his own meditation and choice of a subject for the exercise 
 of his poetical genius. Of the theme finally chosen by him, 
 
 he says: 
 
 Sad task ! yet argument 
 Not less but more heroic than the wrath 
 Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued 
 Til rice fugitive about Troy wall. 
 
 The whole passage would interest our readers. It is to be 
 found in the opening of the ninth book. 
 
 Our preamble has now been sufficient, and we begin at 
 once with the poem itself — premising, however, yet this one 
 thing more, that the final issue of the Trojan affair, in the 
 poem and beyond it, is as follows: The Greeks suffer cruelly 
 under Achilles's withdrawal from the fight, until in sheer
 
 48 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 patriotic shame, Pa-tro'clus, the close friend of Achilles, is, 
 with that moody warrior's approval, self-incited to go into 
 battle wearing the Achillean armor. Patroclus does wonders, 
 but is slain. Achilles, stung with resentment and remorse, 
 now returns to the field, encounters Hector, the redoubtable 
 Trojan champion, slays him, and is at length himself slain 
 with an arrow from the bow of Paris hitting him in the heel, 
 where alone he was vulnerable. Troy annihilated, the Greeks 
 make their way, with many chances, back toward Greece, some 
 of them, however, perishing in the voyage. The adventures 
 of one of their chieftains, Ulysses^or Odysseus, to keep the 
 Greek, non-Latinized name — form the subject of the Odyssey. 
 As has been intimated, the Iliad itself closes before the fall 
 of Troy, with the death and funeral rites of Hector. 
 
 The opening lines of the poem have been much admired 
 for the simplicity, the beauty, and the melody with which 
 they set forth the poet's theme. Here they are, in a transla- 
 tion, which, though metrical, is strictly, very strictly, faithful 
 to the Greek: 
 
 The anger, goddess, sing of Peleus' son 
 Achilles, — anger dire, that on the Greeks 
 Brought myriad woes, and many mighty souls 
 Too soon of heroes unto Hades sent. 
 And gave themselves a ravin to the dogs 
 And to all birds of prey — howbeit the will 
 Of Zeus fulfilled itself — even from the time 
 That first they two, Atrides, king of men, 
 And high Achilles, wrangling fell apart. 
 
 "A-tri'des " (meaning son of Atreus) is here an Homeric 
 alternative name for Agamemnon. So Achilles sometimes 
 appears as Pe-li'des (son of Peleus). 
 
 The savage, and savagely low, moral standard of the poem 
 is fitly indicated in the opening verses of it. With what force 
 conventional influences work to conform one's tastes and 
 one's opinions, can hardly in any other way be more vividly
 
 Homer, 49 
 
 conceived than through thinking of the gentle, amiable, 
 Christian poet Cowper, author of the well-known lines — 
 
 I would not enter on my list of friends. 
 
 Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, 
 
 Yet wanting sensibility, the man 
 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm — 
 
 than through thinking, we say, of this tender-hearted, culti- 
 vated Christian spending months and years of his blameless, 
 melancholy life in the work of translating Homer. It is but 
 fair to Cowper's memory that note be taken here of the re- 
 coil, both moral and aesthetic, that he felt at times from the 
 work in which, as an escape from his preying sadness, he 
 found himself, almost without his own will, involved. The 
 following is an extract from one of his letters written while 
 the task was in progress : 
 
 "You wish to hear from me at any interval of epic frenzy. 
 An interval presents itself, but whether calm or not is per- 
 haps doubtful. Is it possible for a man to be calm who for 
 three weeks past has been perpetually occupied in slaughter ; 
 letting out one man's bowels, smiling another through the 
 gullet, transfixing the liver of another, and lodging an arrow 
 in a fourth ? Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and you 
 will find such amusing incidents as these the subject of it, the 
 sole subject. In order to interest myself in it, and to catch 
 the spirit of it, I had need discard all humanity. It is a woe- 
 ful work ; and were the best poet in the world to give us at 
 this day such a list of killed and wounded, he would not es- 
 cape universal censure, to the praise of a more enlightened 
 age be it spoken. I have waded through much blood, and 
 through much more I must wade before I shall have finished. 
 I determine, in the meantime, to account it all very sublime, 
 and for two reasons : first, because all the learned think so ; 
 and, secondly, because I am to translate it. But were I an 
 indifferent by-stander, perhaps I should venture to wish that
 
 50 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Homer had applied his wonderful powers to a less disgusting 
 subject ; he has in the Odyssey, and I long to get at it." 
 
 The injustice against Achilles which excited him to his 
 memorable anger was committed by Agamemnon under the 
 sting of being compelled himself to give up a female capiive 
 on the claim of her father, priest of Apollo. The overbear- 
 ing commander-in-chief had been brought to the point of 
 surrendering the priest's daughter, through the visiting of a 
 fearful plague upon the army, declared by Calchas, the 
 soothsayer, to be the result of the outrage done to a priest of 
 Apollo. The descent of the avenging divinity Apollo on be- 
 half of his priest to inflict the pestilence upon the Greeks, is 
 described in lines which are among the most famous in the 
 Iliad. We give them in the translation of Bryant (whose 
 version we shall chiefly use in proceeding with this account 
 
 of the Iliad) : 
 
 Down he came, 
 
 Down from the summit of the Olympian mount, 
 
 Wrathful in heart ; his shoulders bore the bow 
 
 And hollow quiver ; there the arrows rang 
 
 Upon the shoulders of the angry god, 
 
 As on he moved. He came, as comes the night. 
 
 And, seated from the ships aloof, sent forth 
 
 An arrow ; terrible was heard the clang 
 
 Of that resplendent bow. 
 
 Cowper renders the passage thus: 
 
 The God 
 Down from Olympus with his radiant bow 
 And his full quiver o'er his shoulder slung 
 Marched in his anger ; shaken as he moved 
 His rattling arrows told of his approach. 
 Gloomy he came as night ; sat from the ships 
 Apart, and sent an arrow. Clang'd the cord 
 Dread-sounding, bounding on the silver bow. 
 
 Cowper has a foot-note apologizing for the last line, the 
 singularity of which, he says, is the result of his attempt '"to
 
 Homer. 5 1 
 
 produce an English line, if possible, somewhat resembling in 
 its effect the famous original one." Those of our readers 
 who pronounce Greek may like to judge for themselves of 
 Cowper's success. Here, then, is the Greek line: 
 
 Aetw) df Kh.ayyfj yher' apyvpioio (iiolo. 
 
 The two chieftains, Agamemnon and Achilles, engage in a 
 war of words, far more full of rancor than of dignity. Achilles 
 finally swears a great oath, that, in resentment of Agamem- 
 non's wrong to him, he, for his part, will fight no more in a 
 quarrel that never was his own. Our readers are entitled to 
 see Homer in his lower moods, as well as in his higher, and 
 we accordingly let the two great representative Greek chief- 
 tains have it out between them in these pages. 
 
 Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of Boston, who publish 
 Bryant's Homer, have kindly consented to let us make the 
 free use we here do of that important copyright publication. 
 However, for the double purpose of not trenching too far 
 upon their liber'ality, and of affording our readers a full appe- 
 tizing taste of that variety whereof Cowper speaks in a line 
 of his so much more crowded with truth than with poetry. 
 
 Variety's the very spice of life, 
 
 we decide to have Achilles and Agamemnon rate each other 
 in Pope's translation instead of in Bryant's. Pope is, per- 
 haps, a more gifted, as well as a more practiced, termagant in 
 verse than is Bryant. Our readers will lose nothing of spirit, 
 whatever they may lose of literal adherence to Homer, by 
 tliis temporary resort to Pope in place of Bryant. The con- 
 trast of handling will be felt to be very great. 
 
 Agamemnon first vents his humor on Calchas for declaring 
 that he, Agamemnon, must give up Chry-se'is, whom, (incited, 
 let us hope, to over-statement, by the vexation of the mo- 
 ment), the mighty monarch openly acknowledges he values 
 more than his lawful wife, and llicn ikinands some indemnity 
 for the loss of his prize. Upon this Achilles speaks :
 
 52 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 " Insatiate king ! " (Achilles thus replies) 
 
 " Fond of the pow'r, but fonder of -the prize ! 
 
 Wouldst thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield, 
 
 The due reward of many a well-fought field ? 
 
 The spoils of cities razed, and warriors slain, 
 
 We share with justice, as with toil we gain : 
 
 But to resume whate'er thy avarice craves, 
 
 (That trick of tyrants,) may be borne by slaves — 
 
 Yet if our chief for plunder only fight, 
 
 The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite. 
 
 Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conqu'ring povv'rs 
 
 Shall humble to the dust her lofty tow'rs." 
 
 Then thus the king : " Shall I my prize resign 
 With tame content, and thou possess'd of thine ? 
 Great as thou art, and like a god in fight. 
 Think not to rob me of a soldier's right. 
 At thy demand shall I restore the maid ? 
 First let the just equivalent be paid, 
 Such as a king might ask ; and let it be 
 A treasure worthy her, and worthy me. 
 Or grant me this, or with a monarch's claim 
 « This hand shall seize some other captive dame. 
 
 The mighty Ajax shall his prize resign, 
 Ulysses' spoils, or e'en thy own, be mine ; 
 The man who suffers, loudly may complain ; 
 And rage he may, but he shall rage in vain. 
 But this when time requires. It now remains 
 We launch a bark to plow the watery plains, 
 And waft the sacrifice to Chiysa's shores. 
 With chosen pilots, and with lab'ring oars. 
 Soon shall the fair the sable ship ascend. 
 And some deputed prince the charge attend. 
 This Greta's king, or Ajax shall fulfill. 
 Or wise Ulysses see performed our will ; 
 Or, if our royal pleasure shall ordain, 
 Achilles' self conduct her o'er the main ; 
 Let fierce Achilles, dreadful in his rage, 
 The god propitiate, and the pest assuage." 
 
 At this, Pelides, frowning stern, replied: 
 " O tyrant, arm'd with insolence and pride ! 
 Inglorious slave to interest, ever joined 
 With fraud unworthy of a royal mind !
 
 Homer. c 
 
 Whal geii'rous Greek, obedient to thy word, 
 
 Shall form an ambush, or shall lift the sword ? 
 
 What cause have I to war at thy decree ? 
 
 The distant Trojans never injured me : 
 
 To Phthia's realms no hostile troops they led, 
 
 Safe in her vales my warlike coursers fed ; 
 
 Far hence removed, the hoarse-resounding main, 
 
 And walls of rock, secure my native reign, 
 
 Whose fruitful soil luxuriant harvests grace, 
 
 Rich in her fruits, and in her martial race. 
 
 Hither we sail'd, a voluntary throng, 
 
 T' avenge a private, not a public wrong: 
 
 What else to Troy th' assembled nations draws, 
 
 But thine, ungrateful, and thy brother's cause ? 
 
 Is this the pay our blood and toils deserve, 
 
 Disgraced and injured by the man we serve ? 
 
 And dar'st thou threat to snatch my prize away. 
 
 Due to the deeds of many a dreadful day? 
 
 A prize as small, O tyrant ! matched with thine. 
 
 As thy own actions if compared to mine. 
 
 Thine in each conquest is the wealthy prey. 
 
 Though mine the sweat and danger of the day. 
 
 Some trivial present to my ships I bear. 
 
 Or barren praises pay the wounds of war. 
 
 But know, proud monarch, I'm thy slave no more ; 
 
 My fleet shall waft me to Thessalia's shore. 
 
 Left by Achilles on the Trojan plain, 
 
 Wliat spoils, what conquests, shall Atrides gain?" 
 
 To this the king : " Fly, mighty warrior, fly ; 
 Thy aid we need not, and thy threats defy. 
 There want not chiefs in such a cause to fight, 
 And Jove himself shall guard a monarch's right. 
 Of all the kings (the gods* distinguished care) 
 To pow'r superior none such hatred bear : 
 Strife and debate thy restless soul employ. 
 And wars and horrors are thy savage joy. 
 If thou hast strength, 'twas Heav'n that strength bestow'd. 
 For know, vain man ! tliy valor is from God. 
 Haste, launch thy vessels, fly with speed away ; 
 Rule thy own realms with arbitrary sway :
 
 54 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 I heed thee not, but prize at equal rate, 
 
 Thy short-lived friendship, and thy groundless hate. 
 
 Go, threat thy earth-born Myrmidons ; — • 
 
 (Pope's use of the word " Myrmidons " in this line has given 
 rise to a sense of the term in English which it never bore in 
 Greek. " Myrmidons" was no epithet of reproach. It was, 
 in fact, simply the proper name of the people over whom 
 Achilles ruled as king. " Earth-born " is Pope's adjective 
 here, not Homer's. It probably makes on modern readers 
 the impression of opprobrium implied, somewhat as if it were, 
 "base-born; " whereas, to the ancient Greek, it conveyed the 
 compliment of a lineage imputed that went back to immemo- 
 rial antiquity. Pope has, in effect, to the English mind mis- 
 understanding him, curiously perverted his original. But 
 enough of parenthesis.) 
 
 Go threat thy earth-born Myrmidons ; but liere 
 
 'Tis mine to threaten, prince, and thine to fear. 
 
 Know, if the god the beauteous dame demand, 
 
 My bark shall waft her -to her native land; 
 
 But then prepare, imperious prince ! prepare. 
 
 Fierce as tliou art, to yield thy captive fair ; 
 
 E'en in thy tent I'll seize the blooming prize, 
 
 Tiiy loved Briseis, with the radiant eyes. 
 
 Hence shalt thou prove ray might, and curse the hour, 
 
 Thou stood'st a rival of imperial pow'r ; 
 
 And hence to all our host it shall be known, 
 
 That kings are subject to the gods alone." 
 
 Achilles heard, with grief and rage opprest. 
 His heart swell'd high and labor'd in liis breast. 
 Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled. 
 Now fired by wrath, and now by reason cool'd : 
 That prompts his hand to draw the deadly sword. 
 Force through the Greeks, and pierce their haughty lord ; 
 This whispers soft, his vengeance to control, 
 And calm the rising tempest of his soul. 
 Just as in anguish of suspense he stay'd, 
 While half unsheath'd appear'd the glittering blade,
 
 Homer. 55 
 
 Minerva swift descended from above, 
 Sent by the sister and the wife of Jove, 
 (For both the princes claim'd her equal care ;) 
 Behind she stood, and by the golden hair 
 Achilles seized ; — 
 
 The to US somewhat singular way that Pallas took of calling 
 Achilles's attention, namely, plucking him from behind by a 
 lock of his hair, may serve to explain what very likely has 
 puzzled some of our readers in the first, and, perhaps, the 
 most beautiful, of Mrs. Browning's " Sonnets from the Portu- 
 guese," a series, so called by her in modest concealment of 
 their really autobiographical character. The representation, 
 
 A mystic Shape did move 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, 
 
 seems, unless you understand the classic allusion implied, a 
 mar to the otherwise perfect finish of the sonnet. And Mrs. 
 Browning, noble genius as she is, does not gratify us with per- 
 fection of outward form in her verse so often that we can 
 afford to lose a single instance for want of knowing fully what 
 she means. A somewhat simUar classicism is Milton's in his 
 I.ycidas, 
 
 Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears. 
 
 We resume the text of Homer according to Pope: 
 
 to him alone confest ; 
 A sable cloud conceal'd her from the rest. 
 He sees, and sudden to the goddess cries, 
 (Known by the flames that sparkle from her eyes ;) 
 
 " Descends Minerva, in her guardian care, 
 A heav'nly witness of the wrongs I bear 
 From Atreus' son? Tlien let those eyes that view 
 The daring crime, behold the vengeance too." 
 
 " Forbear !" (the progeny of Jove replies.) 
 " To calm tliy fury I forsake the skies: 
 Let great Achilles, to the gods resign'd, 
 To reason yield the empire o'er his mind.
 
 56 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 By awful Juno this command is giv'n; 
 
 The king and you are both the care of heaven. 
 
 The force of keen reproaches let him feel, 
 
 But shealh, obedient, thy revenging steel, 
 
 For I pronounce (and trust a heav'nly pow'r) 
 
 Thy injured honor has its fated hour, 
 
 When the proud monarch shall thy arms implore. 
 
 And bribe thy friendship with a boundless store. 
 
 Then let revenge no longer bear the sway, 
 
 Command thy passions, and the gods obey." 
 
 To her Pelides: "With regardful ear, 
 'Tis just, O goddess ! I thy dictates hear : 
 Hard as it is, my vengeance I suppress : 
 Those who revere the gods, the gods will bless." 
 He said, observant of the blue-eyed maid ; 
 Then in the sheath returned the shining blade. 
 The goddess swift to high Olympus flies, 
 And joins the sacred senate of the skies. 
 
 Nor yet the rage his boiling breast forsook. 
 Which thus redoubling on Atrides broke: 
 " O monster ! mixed of insolence and fear, 
 Thou dog in forehead, but in heart a deer ! 
 When wert thou known in ambush'd fights to dare, 
 Or nobly face the horrid front of war? 
 'Tis ours, the chance of fighting fields to try, 
 Thine to look on, and bid the valiant die. 
 So much 'tis safer through the camp to go, 
 And rob a subject, than despoil a foe. 
 Scourge of thy people, violent and base ! 
 Sent in Jove's anger on a slavish race. 
 Who, lost to sense of generous freedom past. 
 Are tamed to wrongs, or this had been thy last. 
 Now by this sacred scepter hear me swear. 
 Which nevermore shall leaves or blossoms bear, 
 Which severed from the trunk (as I from thee) 
 On the bare mountain left its parent tree ; 
 This scepter, formed by tempered steel to prove 
 An ensign of the delegates of Jove, 
 From whom the power of laws and justice springs, 
 (Tremendous oath ! inviolate to kings :)
 
 Homer. 5 7 
 
 By this I swear, wlien bleeding Greece again, 
 Sliall call Achilles, she shall call in vain. 
 When flushed with slaughter. Hector comes to spread 
 The purpled shore with mountains of the dead, 
 Then shalt thou mourn th' aft'ront thy madness gave, 
 Forced to deplore, when impotent to save : 
 Then rage in bitterness of soul, to know 
 This act has made the bravest Greek thy foe." 
 
 He spoke ; and furious hurl'd against the ground 
 His scepter starred with golden studs around, 
 Then sternly silent sat. With like disdain. 
 The raging king return'd his frowns again. 
 
 Nestor, a very aged chieftain from Pylos, intervenes at this 
 point, vainly endeavoring to reconcile the two wranglers. 
 Nestor is a striking figure in the Iliad. We give, going now to 
 Bryant for the purpose, Homer's lines descriptive of Nestor, 
 and then Nestor's well-meaning, garrulous, somewhat egotistic 
 address. Readers will not fail to notice how exactly in char- 
 acter for an old man is what Nestor is represented as saying: 
 
 But now uprose 
 Nestor, the master of persuasive speech, 
 ' The clear-toned Pylian orator, whose tongue 
 Dropped words more sweet than honey. He had seen 
 Two generations that grew up and lived 
 With him on sacred Pylos pass away. 
 And now he ruled the third. With prudent words 
 He thus addressed the assembly of the chiefs : 
 
 " Ye gods ! what new misfortunes threaten Greece i 
 How Priam would exult and Priam's sons. 
 And how would all the Trojan race rejoice. 
 Were tliey to know how furiously ye strive, — 
 Ye who in council and in fight surpass 
 The other Greeks. Now hearken to my words, — 
 Ye who are younger than myself — for I 
 Have lived with braver men than you, and yet 
 They held me not in light esteem. Such men 
 I never saw, nor shall T see again, — 
 Men like Pirithoiis and like Druas, lord
 
 5S CLusic Greek Course in Eiiglish. 
 
 Of nations, Cseneus and Evadius, 
 And the great Polypheme, and Theseus, son 
 Of ^geus, likest to the immortal Gods. 
 Strongest of all the earth-born race were they, 
 And with the strongest of their time tliey fought, 
 With Centaurs, the wild dwellers of the hills. 
 And fearfully destroyed them. With these men 
 Did I hold converse, coming to their camp 
 From Pylos in a distant land. They sent 
 To bid me join the war, and by their side 
 I fought my best, but no man living now 
 On the wide earth would dare to fight with them. 
 Great as they were, they listened to my words 
 And took my counsel. Hearken also ye, 
 And let my words persuade you for the best. 
 Thou, powerful as thou art, take not from him 
 The maiden ; suffer him to keep the prize 
 Decreed him by the sons of Greece ; and thou, 
 Pelides, strive no longer with the king, 
 Since never yet did Jove to sceptered prince 
 Grant eminence and honor like to his. 
 Atrides, calm thine anger. It is I 
 Who now iiflplore thee to lay by thy wratli 
 Against Achilles, who, in this fierce war. 
 Is the great bulwark of the Grecian host." 
 
 Agamemnon fulfills his threat of takhig away Briseis from 
 Achilles, Achilles sulkily submitting. But the spoiled man- 
 grown boy in his distress betakes himself to his mother, the 
 sea-goddess Thetis. She comes to Achilles at his call, and 
 soothes him, mother-like. She engages to visit Olympus, 
 and see what can be done with Jupiter for him. 
 
 Jupiter we say, but Zeus is the Greek word. The Latin 
 names of the personages common to the Roman with the 
 Greek mythology, have generally prevailed in English use. 
 Greek scholars, some of them, insist that the divinities, sup- 
 posed generally to be the same in the Greek and the Roman 
 mythology, are really different. Several Hellenic scholars, 
 notably Grote, have sought to restore the Greek names. The
 
 Homer. 59 
 
 attempt, if it succeeds, will succeed slowly against great odds. 
 We prefer, upon the whole, to follow here the established 
 English usage. Still, in our own metrical translations, few 
 in number, of Homeric verse, we, as will be observed, by ex- 
 ception adhere to Homer's own terms. Our readers will thus 
 see something of the difference in effect produced — for Bry- 
 ant, on his part, conservatively retains the naturalized Latin 
 forms in his translation. The difference will be still further 
 observable when we take up the Odyssey. For the translator 
 whose work we shall use in presenting that far more interest- 
 ing and far sweeter poem has chosen with Grote to go back 
 to the Greek names for the Homeric personages. 
 
 Thetis prevailed upon Jupiter to promise that he would 
 have the Trojans get the better of the Greeks as long as her 
 son Achilles chose to stay angry. The passage descriptive of 
 the accustomed nod with which Jupiter sealed his promise is 
 a celebrated one. Here is a closely literal translation : 
 
 Zeus spake, and witli his dark brows gave the nod : 
 
 The ambrosial locks tiierewith streamecf from llie king's 
 
 Immortal head ; Olympus great it shook. 
 
 These two, thus having counseled, parted; she 
 
 I.eapt thereupon into the deep sea-brine 
 
 From bright Olympus — to his dwelling Zeus. 
 
 The gods together all rose from their seats 
 
 Before their sire, nor any durst abide 
 
 II im coming, but they all to meet him stood. 
 
 So he there sat him down upon his throne ; 
 
 Nor seeing him was Here not aware 
 
 That with him had deliberated plans 
 
 The daughter of the Ancient of the sea, 
 
 Thetis of silver foot. With cutting words, 
 
 Straightway the son of Kronos, Zeus, she hailed. 
 
 We are ashamed to say that Juno (Here) hereupon gave 
 Jupiter a severe lecture. Jupiter put himself upon his dig- 
 nity — such dignity as was Jupiter's, it allowed him to bandy 
 words with his brilliant but shrewish wife — and threatened to
 
 6o Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 flog her outright if she did not hold her tongue. Juno bit 
 her lips in repressed rage, which Vulcan, her lame son, sought 
 not in vain to soothe. He turned cup-bearer for the occasion 
 to the gods, and amused them all with his grotesque airs as a 
 waiter. This passage, too, is famous. Literally translated, 
 it reads as follows : 
 
 He spake ; the goddess, white-armed Here, smiled ; 
 And smiling she accepted with her hand 
 The goblet from her son. But he from right 
 To left to all the other gods poured out 
 Sweet nectar, drawing from the mixing-bowl ; 
 An inextinguishable laughter then was roused 
 Among the blessed gods, when they beheld 
 Hephaestus brisking through the palace halls. 
 
 So all day long unto the setting sun 
 They feasted then, nor of an equal feast 
 Failed the desire in aught, not of the harp 
 Exceeding beautiful whicli Phcebus held. 
 Or of the Muses who with beautiful voice 
 Alternate sang responsive each to each. 
 But when the sun's resplendent light was set 
 Desiring to lie down they homeward went, 
 Each where for each the far-renowned lame 
 Hephcestus built a house with cunning skill. 
 The Olympian Flasher of the Lightning, Zeus, 
 Went to his couch where erst he wont to lie 
 When sweet sleep came on him ; ascending there 
 He slept, and Here, golden-throned, beside. 
 
 So closes the first book of the Iliad. The next book re- 
 counts how Jupiter sends a deceiving dream to Agamemnon 
 to induce that chieftain to make a vain assault on the Trojans. 
 Agamemnon calls the Greeks to council, and, to try their 
 spirit, proposes a return to Greece. To his confusion, the 
 Greeks incontinently agree, and rush tumultuously to their 
 ships. Ulysses comes to the rescue, and saves the cause. 
 Aristocrat that he was, he made a distinction. The leaders 
 and the men of mark he addressed courteously, and used
 
 Homer. 6 1 
 
 with them the art of moral suasion. The rank and file he 
 took in hand to chastise with great and literal blows of his 
 staff or scepter. One in particular of the latter class got an 
 exemplary punishment. This unhappy wight, by name Ther- 
 si'tes, is described as an ill-looking person, who had some 
 conceit of being smart with his tongue. Stalwart Ulysses, 
 eloquent though he could be when he chose, disdained to 
 waste words on this plebeian, but reduced Thersites by the 
 strict physical argument — to the infinite amusement of the 
 mercurial Greeks, whose love of humor overbore their popu- 
 lar sympathy, and (re-enforced, perhaps, by an instinct of 
 awe toward the kingly office) made them readily side with the 
 stronger. The book closes with a catalogue of the Greek 
 forces assembled. This last detail, dry enough to the modern 
 reader, was very important to the interest of the poem with 
 the Greek audiences that used to hear it recited by the roam- 
 ing bard. A poem could hardly contain too much personal 
 allusion, when the mention of a name was going to flatter 
 somewhere a local or a family pride, among hearers whose 
 gratification would make the fortune of the minstrel and his 
 lay. Milton has imitated the Homeric catalogue of the 
 Greeks, in his roll-call of the fallen angels, named by him 
 after the various idol gods of the East. 
 
 The second book has no fighting in it. The most note- 
 worthy thing it contains is perhaps the episode about Ther- 
 sites. Of this we need present to our readers in the poet's 
 own words only the description which he gives of that poor 
 fellow's personal appearance. Bryant does not render this 
 passage with quite the sympathetic humor that Cowper has 
 succeeded in transfusing into his corresponding lines. We 
 give Cowper's version (in part) as a parallel for Bryant's, 
 But first our own strictly literal rendering: 
 
 The rest sat down, and in tlie seats were quelled. 
 Thersites only still kept clamoring on, 
 Licentious-tongued ; wlio many a shameless phrase
 
 62 Classic Greek Course iii F.iic/is/t. 
 
 Knew in his mind, hap-hazard, lawlessly 
 To brawl with kings — whate'er might seem to him 
 To be droll for tiie Greeks. The ugliest man 
 That came to Ilium ; bandy-legged he was, 
 Lame in one foot ; and his bent shoulders twain 
 Hugged o'er his chest together, while above 
 Peaked of head was he, and thereupon 
 A thin-worn plush of flossy hair adhered. 
 
 Bryant : 
 
 All others took their seats and kept their place ; 
 Thersites only, clamorous of tongue, 
 Kept brawling. He, with many insolent words. 
 Was wont to seek unseemly strife with kings. 
 Uttering whate'er it seemed to him miglit move 
 The Greeks to laughter. Of the multitude 
 Who came to Ilium, none so base as he, — 
 Squint-eyed, with one lame foot, and on his back 
 A lump, and shoulders curving toward the chest ; 
 His head was sharp, and over it the hairs 
 Were thinly scattered. 
 
 Cowper : 
 
 Cross-eyed he was, and, lialting, moved on legs 
 Ill-paired ; his gibbous shoulders o'er his breast 
 Contracted, pinched it.; to a peak his head 
 Was molded sharp, and sprinkled thin with hair 
 Of starveling length, flimsy and soft as down. 
 
 The third book is tantalizing. It introduces a duel between 
 Paris the thief, and Menelaus the husband, of Helen. Tlie 
 reader rejoices in the justice of settling the whole miserable 
 business, by wager of battle between the two men chiefly con- 
 cerned, especially as there is a comfortable feeling inspired 
 that effeminate Paris will now get his deserts at the hands of 
 manful Menelaus. But at the crisis of the duel, presto, in 
 steps Venus and whisks Paris off to his bed-chamber in the 
 palace of Priam. You feel cheated of your satisfaction, 
 nearly as much as Menelaus did of his.
 
 Homer. 63 
 
 Homer is famous for his similes. Our readers must see of 
 these a good number of specimens. Two occur at the open- 
 ing of the present book. Bryant renders them into beautiful 
 English blank verse as follows : 
 
 Now when both armies were arrayed for war, 
 Each with its cliiefs, the Trojan host moved on 
 With shouts and clang of arms, as when the cry 
 Of cranes is in the air, that, flying south. 
 From winter and its mighty breadth of rain, 
 Wing their way over ocean, and at dawn 
 Bring fearful battle to the pigmy race. 
 Bloodshed and death. But silently the Greeks 
 Went forward, breathing valor, mindful still 
 To aid each other in the coming fray. 
 
 As when the south wind shrouds a mountain-lop 
 In vapors that awake the shepherd's fears, — 
 A surer covert for the thief than night, — 
 And round him one can only see as far 
 As one can hurl a stone, — such was the cloud 
 Of dust that from the warriors' trampling feet 
 Rose round their rapid march and filled the air. 
 
 There is, in this book, a charmingly conceived scene be- 
 tween Priam and his lovely daughter-in-law, Helen, in which 
 the poet, with excellent art, makes Helen point out to the 
 aged prince, from the city wall on which they stand together, 
 the various illustrious Greek chiefs to be recognized from 
 their elevated point of prospect. Helen, ior all her fault, 
 wins on the reader by her aj)pearance in this scene. She 
 seems sufficiently conscious of her guilty past, and expresses 
 deep remorse. Priam on his side, is tender and magnan- 
 imous, clearing her and accusing fate. Those of our readers 
 familiar with Tennyson will recall that stanza in his " Dream 
 of Fair Women," in which Helen, not nained, is introduced 
 as saying : 
 
 " I would the white, cold, lieavy-plunging foam, 
 Wliirled by tlie wind, had rolled me deep 1)elow, 
 Then when I left my home."
 
 64 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 These lines from Tennyson are like in spirit to the following 
 verses, put by Homer into Helen's mouth as now addressed 
 
 to Priam: 
 
 Dear second father, whom at once 
 I fear and honor, would that cruel Death 
 Had overtaken me before I left, 
 To wander with thy son, my marriage bed. 
 
 (There is, however, farther on in the Iliad, a much closer 
 parallel to Tennyson's lines. This occurs in the sixth book, 
 in a conversation between the brother-in-law. Hector, and 
 Helen.) Poor Helen takes with Hector the same attitude of 
 lowliness and self-reproach that she assumes here with 
 Priam. We may anticipate enough to introduce the lines at 
 this point. Helen says to Hector : 
 
 Would that some violent blast when I was born 
 Had whirled me to the mountain wilds, or waves 
 Of the hoarse sea, that they might swallow me, 
 Ere deeds like these were done ! 
 
 The stanzas descriptive of Helen's beauty, that precede 
 the verses quoted above, in the "Dream of Fair Women," 
 are of a memory-haunting, charm-like quality. Readers that 
 happen not as yet to know them, will greatly enjoy becoming 
 acquainted with them in their Tennyson. 
 
 Priam sees first a Greek hero whom he describes as 
 
 Gallant and talL True there are taller men, 
 But of such noble form and dignity 
 I never saw : in truth a kingly man. 
 
 He learns from Helen that this 
 
 Is the wide-ruling Agamemnon, son 
 Of Atreus, and is both a gracious king 
 And a most dreaded warrior. He was once 
 Brother-in-law to me, if I may speak — 
 Lost as I am to shame — of such a tie.
 
 Homer. 65 
 
 Homer says aged Priam replied to this, first by bending on 
 Helen a look of reassuring admiration, and next by con- 
 tributing a bit of old man's reminiscence, which, good as it is 
 in the poet's telling, our readers can spare. He then espies 
 Ulysses and asks who it is : 
 
 That is Ulysses, man of many arts, 
 
 Son of Laertes, reared in Ithaca, 
 
 That rugged isle, and skilled in every form 
 
 Of shrewd device and action wisely planned. 
 
 Old An-te-nor, the Nestor he of Troy, here has a reminis- 
 cence of his own to put in, which, as our readers are to get 
 further acquainted with Ulysses in the Odyssey, they will 
 
 like to see : 
 
 This Ulysses once 
 
 Came on an embassy, concerning thee, 
 
 To Troy with Menelaus, great in war ; 
 
 And I received them as my guests, and they 
 
 Were lodged within my palace, and I learned 
 
 The temper and the qualities of both. 
 
 When both were standing 'mid the men of Troy, 
 
 I marked that Menelaus's broad chest 
 
 Made him the more conspicuous, but when both 
 
 Were seated, greater was the dignity 
 
 Seen in Ulysses. When they both addressed 
 
 The council, Menelaus briefly spake 
 
 In pleasing tones, though with few words, — as one 
 
 Not given to loose and wandering speech, — although 
 
 The younger. When the wise Ulysses rose, 
 
 He stood with eyes cast down, and fixed on earth, 
 
 And neither swayed his scepter to the right 
 
 Nor to the left, but held it motionless. 
 
 Like one unused to public speech. He seemed 
 
 An idiot out of humor. But when forth 
 
 He sent from his full lungs his mighty voice 
 
 And words came like a fall of winter snow, 
 
 No mortal then would dare to strive witli him 
 
 For mastery in speech. We less admired 
 
 The aspect of Ulysses than his words.
 
 66 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Our readers should study in collation Tennyson's poem 
 " Ulysses," that incomparable modern antique in verse which 
 so subtly mingles Dante with Homer : 
 
 Beholding Ajax then, the aged king 
 Asked yet again : Who is that other chief 
 Of the Achaians, tall, and large of limb,— 
 Taller and broader-chested than the I'est ? 
 
 Helen satisfies his curiosity, and adds that she could tell 
 the names of the other chiefs among the Greeks. Two, 
 however, she fails to see. These were Castor and Pollux, 
 twin-brothers of her own. Helen wonders at her not seeing 
 them, and asks self-reproachingly : 
 
 Shun they to fight among the valiant ones 
 
 Of Greece, because of my reproach and shame ? 
 
 Homer, with frugal explanation, pathetically says : 
 
 She spake ; but they already lay in earth 
 In Lacedsemon, their dear native land. 
 
 Further conversation is prevented by the bustle of im- 
 mediate preparation for the combat between Paris (called 
 Alexander) and Menelaus. As has been hinted, the combat 
 has but a disappointing interest for readers not believers in 
 Olympianism. Laughing Venus intervenes, and, true to her 
 character, contrives an assignation between her old admirer 
 Paris — Paris, remember, had accorded to Venus the palm of 
 beauty, in the famous competition among the goddesses for 
 that honor; read Tennyson's poem ''^none,"for a noble 
 modern and modernizing treatment of the subject (^none 
 was Paris's deserted lover) — between Paris and Helen in their 
 apartment at home. The absurd machinery aside, this in- 
 glorious event of the duel well sets forth the soft voluptuous 
 personal character of the Trojan carpet-knight. (Christianized 
 taste forbids a full reproduction here of the sequel, as Homer 
 describes it.) And so ends the third book— with a most un-
 
 Homer. 67 
 
 warlike interlude affording an effective foil to the blood and 
 fury of what is to follow. 
 
 The Iliad was to the Greek a great world, in which might 
 be found a verse or a passage appropriate to almost every 
 occasion of life. The teeming invention of the poet over- 
 whelms his reader with such a profusion of incident, of 
 dialogue, of description, of simile, of detail in every kind, 
 that the plot of the poem as a whole is almost lost in the 
 general effect. Only at last does the great figure of Achilles 
 loom, amid the confusion and broil, in proportions heroic 
 enough to lord it over the whole field of the action — some- 
 what as, to the still distant spectator approaching Cologne, 
 appears the mass of the famous cathedral to lord it over the 
 entire aggregate of all the city besides. Perhaps it was the 
 art of the poet to build so large only for the sake of having 
 something worthy to be dwarfed by Achilles with the con- 
 trast of his mighty valor and emprise. If there is any unity 
 to the plot other than this, it has not, so far as the present 
 writer knows, been discovered. First Achilles gets angry. 
 Then he sulks in his tent till the Greeks have their fill of 
 trying to do without him. Battle, council, stratagem, dialogue, 
 ])lot on the plains of Troy, counter-plot on Olympus — these, 
 whirled about and mixed in a vast vortex, occupy the inter- 
 val of days before Achilles reappears upon the scene. There 
 are twenty-four books of the Iliad, and up to within eight 
 books of the end, the action proceeds without further partici- 
 pation in it than has been indicated above, on the part of 
 Achilles. The development of the plot is not meantime for- 
 warded at all, except as the necessity of Achilles to the suc- 
 cess of the Greeks is exhibited. Achilles comes back, and, 
 through eiglit books on to the catastrophe, Achilles is the 
 Iliad. There is nothing that does not yield itself to the wind 
 of such commotion as that fierce warrior raises about him 
 wherever he goes. 
 
 We do not in the least mean that the poem stands still all
 
 68 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 this time. The farthest from it possible. It moves inces- 
 santly, but it does not get on. It is full of incident, indeed, 
 and incident, too, that, barring the distressing imminency, 
 never absent, of Olympian intervention, may interest the 
 reader. The case, however, let it be noticed, is such that we 
 here are left at our liberty to select passages from the poem, 
 quite unembarrassed by apprehension of endangering, through 
 omission, our reader's perfect understanding of the story. 
 
 The fourth book shall supply us another simile, one of the 
 most nobly conceived and most nobly expressed of all that 
 occur in the Iliad. Homer is describing the advance of the 
 Achaians to battle. He likens it to the multitudinous assault 
 of ocean on a precipitous shore. We present a literal, almost 
 word-for-word translation : 
 
 As when upon a many-echoing shore, 
 Billow fast following billow of the sea 
 Is roused beneath the thronging western wind. 
 Upon the deep at first it towers its height, 
 And next, shattered against the continent, booms 
 Mightily, and round the crags its curling crest 
 Uprears, and spouts its spray of brine afar, 
 So ranks fast following ranks of Danaans then 
 Ceaselessly on and on thronged to the war. 
 
 Book fifth introduces ^^-ne'as, the Trojan hero of Virgil's 
 poem, the yEneid. A general battle is raging in which Greek 
 Di'o-med (Ty-di'des, son of Tydeus) performs prodigies of 
 strength and valor. He has a companion, now no matter 
 whom, that says to him, 
 
 " There comes /Eneas, glorying that he sprang 
 From the large-souled Anchises, — borne to him 
 By Venus. Mount we now our car and leave 
 The ground, nor in thy fury rush along 
 The van of battle, lest thou lose thy life." 
 
 Perish the thought ! somewhat long-windedly exclaims in 
 substance the valiant Diomed. He has so much confidence
 
 Homer. 69 
 
 oi getting the better not only of yi^neas but of Pan'darus, too, 
 -•Eneas's companion, that he gives particular directions to his 
 friend about making prize of yEneas's chariot-horses, whose 
 pedigree he has leisure to give with great particularity while 
 the encounter is preparing. Those horses were of stock pre- 
 sented by Jove himself to Troy, in exchange for Gan-y-me'de, 
 the Trojan youth whom the monarch of Olympus snatched 
 off to be cup-bearer to the gods. The hostile chariots are 
 within speaking distance of each other, and the opposing 
 pairs of combatants bluster and swagger in words while 
 they begin to fight. Pandarus hits Diomed and gloats 
 prematurely over having wounded him. Diomed assures 
 him of his mistake and says he perceives that one of his 
 two foes will have to "pour out his blood to glut the god of 
 war ": 
 
 He spake, and cast his spear, Minerva kept 
 
 The weapon faithful to its aim. It struck 
 
 The nose, and near the eye ; then passing on 
 
 Betwixt the teeth, the unrelenting edge 
 
 Cleft at its root the tongue ; the point came out 
 
 Beneath the chin. The warror from his car 
 
 Fell headlong; his bright armor, fairly wrought. 
 
 Clashed round him as he fell ; his fiery steeds 
 
 Started aside with fright ; his breath and strength 
 
 Were gone at once. yEneas, with his shield 
 
 And his long spear, leaped down to guard the slain, 
 
 That the Achaians might not drag him thence. 
 
 There, lion-like, confiding in his strength, 
 
 He stalked around the corpse, and over it 
 
 Held his round shield and lance, prepared to slay 
 
 Whoever came, and shouting terribly. 
 
 Tydides raised a stone, — a mighty weight. 
 Such as no two men living now could lift ; 
 But he, alone, could swing it round with ease. 
 With this he smote ^neas on the hip. 
 Where the thigh joins its socket. By the blow 
 He brake the socket and the tendons twain, 
 And tore the skin with the rough, jagged stone.
 
 70 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 The hero fell upon his knees, but stayed 
 His fall with his strong palm upon the ground ; 
 And o'er his eyes a shadow came like night. 
 Then had the king of men, ^neas, died, 
 But for Jove's daughter, Venus, who perceived 
 His danger instantly, — his mother, she 
 Who bore him to Anchises when he kept 
 His beeves, a herdsman. Round her son she cast 
 Her white arms, spreading over him in folds 
 Her shining robe, to be a fence against 
 The weapons of the foe, lest some Greek knight 
 Should at his bosom aim the steel to take 
 His life. And thus the goddess bore away 
 From that fierce conflict her beloved son. 
 
 Diomed, naturally vexed at such interference, pursued the 
 goddess : 
 
 O'ertaking her at last, with long pursuit. 
 
 Amid the throng of warring men, the son 
 
 Of warlike Tydeus aimed at her his spear, 
 
 And wounded in her hand the delicate one 
 
 With its sharp point. It pierced the ambrosial robe, 
 
 Wrought for her by the graces, at the spot 
 
 Where the palm joins the wrist, and broke the skin, 
 
 And drew immortal blood, — the ichor, — such 
 
 As from the blessed gods may flow ; for they 
 
 Eat not the wheaten loaf, nor drink dark wine ; 
 
 And therefore they are bloodless, and are called 
 
 Immortal. At the stroke the goddess shrieked, 
 
 And dropped her son. Apollo in his arms 
 
 Received and in a dark cloud rescued him, 
 
 Lest any of the Grecian knights should aim 
 
 A weapon at his breast to take his life. 
 
 Meantime the brave Tydides cried aloud :— 
 
 " Leave wars and battle, goddess. Is it not 
 
 Enough that thou delude weak womankind ? 
 
 Yet, if thou ever shouldst return, to bear 
 
 A part in battle, thou shalt have good cause 
 
 To start with fear, when war is only named." 
 
 He spake ; and she departed, wild with pain.
 
 Home}-. 7 1 
 
 For grievously she suffered. Instantly 
 
 Fleet-footed Iris took her by the hand 
 
 And led her from the place, her heart oppressed 
 
 With anguish and her fair cheek deathly pale. 
 
 She found the fiery Mars, who had withdrawn 
 
 From that day's combat to the left, and sat, 
 
 His spear and his swift coursers hid from sight. 
 
 In darkness. At his feet she fell, and prayed 
 
 Her brother fervently, that he would lend 
 
 His steed that stood in trappings wrought of gold : — 
 
 " Dear brother, aid me ; let me have thy steeds 
 To bear me to the Olympian mount, the home 
 Of gods, for grievously the wound I bear 
 Afflicts me. 'Twas a mortal gave the wound, ^ 
 Tydides, who would even fight with Jove." 
 
 She spake ; and Mars resigned to her his steeds 
 With trappings of bright gold. She climbed the car, 
 Still grieving, and, beside her. Iris took 
 Her seat, and caught the reins and plied the lash. 
 On flew the coursers, on, with willing speed, 
 And soon were at the mansion of the gods 
 On high Olympus. There the active-limbed, 
 Fleet Iris stayed them, loosed them from the car. 
 And fed them with ambrosial food. 
 
 Venus, like any mortal child, of course makes straight to 
 her mother, Di-o'ne. Dione caresses her, and having learned 
 how she came by her hurt, goes off into a soothing account 
 of like mishaps that in time past have befallen other of the 
 gods. She further promises Venus that Diomed shall rue his 
 rashness, going, quite in the spirit of earthly Homeric per- 
 sonages, forward to a time in the future when Diomed's wife 
 shall wake the servants of her house to wail their master 
 dead. We have, by way of contrast to the comico-tragic of 
 this scene between Venus and her mother, a little Olympian 
 pleasantry from Juno and Pallas, at Venus's expense. With 
 these strokes of change in mood, Homer shows his art, which 
 is dramatic as much as epic — if not more. Not improbably, 
 Milton was unconsciously influenced by the example, of
 
 72 Classic Greek Course i?i English. 
 
 Homer to introduce those touches of sarcastic humor into 
 his Paradise Lost, which critics have perhaps too absolutely 
 condemned. Homer (the mother has just done comforting 
 the daughter) : 
 
 She spake, and wiped the ichor from the hand 
 Of Venus ; at her touch the hand was healed 
 And the pain left it. Meantime, Pallas stood. 
 With Juno, looking on, botli teasing Jove 
 With words of sarcasm. Blue-eyed Pallas thus 
 Addressed the god : " O Father Jupiter, 
 Wilt thou be angry at the word I speak ?— 
 As Venus, wheedling some Achaian dame 
 To join the host she loves, the sons of Troy, 
 Caressed the fair, arrayed in gay attire, 
 A golden buckle scratched her tender hand." 
 As thus she spake, the Father of the gods 
 And mortals, calling golden Venus near. 
 Said, with a smile; "Nay, daughter, not for thee 
 Are tasks of war; be gentle marriage rites 
 Thy care ; the labors of the battle-field 
 Pertain to Pallas and the fiery Mars." 
 
 Thus with each other talked the gods, while still 
 The great in battle, Diomed, pursued 
 .^neas, though he knew that Phcebus stretched 
 His arm to guard the warrior. Small regard 
 Had he for the great god, and much he longed 
 To strike ^-Eneas down and bear away 
 The glorious arms he wore ; and thrice he rushed 
 To slay tlie Trojan, thrice Apollo smote 
 Upon his glittering shield. But when he made 
 The fourth assault, as if he were a god, 
 The archer of the skies, Apollo, thus 
 With menacing words rebuked him : " Diomed, 
 Beware; desist, nor think to make thyself 
 The equal of a god. The deathless race 
 Of gods is not as those who walk the earth." 
 
 He spake; the son of Tydeus, shrinking back. 
 Gave way before the anger of the god 
 Who sends his shafts afar. Then Phoebus bore 
 iEneas from the tumult to the height
 
 Homer. 73 
 
 Of sacred Pergamus, where stands his fane ; 
 
 And there Latona and the avcher-queen, 
 
 Diana, in the temple's deep recess, 
 
 Tended him and brought back his glorious strength. 
 
 Apollo frames an image of yEneas for Greeks and Trojans 
 to fight around, under the illusion that it is really that doughty- 
 knight himself. While this by-play, half puppet, and half 
 human, is going on, Apollo exhorts Mars to stir up the spirit 
 of the Trojans, which that fiery divinity does with great effect. 
 Meantime, presto, .Eneas, in his own literal person, re-ap- 
 pears on the field, renewed in strength after his wound. On 
 the side of the Greeks — 
 
 The Ajaces and Ulysses and the son 
 Of Tydeus roused the Achaians to the fight. 
 For of the strength and clamor of the foe 
 They felt no fear, but calmly stood, to bide 
 The assault ; as stand in air the quiet clouds 
 Which Saturn's son upon the mountain tops 
 Piles in still volumes when the north wind sleeps, 
 And every ruder breath of blustering air 
 That drives the gathered vapors through the sky. 
 Thus calmly waited they the Trojan host, 
 Nor thought of flight. 
 
 Our readers there have one of the finest of Homer's sim- 
 iles, finely rendered by Bryant. Remember, it is repose, not 
 strength, that the comparison sets forth. The soft and fluid 
 substance of the massy clouds at rest furnishes no image of 
 force, but it furnishes a perfect image of calm. * 
 
 We skip some space filled with sickening horrors of fight, 
 and begin again at the point at which Hector, raised by the 
 art of the poet to godlike proportions of courage and power, 
 is brought face to face with Diomed, who hitherto has had it 
 all very much his own way. Homer has glorified Diomed 
 for the sake of glorifying Hector, as now he glorifies Hector 
 for the sake of glorifying, to the height, that Achilles by
 
 74 Classic Greek Course in Eii^:;lish. 
 
 whom in due time Hector will be vanquished. Hector must 
 have looked formidable indeed, for 
 
 Him when the valiant Diomed beheld. 
 He trembled ; and, as one who journeying 
 Along a way he knows not, having crossed 
 A place of drear extent, before him sees 
 A river rushing swiftly toward the deep. 
 And all its tossing current white with foam. 
 And stops and turns, and measures back his way, 
 So then did Diomed withdraw, and spake : 
 
 but we are not going to reproduce Diomed's speech. Suffice 
 it to say that Hector carried all before him. Juno saw and 
 took it sore to heart. She enlisted Pallas on her side, and 
 the two, " Juno the august " with her own hands harnessing 
 the celestial steeds, started from heaven, by way of Olympus, 
 for the field of conflict. The description of this action and 
 this equipage is very brilliant in Homer, and it is very brill- 
 iantly translated by Bryant. But we must begin with the 
 Start itself of the goddesses on their ethereal drive : 
 
 Juno swung the lash 
 And swiftly urged the steeds. Before their way, 
 On sounding hinges, of their own accord, 
 Flew wide the gates of heaven, which evermore 
 The Hours are watching, — they who keep the mount 
 Olympus, and the mighty heaven, with power 
 To open or to close their cloudy veil. 
 Thus through the gates they drave the obedient steeds, 
 And found Saturnius, where he sat apart 
 From other gods, upon the loftiest height 
 Of many-peaked Olympus. 
 
 Our readers will recognize here the original of some of 
 Milton's conceptions in his Paradise Lost. The pagan poet, 
 throughout this entire passage, one of the most splendid in 
 the Iliad, appears to no mean advantage in comparison with 
 the Christian. If Milton surpasses Homer, it is after all not 
 so much Milton himself, as it is Milton's place in history.
 
 Homer. 75 
 
 Homer had no Bible, and he lived before Christ. Besides, 
 Homer was first and Milton was second. 
 
 Jupiter on Olympus gave the goddesses leave to go as they 
 wished. Juno lost no time : 
 
 With the scourge she lashed the steeds, 
 And not unwillingly they flew between 
 Earth and the starry heaven. As much of space 
 As one who gazes on the dark blue deep 
 • Sees from the headland summit where he sits — 
 Such space the coursers of immortal breed 
 Cleared at each bound they made with sounding hoofs ; 
 And when they came to Ilium and its streams. 
 Where Simois and Scamander's channels meet, 
 The white-armed goddess Juno stayed their speed, 
 And loosed them from the yoke, and covered them 
 With darkness. Simois ministered, meanwhile, 
 The ambrosial pasturage on which they fed. 
 
 Arrived among the Greeks, Pallas moves about, and, with 
 eloquence pitched in various keys, the key of sarcasm being 
 one, and a marked one, rouses their spirit for renewed battle. 
 Diomed answers so much to her mind, that she confesses 
 outright her admiration and approval of his character. She 
 bids him make for no less a personage than the god Mars 
 himself, whom we are pleased to note that she speaks of in 
 terms of just detestation, though she thus speaks rather for 
 the reason that he now fights on the wrong side, than that he 
 loves so well to fight, on whatever side. Pallas, we say, bids 
 Diomed boldly engage great Mars. She will stand by him 
 and see him safely through. Mars hurls the first spear, but 
 Pallas parries the blow : 
 
 The valiant Diomed 
 Made with his brazen spear the next assault, 
 And Pallas guided it to strike the waist 
 Where girded by the baldric. In that part 
 She wounded Mars, and tore the shining skin, 
 And drew the weapon back. The furious god
 
 76 _ Classic Greek Course in EnglisJi. 
 
 Uttered a cry as of nine thousand men, 
 
 Or of ten thousand rushing to the fight. 
 
 The Greeks and Trojans stood aghast with fear, 
 
 To hear that terrible cry of him whose thirst 
 
 Of bloodshed never is appeased by blood. 
 
 As when, in time of heat, the air is filled 
 With a black shadow from the gathering clouds, 
 And the strong-blowing wind, so furious Mars 
 Appeared to Diomed, as in a cloud 
 He rose to the broad heaven and to the home 
 Of gods on high Olympus. Near to Jove 
 He took his seat in bitter grief, and showed 
 The immortal blood still dropping from his wound. 
 And thus, with winged words, complaining said : 
 
 Mars gets little comfort from Jove, who sets him down 
 much as he deserves. However the Olympian father tells 
 his physician to heal the wound. The sequel is thus de- 
 scribed: 
 
 As when the juice 
 
 Of figs is mingled with white milk and stirred. 
 
 The liquid gathers into clots while yet 
 
 It whirls with the swift motion, so was healed 
 
 The wound of violent Mars. Then Hebe bathed 
 
 The god, and robed him richly, and he took 
 
 His seat, delighted, by Saturnian Jove. 
 
 Now, having forced the curse of nations. Mars, 
 
 To pause from slaughter, Argive Juno came. 
 
 With Pallas, her invincible ally, 
 
 Back to the mansion of imperial Jove. 
 
 The fifth book ends here. It is idle to deny that, grant 
 Homer his absurd machinery, we have in the foregoing an 
 incomparably spirited narrative, an incomparably lofty and 
 sustained flight of poetry. Nothing can exceed, or certainly 
 nothing ever yet has exceeded, the freedom, the power, the 
 ease, the grace, with which this earliest of all uninspired poets 
 that we know, moves here through the shifting scenes of his 
 story — with which, the facility unchanged, he rises or sinks,
 
 Homer. 7 7 
 
 according as his action proceeds in heaven or on earth. Ho- 
 mer's sublimity, in fact, is so ideal, that it is almost lost and 
 forgotten in the lightness and the grace with which its high- 
 est flights are accomplished. We have been bold to dispar- 
 age ; let us be just to applaud. 
 
 The sixth book continues the contest. The meddling gods, 
 however, have withdrawn from the field. The pages reek 
 with blood. It is a little relief of unexpected pathetic senti- 
 ment, to come upon lines like these following, in the midst 
 of disgusting description of carnage. Diomed has met the 
 son of Hippolochus, and, with much braggadocio, challenged 
 him to combat and doomed him to death. He stays, how- 
 ever, to ask who it is that he is about to have the satisfaction 
 of killing. The son of Hippolochus replies, but we shall give 
 only the melancholy reflection with which his reply begins. 
 For this brief bit of sentiment, peculiarly charming in Homer 
 as here relieved so artistically against a bloody ground of 
 kaleidoscopic massacre, we shall use the translation of Cow- 
 per. We know from Cowper's correspondence that he had a 
 special admiration of the passage — he quotes it (with apology) 
 in the original Greek, to his correspondent, and remarks upon 
 it thus, " Beautiful as well for the affecting nature of the ob- 
 servation as for the justness of the comparison and the incom- 
 parable simplicity of the expression." Now we almost feel 
 that so much introduction will have prepared our readers 
 only for disappointment in seeing the lines themselves. Un- 
 doubtedly the lines do derive much of their effectiveness from 
 the setting in which they occur. But at any rate here they 
 are, in Cowper's rendering, better for this once than Bryant's: 
 
 Why asks Inave Diomed of my descent ? 
 
 For, as the leaves, such is the race of man. 
 
 The wind shakes down the leaves, the budding grove 
 
 Soon teems with others, and in spring they grow. 
 
 So pass mankind. One generation meets 
 
 Its destined period, and a new succeeds.
 
 yS Classic Greek Course in Etv^lish. 
 
 More tinklingly, in his fatally facile heroic rhyme, Pope 
 renders: 
 
 Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, 
 
 Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; 
 
 Another race the following spring supplies, 
 
 They fall successive, and successive rise : 
 
 So generations in their course decay, 
 
 So flourish these, when those have passed away. 
 
 No one can dispute the merit of Pope's Homer as a marvel 
 of literary workmanship. Bentley, however, an English 
 scholar of Pope's time, a scholar, too, unsurpassed in the 
 annals of modern scholarship, expressed the general opinion 
 of competent authorities as to Pope's fidelity to the Greek, 
 when he bluntly said to the translator himself, " It is a pretty 
 poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer." In com- 
 parison with this celebrated sentence of Bentley 's on Pope's 
 work, put the following expression of John Foster's, written 
 by him in his early manhood — while therefore the influence 
 of Pope's literary school was naturally still strong upon him, 
 that influence being not yet counterworked in the public 
 mind, as afterward it was to be, by Thomson first, then by 
 Cowper, and finally by Wordsworth. Foster writes to a 
 friend, in 1791: "Perhaps you have seen Cowper's Homer. 
 I still cannot but wish that he had been differently employed. 
 On reading a few passages I thought. This may possibly be 
 Homer himself, but if it is. Pope is a greater poet than Homer." 
 
 The foregoing lines from Homer, by the way, must call to 
 every reader's mind Isaiah's "We all do fade as a leaf, and 
 our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away." Isaiah's 
 comparison is, however, not quite the same as Homer's. Ho- 
 mer's is larger, less obvious, more elaborate. There is more 
 imagination in it. Isaiah was intent on a moral aim. He 
 was a prophet. Homer was only a poet. It is sentiment on 
 the part of the Greek. It is practical earnestness on the part 
 of the Hebrew. The two contrasted passages well illustrate
 
 Homer. 79 
 
 the difference between what some writers call " Hebraism " on 
 the one hand, and what they call " Hellenism " on the other. 
 It is the antithesis of ethics and ?esthetics, of religion and taste. 
 The son of Hippolochus, Glaucus is his name, most oblig- 
 ingly enters upon a circumstantial account of his extraction, 
 in the course of which it becomes apparent 4;hat these two 
 threatening foes are ancestrally allied to each other as mutual 
 guests, or guest-friends. The upshot is as delightful as it is 
 sudden and unlooked for. " Let us exchange our arms," ex- 
 claims the truculent Diomed, effusively, 
 
 That even these may see thai thou and I 
 Regard each other as ancestral guests. 
 
 It seems that Glaucus's armor was of gold, while Diomed's 
 was of baser brass or bronze; but we will trust that there was 
 no sordid motive of thrift, to alloy the bluff cordiality of the 
 Greek in Jiis proposal of exchange. 
 
 Hector, the chief Trojan hero, had retired within the city 
 walls to visit his mother the queen, Priam's consort, for the 
 purpose of engaging her, together with the venerable matrons 
 of Troy, to make supplications and offerings and vows to 
 Minerva on behalf of the beleaguered town. The meeting of 
 the mother and her son is tenderly and beautifully described. 
 Hector confronts Paris, and chides him sharply. There is. 
 too, a meeting of Hector with Helen, in which the heroic 
 brother-in-law bears himself with knightly tenderness toward 
 the self-condemning woman. But what has chiefly impressed 
 itself upon the imagination and the heart of Homer's admirers 
 is the famous passage descriptive of the parting of Hector 
 and Andromache his wife bringing with her their little child, 
 
 Hectorides, his infant darling boy, 
 Beautiful as a star, 
 
 as Cowper translates with ])icturesque felicity. (Our readers 
 will, perhaps, by this time have observed that the ending l-des.
 
 So Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 added to a man's name, has the meaning son of the man so 
 named.) We give the passage, as usual, in Bryant's translation: 
 
 The father on liis child 
 Looked with a silent smile. Andromache 
 Pressed to his side meanwhile, and, all in tears, 
 Clung to his hand, and, thus beginning, said : 
 
 *' Too brave ! thy valor yet will cause thy death. 
 Thou hast no pity on thy. tender child, 
 Nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be 
 Thy widow. AH the Greeks will rush on thee 
 To take thy life. A happier lot were mine, 
 If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, 
 For I shall have no hope when thou art gone, — 
 Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, 
 And no dear mother. Great Achilles slew 
 My father when he sacked the populous town 
 Of the Cilicians, — Thebe with high gates. 
 'Twas there he smote Eetion, yet forebore 
 To make his arms a spoil; he dared not that. 
 But burned the dead with his bright armor on, 
 And raised a mound above him. Mountain nymphs. 
 Daughters of .^gis-bearing Jupiter, 
 Came to the spot and planted it with elms. 
 Seven brothers had I in my father's house. 
 And all went down to Hades in one daj*. 
 Achilles the swift-footed slew them all 
 Among their slow-paced bullocks and white sheep. 
 My mother, princess on the woody slopes 
 Of Placos, with his spoils he bore away, 
 And only for large ransom gave her back. 
 But her Diana, archer queen, struck down 
 Within her father's palace. Hector, thou 
 Art father and dear mother now to me. 
 And brother and my youthful spouse besides. 
 In pity keep within the fortress here. 
 Nor make thy child an orphan, nor thy wife 
 A widow. Post thine army near the place 
 Of the wild fig-tree, where the city-walls 
 .\re low and may be scaled. Thrice in the war 
 The boldest of the foe have tried the spot, —
 
 Homer. 8i 
 
 The Ajaces and the famed Idomeneus, 
 The two chiefs born to Atreus, and the brave 
 Tydides, whether counseled by some seer, 
 Or prompted to the attempt by their own minds." 
 Then answered Hector, great in war: "All this 
 I bear in mind dear wife ; but I should stand 
 Ashamed before the men and long-robed dames 
 Of Troy, were I to keep aloof and shun 
 The conflict, coward-like. Not thus my heart 
 Prompts me, for greatly have I learned to dare 
 And strike among the foremost sons of Troy, 
 Upholding my great father's fame and mine ; 
 Vet well in my undoubting mind I know 
 The day shall come in which our sacred Troy, 
 And Priam, and the people over whom 
 Spear-bearing Priam rules, shall perish all. 
 But not the sorrows of the Trojan race. 
 Nor those of Hecuba herself, nor those 
 Of royal Priam, nor the woes that wait 
 My brothers many and brave, — who all at last. 
 Slain by the pitiless foe, shall lie in dust, — 
 Grieve me so much as thine, when some mailed Greek 
 Shall lead thee weeping hence, and take from thee 
 Thy day of freedom. Thou in Argos then 
 Shalt, at another's bidding, ply the loom, 
 And from the fountain of Messeis draw 
 Water, or from the Ilypereian spring. 
 Constrained unwilling by thy cruel lot, 
 And then shall some one say who sees thee weep, 
 'This was the wife of Hector, most renowned 
 Of the horse-taming Trojans, when they fought 
 Around their city.' So shall some one say. 
 And thou shalt grieve the more, lamenting him 
 Who haply might have kept afar the day 
 Of thy captivity. O, let the earth 
 Be heaped above my head in death before 
 I hear thy cries as tliou art borne away !" 
 So speaking, mighty Hector stretched his arms 
 To take the boy : the boy shrank crying back 
 To his fair nurse's bosom, scared to see 
 His father helmeted in glittering brass,
 
 82 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 And eying with affright the horse-hair phime 
 
 That grimly nodded from the lofty crest. 
 
 At this both parents in their fondness laughed ; 
 
 And hastily the mighty Hector took 
 
 The helmet from his brow and laid it down 
 
 Gleaming upon the ground, and, having kissed 
 
 His darling son, and tossed him up in play, 
 
 Prayed thus to Jove and all the gods of heaven : 
 
 So speaking, to the arms of his dear spouse 
 He gave the boy ; she on her fragrant breast. 
 Received him, weeping as she smiled. The chief 
 Beheld, and, moved with tender pity, smoothed 
 Her forehead gently with his hand, and said : 
 
 Ajax among the Greeks takes the honors of the seventh 
 book. A huge tall man, of gigantic strength, and any amount 
 of animal courage. Conceive him wielding and hurling a 
 vast stone at his antagonist in battle, and you have Ajax as 
 he appears in Homer — a tremendous catapult, brawn dis- 
 pensing with brain, A knightly fellow nevertheless, made 
 such by his immeasurable courage. He fights Hector in 
 single combat, chosen by lot thus to respond to the Trojan 
 champion's challenge. Both heroes do mightily, but night 
 closes down on a drawn battle between them. After trying 
 their best, eacli to perforate the other with a spear, and then, 
 in default of that, each to crush the other with a missile mass 
 of rock, they exchange comi)liments and souvenirs, and get 
 them back, the twain, severally to their own. It is a gallant 
 story, of its own sort — a very poor sort. You are reminded 
 of Scott's " Lady of the Lake " — but the later is the better, 
 morally — "saner" even, if Mr. Matthew Arnold will let us 
 say it, who thinks that Greek and Roman literature is suffi- 
 ciently saner than our modern, to be a good cure, if well 
 studied. Antenor, on the Trojan side, is for surrendering 
 Helen. Paris will not hear a word of it. His stolen booty, 
 however, he will restore, and, generous soul, add to it of his
 
 Homer. 83 
 
 private wealth. The Greeks spurn the offer, but the two 
 hosts under truce take care of their dead. The visage of 
 war now relents and actually is wet with tears. Thank 
 Homer for letting his warriors weep! Well, they weep self- 
 ishly not so very seldom, but here are gracious human tears 
 of remorse over the slain. The Greeks, for their part, 
 drowned their sorrows that night in feast and wine — Jove 
 meantime thundering ominously. The revelers were awe- 
 struck. They spilled from their cups in pious libation to the 
 Thunderer and so — continued to drink. 
 
 The eighth book gives us another session of the Olympian 
 gods in council. Jupiter forbids to his subordinate divinities 
 further meddling in the fight. He balances his scales in the 
 heavens, to exhibit the fortune that he has decreed for the 
 combatants. The Trojan scale goes up, which, contrary to 
 what would be our notion of fitness in the matter, indicates 
 that Troy was to gain. Milton, imitating Homer, reverses, 
 however, the indication, in that celebrated passage of the 
 Paradise Lost. Our readers will recall the passage, but they 
 will too thank us for saving them the trouble to look it up 
 in their Milton. Satan has invaded Eden to tempt Adam 
 and Eve. He is there found and confronted by Gabriel. 
 Satan prepares for fight, but "the Eternal " 
 
 Hung forth in lieaven his golden scales, yet seen 
 Betwixt Astr?ea and the Scorpion sign, 
 Wherein all things created first he weigh'd, 
 The pendulous round earth with balanced air 
 In counterpoise ; now ponders all events, 
 Battels, and realms: in these he put two weights, 
 The sequel each of parting and of fight : 
 The latter quick upflew and kick'd the beam. 
 
 This Gabriel saw, and said to Satan, 
 
 " Look up. 
 
 And read thy lot in yon celestial sign, 
 
 Where thou art weigh 'd, and shown how light, how weak,
 
 84 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 If thou resist. The Fiend look'd up, and knew 
 His mounted scale aloft : nor more ; but fled 
 Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night." 
 
 One is not to regard Milton as in these things borrowing 
 from Homer, much less plagiarizing from him. The true state 
 of the case rather is that, by long unchallenged convention 
 'among scholars and men of taste, it had already in Milton's 
 time come to be considered an elegancy in any modern poem, 
 to contain allusion, accommodation, adaptation, — whatever 
 form might happen, of recognition paid to the fame and 
 genius of Homer. One deeply versed in Homer is at fre- 
 quent intervals, in reading Milton especially, but not a few 
 other English poets likewise, conscious of a separate pleas- 
 ure, derived from association with the verse of the Greek. 
 An Homeric turn even of expression will, to the properly 
 cultivated sense, coinmunicate a certain indefinable grati- 
 fication. We are not saying that this is admirable, or that 
 it is not foolish. We are only saying that this is the fact. 
 For our own part, we confess that we are ourselves too 
 guilty in the matter, to be suitable judges as to whether the 
 weakness is purely a weakness or not. Pure weakness or 
 not, it is one of the traits of the classical scholar, and all 
 readers have a right to be made aware of it as such. They 
 can then cultivate it, or eschew it, for themselves, as they 
 please. 
 
 We shall content ourselves with giving for specimen from 
 the eighth book the celebrated closing lines. We are able to 
 use a fine rendering by Tennyson : 
 
 And these all nighl upon the bridge of war 
 Sat gloi^ing ; many a fire before them blazed : 
 As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
 Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
 " And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
 
 And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
 Break open to their highest, and all the stars
 
 Homer. 85 
 
 Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his iieait : 
 So many a tire between the sliips and stream 
 Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
 A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
 Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
 And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
 Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn. 
 
 A formal embassy is sent to Achilles, with munificent in- 
 ducements offered to tempt him back to the fight. To 
 appease his indignant wrath Agamemnon makes the most 
 humiliating concessions, in vain. Achilles, in the loftiest, 
 courtliest manner, disdains to be entreated. Patroclus, his 
 warm friend, begs to borrow the armor of Achilles, and go 
 in his stead. He goes and is slain. Achilles rouses to a 
 frenzy of grief and rage. He chafes that he must wait for a 
 new suit of panoply which his mother, Thetis, gets the ar- 
 morer god, Vulcan, to forge forliim over night. This panoply, 
 when finished, is a miracle of dint-proof mail. The chief 
 splendor is the shield, which Homer exhausts all his art to 
 describe. From Pope's translation of this long passage, 
 Webster, with very happy adaptation to his use, quoted the 
 closing lines, in the peroration to his famous Seventh of 
 March speech, likening to that shield of Achilles the empire 
 of the Union of these States, then by the admission of Cali- 
 fornia, just broadened out to stretch from sea to sea : 
 
 Now the broad sliield complete the artist crowned 
 With his last hand and poured the ocean round ; 
 In living silver seemed the waves to roll 
 And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole. 
 
 This whole celebrated description, as translated with un- 
 surpassed beauty and brilliancy by our American Bryant, we 
 give for our farewell extract from the Iliad. Poets, also when 
 they are only translating, have their moods of special felicity, 
 and here is translator Ikyant in one of the very highest of 
 such moods with him ; the present writer woidd not feel that
 
 86 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 he needed it, but he once, in fact, received from Bryant him- 
 self the assurance that this was indeed the case : 
 
 And first he forged the huge and massive shield, 
 Divinely wrought in every part, — its edge 
 Clasped with a triple border, white and bright. 
 A silver belt hung from it, and its folds 
 Were five ; a crowd of figures on its disk 
 Were fashioned by the artist's passing skill. 
 For here he placed the earth and heaven, and here 
 The great deep and the never-resting sun 
 And the full moon, and here he set the stars 
 That shine in the round heaven, — the Pleiades, 
 The Hyades, Orion in his strength, 
 And the Bear near him, called by some the Wain, 
 That, wheeling, keeps Orion still in sight. 
 Yet bathes not in the waters of the sea. 
 
 There placed he two fair cities full of men. 
 In one were marriages and feasts ; they led 
 The brides with flaming torches from their bowers, 
 Along the streets, with many a nuptial song. 
 There the young dancers whirled, and flutes and lyres 
 Gave forth their sounds, and women at the doors 
 Stood and admired. Meanwhile a multitude 
 Was in the forum, where a strife went on, — 
 Two men contending for a fine, the price 
 Of one who had been slain. Before the crowd 
 One claimed that he had paid the fine, and one 
 Denied that aught had been received, and both 
 Called for the sentence which should end the strife. 
 The people clamored for both sides, for both 
 Had eager friends ; the heralds held the crowd 
 In check ; the elders, upon polished stones, 
 Sat in a sacred circle. Each one took, 
 In turn, a herald's scepter in his hand. 
 And, vising, gave his sentence. In the midst 
 Two talents lay in gold, to be the meed 
 Of him whose juster judgment should prevail. 
 
 Around the other city sat two hosts 
 In shining armor, bent to lay it waste. 
 Unless the dwellers would divide their wealth, —
 
 Homer. 87 
 
 All that their pleasant homes contained, — and yield 
 
 The assailants half. As yet the citizens 
 
 Had not complied, but secretly had planned 
 
 An ambush. Their beloved wives meanwhile, 
 
 And their young children, stood and watched the walls, 
 
 With aged men among them, while the youths 
 
 Marched on, with Mars and Pallas at their head. 
 
 Both wrought in gold, with golden garments on, 
 
 Stately and large in form, and over all 
 
 Conspicuous, in bright armor, as became 
 
 The gods ; the rest were of an humbler size. 
 
 And when they reached the spot where they should lie 
 
 In ambush, by a river's side, a place 
 
 For watering herds, they sat them down, all armed 
 
 In shining brass. Apart from all the rest 
 
 They placed two sentries, on the watch to spy 
 
 The approach of sheep and horned kine. Soon came 
 
 The herds in sight ; two shepherds walked with them. 
 
 Who, all unweeting of the evil nigh, 
 
 Solaced their task with music from their reeds. 
 
 The warriors saw and rushed on them, and took 
 
 And drave away large prey of beeves, and flocks 
 
 Of fair white sheep, whose keepers they had slain. 
 
 When the besiegers in their council heard 
 
 The sound of tumult at the watering-place, 
 
 They sprang upon their nimble-footed steeds, 
 
 And overtook the pillagers. Both bands 
 
 Arrayed their ranks and fought beside the stream. 
 
 And smote each other. There did Discord rage. 
 
 And Tumult, and the great Destroyer, Fate. 
 
 One wounded warrior she had seized alive. 
 
 And one unwounded yet, and through the field 
 
 Dragged by the foot another, dead. Her robe 
 
 Was reddened o'er the shoulders with the blood 
 
 From human veins. Like living men they ranged 
 
 The battle-field, and dragged by turns the slain. 
 
 There too he sculptured a broad fallow field 
 Of soft rich mould, thrice plowed, and over which 
 Walked many a plowman, guiding to and fro 
 His steers, and when on their return they reached 
 The border of the field the master came
 
 88 Classic Greek Course in Etiglish. 
 
 To meet them, placing in the hands of each 
 
 A goblet of rich wine. Then turned they back 
 
 Along the furrows, diligent to reach 
 
 Their distant end. All dark behind the plow 
 
 The ridges lay, a marvel to the sight, 
 
 Like real furrows, though engraved in gold. 
 
 There, too, the artist placed a field which lay 
 Deep in ripe wheat. With sickles in their hands 
 The laborers reaped it. Here the handfuls fell 
 Upon the ground ; there binders tied them fast 
 With bands, and made them sheaves. Three binders went 
 Close to the reapers, and behind them boys. 
 Bringing the gathered handfuls in their arms. 
 Ministered to the binders. Staff in hand. 
 The master stood among them by the side 
 Of the ranged sheaves and silently rejoiced. 
 Meanwhile the servants underneath an oak 
 Prepared a feast apart ; they sacrificed 
 A falling ox and dressed it, while the maids 
 Were kneading for the reapers the white meal. 
 
 A vineyard also on the shield he graved, 
 Beautiful, all of gold, and heavily 
 Laden with grapes. Black were the clusters all ; 
 The vines were stayed on rows of silver stakes. 
 He drew a blue trench round it, and a hedge 
 Of tin. One only path there was by which 
 The vintagers could go to gather grapes. 
 Young maids and striplings of a tender age 
 Bore the sweet fruit in baskets. Midst them all, 
 A youth from his shrill harp drew pleasant sounds, 
 And sang with soft voice to the murmuring strings. 
 They danced around him, beating with quick feet 
 The ground, and sang and shouted joyously. 
 
 And there the artist wrought a herd of beeves, 
 High-horned, and sculptured all in gold and tin. 
 They issued lowing from their stalls to seek 
 Their pasture, by a murmuring stream, that ran 
 Rapidly through its reeds. Four herdsmen, graved 
 In gold, were with the beeves, and nine fleet dugs 
 Followed. Two lions, seizing on a bull 
 Among the foremost cattle, dragged him off
 
 Homer. 89 
 
 Fearfully bellowing ; hounds and herdsmen rushed 
 To rescue him. The lions tore their prey, 
 And lapped the entrails and the crimson blood. 
 Vainly tlie shepherds pressed around and urged 
 Their dogs, that shrank from fastening with their teeth 
 Upon the lions, but stood near and bayed. 
 
 There also did illustrious Vulcan grave 
 A fair, broad pasture, in a pleasant glade, 
 Full of white sheep, and stalls, and cottages, 
 And many a shepherd's fold with sheltering roof. 
 
 And there illustrious Vulcan also wrought 
 A dance, — a maze like tliat which Daedalus, 
 In the broad realm of Gnossus once contrived 
 For fair-haired Ariadne. Blooming youths 
 And lovely virgins, tripping to light airs. 
 Held fast each other's wrists. The maidens wore 
 Fine linen robes : the youths had tunics on 
 Lustrous as oil, and woven daintily. 
 
 The maids wore wreaths of flowers ; the young men swords 
 Of gold in silver belts. They bounded now 
 In a swift circle, — as a potter whirls 
 With both his hands a wheel to try its speed, 
 Sitting before it, — then again they crossed 
 Each other, darting to their former place. 
 A nmltitude around that joyous dance 
 Gathered, and were amused, while from the crowd 
 Two tumblers raised their song, and flung themselves 
 About among the band that trod the dance. 
 
 Last on the border of that glorious shield. 
 He graved in all its strength the ocean-stream. 
 
 The story of the end is soon told. PanopHed from Vul- 
 can's forge, Achilles rages through the field of fight, killing 
 retail and wholesale, until every living Trojan but Hector 
 is driven within tlie city walls. Hector himself is smitten 
 with panic ; he flees before his foe three times about the cir- 
 cuit of the walls, watched, with violently contrasted emotions, 
 by his countrymen on the one hand, and by the hostile Greeks 
 on the other. Achilles at last kills him, but not before he 
 has turned to bay, with courage recovered in vain. The
 
 90 Classic Greek Course in EnglisJi. 
 
 ignoble victor, with gratuitous indignity to the dead, ties the 
 corpse to his chariot, and, driving furiously, drags it head 
 downward in the dust. This is after the mean-spirited 
 Greeks have come up, and, each one with several malice, 
 gashed the lifeless body with numerous additional wounds. 
 It is a dreadful story. ^Ve withhold from our readers further 
 detail of its horrors. The worst we have spared them. 
 
 At the suit of poor Priam, aged father to Hector, the savage 
 Achilles does relent at last to let the dishonored body be 
 carried off to Troy. The poem closes with the funeral of 
 Hector. 
 
 The latter part of the poem, thus rapidly summarized, is 
 very fine in its own horrible way. There are reliefs too of 
 exquisite patlios interspersed throughout. 
 
 It is curious now to recall that we do not know, even 
 within half a millennium, when Homer lived. We do not 
 know where he was born. We do not know his name. 
 Homer we call him, but Homer very likely is a name for the 
 man's vocation, rather than for the man. It is much as if we 
 said. The Poet. So the Greeks often did name Homer, " the 
 poet." To them he was the poet by eminence. 
 
 But this name, of whose bearer we know so little, what a 
 power it has been, what a power it yet is, in the world of 
 letters! We could go on now from this point and write a 
 volume about Homer's literary influence ; but, after mention- 
 ing that there are certain shorter pieces which go under the 
 name of Homeric Hymns, though probably not of Homeric 
 authorship, and that there are in ancient Greek one or two 
 amusing burlesque parodies of Homer, (of which the Battle 
 of the Frogs and Mice is the best known,) we proceed to 
 present in brief the Odyssey to our readers. 
 
 We begin with a page or two out of Prof. Jebb's " Primer 
 of Greek Literature " — this for the plot and story of the poem 
 — and then with specimen extracts, too few, in versified 
 translation, reluctantly cry, " Claiidite jam rivos," (Virgilian
 
 Homer. 9 1 
 
 Latin for " There now, that will do,") and shut down the 
 gates on our flowing and urgent stream. But let not our 
 readers fail to impress themselves deeply with the spirit, nay, 
 even with the form, of Tennyson's "Lotos-eaters," and his 
 " Ulysses." Those exquisite poems are Homer, reaching 
 out so far his hand of power to lay it on the genius of our 
 times. Here is Prof. Jebb's reduction of the Odyssey ; 
 twenty-four books of Greek dactylic hexameter, think of it, 
 in a little page or two of English prose : 
 
 *' The Odyssey means the Poem of O-dys sens, (or, as the 
 Romans called him, U-lys'ses,) who was the king of the island 
 of Ith'a-ca, and the cleverest of all the Greek princes who 
 fought against Troy. When Troy was taken, Odysseus and 
 his followers sailed for Ithaca. But on their way they were 
 driven to the land of the Cy-clo'pes, a savage race of one-eyed 
 giants ; and here Odysseus put out the eye of the Cyclops 
 Pol'y-phe'mus, after that monster had eaten six of the hero's 
 comrades. Now Po-sei'don, the god of the sea, was the father 
 of Polyphemus, and Poseidon, in revenge, doomed Odysseus 
 to wander far and wide over the sea to strange lands. When 
 the Odyssey begins, it is ten years since the fall of Troy, and 
 Odysseus is still far away from home in the island of 0-gyg'i-a, 
 at the center of the sea. For seven years the nymph Ca-lyp'so, 
 ('concealment,') who loves him, has detained him there 
 against his will. Meanwhile his wife, Pen-el'o-pe, in Ithaca, 
 has been courted by more than a hundred suitors, lawless, 
 violent men, who feast riotously in the house of Odysseus, as 
 if it were their own. She tried to gain time by pretending 
 that she wished to finish a fine winding-sheet, which she was 
 weaving, before she made her choice; and every night she 
 took down what she had woven by day. But when she had 
 done thus for three years, the suitors found out the trick, 
 and became more urgent than ever. And now Telemachus, 
 the son of Odysseus, is urged by the friendly goddess Athene 
 to go in search of his father to Pylos, in the Peloponnesus,
 
 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 where he is entertained by king Nestor, and then to Sparta, 
 where he is the guest of king Menelaus. 
 
 " Here our story goes back to Odysseus. The god Hermes 
 tells Calypso from Zeus that she must let him go, and she 
 obeys. Odysseus sails from her island on a sort of raft which 
 he has made for himself. His old enemy, the sea-god 
 Poseidon, presently espies him, and wrecks his raft ; but a 
 sea-goddess, Ino, gives him a magic scarf, which buoys him 
 up, and he comes safe to the island of the Phae-a'ci-ans, a rich 
 and happy people near to the gods and famous as seamen, 
 whose orchards bear fruit all the year round. The king 
 Al-cin'o-us entertains Odysseus, who relates all his strange 
 adventures ; how (before he came to Calypso's isle) he and 
 his companions visited the isle of the enchantress Cir'ce, who 
 changed the others into swine, while he himself was saved 
 by a charmed herb called ?noly, and persuaded her to restore 
 his friends to the human form ; how they passed by the shore 
 of the sweet-singing Sirens, and between Scylla and Charyb'- 
 dis ; and how at last all his comrades perished because they 
 had slain the sacred oxen of the sun-god. 
 
 " Then a Phseacian crew took Odysseus back to Ithaca 
 in a ship. His faithful swineherd Eu-mae'us does not know 
 him, for A-the'ne has disguised him as an old beggar-man ; 
 but his old dog, Argus, knows his master, who has been 
 twenty years away ; he w'ags his tail and drops his ears as 
 the beggar-man comes near, and dies. Meanwhile Tele- 
 machus comes back from his search. Athene reveals his 
 father to him, and father and son arrange a plan of vengeance 
 on the suitors. Odysseus, still disguised, has an audience of 
 Penelope, pretending to bring news of her husband, but nar- 
 rowly escapes being discovered through his old nurse, Eu'ry- 
 cle'a, recognizing a scar as she is washing his feet. Penelope, 
 inspired by Athene, now says that she will wed that suitor 
 who can send an arrow from the bow of the hero Eu'ry-tus 
 — an heirloom in the house — through the helve-holes of
 
 Homer. 93 
 
 twelve pole-axes put one behind another in the hall. Not 
 one of the suitors can even string the bow. But the disguised 
 Odysseus bends it easily, and sends an arrow clean througli 
 the holes. This is the signal for the slaughter of the suitors. 
 Odysseus showers his arrows on them, and finally, helped by 
 Telemachus and two trusty servants, slays them all. Now at 
 last he reveals himself to his wife, and tells her the story of 
 his journeys. The twenty-fourth book tells how the god 
 Hermes led the shades of the suitors beneath the earth ; how 
 Odysseus in Ithaca was made known to his father La-er'tes ; 
 how he overcame the kinsfolk of the suitors who sought to 
 avenge them ; and how he was reconciled to his people." 
 
 Such, in Professor Jebb's abstract, is the story of the 
 Odyssey. With the omission of the incidents in detail, and 
 with the absence of the charm of Homer's manner, the fasci- 
 nation is, we feel, pretty well exorcised out of the plot. We 
 must try to make up as well as we can to our readers their 
 unavoidable loss, by relating some of the most memorable of 
 tlie episodes of Ulysses's wanderings, giving them these in full 
 by means of a translation. What translation shall we use .'* 
 
 We have, of course, our choice among many different trans- 
 lations of the Odyssey. George Chapman rendered the poem 
 in his free and dashing style. Pope, with that fatal facility of 
 his in rhymed heroics, which he was able to impart to jour- 
 neymen serving under him in the work, reeled off, in para- 
 phrase of the Od)ssey, an endless succession of well-turned 
 couplets, full of spirit, only not in the Greek's spirit, full in 
 fact of almost any merit save the merit of truth to nature and 
 to Homer. Cowper followed Pope in translating the Odys- 
 sey, as he had followed him in translating the Iliad. Blank 
 verse was his medium. It is a pity that in translating Homer 
 Cowper suffered liimself to be corrupted, from the admirable 
 simplicity and modulated smoothness of verse that charac- 
 terize his work in tlie " Task," to an almost barbarous imita- 
 tion of Milton's manneristic pomp of Latinized diction and
 
 94 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 inverted construction. The result is, two laboriously and 
 meritoriously poor, unreadable poems. Mr. Philip Stanhope 
 Worsley, in 1861, performed a feat in translation of the Odys- 
 sey which, but that he actually did perform it, we should 
 certainly have pronounced to be impossible. He produced a 
 long poem in the Spenserian stanza, which i^ at the same 
 time a fine poem in English, and a decidedly successful pre- 
 sentation of the Odyssey. Many a trace indeed that Cowper 
 would yield, of the Homeric in form, the classical scholar 
 misses in Worsley — hardly, however, any trace that, be he 
 man of taste as well as classical scholar, he misses with re-- 
 gret. With sufficiently numerous reminders throughout, of 
 Homeric words and phrases, Mr. Worsley's idiom is still 
 mainly the idiom of English, not of Greek. But the Homeric 
 spirit is transfused with scholarly sense and conscientious 
 fidelity. One notices, no doubt, something introduced of 
 archaism in English diction, which adulterates the effect a 
 little from perfect purity of normal modern impression. But 
 there is an onward movement so strong and urgent, that you 
 do not feel the flow of narrative to be interrupted by the 
 transition from stanza to stanza, and you are conscious all 
 the time of being involved in an ambient atmosphere of real 
 poetry. In truth, there is, perhaps, at this point detected the 
 vice of too much virtue. That is, Mr. Worsley is not always 
 willing to be tame when his original is tame, and to be humbly 
 realistic when his original is so. For instance, if Homer 
 gives the area of a garden as four acres, Mr. Worsley will per- 
 haps avoid that arithmetical statement and leave it to his 
 reader's imagination to estimate the acreage. Of course avoid- 
 ances like this on Mr. Worsley's part, if they were frequent, as 
 they are not, would prevent him from representing fully the 
 spirit, as they would likewise from representing the form, of 
 Homer. But occasions for abatement of praise are few in- 
 deed, and you are fairly forced to acknowledge that Mr. Wors- 
 ley has achieved a splendid feat of poetry and translation.
 
 Homer. 95 
 
 On the whole, we decide on ^Vol■sley for our translator of 
 the Odyssey. 
 
 To begin, we do as epic poets are traditionally said to do, 
 we plunge into the midst of things. Ulysses, returning from 
 Troy, and escaped now from his seven years' captivity in the 
 isle of his unloved lover, the nymph Calypso, has been 
 wrecked once more, and cast this time on the coast of the 
 country of the Phse-a'ci-ans. He is all alone, and in wretched 
 plight indeed, stripped of his very clothes. But his goddess- 
 friend Athene, or Pallas-Athene, (or Minerva — the reader 
 must now familiarize himself with the Greek names of per- 
 sonages instead of the Latin, as Worsley employs the former, 
 in accordance with modern, more scholarly taste,) has a plan 
 for him. She is going to raise him up a patroness, in the 
 person of no less a lady than the daughter of the Phaeacian 
 king. Nau-sic'a-a is the maiden's name. Her father is Al- 
 cin'o-us, synonym for luxury and state. After a fashion fa- 
 miliar to Olympian divinities, Pallas's plan proceeds by 
 deceit. She assumes the appearance of an intimate friend of 
 Nausicaa's, and invites that princess out on a sort of picnic 
 excursion, that strikes one as a bit odd for the daughter of a 
 king, a very wealthy, luxurious king at that ; Nausicaa is 
 prompted by Pallas to get a turn-out from her indulgent fa- 
 ther, summon a train of attendant virgins, go forth to a rural 
 river-side, and there do a job of long-neglected clothes-wash- 
 ing. She will naturally choose the very spot where forlorn 
 Ulysses lies in a deep sleep, recovering from the fatigue and 
 the pain of his long wrestle Avith the sea. Thus much is 
 enough for making every thing plain in what here follows, 
 from the sixth book and the seventh of Worsley's translation 
 of the Odyssey. We begin with the stanza describing Pal- 
 las's visit to the chamber of Nausicaa, paid for the purpose 
 of rousing her to make the necessary excursion to the river : 
 
 Near to llic princess Iwo lianclmaiclens slept, 
 Loved Ijy tlic Graces, a ri^ht beauteous ^lair,
 
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 Couched on each side the gleaming doors. Thence swept 
 Athene, fleet as unsubstantial air, 
 And by the pillow of the virgin fair 
 Paused, like the child of ship-famed Dymas seen. 
 Equal in age, and her companion dear. 
 Such seemed the goddess both in form and mien, 
 And with these words addressed the daughter of the queen : 
 
 " Nausicaa, wherefore did thy mother bear 
 Child so forgetful ? This long wliile doth rest 
 Like lumber in the house much raiment fair. 
 Soon must thou wed and be thyself well drest. 
 And find thy bridegroom raiment of the best. 
 These are the things whence good repute is born. 
 And praises that make glad a parent's breast. 
 Come, let us both go washing with the morn, 
 So shalt thou soon have clothes becoming to be worn. 
 
 Know, thy virginity is not for long. 
 Whom the Phseacian chiefs already woo. 
 Lords of the land whence thou thyself art sprung. 
 Soon as the shining Dawn comes forth anew, 
 For wain and mules thy noble father sue, 
 Which to the place of washing shall convey 
 Girdles and robes and rugs of splendid hue. 
 This for thyself were better than essay 
 Thither to walk — the place is distant a long way." 
 
 Forthwith, her rede delivered, the Stern-eyed 
 Did to the mansions of Olympus go. 
 There, as they tell, the gods securely bide 
 In regions where the rough winds never blow, 
 Unvisited by mist or rain or snow, 
 Veiled in a volant ether, ample, clear. 
 Swept by the silver light's perpetual flow ; 
 Wherein the happy gods from year to year 
 Quaff pleasure. To those bowers Athene made repair. 
 
 Scarce had she gone when bright-throned Morning came ; 
 And, rising from her couch magnificent. 
 Fair-robed Nausicaa wondered at the dream, 
 And through the wide house to her parents went 
 Forthwith, her matter to make evident.
 
 Homer. 97 
 
 One by the hearth sat, with her maids around, 
 And on the skeins of yarn, sea-purpled, spent 
 Her morning toil. Him to the council bound, 
 Called by the lordly chiefs, just issuing forth she found. 
 
 Standing beside him, fondly thus she spake: 
 " Dear father, could you lend a wagon tall, 
 Fair-wheeled and well-equipped, that I may take 
 Robes to the stream and wash them ? for they all 
 Lie lustreless, defiled within our hall. 
 Thee most of all beseemeth in our state. 
 When the Phaeacian chiefs their council call. 
 Clothed in clean garments to attend debate. 
 Moreover five dear sons live here within thy gate, 
 
 " Two having wives, three in youth's flower unwed, 
 \Vho in the choral dances would appear 
 In clothes new-washed — this care is mine." So said 
 Nausicaa, shamed to hint in her sire's ear 
 Her marriage-hour. But he the fact saw clear. 
 And answered : " Loan of mules will I concede, 
 Or if aught else, dear child, thy heart may cheer. 
 Go — a tall wain, the servants for thy need. 
 Fair-wheeled, with upper framework shall equip with speed." 
 
 Forthwith the servants to his word obey, 
 And for her use the rolling wain prepare. 
 And yoke the mules with all the speed they may. 
 Soon from her chamber the bright raiment fair 
 Forth to the lustrous wain Nausicaa bare. 
 And in a roomy chest her mother stored 
 All kind of delicate food and viands rare. 
 And eke sweet wine did plenteously afford. 
 Which in a well-sewn goatskin for their use she pound. 
 
 Such needments she purveyed with eager toil, 
 
 Till now the virgin-princess clomb the wain 
 
 Fair-shining and a golden cruise of oil 
 
 Into her hands her mother gave right fain. 
 
 Her to anoint and her attendant train. 
 
 She then the reins took and the scourge did ply. 
 
 Onward the mules loud-clattering trouled amain.
 
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 As each his restless fellow would outvie, 
 And robes and princess bore and all her company. 
 
 So when they came to the fair-flowing river, 
 Which feeds good lavatories all the year, 
 Fitted to cleanse all sullied robes soever. 
 They from the wain the mules unharnessed there. 
 And chased them, free to crop their juicy fare 
 By the swift river, on the margent green ; 
 Then to the waters dark the vestments bare. 
 And in the stream-filled trenches stamped them clean, 
 Urging the welcome toil with emulation keen. 
 
 Which having washed and cleansed they spread before 
 The sunbeams, on the beach, where most did lie 
 Thick pebbles, by the sea- wave washed ashore. 
 So having left them in the heat to dry 
 They to the bath went down, and by and by, 
 Rubbed with rich oil, their mid-day meal essay. 
 Couched on green turf, tlie river rolling nigli ; 
 And thence, unveiling, they rise up to play. 
 While the white-armed Nausicaa leads the choral lay. 
 
 Such as adown the Erymanthian hill, 
 Or tall Taygetus, with arrows keen 
 Moves the fair Artemis, on chase to kill 
 Boars and the flying deer — around their queen, 
 Daughters of Zeus, the rural nymphs, are seen 
 At pastime ; (gladdening sight hath Leto there ;) 
 She by the face and forehead towers, I ween. 
 Right easy to be known, but all are fair — 
 So did that virgin pure amid her train appear. 
 
 But when she thought to yoke the mules and fold 
 The raiment, then Athene cast to wake 
 Odysseus, that the maid he might behold 
 Ere she returned, and following in her wake 
 To the Phaeacian town her guidance take. 
 Just then by a false aim she flung the ball 
 Far in the swirling river: the maidens brake 
 Into a long loud scream, whose echoing call 
 Odysseus roused. He sitting thus debated all :
 
 Homer. 99 
 
 " Ay me I what mortal souls inhabit here ? 
 Despiteful, wild, unjust ? — or love they well 
 The stranger and the immortal gods revere ? 
 Surely but now the female cry did swell 
 Of virgin nymphs who in the mountains dwell, 
 Or haunt the cradles whence the rivers flow, 
 Or green slope of the fountain-trickling dell — 
 Am I with men that human language know ? 
 Come, I will soon explore what cheer these coasts bestow." 
 
 The situation from this point becomes, quite innocently 
 so, a little equivocal. The ancient taste was more tolerant 
 than is the modern, of nudities in life as well as in art. In 
 art, indeed, we Christians have full easily learned to let stark 
 nakedness confront us, while we stare at it with well-schooled 
 faces blankly unashamed. Poetry is art, but somehow poetry 
 is, with us, on this point, happily more sensitive as yet than 
 are sculpture and painting ; and only Walt Whitman, and 
 Mr. Swinburne, and Oscar Wilde, and such, show us flesh- 
 tints ruddy-veined with lusty blood, in their verse. Homer 
 is, after the ethics of his age, not impure ; is, that is to say, 
 as clean at heart as Shakspeare, for example. And, of course, 
 Mr. Worsley veils the too great frankness of his original with 
 much delicacy. Still, we may as well omit some stanzas now, 
 and simply say that Odysseus (so henceforward for a while 
 we will call our old friend Ulysses), having got himself fairly 
 bathed, is clad from Nausicaa's supply of raiment, river- 
 washed and sun-dried, and is besides invested, at the gift of 
 his invaluable friend Pallas-Athene, with a peculiar air (aura, 
 we feel like calling it) of nobleness, thus described (Hc- 
 phaes'tus is Greek for Vulcan) : 
 
 As when some artist fired with plastic thought, 
 Silver doth overlay with liquid gold. 
 One by Hepluvstus and Atliene taught 
 Fair-shining forms, instinct with love, to mold. 
 She thus his shoulders did with grace enfold
 
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 And glorious head. Then silent by the main 
 He, clothed in beauty, glistering to behold, 
 Sat — whom the princess marked with wonder fain, 
 And thus admiring spake amid the bright-haired train : 
 
 But what she said we may, for brevity's sake, omit, and 
 omit also the regal damsel's address to Odysseus, inviting hiiii 
 to follow her to her father's palace. The story proceeds : 
 
 She ended, and the mules with glittering lash 
 Plied, who soon leave the river in their rear. 
 Onward continuously their swift feet flash. 
 She like an understanding charioteer 
 Scourged them with judgment, and their course did steer 
 So to precede Odysseus and the rest. 
 And the sun fell, and they the grove came near. 
 There on the earth sat down with anxious breast 
 Odysseus, and in prayer the child of Zeus addressed : 
 
 " Virgin, whose eyelids slumber not nor sleep, 
 Hear, child of Zeus ! who in the time forepast 
 Heardest me not, when in the ruinous deep 
 Poseidon whirled me with his angry blast. 
 Let me find pity in this land at last ! " 
 So prayed he, and Athene heard ; but she 
 Not yet revealed herself in form ; so vast 
 Loomed in her eyes her uncle's fierce decree 
 Against divine Odysseus, ere his land he see. 
 
 There the much-toiled divine Odysseus prayed. 
 She onward passed to the Phseacian town. 
 Drawn by the mules. But when the royal maid 
 Came to her father's halls of high renown. 
 She by the porch drew rein. Thither came down 
 Her brothers, circling her, a lucid ring ; 
 They of Phreacian youth the flower and crown, 
 Like gods to look at. Soon unharnessing 
 The mules, into the house the raiment clean they bring. 
 
 She to her chamber straight ascended. There 
 Eurymedusa old, the chamber-dame. 
 Kindled the fire — who o'er the ocean-mere 
 Borne in swift ships from land Apeira came. 
 Thenceforth assigned by right of regal claim
 
 Homer. loi 
 
 To king Alciuous, like a god revered 
 In his own land, the first in name and fame. 
 She in the halls white-armed Nausicaa reared, 
 And now the fire lit well, and sweet repast prepared. 
 
 'Twas then Odysseus toward the city bent 
 His steps. Athene, in her friendly care. 
 Rolled a thick mist around him as he went, 
 Lest of the citizens some scorner there 
 Should meet him, and assail with gibe and stare, 
 And urge rude question of his name and place. 
 Just at the entrance of the city fair 
 Pallas-Athene met him face to face, 
 Pitcher in hand, and like a girl in years and grace. 
 
 Near him she stood, and he inquired anon : 
 " Would you, dear child, vouchsafe to be my guide 
 To king Alcinous' palace? I, undone 
 With perils, and in sore affliction tried. 
 Come hither, over seas exceeding wide, 
 From a far land ; nor know I how to make 
 One friend among tlie folk that here reside. 
 Who might show mercy for a stranger's sake." 
 Whom the stern-eyed Athene answering thus bespake : 
 
 " Father, the house thou seekest I well know. 
 For the king dwelleth near my blameless sire. 
 Hist, not a word ! — and I the way will show. 
 Bend not thine eyes on any, nor aught inquire. 
 The people brook not strangers, nor aspire 
 To love the outlandish guest. Their trust is still 
 In the swift ships wherewith the deep they tire ; 
 There hath Poseidon lent them wondrous skill. 
 Fleet as a wing their barks, or thought flashed from the will. ' 
 
 This spoken, toward the mansion of the king 
 Pallas-Athene with quick steps did fare. 
 He in the track divine still following. 
 Nor the ship-famed Phaeacians were aware 
 Of stranger in their mid streets pacing there. 
 For so Athene, Ijright-haired goddess dread, 
 Appointed to befall, who always bare
 
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 "A' 
 
 Good-will within her breast toward him slie led. 
 She round his stately form a mist divine now shed. 
 
 Much did Odysseus, as he passed, admire 
 The smooth wide havens, and the glorious fleet 
 Wherewith those mariners the great deep tire, 
 Yea, and the spaces where their heroes meet, 
 And the long lofty wondrous walls, complete 
 With bastion fair and towery palisade. 
 All these he viewed, till at last his feet 
 She at the king's illustrious mansion stayed. 
 Him then in words bespake the stern-eyed goddess-maid : 
 
 " This is the palace which you bade me show. 
 Here the Zeus-nui;tured princes sit reclined 
 Feasting ; now enter, and all fear forego, 
 Since it is always on the bold in mind, 
 Strange though his stock, that fortune shines most kind. 
 Our lady queen (Arete is her name) 
 Sitting within the halls you first will find, 
 Sprung from a line of parentage, the same 
 With that, wherefrom the king himself, Alcinous, came. 
 
 " First to Poseidon Periboia bare 
 Nausithous — she of brave Eurymedon 
 The youngest, and of women far most fair. 
 Her father once high sovereignty did own 
 O'er the proud race of Giants, and had sown 
 .Storms of red ruin through the land, nor yet 
 Died in their crime the infatuate crowd alone ; 
 He also fell ; but her Poseidon met, 
 Loved, and Phseacian king Nausithous did beget. 
 
 " And he Rhexenor and Alcinous. I,o ! 
 Tlie first new-wed, within his halls serene, 
 Shot by Apollo with his silver bow, 
 Died, and one child, a daughter, left, I ween, 
 Arete, whom Alcinous made his queen, 
 And loved and honored, as no wives elsewhere, 
 Such as in these days on the earth are seen. 
 Find honor; yea, like reverence she doth bear 
 From children, house, and people as her rightful share.
 
 Homer. 103 
 
 " Oft as she walks along the stately street, 
 Her all the people like a goddess hail 
 Beholding, and with salutations greet, 
 Since of a noble mind she doth not fail. 
 Yea, where she list good kindness to entail, 
 Even of men the quarrels to unbind 
 Not seldom her well-tempered words avail. 
 Good hope then hast thou, so the queen be kind. 
 Thy high-roofed house and friends and fatherland to find." 
 
 So the stern-eyed Athene spake to him, 
 Then leaving Scheria, lovely isle, anon, 
 The broad and barren ocean fields did skim. 
 And moving o'er the plain of Marathon 
 And through the streets of Athens^ wide-wayed town, 
 Entered Erectheus' well-built house at last. 
 Odysseus to Alcinous' halls paced on, 
 And in his breast his stormy heart beat fast, 
 He pausing ere his feet the brazen threshold passed. 
 
 For, like the sun's fire or the moon's, a light 
 Far streaming through the high-roofed house did pass 
 From the long basement to the topmost height. 
 There on each side ran walls of flaming brass, 
 Zoned on the summit with a blue bright mass 
 Of cornice ; and the doors were framed of gold ; 
 Where, underneath, the brazen floor doth glass 
 Silver pilasters, which with grace uphold 
 Lintel of silver framed ; the ring was burnished gold. 
 
 And dogs on each side of the doors there stand. 
 Silver and gold, the which in ancient day 
 HepliKstus wrought with cunning brain and hand. 
 And set for sentinels to hold the way. 
 Death cannot tame them, nor the years decay. 
 And from the shining threshold thrones were set, 
 .Skirting the walls in lustrous long array. 
 On to the far room where the women met, 
 With many a rich robe strewn and woven coverlet. 
 
 Tliere the Phajacian chieftains eat ami drink. 
 While golden youths on pedestals upbear
 
 I04 Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 ^<s' 
 
 Each in his outstretched hand a lighted link, 
 Which nightly on the royal feast doth flare. 
 And in the house are fifty handmaids fair ; 
 Some in the mill the yellow corn grind small, 
 Some fly the looms, and shuttles twirl, which there 
 Flash like the quivering leaves of aspen tall ; 
 And from the close-spun weft the trickling oil will fall. 
 
 For as Phaeacian men surpass in skill 
 All mortals that in earth's wide kingdoms dwell 
 Through the waste ocean, whereso'er tliey will, 
 The cleaving keel obedient to impel — 
 So far their women at the loom excel ; 
 Since all brave handiwork and mental grace 
 Pallas-Athene gave, them to know well, 
 Outside the court-yard stretched a planted space 
 Of orchard, and a fence environed all the place. 
 
 There in full prime the orchard-trees grow tall. 
 Sweet fig, pomegranate, apple fruited fair, 
 Pear and the healthful olive. Each and all 
 Both summer droughts and chills of winter spare ; 
 All the year round they flourish. Some the air 
 Of zephyr warms to life, some doth mature. 
 Apple grows old on apple, pear on pear. 
 Fig follows fig, vintage doth vintage lure, 
 Thus the rich revolution doth for aye endure. 
 
 With well-sunned floor for drying, there is seen 
 The vineyard. Here the grapes they cull, there tread. 
 Here falls the blossom from the clusters green ; 
 There the first blushings by the suns are shed. 
 Last, flowers forever fadeless — bed by bed ; 
 Two streams ; one waters the whole garden fair; 
 One through the courtyard near the house is led, 
 Whereto with pitchers all the folk repair. 
 All these the god-sent gifts to king Alcinous were. 
 
 Standing, Odysseus gazed his fill, then passed 
 The entrance, and behold ! the chieftains pour 
 Wine to the keen-eyed Argus-slayer, the last 
 Ere they retire for sleep. He onward bore, 
 Wrapt in Athene's mist, and paused before
 
 Homer. 105 
 
 Arete and Alcinous. There the queen 
 He clasping by the knees crouched on the floor ; 
 Then the mist melted, which did erewhile screen 
 His form, and all stood breathless when tlie man was seen. 
 
 He suppliant spake: "Arete, at thy knees, 
 Before thy husband and thy guests, I bow, 
 Ciiild of divine Rhexenor ! O to these 
 May Heaven grant glory in their lifetime now, 
 And children after them witli wealth endow, 
 Heirs of the office which the people gave ! 
 But ye kind issue to my prayers allow ! 
 Ship to convey me to my home I crave, 
 Who, friendless many a year, grieve sore by land and wave." 
 
 There he made end, and on the hearthstone sate 
 Amid the ashes, by the fire ; but all 
 Silent and stirless in their places wait. 
 And a wide lull pervades the festival ; 
 Till at last among them in the hall 
 Spake hero Echeneiis ; eldest he 
 Of the Phseacian chiefs, and therewithal 
 Gifted with words and grave authority — 
 He now, their firm well-wisher, spake advisingly : 
 
 " Alcinous, this is neither fair nor just 
 That suppliant stranger on thy hearthstone sit. 
 Low in tlie embers and defiled with dust. 
 All wait thy word, expecting what is fit. 
 Come to a silver throne our guest admit, 
 Then from the heralds mingled wine demand, 
 That to the Thunderer we may offer it. 
 Who by tlie awful suppliant still doth stand. 
 And let the house-dame bring what food she finds at hand." 
 
 When the divine strength of Alcinous heard, 
 He rose and took the stranger's hand anon, 
 Hand of Odysseus proved in deed and word, 
 And made him rest upon a glittering throne. 
 Displacing brave Laodamas his son, 
 Wiio always sat there, at Ids father's side. 
 His best-beloved ; and of the handmaids one
 
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 From golderii mn, well-chased and beautified, 
 Over a silver basin poured the lustral tide, 
 
 And spread before liim the well-polished board 
 Whereon the staid house-dame provision set, 
 Whate'er of best the palace might afford. 
 So the divine Odysseus drank and ate ; 
 Nor did the king Alcinous aught forget. 
 But turned him to the herald, and thus spake : 
 " Wine mix for all, Pontonous ! Resteth yet 
 That we to Thunderer Zeus libations make. 
 Who still waits near at hand for awful suppliant's sake." 
 
 So he the wine mixed, and to each did bear. 
 When they had poured and drunk, Alcinous said : 
 " Hear me, Phaeacian chiefs, while I declare 
 The meaning of my mind. Hence now to bed ; 
 And, with more elders hither summoned, 
 To-morrow we our guest will entertain 
 Here in the halls, and sacrifices spread 
 Before the gods, and convoy o'er the main 
 Remember, that at last forgetting grief and pain. 
 
 Hence to his native land, however far, 
 Safe in our guidance he may sail the sea 
 Rejoicing, and no danger may debar, 
 Nor midway onset of calamity. 
 His foot from landing. There high Destiny 
 Must rule her own, whose thought can no one scan. 
 And he must bear the doom and the decree 
 Which at his hour of birth the dark Fates span, 
 When first his mother knew that she had borne a man. 
 
 " But if that he descended from the skies. 
 Immortal offspring of immortal race. 
 Then to the gods some other scheme devise. 
 For oft the gods here meet us face to face. 
 Oft use our glorious hecatombs to grace. 
 And sitting feast, as we ourselves, at will ; 
 Yea, if one find them in a lonely place. 
 No mask they wear ; for we are near them still. 
 Tike the Cyclopean race and Giants rude of skill."
 
 Homer. 107 
 
 But waiy-wise Odysseus made lejily : 
 " Alcinous, far be such a thought from me ! 
 Not one like those who hold the realms on high 
 In form or feature dost thou chance to see, 
 But mortal, as on earth poor mortals be, 
 Yea, most my case may I with theirs compare, 
 Whom most ye know bowed down with misery. 
 'Twere all too long the vast sum to declare 
 Of sorrow, pain, and toil, the gods have made me bear. 
 
 " But let me feed in peace, though sore distrest. 
 Nothing more shameless is than Appetite, 
 Who still, whatever anguish load our breast. 
 Makes us remember in our own despite 
 Both food and drink. Thus I, thrice wretched wight. 
 Carry of inward grief surpassing store, 
 Yet she constrains me with superior might, 
 Wipes clean away the memory-written score. 
 And takes whate'er I give, and taking craveth more. 
 
 " Ye with the morning in these halls convene, 
 And lend sweet escort o'er the barren main ; 
 Yea, let life leave me, when I once have seen 
 My land, my servants, and my home again ! " 
 He ended, and they all assent, right faiu. 
 To lend whate'er the stranger may require, 
 For that his word with fate accordeth plain. 
 So having poured, and drunk their heart's desire, 
 All to their several chambers for the night retire. 
 
 There was divine Odysseus left behind ; 
 But god-like King Alcinous in the hall 
 Still with Arete near his guest reclined ; 
 And the attendants, at their master's call, 
 Each means, each remnant, of the festival 
 Clear with quick hands; and then the queen heg.Tu, 
 Whose eyes on that familiar raiment fall 
 The which herself and her own women span. 
 Sl>e, turning, in winged words did thus acccjst the man : 
 
 " Stranger, this question will I first essay — ■ 
 
 Wlio and whence art thou? and of whom didst crave
 
 io8 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 These garments ? for methought I heard thee say 
 Thou earnest hither wandering o'er the wave ?" 
 Then said the wary-wise Odysseus brave: 
 " Hard is it, queen, in sequence due to show 
 My griefs ; so many the celestials gave ; 
 But this one matter, this one tale of woe, 
 I will to-night set forth which thou art fain to know. 
 
 " Far in the deep sea lies an island fair, 
 Ogygia named. A bright-haired goddess dread. 
 Daughter of Atlas, doth inhabit there, 
 Wily Calypso, aye unvisited 
 Alike by god and man. Me fate hath led 
 Lone to that hearth o'ei-whelmed with anguish dire; 
 For in the middle ocean's wine-dark bed 
 Zeus, as I wandered, the Olympian Sire, 
 From heaven my swift ship clave in sunder with white fire 
 
 " There all the rest of my companions died. 
 But I for nine days ever onward sweep, 
 Whirled by the waters, on a keel astride, 
 Till the tenth night spread blackening o'er the deep. 
 Then from this nymph did I salvation reap. 
 Who took me to herself and cared for me. 
 Yea, thought to hold me in her island-keep. 
 Blest with an ageless immortality; 
 Nathless the inward heart could not persuaded be. 
 
 " Seven years I tarrying stained with many a tear 
 Vestments immortal by Calypso lent ; 
 But when came on the eighth revolving year. 
 Whether it were that Zeus a message sent 
 Or that Calypso changed her own intent, 
 Homeward she bade me o'er the seas repair. 
 So on a well-compacted bark I went ; 
 She corn and wine gave, and apparel fair, 
 And in my lee made stream a soft sweet harmless air. 
 
 " Ten days and seven my gentle course I keep ; 
 But on the eighteenth, for the first time seen. 
 Loomed shadowy elevation in the deep, 
 Your earth — right glad was then my heart, I ween. 
 Ah ! wretched ! yet remained exceeding teen !
 
 Homer. 109 
 
 Since dark Poseidon a long sweiveless blast 
 Launched on my ship, now furrowing wide ravine ; 
 Now through the deep upheaving mountains vast, 
 Till to the bark I groaning failed to cling at last. 
 
 " Her the wild storms break up ; but I swam through 
 The great sea-gorge, till near to this your land 
 Whirled by the waters and the wind I drew. 
 Then had the waves on your ungentle strand, 
 Rock-fenced, where vainly I had striven to stand. 
 Dashed me; but I with the retiring flood 
 Swam backward ; and at last a spot to land, 
 Found, smooth of rocks, and overhung with wood, 
 Even at the river's mouth, wind-sheltered, calm, and good. 
 
 " There did I throw myself, recovering heart, 
 And in that stound ambrosial night came on. 
 I from the rain-fed river moved apart. 
 And, of the woodland chambers choosing one, 
 Piled the dead leaves about my lair anon. 
 God sent a measureless rest my soul to steep, 
 While in the leaves I lay, with toil foredone, 
 Night, morning, noon, until the day was deep. 
 When the sun fell mine eyes looked up from their sweet sleep, 
 
 " And soon the handmaids of thy daughter find 
 With her, like goddess in their midst, at play. 
 Then spake I suppliant ; nor of prudent mind 
 Failed she at all ; yea, hardly one would say 
 That youth these matters could so nicely weigh. 
 Always the young lack wisdom ; but she sent 
 Both corn and wine my cravings to allay. 
 And washed me in the river, and garments lent. 
 Herein tlie truth I tell, albeit with anguish spent." 
 
 Him then Alcinous answering thus addressed : 
 " Stranger, my daughter was not all so wise, 
 Wiio brought you not at once to be our guest, 
 Wlien to her first you prayed in suppliant guise." 
 To whom the sage Odysseus straiglit replies: 
 " Blame not for me thy faultless child; indeed 
 She pressed mc ; but my soul did aye advise
 
 1 1 o Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Me of thy royal anger to take heed, 
 For we, the sons of men, were ever a jealous breed." 
 
 To whom Alcinous : " Stranger, no such heart, 
 To fume at nothing, in my breast I bear. 
 Rather, I ween, let justice hold her part. 
 Yet, Father Zeus, Athene, Phoebus, hear ! 
 Would of my child thou wert the husband dear; 
 Such as I see thee, and with heart like mine ! 
 House, wealth, and lands, so thou but tarry here, 
 I promise ; yet shall none by force incline 
 Thy purpose ; nor to such Zeus lend his will divine ! 
 
 " But the supreme fulfillment of thy way. 
 Whereby the end of travail thou may'st reap. 
 Know that until to-morrow I delay. 
 Thou all the while shalt lie subdued with sleep, 
 And they shall smite the levels of the deep 
 Till thou thy home and all dear things regain. 
 When thine eyes hail the land for which they weep ; 
 Aye, though it be much harder to attain 
 Than is Euboia's isle, the farthest in the main, 
 
 " As those among us who have seen declare. 
 Who once the gold-haired Rhadamanthus led 
 Over the watery wold, to visit there 
 Tityus the child of earth. Right well they sped ; 
 Yea, without toil their course was finished, 
 And on the self-same day their home-return. 
 My excellence in ships is lightly read. 
 Ere long thine own experience shall discern 
 How well my oarsmen bold the foam-white deep can churn." 
 
 Tims he his lordly purpose did declare. 
 And on much-toiled divine Odysseus came 
 Sweet stirrings at the heart, who straight with prayer 
 Answered, and spake a word, and named a name ; 
 " Zeus father ! O that he make good the same ! 
 Grant that Alcinous by his promise stand ! 
 So by this deed his everlasting fame 
 Shall walk the plenteous earth from land to land. 
 And I shall .sail in safety to my native strand."
 
 Homer. \\\ 
 
 But when their mutual converse now was o'er, 
 The white-armed queen her maidens bade prepare 
 A couch beneath the echoing corridor, 
 And thereon spread the crimson carpets fair, 
 Then the wide coverlets of richness rare, 
 And to arrange the blankets warm and white, 
 Wherein who sleepeth straight forgets his care. 
 They then each holding in her hand a light. 
 From the great hall pass forth and spread the robes aright. 
 
 Then standing near Odysseus thus they spake ; 
 " Now is thy couch well-furnished, stranger-guest ; 
 Haste, to refreshful i,leep thyself betake." 
 Glad sounded in his ears their sweet request. 
 There he, divine one, late so sore distrest. 
 Slept all night long by griefs unvisited. 
 Stretched loosely on the carven couch at rest. 
 Alcinous to his far-off chamber sped, 
 And there his lady wife made ready and shared his bed. 
 
 Well, one deep drink our readers have had the opportunity 
 to take from the fountain of Homer through the conduit of 
 Mr. Worsley's version. ^V'e hope they have enjoyed it. They 
 have already seen how different the Odyssey is from the 
 Iliad, in tone and spirit. For, the difference which they can- 
 not but have felt, is not the difference betw'een Bryant and 
 Worsley. It is the difference between Homer and Homer. 
 Not that part of the contrast is not to be attributed to the 
 different handlings of two different translators. But the 
 Odyssey is really in itself very broadly contrasted with the 
 Iliad. Some say that the Odyssey bears internal evidence 
 of being written by an older man than he that wrote the 
 Iliad. Of that we are by no means sure. Some say that the 
 Iliad is a poem of war, while the Odyssey is a poem of rest. 
 Rest is hardly the word that we should ourselves be willing 
 to adopt as giving the key-note to the Odyssey. \\\ truth it 
 is a little juizzling to choose two single contrasted words, for 
 discriminating the two contrasted spirits. Achilles, the hero
 
 1 1 2 Classic Greek Course in Rnglish. 
 
 of the Iliad, is incarnate valor, revenge, and war ; Ulysses, 
 the hero of the Odyssey, is the impersonation of fortitude, 
 craft, and adventure. Valor, on the one hand, fortitude on 
 the other, are, perhaps, the two contrasted spirits, as nearly 
 as two words can severally express them. In the Iliad every 
 thing is dared ; in the Odyssey every thing is endured. 
 Tragedy overcasts the sky of the Iliad, and the sunset of 
 its day is somber. In the Odyssey, there is betrayed more 
 willingness, on the part of the author, to satisfy his audience 
 with a happy catastrophe. There is surfeit, to be sure, of 
 suffering in the Odyssey, but all's well that ends well, and 
 on the whole the Odyssey ends well. Those extraordinary 
 suitors of Penelope meet condign punishment, and Ulysses 
 comes triumphantly by his own. We have given, no doubt, a 
 somewhat unsatisfactory account of the difference between 
 the Iliad and the Odyssey. Let our readers provide for 
 themselves a better. Meantime, address we ourselves to the 
 task of further supplying them Avith the means of doing 
 this. 
 
 Alcinous is a name that those of our readers will already 
 have become familiar with, who are in the habit of reading 
 poetry such as Milton's or Tennyson's, frequent with classical 
 allusion. The rich Phaeacian king has furnished theme of 
 illustration to many a poet dealing in luxurious description. 
 Those same Phaeacians, by the way, were inhabitants of an 
 island called by Homer Sche'ri-a [Ske'ri-a], identified with 
 probability as Cor-cy'ra, now Corfu. The gardens of Al- 
 cinous are twice alluded to by Milton, in describing the gar- 
 den of Eden — both times as only one among several examples 
 of profuse luxuriance and beauty. Milton's genius was well 
 served by his learning, and from his store of far allusion he 
 could lavish freely, without any fear of impoverishing him- 
 self. In the fifth book of his " Paradise Lost " he says that 
 once, to entertain an expected angel guest from heaven. Eve 
 sought and found about her there in the garden of Eden,
 
 Homer. 113 
 
 Whatever earth, all-bearing mother, yields 
 In India East or West, or middle shore, 
 In Pontus or the Punic coast, or where 
 Alcinous reigned. 
 
 Again in book ninth : 
 
 Spot more delicious than those gardens feigned 
 Or of revived Adonis, or renowned 
 Alcinous, host of old Laertes' son ; 
 Or that, not mystic, where the sapient king 
 Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian spouse. 
 
 The imagination of poets has always delighted to linger in 
 the dream of blessed islands where every thing ever is good and 
 fair. But Homer in this was beforehand with all the rest. 
 
 The courtly hospitality of the Ph^acians, exercised toward 
 Ulysses, puts that sage and hero on his very handsomest be- 
 havior. There is a signal exception, presently to be noted, 
 but for the most part his characteristic craft appears only in 
 well-turned compliments to his host, and to his host's friends, 
 all of them. 
 
 A banquet was served in the palace halls next day, at 
 which Ulysses listened to the Phaeacian bard De-mod'o-cus, 
 while that prototype of all the minstrels of all the poets since 
 Homer, chanted some very moving lays of the siege of Troy. 
 Ulysses was melted to tears, tears, however, which he man- 
 aged to hide from all eyes save those of Alcinous the king. 
 With a royal delicacy, worthy of Louis XIV. of France, Al- 
 cinous proposed that Demodocus cease singing, for athletic 
 games to be celebrated. In the progress of these games, one 
 graceless braggart, excited by victory over all competitors, 
 chaffed Ulysses as sordidly unwilling and unskilled to try 
 athletic sports. This young fellow made a capital mistake. 
 Odysseus took fire, and bragged beyond the braggart. More- 
 over, he made good liis boasts, covering himself with fresh 
 glory in llic eyes of his entertainers by his feats of strength 
 and skill. From such games as Odysseus easily beat them 
 8
 
 114 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 in, the good-natured Phaacians turned to choral dancing, 
 performed to the music of Demodocus once more chanting 
 his minstrel lays with accompaniment of lyre. We shall not 
 dare follow this blind old bard in his chief matter of song 
 chosen for the present occasion. Suffice it to say that it 
 concerned the gods and goddesses in some of their gallant 
 misbehavior. The entertainment was of a mixed character, 
 for while Demodocus was playing and chanting, the dance, 
 we are to suppose, proceeded all the time. Alcinous, master 
 as he was in the art of luxury, had provided a climax. He 
 had two sons of his called out to exhibit their princely agility 
 and grace in dancing. With the dancing proper was joined a 
 pretty dexterity in the alternate tossing and catching of a 
 ball. Bat let a stanza of Mr. Worsley tell us about it : 
 
 One leaning backward, to the shadowy sky 
 The ball up-hurled ; the other with light bound 
 Easily caught it in his hand on high, 
 Or ever his quivering feet regained the ground. 
 This practice done, they weave the dance renowned 
 O'er the boon earth, with many a sinuous sweep 
 And glimmering interchange. The youths stand round 
 And chime and measure for the dancers keep 
 While still the great foot-pulse sounds regular and deep. 
 
 Was it not the poetry of motion "i And has not Mr. 
 Worsley rendered it fitly in his stanza 1 And shall we 
 wonder that Odysseus hereon was ready with a compliment, 
 so pleasing to his royal host that it brought the " wary- 
 wise " framer of it great prize of presents then and there 
 bestowed ? 
 
 The company adjourn to a feast, at which, as is specially 
 noted, bard Demodocus is singled out for high honor. 
 Odysseus takes the liberty of sending by the herald a choice 
 bit of roast pork, which somehow seems a much finer dainty 
 when it is described as " a choice portion from the cliine of 
 white-toothed boar, with fat enfolded all " — Odysseus, we
 
 Homer. 1 1 5 
 
 say, makes himself enough at home to send such a tidbit as 
 this, by the herald, to Demodocus, accompanying the atten- 
 tion with an elaborate compliment delivered in his own 
 proper voice to the minstrel on his minstrelsy. Demodocus 
 thus flattered is fain to gratify Odysseus with a strain, sug- 
 gested by that sage himself, about the famous Trojan Wooden 
 Horse. As our readers are to hear something further about 
 this wooden horse, when they come to study Virgil's yEneid, 
 we will let Demodocus prepare them for that, by reciting his 
 story in their hearing now : 
 
 Tlien did the god the minstrel's heart inspire, 
 And he the strings swept, and took up the lay 
 Where the Achaians to their camp set fire, 
 And in the war-ships seem to sail away; 
 While in the Horse their chiefs in armed array 
 Lurk with renowned Odysseus on the steep 
 Of Ilion — by the Trojans drawn that day 
 Clean past tlie bulwarks of their central keep. — 
 These round the great bulk urge deliberation deep. 
 
 Three ways their counsel tended — to break through 
 The hollow timber with the ruthless steel. 
 Or down the rocks to hurl it out of view, 
 Or leave it hallowed, wrath divine to heal ; 
 Which thing by destiny their doom did seal— 
 For, so the Fates enacted, they must fall 
 When through their gates the wooden Horse they wheel, 
 Whence, from dark lair should Argive heroes all 
 Burst to wreak murderous bale on Trojans great and small. 
 
 Anon he sang how issuing from the lair 
 With sword and fire the guardless town they smite, 
 While each on several way the chieftains fare ; 
 How to Deiphobus at dead of night 
 Odysseus came, like Ares fierce in fight, 
 With Menelaus, and did aye ensue 
 Conquest not bloodless by Athene's might. 
 All this he sang. Odysseus, melted through. 
 Sat listening while the tears his pale-worn cheek bedew.
 
 ii6 Classic Greek Course in E/i!:;lis/i. 
 
 Whatever was the purpose of Odysseus in making demand 
 of this particular theme from Demodocus, whether to hear 
 his own achievements chanted, or to enjoy once more the 
 luxury of woe in melancholy remembrance, the effect, as has 
 been seen, was to dissolve the soft-hearted hero in tears again. 
 Alcinous marked his weeping and checked the bard's perform- 
 ance. This time the king thought it better courtesy to make 
 open recognition of the tears of Odysseus. He does so, and 
 begs to know who by name their stranger guest may be. He 
 further desires from Odysseus an account of his adventures 
 and experiences. 
 
 We shrewdly suspect that Alcinous could not have pleased 
 Ulysses better. At any rate, Ulysses hereupon tells a long 
 tale of what he has seen and suffered. From this narrative 
 we purpose to furnish our readers with such extracts as we 
 guess will interest them most. 
 
 First, here is a delicious bit of invention and description 
 about the Lotus-eaters, Our readers will be glad to see it, 
 not only for its own beauty, but for its association with one 
 of Tennyson's very finest minor poems. The " Lotus-eaters," 
 of that master of verse in many moods, is, of course, a re- 
 flection — to our own mind a reflection that, in charm to the 
 imagination, gains upon its original — of the present luscious 
 passage from the Odyssey. You do not need to locate this 
 experience of Ulysses and his men anywhere, either in time 
 or in space. Let it remain to you as vague as here it appears 
 in Homer : 
 
 But, on the afternoon of the tenth day, 
 We reached, borne downward with an easy helm, 
 Land of the flowery food, the Lotus-eating realm. 
 
 Anon we step forth on the dear mainland, 
 
 And draw fresh water from the springs, and there, 
 
 Seated at ease along the silent strand, 
 
 Not far from the swift sliips, our meal prepare. 
 
 Soon having tasted of the welcome fare,
 
 Homer. 117 
 
 I wiili the herald brave companions twain 
 Sent to explore what manner of men they were, 
 Who, on the green earth, couched beside the main, 
 Seemed ever with sweet food their lips to entertain. 
 
 Who, when they came on the delightful place 
 Wliere those sat feeding by the barren wave, 
 There mingled with the Lotus-eating race ; 
 Who nought of ruin for our comrades brave 
 Dreamed in their minds, but of the Lotus gave; 
 And whoso tasted of their flowery meat 
 Cared not with tidings to return, but clave 
 Fast to that tribe, for ever fain to eat, 
 Reckless of home-return, the tender Lotus sweet. 
 
 These sorely weeping by main strength we bore 
 Back to the hollow ships with all our speed. 
 And thrust them bound with cords upon the floor. 
 Under the benches ; then the rest I lead 
 On board and bid them to the work give heed, 
 Lest others, eating of the Lotus, yearn 
 Always to linger in that land, and feed. 
 Careless forever of the home-return : 
 Then, bending to their oars, the foaming deep they spurn. 
 
 Did ever our readers read verse that seemed more instinct 
 than is Mr. Worsley's with the spirit of spontaneous rhythm ? 
 And his translation, it is satisfactory to feel, is no less 
 liberally true to Homer, than it is freely obedient to the 
 laws of music in movement and meter. The whole work is 
 a marvel of genius and scholarsliip. We wish the accom- 
 plished author were still within the reach of our praise. Mr. 
 Worsley died in 1866 — not, however, before he had put the 
 Iliad also, the greater part of it, into similar verse. 
 
 We skip now some of the narratives of Ulysses, among 
 them tlie episode of his adventure in the island of the 
 Cyclops. This last, our readers will learn all they will wish 
 to about — for it is a gross, disgusting story — when they come 
 to study Virgil, who takes up the incident out of Homer, and
 
 1 1 8 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 treats it as fully as it deserves. The story of Circe has been 
 moralized so much, both in prose and verse, that we must 
 give that to our readers, in the form in which it first took its 
 hold upon the imagination of mankind. Every body has 
 heard of Circe. Does every body know that Circe is Homer's 
 present to the world of fancy ? Or, if Homer did not invent 
 Circe, he at least first introduced that eminent lady so as to 
 give her the universal renown which she enjoys. Read 
 Milton's " Comus " in connection with this extract. Our own 
 American Hawthorne, in his Tanglewood Tales, has a charm- 
 ing version of the legend of Circe. Read that too. You will 
 find the theme, in Hawthorne's treatment of it, invested with 
 a new charm that could have been given it only by a great 
 and truly original imagination. 
 
 The voyagers, Ulysses and his crew, have touched, without 
 knowing where, on Circe's isle. 
 
 But, for this story of Circe, let us intermit Worsley and take 
 up a different translator. Professor G. H. Palmer, of Harvard 
 University, has a version of the Odyssey, executed exquisitely 
 in a certain rhythmic prose. The first twelve books of the 
 poem are also issued in a separate volume displaying the orig- 
 inal Greek and the English translation face to face with each 
 other in parallel pages. We have the joint permission of 
 author and publishers (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) to make the 
 two following extracts. 
 
 Arrived on that unknown island-coast, Ulysses sends out a 
 scouting party to explore. That hero himself is the narrator: 
 
 They paused before the door of the fair-haired goddess, and in tlie 
 house heard Circe singing with sweet voice, while plying her great im- 
 perishable loom and weaving webs, fine, beautiful, and lustrous as are 
 the works of gods. Polites was the first to speak, one ever foremost, 
 and one to me the nearest and the dearest of my comrades : 
 
 " Ah, friends, somebody in this house is plying a great loom and sing- 
 ing sweetly ; all the pavement rings. It is a god or woman. Nay, 
 quickly let us call."
 
 Homer. 119 
 
 He spoke ; tiie olaers lifted up their voice and calle<l. Suddenly 
 coming forth, she opened the shining doors and bade them in. The rest 
 all followed, heedless ; but Eurylochos remained behind, suspicious of a 
 snare. She brought them in and seated them on couches and on chairs, 
 and made a potion for them, — cheese, barley, and yellow honey, stirred 
 into Pramnian wine, — but mixed with the food pernicious drugs, that 
 they might utterly forget their native land. Now after she had given the 
 cup and they had drunk it off, straight with a wand she smote my men 
 and penned them up in sties ; and they took on the heads of swine, 
 the voice, the bristles, and even the shape, yet was their reason as sound 
 as heretofore. Thus, weeping, they were penned; and Circe flung them 
 acorns, chestnuts, and cornel-fruit for them to eat, such things as swine 
 that wallow in the mire are wont to eat. 
 
 Eurylochos went back alone and forlorn to tell Ulysses and 
 the rest the dismal story of what had befallen his comrades. 
 Ulysses shall again take up the tale in his own words: 
 
 I slung my silver-studded sword about my shoulders, — large it was and 
 made of bronze, — and my bow with it, and bade him lead me back the 
 selfsame way. But he, clasping my knees with both his hands, entreated 
 me, and sorrowfully said in winged words : 
 
 "O heaven-descended man, bring me not there against my will, but 
 leave me here ; for well I know you never will return, nor will you bring 
 another of your comrades. Rather, with these now here, let us speed on ; 
 for we might even yet escape the evil day." 
 
 So he spoke, and answering him said I : " Eurylochos, remain yourself 
 here in this place, eating and drinking by the black hollow ship ; but I 
 will go, for strong necessity is laid on me." 
 
 Saying this, I passed up from the ship and from the sea. But when, 
 in walking up the solemn glades, I was about to reach the great house of 
 the sorceress Circe, there was I met, as I approached the house, by Her- 
 mes of the golden wand, in the likeness of a youth, the first down on his 
 lip — a time of life most winning. He grasped my hand and spoke, and 
 thus addressed me: 
 
 " Where are you going, hapless man, along the hills alone, ignorant of 
 the land ? Your comrades yonder, at the house of Circe, are penned like 
 swine and kept in fast-closed sties. Do you come here to free them? 
 Nay, I am sure you will return no more, but, like the others, there you 
 too will stay. Still, I can keep you clear of harm and bring you safety. 
 Here, take this potent herb and go to Circe's house ; this shall protect
 
 I20 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 your life against the evil day. And I will tell you all the baleful wiles 
 of Circe : she will prepare for you a potion and cast drugs into your food ; 
 but even so, she cannot charm you, because the potent herb whicli I 
 shall give will not permit it. And let me tell you more : when Circe 
 turns against you her long wand, then draw tlie sharp sword from your 
 thigh and spring upon Circe as if you meant to slay her; she then will 
 cower and bid you to her bed. Thereafter do you not refuse the goddess' 
 bed, that so she may release your men and care for you. But bid lier 
 swear the blessed ones' great oath never again to plot against you cruel 
 wrong, nor when she has you stripped to leave you feelile and un- 
 manned." 
 
 As he thus spoke, the Speedy-comer gave the herb, drawing it from 
 the ground, and pointed out its nature. Black at the root it is, like milk 
 its blossom, and the gods call it moly. Hard is it for a mortal man to 
 dig ; with gods all things may be. 
 
 Hermes departed now to liigh Olympos, along the woody island. I 
 made my way to Circe's house, and as I went often my heart grew dark. 
 But I stood at the gate of the fair-haired goddess, stood there and called, 
 and the goddess heard my voice. Suddenly coming forth, she opened 
 the shining doors and bade me in ; I followed her with aching heart. 
 She led me in and placed me on a silver-studded chair, beautiful, richly 
 wrought, — beneath there was a footstool for the feet, — and made a potion 
 in a golden cup for me to drink, but put therein a drug, witli wicked 
 purpose in her heart. Now after she had given and I had drunk it off, 
 and yet it had not charmed me, smiting me with her wand, she spoke 
 these words and cried : " Off to the sty, and lie there with your fellows ! " 
 
 She spoke ; I drew the sharp blade from my thigh and sprang upon 
 Circe as if I meant to slay her. With a loud cry, she cowered and 
 clasped my knees, and sorrowfully said in winged words: 
 
 " Who are you ? Of what people ? Where is your town and kindred ? 
 I marvel much that drinking of these drugs you were not charmed. 
 None, no man else, ever withstood these drugs who tasted them, so soon 
 as they had passed the barrier of his teeth ; but in your breast there is a 
 mind which cannot be beguiled." 
 
 The sequel is quickly told. Ulysses proved himself full 
 match in craft for the enchantress. First getting her fast 
 bound by the great oath, he secured himself against bestial 
 transformation, and then, we grieve to say it, deliberately 
 yielded to her seduction and became her paramour. He
 
 ffoffier. 12 1 
 
 and liis companions all stayed a whole year as guests of Circe. 
 Home-sick at last, they got away— Ulysses, at Circe's sug- 
 gestion, sailing first of all to visit Hades, for the purpose of 
 consulting the shade of the seer Ti-re'si-as about the future. 
 This episode we here omit, reserving it for presentation, 
 through Virgil's version and adaptation, in our next volume. 
 
 We make now a long leap forward to near the end of the 
 poem. The story has passed the rapids, taken the great 
 plunge of the dreadful catastrophe, and is comparatively 
 placid once more — that is to say, the insolent suitors have 
 been slain in the palace-halls, and the way is clear for Ulysses 
 to reveal himself in his true identity to his wife Penelope, 
 and to his father La-er'tes. 
 
 In giving our readers here their farewell extract from Ho- 
 mer, we give them also a farewell change of translator. Two 
 Englishmen, Mr. S. H. Butcher and Mr. Andrew Lang, work- 
 ing in partnership, have produced in prose a translation, 
 much praised and worthy to be much praised, of Homer's 
 "Odyssey" entire. A taste, at least, of their quality in Ho- 
 meric translation will be welcomed by our readers. This we 
 furnisli in presenting the pathetic scene between son Ulysses 
 and sire Laertes: 
 
 So he found his father alone in the terraced vineyard, digging about a 
 plant. lie was clothed in a filthy doublet, patched and unseemly, with 
 clouted leggings of oxhide bound about Ids legs, against the scratches of 
 the thorns, and long sleeves over liis hands by reason of the brambles, 
 and on his head he wore a goatskin cap, and so he nursed his sorrow. 
 Now when the steadfast goodly Odysseus saw his father thus wasted with 
 age and in great grief of heart, he stood still beneath a tall pear-tree and 
 let fall a tear. Then he communed with his heart and soul, whether he 
 should fall on his father's neck and kiss him, and tell him all, how he had 
 returned and come to his own country, or whether he should first ques- 
 tion him and prove him in every word. And as he thought within him- 
 self this seemed to him the better way, namely, first to prove his father 
 and speak to him sharply. So with this intent the goodly Odysseus went 
 up to him. Now he was holding his head down and kept digging al)out 
 the plant, while his renowned son stood by hina and spake, saying:
 
 122 Classic Greek Course in Ensrlish. 
 
 o 
 
 " Old man, tliou liast no lack of skill in lending a garden ; lo, thou 
 carest well for all, nor is there aught whatsoever, either plant, or fig-tree, 
 or vine, yea, or olive, or pear, or garden-bed in all the close, that is not 
 well seen to. Yet another thing will I tell thee and lay not up wrath 
 thereat in thy heait. Thyself art scarce so well cared for, but a pitiful 
 old age is on thee, and withal thou art withered and unkempt, and clad 
 unseemly. It cannot be to punish thy sloth that thy master cares not 
 for thee ; there shows nothing of the slave about thy face and stature, 
 for thou art like a kingly man, even like one who should lie soft, when 
 he has washed and eaten well, as is the manner of the aged. But come, 
 declare me this and plainly tell it all. Whose thrall art thou, and whose 
 garden dost thou tend? Tell me moreover truly, that I may surely 
 know, if it be indeed to Ithaca that I am now come, as one yonder told 
 me who met with me but now on the way hither. He was but of little 
 understanding, for he deigned not to tell me all nor to heed my saying, 
 when I questioned him concerning my friend, whether indeed he is yet 
 alive or is even now dead and within the house of Hades. For I will 
 declare it, and do thou mark and listen : once did I kindly entreat a man 
 in mine own dear country, who came to our home, and never yet has 
 any mortal lieen dearer of all the strangers that have drawn to my house 
 from afar. He declared him to be by lineage from out of Ithaca, and 
 said that his own father was Laertes, son of Arceisius. So I led him to 
 our halls and gave him good entertainment, with all loving-kindness, out 
 of the plenty that was within. Such gifts, too, I gave him as are the due 
 of guests ; of well-wrought gold I gave him seven talents, end a mixing 
 bowl of flowered work, all of silver, and twelve cloaks of single fold, and 
 as many coverlets, and as many goodly mantles and doublets to boot, 
 and besides all these, four women skilled in all fair works and most 
 comely, the women of his choice." 
 
 Then his father answered him, weeping : " Stranger, thou art verily 
 come to that country whereof thou askest, but outrageous men and fro- 
 ward hold it. And these thy gifts, thy countless gifts, thou did>t bestow 
 in vain. For if thou hadst found that man yet living in the land of 
 Ithaca he would have sent thee on thy way with good return of thy pres- 
 ents, and with all hospitality, as is due to the man that begins the kind- 
 ness. But come, declare me this and plainly tell me all ; how many 
 years are passed since thou didst entertain him, thy guest ill-fated and 
 my child — if ever such an one there was — hapless man, whom, far from 
 his friends and his country's soil, the fishes, it may be, have devoured in 
 the deep sea, or on the shore he has fallen the prey of birds and beasts. 
 His mother wept not over him nor clad him for burial, nor his father, we
 
 Homer. 123 
 
 thai Legal liim. ISor did his bride, whom men sought with rich gifts, 
 the constant Penelope, bewail her lord upon the bier, as was meet, nor 
 closed his eyes as is the due of the departed. Moreover, tell me this 
 truly, that I may surely know, who art thou, and whence of the sons of 
 men? Where is thy city and where are they that begat thee? Where 
 now is thy swift ship moored, that brought thee hither with thy godlike 
 company? Ilast thou come as a passenger on another's ship, while they 
 set thee ashore and went away ? " 
 
 Then Odysseus of many counsels answered him, saying: "Yea, now 
 I will tell thee all most plainly. From out of Alybas I come, where I 
 dwell in a house renowned, and am the son of Apheidas, the son of 
 Polypemon, the prince, and my own name is Eperitus. But some god 
 drave me wandering hither from Sicania against my will, and yOnder my 
 ship is moored toward the upland away from the city. But for Odysseus 
 this is now the fifth year since he went thence and departed out of my 
 country. Ill-fated was he and yet he liad birds of good omen when he 
 fared away, birds on the right ; wherefore I sped him gladly on his road, 
 and gladly he departed, and the heart of us twain hoped yet to meet in 
 friendship on a day and to give splendid gifts." 
 
 So he spake, and on the old man fell a black cloud of sorrow. With 
 both his hands he clutched the dust and ashes and showered them on 
 his gray head, with ceaseless groaning. Then the heart of Odysseus 
 was moved, and up through his nostrils throbbed anon the keen sting of 
 sorrow at the sight of his dear father. And he sprang towards him and 
 fell on his neck and kissed him, saying: 
 
 " Behold, I here, even I, my father, am the man of whom thou askest; 
 in the twentieth year am I come to mine own country. But stay thy 
 weeping and tearful lamentation, for I will tell thee all clearly, though 
 great need there is of haste. I have slain the wooers in our halls and 
 avenged their bitter scorn and evil deeds." 
 
 Then Laertes answered him and spake, saying : " If thou art indeed 
 Odysseus, mine own child, that art come hither, show me now a manifest 
 token, that I may be assured." 
 
 Then Odysseus of many counsels answered him, saying: " Look first 
 on this scar and consider it that the boar dealt me with his wiiite tusk 
 on Parnassus, whither I had gone, and thou didst send me forth, thou and 
 my lady mother, to Autolycus, my mother's father, to get the gifts which 
 when he came hither he promised and covenanted to give me. But 
 come, and I will even tell thee the trees through all the terraced garden, 
 which thou gavest me once for mine own, and I was begging of thee this 
 and that, being but a little child, and following thee through the garden.
 
 124 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 o 
 
 Through ihese very trees we were going, and thou didst tell me the 
 names of each of them. Pear-trees thirteen thou gavest me and ten 
 apple-trees and figs twoscore, and, as we went, thou didst name the fifty 
 rows of vines thou wouldst give me, whereof each one ripened at divers 
 times, with all manner of clusters on their boughs, when the seasons of 
 Zeus wrought mightily on them from on high." 
 
 So he spake, and straightway his knees were loosened, and his heart 
 melted within him, as he knew the sure tokens that Odysseus showed 
 him. About his dear son he cast his arms, and the steadfast goodly 
 Odysseus caught him fainting to his breast. Now when he had got 
 breath and his spirit came to him again, once more he answered and 
 spake, saying: 
 
 " Father Zeus, verily ye gods yet bear sway on high Olympus, if indeed 
 the wooers have paid for their infatuate pride ! " 
 
 There is a threatening sequel to this satisfactory meeting 
 of father with son, Btit Athene intervenes to avert further 
 bloodshed. She stays the hand of Ulysses raised in fell self- 
 defense against the avenging kindred of the suitors, and en- 
 joins a solid peace between the two parties at feud. In this 
 appearance the goddess assumes the familiar form of Mentor, 
 ancient friend of Ulysses — in which form it was, as every 
 body well knows who has read Fenelon's charmingly invented 
 and charmingly written Telemaque, that this celestial patron- 
 ess of the house of Ulysses had previously accompanied young 
 Telemachus on his round of wanderings in search of his fa- 
 ther. Thus the Odyssey ends not only in justice vindicated, 
 but in amitv restored. 
 
 IV. 
 HERODOTUS. 
 
 Every body that has heard at all of Herodotus has heard 
 of him as " the father of history." The title is bestowed de- 
 servedly on the bearer ; still, the effect of it, kept as it is in 
 almost inseparable association with this historian's name, is
 
 Herodotus. 125 
 
 to create on the minds of readers not accurately acquainted 
 with the facts, an impression of greater antiquity for the per- 
 son described than in truth belongs to Herodotus. 
 
 The father of history, Herodotus, and the father of epic 
 poetry, Homer, were separated from each other by a long, 
 indeed an indefinitely long, period of time. When Homer 
 lived, nobody certainly knows. When Herodotus lived, is a 
 point of ancient chronology well ascertained. To Herodo- 
 tus, born about 484 B.C., Homer, though fellow-countryman, 
 was already an ancient. Five hundred years may have 
 elapsed, after Homer wrote the world's first great epic, 
 before Herodotus wrote the world's first great history. 
 But Thucydides then promptly followed with his historical 
 masterpiece — perhaps while Herodotus was still among the 
 living. 
 
 What makes Herodotus differ so much in seeming antiq- 
 uity from his younger contemporary, Thucydides, is largely 
 the striking contrast in tone and manner between the two 
 historians. Thucydides is strict, curt, severe, critical, phil- 
 osophical; Avhile Herodotus is full, flowing, digressive, fond 
 of marvels, romantic. Herodotus was no less disposed to be 
 truthful tlian was Thucydides after him; but for knowing how 
 to be truthful, Thucydides was better equipped than was pio- 
 neer Herodotus. Again, it entered into the plan of Herodotus 
 to report to us a great many things reported to him, that he 
 by no means asked us to credit, that, in fact, he did not credit 
 himself. Herodotus's credulity, together with his plan of re- 
 porting reports — to a great extent irrespectively of their prob- 
 able truth — has gained for him a traditional and popular 
 repute of untrustAvorthiness that he is far from deserving. 
 The tendency of recent historical criticism, applied in the 
 light of geographical exploration and archaeological discovery, 
 has been steadily in the direction of raising the credit of 
 Herodotus as a conscientious historian. 
 
 Herodotus was very painstaking in his efforts to gain
 
 126 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 information. He traveled extensively. His work is, indeed, 
 almost as much a book of travels as it is a book of history. 
 The very name by which he called it indicates this as its 
 character. For the word history, in the use of Herodotus, 
 meant, not what it has come in present universal usage to 
 mean, namely, a supposedly trustworthy account, written 
 with a degree of philosophical insight into cause and effect, 
 of transactions rising to a certain height of importance and 
 dignity ; but merely a report of investigations, researches, 
 inquiries, undertaken by the author. This primary import 
 of his name for his work is constantly to be borne in mind, 
 as a condition essential to any wise estimate of the merit and 
 value of Herodotus. 
 
 But, however Herodotus failed in the critical and philo- 
 sophical aptitudes required to equip the ideal historian, cer- 
 tainly there was not wanting to him wisdom, or felicity, to 
 choose for treatment an historical subject of commanding 
 magnitude and interest. In truth, there is a kind of epic 
 majesty and sweep to the conception of Herodotus's work. 
 He felt himself to be, and he was, something of a poet in his 
 history. It was perhaps in recognition of this poetical quality 
 in Herodotus that the ancients divided his work into nine 
 parts, to us known as books, inscribed severally with the 
 names of the nine Muses. 
 
 Here is the modest, simple, almost unconscious, way in 
 which, stating his own subject and object, he commences his 
 history : 
 
 These are the researches of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, which he 
 publishes, in the hope of thereby preserving from decay the remembrance 
 of what men have done, and of preventing the great and wonderful 
 actions of the Greeks and the Barbarians from losing their due meed of 
 glory ; and withal to put on record what were their grounds of feud. 
 
 Contrast with the foregoing tlie elaborate and stately 
 ]:teriods in which Macaulay sets forth his aim in writing his 
 history of England. Judgments will probably vary as to
 
 Herodotus. 127 
 
 how far the more demonstrative style of the great English 
 master is due to a really higher conception, on his part, of 
 his work, how far to the quite legitimate influence of a more 
 advanced and complex type of civilization environing him, 
 and how far, on the other hand, to a both general and indi- 
 vidual taste less chastened and severe. 
 
 " Herodotus of Hal-i-car-nas'sus," the writer calls himself. 
 Halicarnassus was a Dorian Greek colony on the coast of 
 Asia Minor. In Halicarnassus, then, about 484 B.C., He- 
 rodotus was born. During one period of his life he spent a 
 number of years in Athens. This was probably after he had 
 written a good part of his history. At Athens — and, during 
 his residence at Athens, in other Grecian cities — Herodotus, 
 so runs the tradition, read his enchanting story aloud to eager 
 audiences of Greeks. It is in connection with such a recital, 
 said to have been given at Olympia, that a pleasing legend 
 is told of young Thucydides as one of the hearers of He- 
 rodotus. They say that Thucydides wept on the occasion, 
 and was moved by the experience of that day to turn his 
 own attention to the writing of history. 
 
 It will have been observed that Herodotus puts his object 
 in composing his history into a form of statement sufficiently 
 large and vague to admit of much freedom and latitude in 
 treatment. " The Greeks and the Barbarians " made up to 
 Herodotus the whole world of mankind. However, when 
 Herodotus here said the Barbarians, he, of course, must have 
 meant chiefly the Asiatics. At least it is of the hostile his- 
 torical contact between tlie Greeks and the Asiatics, espe- 
 cially between the Greeks and the Persians, with what led 
 up to that contact, that his narrative treats. The ultimate 
 objective points at which he aims are, first, Mar'a-thon, and 
 then 'I'her-mop'y-lae and Sal'amis, with Pla-t.'e'a and Myc'a-le 
 in sequel. But to reach these points, the history takes a 
 long start from the origin of tlie Persian empire, nay, from 
 the origin of tliose empires older than the Persian whicli in
 
 128 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 due time the Persian received and swallowed up. You 
 might suppose that Herodotus, being a Greek, would mag- 
 nify and glorify the Barbarians, if at all, only in order the 
 more to magnify and glorify the Greeks by whom in the end 
 the Barbarians were successfully withstood. But this is not 
 the case, Herodotus displays a genuine cosmopolitan spirit. 
 Without ulterior rhetorical aim he gives the Barbarian 
 full praise, and he does not spare full due of blame to the 
 Greek. 
 
 It falls within the generously comprehensive design of this 
 history to treat of Lydia, of Egypt, of Babylon, of Scythia, of 
 Libya, as well as of Persia and Greece. Whoever of our 
 readers has leisure for the purpose would find a perusal of 
 the entire text of Herodotus a genuine recreation. There is 
 a satisfactory English translation accessible, from the hand 
 of Mr. George Rawlinson, enriched with copious notes from 
 two eminent scholars and archaeologists, namely, Sir Henry 
 Rawlinson and Sir J. G. Wilkinson. From this translation 
 we take the extracts with which we now proceed to give our 
 readers their taste of Herodotus. 
 
 We could easily fill all the pages of the present volume 
 with such selections from Herodotus as would d.elight every 
 reader. Our difficulty will be, not in finding, but in setting 
 aside. The book on Egypt has a peculiar interest from the 
 fact of its being the only literature to furnish information 
 concerning that country parallel with the information con- 
 tained in the Bible. The account of Babylon is also very 
 inviting. On the whole, however, we limit ourselves chiefly 
 here to two other parts of the history. The first of these is 
 the story of Croesus (Kre'sus), and the second is the inva- 
 sion of Xerxes (Zerks'ez). In these two parts as much inter- 
 est centers as in any, and they together illustrate best the 
 peculiar theory of human life upon which Herodotus con- 
 ceived and composed his history. This pensive-minded man 
 saw in all human experience constantly recurring proofs that
 
 Herodotus. 129 
 
 the gods envied and revenged excessive prosperity. His 
 whole narrative is, as it were, an illustrated homily on this 
 idea for text. 
 
 Croesus is that Lydian monarch of whom every body has 
 heard as the proverb of wealth. His fortune illustrates the 
 wisdom of that ancient maxim, " Count no man happy till he 
 dies." He was an Asiatic despot, but he was an unusually 
 attractive representative of his kind. Herodotus has made 
 for us a delightful romance of the fortunes of Croesus. 
 
 It is as having, according to Herodotus, been the first 
 Asiatic to commence hostilities against the Greeks, that 
 Croesus comes in our historian's way. Croesus brought under 
 his dominion the Greek colonies in Asia Minor. The Lydian 
 Empire was now at its height. Sardis, the capital, was a 
 metropolis of wealth and culture. It became a resort for the 
 sages of Greece. Croesus welcomed these to his court with 
 something of the same munificence and grace of royal hospi- 
 tality that, in his time, Louis XIV. exercised at Versailles. 
 Among the Greek celebrities to visit Sardis was Solon, whom 
 Croesus made his own guest, lodging him in his palace. We 
 now let Herodotus take up the story in his own charmingly 
 simple, pellucid, and withal loitering narrative strain: 
 
 He [Croesus] bade his servants conduct Solon over his treasuries, and 
 show him all their greatness and magnificence. When he had seen them 
 all, and, so far as time allowed, inspected them, Croesus addressed this 
 question to him : " Stranger of Athens, we have heard much of thy wis- 
 dom and of thy travels througli many lands, from love of knowledge and 
 a wish to see the world. I am curious, therefore, to inquire of thee, 
 whom, of all the men that thou hast seen, thou deemest the most happy ? " 
 This he asked because he thought himself the happiest of mortals : but 
 Solon answered him without flattery, according to his true sentiments, 
 " Tellus of Athens, sire." Full of astonishment at wliat he heard, 
 Croesus demanded sharply, " And wherefore dost thou deem Telhis 
 happiest?" To which the other replied, "First, because his country 
 was flourishing in his days, and he liimsclf had sons both beautiful 
 and good, and he lived to see children born to each of them, and these 
 children all grew up ; and further because, after a life spent in what our 
 9
 
 130 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 people look upon as comfort, his end was surpassingly glorious. In a 
 battle between the Atlienians and their neighbors near Eleusis, he came 
 to the assistance of his countrymen, routed the foe, and died upon the 
 field most gallantly. The Atlienians gave him a public funeral on the 
 spot where lie fell, and paid him the highest honors." 
 
 Thus did Solon admonish Croesus by the example of Tellus, enumer- 
 ating the manifold particulars of his happiness. When he had ended, 
 Croesus inquired a second time, who after Tellus seemed to him the 
 happiest, expecting that, at any rate, he would be given the second place. 
 " Cle'o-bis and Bi'to," Solon answered ; " they were of Argive race ; 
 their fortune was enough for their wants, and they were besides endowed 
 witli so much bodily strength that they had both gained prizes at the 
 Games. Also this tale is told of them : There was a great festival in 
 honor of the goddess Juno at Argos, to which their mother must needs 
 be taken in a car. Now the oxen did not come home from the field in 
 time ; so the youths, fearful of being too late, put the yoke on their own 
 necks, and themselves drew the car in whicli their mother rode. Five 
 and forty furlongs did they draw her, and stopped before the temple. 
 This deed of theirs was witnessed by the whole assembly of worshipers, 
 and then their life closed in the best possible way. Herein, top, God 
 showed forth most evidently how much better a thing for man death is 
 than life. For the Argive men stood thick around the car and extolled 
 the vast strength of the youths ; and the Argive warriors extolled the 
 mother wiio was blessed with such a pair of sons ; and the mother her- 
 self, overjoyed at the deed and at the praises it had won, standing 
 straight before the image, besought the goddess to bestow on Cleobis 
 and Bito, the sons who had so mightily honored her, the highest bless- 
 ing to which mortals can attain. Her prayer ended, they offered sac- 
 rifice, and partook of the holy banquet, after which the two youths fell 
 asleep in the temple. They never woke more, but so passed from the 
 earth. The Argives, looking on them as among the best of men, caused 
 statues of them to be made, which tliey gave to the shrine at Delphi." 
 
 When Solon had thus assigned these youths the second place, Croesus 
 broke in angrily, "What ! stranger of Athens, is my happiness, then, so 
 utterly set at naught by thee, that thou dost not even put me on a level 
 with private men ? " 
 
 " O Croesus," replied the other, " thou askedst a question concerning 
 the condition of man, of one who knows that the power above us is full 
 of jealousy, and fond of troubling our lot. A long life gives one to 
 witness much, and experience much one's self, that one would not 
 choose. Seventy years T re,u;ard as the limit of the life of man. In
 
 Herodotus. 
 
 i^r 
 
 these seventy years are contained, without reckoning intercalary months, 
 twenty-five thousand and two hundred days. Add an intercalary month 
 to every other year, that the seasons may come round at the right time, 
 and there Mill be, besides the seventy years, thirty-five such months, 
 making an addition of one thousand and fifty days. The whole number 
 of the days contained in the seventy years will thus be twenty-six thou- 
 sand two hundred and fifty, whereof not one but will produce events un- 
 like the rest. Hence man is wholly accident. For thyself, O Crcesus, 
 I see that thou art wonderfully rich, and art the lord of many nations ; 
 but with respect to that whereon thou questionest me, I have no answer 
 to give, until I hear that thou hast closed thy life happily. For assur- 
 edly he who possesses great store of riches is no nearer happiness than he 
 who has what suffices for his daily needs, unless it so hap that luck at- 
 tend upon him, and so he continue in the enjoyment of all his good 
 things to the end of life. For many of the wealthiest men have been 
 unfavored of fortune, and many whose means were moderate, have had 
 excellent luck. Men of the former class excel those of the latter but in 
 two respects ; these last excel the former in many. The wealthy man is 
 better able to content his desires, and to bear up against a sudden buflet 
 of. calamity. The other has less ability to withstand these evils (from 
 which, however, his good luck keeps him clear), but he enjoys all these 
 following blessings : he is whole of limb, a stranger to disease, free from 
 misfortune, happy in his children, and comely to look upon. If, in 
 addition to all this, he end his life well, he is of a truth the man of whom 
 thou art in search, the man who may rightly be termed happy. Call 
 him, however, until he die, not happy, but fortunate. Scarcely, indeed, 
 can any man unite all these advantages : as there is no country which 
 contains within it all that it needs, but each, while it possesses some 
 things, lacks others, and the best country is that which contains tlie 
 most ; so no single human being is complete in every respect — some- 
 thing is always lacking. He who unites the greatest number of ad- 
 vantages, and retaining them to the day of his death then dies peace- 
 ably, that man alone, sire, is, in my judgment, entitled to bear the name 
 of 'happy.' But in every matter it behoves us to mark well the cud : 
 for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges 
 them into ruin." 
 
 Such was the speech which Solon addressed to Croesus, a speech 
 which brought him neither largess nor honor. The king saw him depart 
 with much indifference, since lie thought that a man must be an arrant 
 fool who made no account of present good, but batle men always wail 
 and mark the end.
 
 132 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 After Solon had gone away, a dreadful vengeance, sent of God, came 
 upon Croesus, to punish him, it is likely, for deeming himself the happiest 
 of men. 
 
 In the last sentence foregoing, Herodotus, as the reader 
 will notice, lets slip that favorite philosophy of his concerning 
 human life. The gods, he believed, were jealous against the 
 too prosperous. The story of Croesus is made by him a kind 
 of romance with a purpose — the purpose being to inculcate 
 this moral. The dreadful vengeance impending, of which 
 Herodotus speaks, is circumstantially narrated through sev- 
 eral of his pages. The substance is as follows : Croesus 
 dreamed that of his two sons, his favorite, A'tys, a noble 
 youth, would perish by a weapon of iron. The apprehensive 
 father took elaborate precautions to save the life of his son. 
 He had the youth marry and give up the chances of war. 
 Vain was the paternal care. In a boar-hunt — the prince 
 having begged the privilege of joining it, with the argument 
 to his father that the boar at least had no weapon of iron to 
 be guarded against — Atys was slain by a spear from the hand 
 of a huntsman, hurled, with wrong aim, at the beast. Two 
 years Croesus mourned the loss of his son. At the end of 
 this time news arrived at his court that interrupted his in- 
 dulgence of grief. It was news of Cyrus's progress in power 
 as king of the Persians. Croesus sent to Delphi — having 
 first tested various oracles of repute and been with that at 
 Delphi best satisfied — to inquire whether he should make 
 war upon Cyrus. He got for reply a doubtfully encourag- 
 ing message : * If he made war upon Cyrus, he would over- 
 throw a great empire.' Whose empire, his own or Cyrus's.'' 
 That was the question — but it was not a question with Croesus. 
 
 Croesus had got one oracular reply to his mind, and he 
 wanted another. The Delphian authorities were willing to 
 gratify so munificent an inquirer. For would our readers 
 like to know what Croesus had paid of his own accord in 
 advance for the ambiguous response that pleased him so.'
 
 Herodotus. 133 
 
 Well, he fust sacrificed three thousand beasts of every kind 
 proper for sacrifice, and having accumulated " couches coated 
 with silver and with gold, and golden goblets and robes and 
 vests of purple," he burned them all in offering to the god. 
 He next " melted over a vast quantity of gold and ran it 
 into ingots," in number one hundred and seventeen, each 
 weighing about two hundred and seventy pounds (French). 
 These massy gold ingots, together with a statue in gold of a 
 lion, two capacious bowls, one of silver and one of gold ; 
 four silver casks ; two vases, one of silver and one of gold ; 
 the figure of a woman in solid gold; and, in addition, his 
 queen's necklace and her girdles, he sent to Delphi to pro- 
 pitiate Apollo. The foregoing is, according to Herodotus, 
 but a partial list of Croesus's presents to the oracle. It is 
 probable that this account is neither fabulous altogether, nor 
 even fabulously extravagant. The river Pac-to'lus, said to 
 have brought down sands of gold, flowed through the Lydian 
 capital, Sardis. Croesus's father had, through many "days 
 ordered in a wealthy peace," amassed treasure for bequeath- 
 ing to his son. There is no reason to doubt that Croesus 
 was, indeed, the enormously rich man he is represented to 
 have been. And he was lavish in proportion. 
 
 As we said, Croesus was hungry for a second oracular re- 
 sponse. He sent to ask whether his kingdom would be of 
 long duration. The Pythoness, Apollo's organ of prophecy, 
 gave this reply, versified, according to custom: 
 
 " Wait till tlie time shall come when a mule is monarch of Media ; 
 Then, thou delicate Lydian, away to the pebbles of Ilermus, 
 Haste, O ! haste thee away, nor blush to behave like a coward." 
 
 The sequel will show our readers how this enigmatical re- 
 sponse could bear an interpretation very different from the 
 obvious one which Croesus complacently put upon it. 
 
 On the strength of his two oracular assurances, the Lydian 
 monarch went about his war against Cyrus. This Cyrus, it
 
 134 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 must be understood, is Cyrus the Elder, or Cyrus llie Great, 
 the founder of the Persian Empire. While war was thus pre- 
 paring, a certain Lydian came forward and gave his sovereign 
 some excellent advice, which Herodotus reports and remarks 
 upon, as follows : 
 
 "Thou art about, O King, to make war against men who wear 
 leathern trousers, and have all their other garments of leather ; who 
 feed not on what they like, but on what they can get from a soil that is 
 sterile and unkindly ; who do not indulge in wine, but drink water ; who 
 possess no figs, nor any thing else that is good to eat. If then, tliou 
 conquerest them, what canst thou get from them, seeing that they have 
 notliing at all ? But if they conquer thee, consider how much that is 
 precious thou wilt lose; if they once get a taste of our pleasant things, 
 they will keep such hold of them that we shall never be able to make 
 them loose their grasp. For my part, I am thankful to the gods, that 
 they have not put it into the hearts of the Persians to invade Lydia." 
 
 Crcesus was not persuaded by this speech, though it was true enough ; 
 for before the conquest of Lydia, the Persians possessed none of the 
 luxuries or delights of life. 
 
 Cyrus did not wait for Croesus. The first encounter proved 
 a drawn battle. Croesus retired within his capital, intending 
 to resume hostilites in the spring. He little knew the char- 
 acter of his antagonist. Cyrus advanced unannounced on 
 Sardis. The Lydians were amazed, but they went outside 
 of their walls, and gave their enemies battle. To the Lydian 
 cavalry, Croesus's strong military arm, Cyrus opposed a troop 
 of camels. At the first smell of the carnels the horses turned 
 back. Croesus was defeated, and he had now to stand a 
 siege within the walls of his capital. 
 
 Cyrus takes Sardis; but our interest centers about the 
 person and fortune of Crcesus. Herodotus again : 
 
 With respect to Croesus himself, this is what befell him at the taking 
 of the town. He had a son, of whom I made mention above, a worthy 
 youth, whose only defect was that he was deaf and dumb. In the days 
 of his prosperity Croesus had done the utmost that he could for him, and 
 among other plans which he had devised had sent to Delphi to consult
 
 Herodotus. 135 
 
 ihe oracle on his behalf. The answer which he had received from the 
 Pythoness ran thus : 
 
 " Lydian, wide-ruling monarch, thou wondrous simple Croesus, 
 Wish not ever to hear in thy palace the voice thou hast prayed for, 
 Uttering intelligent sounds. Far better thy son should be silent ! 
 Ah ! woe worth the day when thine ear shall first list to his accents." 
 
 When the town was taken, one of the Persians was just going to kill 
 Croesus, not knowing who he was. Croesus saw the man coming, but, 
 under the pressure of his affliction, did not care to avoid the blow, not 
 minding whether or no he died beneath the stroke. Then this son of 
 his, who was voiceless, beholding the Persian as he rushed toward Croe- 
 sus, in the agony of his fear and grief, burst into speech and said : " Man, 
 do not kill Croesus." This was the first time that he had ever spoken a 
 word, but afterward he retained the power of speech for the remainder 
 of his life. 
 
 Thus was Sardis taken by the Persians, and Croesus himself fell into 
 their hands, after having reigned fourteen years, and been besieged in 
 his capital fourteen days ; thus, too, did Croesus fulfill the oracle, which 
 said tliat he should destroy a mighty empire — by destroying his own. 
 Then the Persians who had made Croesus prisoner brought him before 
 Cyrus. Now a vast pile had been raised by his orders, and Croesus, 
 laden with fetters, was placed upon it, and with him twice seven of the 
 sons of the Lydians. I know not whether Cyrus was minded to make an 
 offering of the first-fruits to some god or other, or whether he had vowed 
 a vow and was performing it, or whether, as may well be, he had heard 
 that Croesus was a holy man, and so wished to see if any of the heavenly 
 powers would appear to save him fr&m being burnt alive. However it 
 might be, Cyrus was thus engaged, and Cnjesus was already on the pile, 
 when it entered his mind in the depth of his woe that there was a divine 
 warning in the words which had come to him from the lips of Solon : 
 "No one while he lives is happy." When this thought smote him he 
 fetched a long breath, and breaking his deep silence groaned out aloud, 
 thrice uttering the name of Solon. Cyrus caught the sounds, and bade 
 the interpreters inquire of Crcesus who it was he called on. They drew 
 near and asked him, but he held his ])eace, and for a long time made no 
 answer to their questionings, until at length, forced to say something, he 
 exclaimed, " One I would give much to see converse with every mon- 
 arch." Not knowing what he meant by this reply, the interpreters 
 begged him to explain himself; and as they pressed for an answer, and 
 grew to be troublesome, he told them how, a long time before, Solon, an
 
 136 Classic Greek Course in Eiicrlish. 
 
 Athenian, had come and seen all his splendor, and made light of it ; and 
 how whatever he had said to him had fallen out exactly as he foreshowed, 
 although it was nothing that especially concerned him, but applied to all 
 mankind alike, and most to those who seemed to themselves happy. 
 Meanwhile, as he thus spoke, the pile was lighted, and the outer portion 
 began to blaze. Then Cyrus, hearing from the interpreters what CrcEsus 
 had said, relented, bethinking himself that he, too, was a man, and that 
 it was a fellow-man, and one who had once been as blessed by fortune 
 as himself, that he was burning alive ; afraid, moreover, of retribution, 
 and full of the thought that whatever is human is insecure. So he bade 
 them quench the blazing fire as quickly as they could, and take down 
 Croesus and the other Lydians, which they tried to do, but the flames 
 were not to be mastered. 
 
 Then the Lydians say that Croesus, perceiving by the efforts made to 
 quench the fire that Cyrus had relented, and seeing also that all was in 
 vain, and that the men could not get the fire under, called with a loud 
 voice upon the god Apollo, and prayed him, if he had ever received at 
 his hands any acceptable gift, to come to his aid, and deliver him from 
 his present danger. As thus with tears he besought the god, suddenly, 
 though up to that time the sky had been clear and the day without a 
 breath of wind, dark clouds gathered, and the storm burst over their 
 heads with rain of such violence that the flames were speedily extin- 
 guished. Cyrus, convinced by this that Croesus was a good man and a 
 favorite of heaven, asked him, after he was taken off the pile, who it was 
 that had persuaded him to lead an army into his country, and so become 
 his foe rather than continue his friend? to which Croesus made answer 
 as follows: "What I did, O king, was to thy advantage and to my own 
 loss. If there be blame, it rests with the god of the Greeks, who encour- 
 aged me to begin the war. No one is so foolish as not to prefer peace 
 to war, in which, instead of sons burying their fathers, fathers burj' their 
 sons. But the gods willed it so." 
 
 Thus did Crcesus speak. Cyrus then ordered his fetters to be taken 
 off, and made him sit down near himself, and paid him much respect, 
 looking upon him, as did also the courtiers, with a sort of wonder. 
 Crcesus, wrapped in thought, uttered no word. After a while, happen- 
 ing to turn and perceive the Persian soldiers engaged in plundering the 
 town, he said to Cyiiis, " May I now tell thee. O king, what I have in 
 my mind, or is silence best ? " Cyrus bade him speak his mind boldly. 
 Then he put this question : " What is it, O Cyrus, which those men yon- 
 der are doing so busily?" "Plundering thy city," Cyrus answered, 
 " and carrying off thy riches." " Not my city," rejoined the other, " nor
 
 Herodotus. 137 
 
 my riches. They are not mine any more. It is thy wealth which they 
 are pillaging." 
 
 Cyrus, struck by what Croesus had said, bade all the court to withdraw, 
 and then asked Ci-cesus what he thought it best for him to do as regarded 
 the plundering. Croesus answered : " Now that the gods have made me 
 tiiy slave, O Cyrus, it seems to me that it is my part, if I see any thing 
 to thy advantage, to show it to thee. Thy subjects, the Persians, are a 
 poor people, with a proud spirit. If, then, thou lettest them pillage and 
 possess themselves of great wealth, I will tell thee what thou hast to ex- 
 pect at their hands. The man who gets the most, look to having him 
 rebel against thee. Now then, if my words please thee, do thus, O king : 
 Let some of thy body-guards be placed as sentinels at each of the city 
 gates, and let them take their booty from the soldiers as they leave the 
 town, and tell them that they do so because the tenths are due to Jupi- 
 ter. So wilt thou escape the hatred they would feel if the plunder were 
 taken away from them by force, and they, seeing what is proposed is 
 just, will do it willingly. 
 
 Cyrus was beyond measure pleased with this advice, so excellent did 
 it seem to him. He praised Croesus highly, and gave orders to his body- 
 guard to do as he had suggested. Then, turning to Croesus, he said ; 
 " O Croesus, I see that thou art resolved both in speech and act to show 
 thyself a virtuous prince : ask me, therefore, whatever thou wilt as a gift 
 at this moment." Croesus rejilied : "O my lord, if thou wilt suffer me 
 to send these fetters to the god of the Greeks, whom I once honored 
 above all other gods, and ask him if it is his wont to deceive his bene- 
 factors — that will be the highest favor thou canst confer on me." Cyrus 
 upon this inquired what charge he had to make against the god. 
 
 Then Croesus gave him a full account of all his projects, and of the 
 answers of the oracle, and of the offerings which he had sent, on which 
 he dwelt especially, and told him how it was the encouragement given 
 him by the oracle which had led him to make war ujion Persia. All this 
 he related, and at the end again besought permission to reproach the god 
 with his behavior. Cyrus answered with a laugh, " This I readily grant 
 thee, and whatever else thou shalt at any time ask at my hands." Croe- 
 sus, finding his request allowed, sent certain Lydians to Delphi, enjoin- 
 ing them to lay his fetters upon the thresliold of the temple, and ask the 
 god, if he were not ashamed of having encomaged him, as the destined 
 destroyer of the empire of Cyrus, to begin a war with Persia, of which 
 such were tJic first-fruits? As they said this, they were to point to the 
 fetters; and further they were to inquire, if it was the wont of the Greek 
 gods to be ungrateful ?
 
 CWissic Greek Course in Ens:IisJi. 
 
 Of course Apollo easily justified himself. He had simply 
 to explain that Croesus had mistaken the meaning of what 
 the oracle said. First, Croesus had, indeed, destroyed a great 
 kingdom, only it happened to be his own kingdom that he 
 destroyed, instead of the kingdom of Cyrus : secondly, Cyrus 
 was that mule-king of Media whom the oracle had bidden 
 Croesus fear — for Cyrus was born of a Median mother to a 
 Persian father. 
 
 Lydia is now dismissed by Herodotus, in a few words of 
 general description. With Croesus the historian is far from 
 yet being done. Once, in connection with their captive mon- 
 arch, the subject Lydians fall again under notice — in a subse- 
 quent paragraph, which we violate the order of Herodotus to 
 introduce here. Cyrus is annoyed at news of insurrection 
 against himself in Sardis ; whereupon, turning to Croesus, 
 kept close by his side — the Persian conqueror was now on 
 his way to Ag-bat'a-na [Ec-bat'a-na] — he said (we give the 
 words of Herodotus): 
 
 " Where will all this end, Croesus, thiiikest thou ? It seenieth that 
 these Lydians will not cease to cause trouble both to themselves and 
 others. I doubt me if it were not best to sell them all for slaves. Me- 
 thinks what I have now done is as if a man were to kill the father and 
 then spare the child. Tiiou, who wert something more than a father to 
 thy people, I have seized and carried off, and to that people I have in- 
 trusted their city. Can I then feel surprise at their rebellion ?" Thus did 
 Cyrus open to Croesus his thoughts ; whereat the latter, full of alarm 
 lest Cyrus should lay Sardis in ruins, replied as follows: "O my king, 
 thy words are reasonable ; but do not, I beseech thee, give full vent to 
 thy anger, nor doom to destruction an ancient city, guiltless alike of the 
 past and of the present trouble. I caused the one and in my own per- 
 son now pay the forfeit. Pactyas has caused the other, he to whom thou 
 gavest Sardis in charge ; let him bear the punishment. Grant, then, 
 forgiveness to the Lydians, and to make sure of their never rebelling 
 against thee, or alarming thee more, send and forbid them to keep any 
 weapons of war, command them to wear tunics under their cloaks, and 
 to put buskins upon their legs, and make them bring up their sons to 
 cithern-playing, harping, and shop-keeping. So wilt thou soon see them
 
 Herodotus. 139 
 
 become women instead of men, and there will be no more fear of their 
 revolting from tliee." 
 
 Croesus thought the Lydians would even so be better oft' than if they 
 were sold for slaves, and, therefore, gave the above advice to Cyrus, 
 knowing that unless he brought forward some notable suggestion, he 
 would not be able to persuade him to alter his mind. 
 
 Is not history written in the style of Herodotus deh'ghtful ? 
 In whatever proportion trtie may be the foregoing explana- 
 tion, suggested by our author, of the fact — the fact certainly 
 is that the Lydians became a proverb of effeminate refine- 
 ment. Their addiction to music and pleasure explains the 
 allusion in Milton's L'Allegro, 
 
 And ever against eating cares 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
 
 An interval of fifteen years after the fall of Sardis has 
 elapsed, and Cyrus, always apparently with Croesus in com- 
 pany, roars on in his career of conquest. He now marches 
 against Babylon; but we shall have to go forward to the next 
 stage, and the last, of Cyrus's progress as conqueror, before 
 Croesus re-enters the drama by express mention. The Mas- 
 sag'e-tce — whom our readers had better not trouble them- 
 selves to try to locate very definitely on the map of the world 
 — are now the objects of Cyrus's hostile ambition. They 
 were ruled over by a queen whose name is historic. This 
 queen, Tomyris, sent to threatening Cyrus a most reasonable 
 message of expostulation against his warlike aggression ; pro- 
 posing, however, that, were he immovably bent on his aim, 
 they two should agree upon a duel of their armies to be 
 fought with mutual consent as to terms. She submitted an 
 alternative. Cyrus might choose: Either he should inarcli 
 immolested three days' journey into her dominions and there 
 join battle with her ; or, she would make a similar advance 
 into the territory of Cyrus and engage him on his own ground. 
 Cyrus considered, and he had now made up his mind, when
 
 140 Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 Croesus, who disapproved of the conqueror's decision, inter- 
 vened with advice as follows : 
 
 "O my king! I promised thee long since, tliat, as Jove had given 
 me into thy hands, I would, to the best of my power, avert impending 
 danger from thy house. Alas ! my own sufferings, by their very bitter- 
 ness, have taught me to be keen-sighted of dangers. If thou deemest 
 thyself an immortal, and thine army an army of immortals, my counsel 
 will doubtless be thrown away upon thee. But if thou feelest thyself to 
 be a man, and a ruler of men, lay this first to heart, that there is a 
 wheel on which the affairs of men revolve, and that its movement for- 
 bids the same man to be always fortunate. Now concerning the matter 
 in hand, my judgment runs counter to the judgment of thy other coun- 
 selors. For if thou agreest to give the enemy entrance into thy country, 
 consider what risk is run! Lose the battle, and therewith thy whole 
 kingdom is lost. For assuredly, the Massagetce, if they win the fight, 
 will not return to their homes, but will push forward against the states 
 of thy empire. Or if thou gainest the battle, why, then thou gainest far 
 less than if thou wert across the stream, where thou mightest follow up 
 thy victory. For against thy loss, if they defeat thee on thy own ground, 
 must be set theirs in like case. Rout their army on tlie other side of 
 the river, and thou mayest push at once into the heart of their country. 
 Moreover, were it not disgrace intolerable for Cyrus, the son of Cam- 
 by'ses, to retire before and yield ground to a woman ? My counsel 
 therefore is, that we cross the stream, and, pushing forward as far as 
 they shall fall back, then seek to get the better of them by stratagem. 
 I am told they are unacquainted with the good things on which the 
 Persians live, and have never tasted the great delights of life. Let us, 
 then, prepare a feast for them in our camp ; let sheep be slaughtered 
 without stint, and the wine-cups be filled full of noble liquor, and let all 
 manner of dishes be prepared ; tlien leaving behind us our worst troops, 
 let us fall back toward the river. Unless I very much mistake, when 
 they see the good fare set out, they will forget all else and fall to. Then 
 it will remain for us to do our part manfully." 
 
 Cyrus reconsidered and adopted the counsel of Croesus. 
 Croesus, however, he did not take with him in the advance. 
 Instead of this, handing his royal captive-guest over to his 
 son and successor, Cam-by'ses, with strict charge to the youth 
 to treat the Lydian monarch kindly, even should the expedi- 
 tion issue unfavorably, he sent them both back to Persia.
 
 Herodotus. 141 
 
 The event was partly as Croesus had forecast. A son of 
 Tomyris, leading a third part of her army, came up, fell on 
 Cyrus's guard left behind, and put them to the sword. Cyrus 
 returned to find them gorged with feast, and asleep. He 
 slew and captured at his will. Among the prisoners was the 
 son himself of Tomyris. The queen sent Cyrus word, "Re- 
 store my son and go unscathed. Refuse, and I swear to thee, 
 bloodthirsty as thou art, I will give thee thy fill of blood." 
 Poor Spar-gap'i-thes, the son, recovered from his debauch, at 
 once felt the extent of his misfortune. Getting himself re- 
 leased from his fetters, he put an end to his own life. Battle 
 afterward resulted in the discomfiture of Cyrus. The con- 
 queror himself was slain ; but vengeful Tomyris had her 
 satisfaction of his corpse. She plunged the severed head 
 into a skin filled with human blood, exclaiming, "I make 
 good my threat and give thee thy glut of gore." 
 
 Following thus far, with little discursion, the fortunes of 
 Croesus, we have now reached the end of the first book of 
 Herodotus. Cambyses (conjectured by some to be the 
 Ahasuerus of the Old Testament), succeeding to the Persian 
 throne, takes up his father's unfinished career of conquest, 
 in various enterprises to which Herodotus does not even 
 allude. The first enterprise of his that our historian men- 
 tions is his invading of Egypt. With that mention for pref- 
 ace, Herodotus devotes his second book entire to an account 
 of Egypt, the land and the peo])le. The notes and essays 
 that accompany, in JNIr. Rawlinson's volumes, are full of 
 learned interest. We skip to the third book, in which the 
 history proper is resumed, and in which our hero Croesus 
 re-appears. The mad pranks of absolute power that Cam- 
 byses played at the cost of the conquered Egyptians, 
 Herodotus relates in a considerable number of instances. 
 Cambyses, the historian thinks, must have been out of his 
 right mind. Out of his right mind indeed he probably was; 
 but whether otherwise so than as the wine of boundless
 
 142 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 irresponsible sway tends to make any man drinking it to be, 
 may be doubted. The despot's wild humors took incalcu- 
 lable aims. The Egyptians were not the only ones to suffer. 
 His near kindred felt the tyrant's fiercely frolicsome power — 
 his own chosen favorites too as well. Let one example suf- 
 fice. Herodotus says : 
 
 He was mad also upon others besides his kindred ; among the rest, 
 upon Prex-as'pes, the man whom he esteemed beyond all the rest of the 
 Persians, who carried his messages, and whose son held the office — an 
 honor of no small account in Persia — of his cup-bearer. Him Camby- 
 ses is said to have once addressed as follows: "What sort of man, 
 Prexaspes, do the Persians think me ? What do they say of me ? " 
 Prexaspes answered, " O sire, they praise thee greatly in all things but 
 one — they say thou art too much given to love of wine." Such Prexas- 
 pes told liim was the judgment of the Persians ; whereupon Cambyses, 
 full of rage, made answer, "What? they say now that I drink too much 
 wine, and so have lost my senses, and am gone out of my mind ! Then 
 their former speeches about me were untrue." For 9nce, when the 
 Persians were sitting with him, and Croesus was by, he had asked them, 
 "What sort of man they thought him compared to his father Cyrus ? " 
 Hereon they had answered, that he surpassed his father, for he was lord 
 over all that his fatlier ever ruled, and further had made himself master 
 of Egypt and the sea. Then Croesus, who was standing near, and mis- 
 liked the comparison, spoke thus to Cambyses: "In my judgment, O son 
 of Cyrus, thou art not equal to thy father, for thou liast not yet left be- 
 hind thee such a son as he." Cambyses was delighted when he heard 
 this reply, and praised the judgment of Croesus. 
 
 Recollecting these answers, Cambyses spoke fiercely to Prexaspes, 
 saying, " Judge now thyself Prexaspes, whether the Persians tell the 
 truth, or whether it is not they who are mad for speaking as they do. 
 Look there now at thy son standing in the vestibule. If I shoot and 
 hit him right in the middle of the heart, it will be plain the Persians 
 have no grounds for what they say. If I miss him, then I allow tliat 
 the Persians are right, and that I am out of my mind." So speaking, 
 he drew his bow to the full, and struck the boy, who straightway fell 
 down dead. Then Cambyses ordered the body to be opened, and tlie 
 wound examined ; and when the arrow was found to have entered the 
 heart, the king was quite overjoyed, and said to tlie father with a laugh, 
 " Now thou seest plainly, Prexaspes, that it is not I who am mad, 
 but the Persians who have lost their senses. I pray thee tell me, saw-
 
 Herodotus. 1 43 
 
 est thou ever mortal man send an arrow with a better aim ? " Prex- 
 aspes, seeing that the king was not in his right mind, and fearing for 
 himself, replied, "O my lord, I do not lliink that God himself could 
 shoot so dexterously." Such was the outrage which Cambyscs com- 
 mitted at this time : at another he took twelve of the noblest Persians, 
 and, without bringing any charge worthy of death against them, buried 
 them all up to the neck. 
 
 We cannot forbear here inserting a note, subjoined by the 
 translator to the last sentence of the extract preceding : 
 
 " This mode of punishment is still in use at the present 
 day, and goes by the'name of ' Tree-planting.' Feti-Ali-Shah 
 once sent for Astra-clian, one of his courtiers, and with an 
 appearance of great friendliness took him round his garden, 
 showing him all its beauties. When he had finished the cir- 
 cuit, he appealed to Astra-chan to know what his garden 
 still lacked. ' Nothing,' said the courtier ; ' it is quite per- 
 fect.' ' I think differently,' replied the king ; * I must de- 
 cidedly plant a tree in it.' Astra-chan, who knew the king's 
 meaning only too well, fell at his feet, and begged his life ; 
 which he obtained at the price of surrendering to the king the 
 lady to whom he was betrothed." 
 
 Croesus ventured now on the hazardous part of " guide, 
 jihilosopher, and friend " to Cambyses. Herodotus reports 
 his admonition, with its sequel, as follows : 
 
 " O king, allow not thyself to ^ivc way entirely to thy youth, and the 
 heat of thy temper, but check and control thyself. It is well to look to 
 consequences, ami in forethought is true wisdom. Thou layesl hold of 
 men, who are thy fellow-citizens, and without cause of complaint slay- 
 est them ; thou even putlest children to death ; bethink thee now, if 
 thou shalt often do things like these, will not the Persians rise in revolt 
 against thee ? It is by thy father's wish that I offer thee advice ; he 
 charged me strictly to give thee such counsel as I might see to be most 
 for lliy good." In thus advising Cambyscs, Crresus meant nothing but 
 what was friendly. 15ut Cambyses answered him, " Dost thou presume 
 to offer me advice ? Right well thou ruledst thy own country when thou 
 wast a king, and right sage advice thou gavest my father, Cyrus, bidding 
 liim cross the Araxes and fight the Massagette in their own land, when
 
 144 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 they were willing to have passed over into ours. By thy misdirection 
 of thine own affairs thou broughtest ruin upon thyself, and by thy bad 
 counsel, wliich he followed, thou broughtest ruin upon Cyrus, my father. 
 But thou shalt not escape punishment now, for I have long been seeking 
 to find some occasion against thee." As he thus spoke, Cambyses took 
 up his bow to shoot at Croesus ; but Croesus ran hastily out, and escaped. 
 So when Cambyses found that he could not kill him with his bow, he 
 bade his servants seize him, and put him to death. The servants, how- 
 ever, who knew their master's humor, thought it best to hide Crcesus ; 
 that so, if Cambyses relented, and asked for him, they might bring him 
 out, and get a reward for having saved his life ; if, on the other hand, 
 he did not relent, or regret the loss, they might then dispatch him. Not 
 long afterward Cambyses did in fact regret the loss of Croesus, and the 
 servants, perceiving it, let him know that he was still alive. " I am 
 glad," said he, " that Croesus lives, but as for you who saved him, ye 
 shall not escape my vengeance, but shall all of you be put to death." 
 And he did even as he had said. 
 
 With the foregoing paternal admonition delivered to Cam- 
 byses, Croesus disappears from the history of Herodotus. 
 The historian — romancer, were it better in this connection to 
 call him ? — forgets to give us any notice of the Lydian's end. 
 
 Great good fortune followed by ill fortune as great, made 
 a spectacle that had irresistible fascination for Herodotus. 
 We go on now to another of his illustrious historic examples, 
 in Xerxes, crossing thus an interval of about fifty years. 
 Cambyses died 522 B.C. Xerxes began to reign 485 B.C. 
 
 The invasion of Greece by Xerxes is a feature of ancient 
 story that every one knows of almost immemorial knowledge. 
 We shall not repeat it here out of Herodotus. How Xerxes 
 sp'ent years in preparation, how he got together an arma- 
 ment on land and on sea, exceeding in number of men 
 and in amount of warlike equipment, any thing before or 
 since known, how, his heart distended with pride, he sat to 
 behold his vast array, how he scourged the strait that in 
 storm broke up his bridge, how, at length, checked at Ther- 
 mopylae, defeated at Salamis, he was forced to withdraw, his 
 main object unaccomplished — all this is a tale that the world
 
 Herodotus. 1 45 
 
 has by heart. Our plan will be to select, from the full store 
 supplied by Herodotus, a few salient anecdotes of the war 
 and set these before our readers. We shall aim to make our 
 selection serve not only to show the matter and method of 
 Herodotus, but to illustrate the characters of two men in 
 particular, brought into the strong light of mutual contrast 
 by the struggle. They will be two men who may justly be 
 taken to represent respectively the two races to which respect- 
 ively they belong. We mean Xerxes for the Persians, and 
 The-mis'to-cles for the Greeks. 
 
 Here, to begin with, is a recital luridly exhibiting the 
 violent contrast of gracious with vindictive, that may exist 
 in one human breast, nay, that perhaps is naturally engen- 
 dered in any human breast born to the immeasurable misfort- 
 une of the possession of arbitrary power. Xerxes, with his 
 host numbering already more than a million of men, is at Ce- 
 lae'nae in Phrygia. Herodotus : 
 
 Now there lived in this city a certain Pyth'ius, the son of A'tys, a 
 Lydian. Tlais man entertained Xerxes and his whole army in a most 
 magnificent fashion, offering at the same time to give him a sum of 
 money for the war. Xerxes, upon the mention of money, turned to the 
 Persians who stood by, and asked of them, " Who is this Pythius, 
 and what wealth has he that he should venture on such an offer as 
 this?" They answered him, "This is the man, O king, who gave 
 thy father, Darius, the golden plane-tree, and likewise the golden vine ; 
 and he is still the wealthiest man we know of in all the world, excepting 
 thee." 
 
 Xerxes marveled at these last words, and now addressing Pytliius 
 with his own lips, he asked him, what the amount of his wealth really 
 was. Pythius answered as follows : 
 
 "O king, I will not hide this matter from thcc, nor make pretense 
 that I do not know how rich I am ; but as I know perfectly, I will de- 
 clare all fully before thee. For when thy journey was noised abroad, 
 and I heard thou wert coming down to the Grecian coast, straightwa}', 
 as I wished to give thee a sum of money for tlie war, I made count of 
 my stores, and found them to be two thousand talents of silver, and of 
 gold four millions of Daric staters, wanting seven thousand. All this I 
 10
 
 146 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 willingly make over to thee as a gift ; and wlien it is gone, my slaves 
 and my estates in land will be wealth enougli for my wants." 
 
 This speech charmed Xerxes and he replied : " Dear Lydian, since I 
 left Persia, there is no man but thou who has either desired to entertain 
 my army, or come forward of his own free-will to ofier me a sum of 
 money for the war. Thou hast done both the one and the other, feast- 
 ing my troops magnificently, and now making offer of a right noble sum. 
 In return, this is what I will bestow on thee. Thou shalt be my sworn 
 friend from this day ; and the seven thousand staters which are wanting 
 to make up thy four millions I will supply, so that the full tale may be 
 no longer lacking, and that thou mayest owe the completion of the round 
 sum to me. Continue to enjoy all that thou hast acquired hitherto, and 
 be sure to remain ever such as thou now art. If thou dost, thou wilt 
 not repent of it so long as thy life endures." 
 
 When Xerxes had so spoken and had made good his promises to 
 Pythius, he pressed forward upon his march. 
 
 So much for the bountiful grace of the king. Here is the 
 other side of Pythius's relation to Xerxes. Herodotus says : 
 
 The army had begun its march, when Pythius, the Lydian, affrighted 
 at the heavenly portent [a solar eclipse], and emboldened by his gifts, 
 came to Xerxes and said, " Grant me, O my lord, a favor which is to 
 thee a light matter, but to me of vast account." Then Xerxes, who 
 looked for nothing less than such a prayer as Pythius in fact preferred, 
 engaged to grant him whatever he wished, and commanded him to tell 
 his wish freely. So Pythius, full of boldness, went on to say : 
 
 "O my lord, thy servant has five sons, and it chances that all are 
 called upon to join thee in this march against Greece. I beseech thee, 
 have compassion upon my years, and let one of my sons, the eldest, re- 
 main behind, to be my prop and stay, and the guardian of my wealth. 
 Take with thee the other four : and wlien thou hast done all that is in 
 thy heart, mayst thou come back in safety." 
 
 But Xerxes was greatly angered, and replied to him : " Thou wretch ! 
 darest thou speak to me of thy son, when I am myself on the marcli 
 against Greece, with sons, and brothers, and kinsfolk, and friends? Thou 
 who art my bond-slave, and art in duty bound to follow me with all thy 
 household, not excepting thy wife ! Know that man's spirit dwellelh 
 in his ears, and when it hears good things, straightway it fills all his body 
 with delight ; but no sooner does it hear the contrary than it heaves and 
 swells with passion. As when thou didst good deeds and madest good 
 offers to me, thou wert not able to boast of having outdone the king in
 
 Herodotus. 147 
 
 bountifulness ; so now when thou art changed and grown impudent, 
 thou shalt not receive all thy deserts, but less. For thyself and four of 
 thy five sons, the entertainment which I had of thee shall gain protec- 
 tion ; but as for him to whom thou clingest above the rest, the forfeit of 
 his life shall be thy punishment." Having thus spoken, forthwith he 
 commanded those to whom such tasks were assigned, to seek out the 
 eldest of the sons of Pythius, and having cut his body asunder, to place 
 the two halves, one on the right and the other on the left of the great 
 road, so that the army might march out between them. Then the king's 
 orders were obeyed ; and the army marched out between the two halves 
 of the carcase. 
 
 Arrived at A-by'dos, Xerxes is struck with a very natural 
 desire. To desire and to be gratified is, for Xerxes, one and 
 the same. Herodotus relates : 
 
 Arrived here, Xerxes wished to look upon all his host ; so, as there 
 was a throne of white marble upon a hill near the city, which they of 
 Abydos had prepared beforehand, by the king's bidding, for his especial 
 use, Xerxes took his seat on it, and, gazing thence upon the shore be- 
 low, beheld at one view all his land forces and all his ships. While 
 thus employed he felt a desire to behold a sailing-match among his 
 ships, which accordingly took place, and was won by the Phoenicians of 
 Sidon, much to the joy of Xerxes, who was delighted alike with the race 
 and with his army. 
 
 And now, as he looked and saw the whole Hellespont covered with 
 the vessels of his fleet, and all the shore and every plain about Abydos 
 as full as could be of men, Xerxes congratulated himself on his good 
 fortune ; but after a little while he wept. 
 
 A good uncle of Xerxes in the host, Ar-ta-ba'nus by 
 name, hearing that his nephew the king is in tears, goes to 
 him. Herodotus reports Xerxes as speaking, and Artabanus 
 replying, thus : 
 
 " There came upon me a sudden pity when I thought of the shortness 
 of man's life, and considered that of all this host, so numerous as it is, not 
 one will lie alive when a hundred years are gone by." 
 
 "And yet there are sadder things in life than that," returned the 
 other. " Short as our time is, there is no man, whether it be here among 
 this multitude or elsewhere, who is so liappy as not to have felt the 
 wish — I will not say once, but full many a time — that he were dead
 
 148 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 rather than alive. Calamities fall upon us, sicknesses vex and harass us, 
 and make life, short though it be, to appear long. So death, througli 
 the wretchedness of our life, is a most sweet refuge to our race ; and 
 God, who gives us the tastes that we enjoy of pleasant times, is seen, in 
 his very gift, to be envious." 
 
 Of Xerxes an end. Now for Themistocles. 
 
 The Greek allied fleet were on the point of withdrawing 
 before the Persians and leaving the Euboeans exposed to de- 
 struction. With Eu-ry-bi'a-des, Lacedaemonian commander- 
 in-chief, the Euboeans in suppliance prevailing nothing, they 
 went to a man more open to negotiations. Now Herodotus : 
 
 They went to Themistocles, the Athenian commander, to whom they 
 gave a bribe of thirty talents, on his promise that the fleet should remain 
 and risk a battle in defense of Eubcea. 
 
 And Themistocles succeeded in detaining the fleet in the way which I 
 will now relate. He made over to Euiybiades five talents out of tlie 
 thirty paid him, which he gave as if they came from himself: and hav- 
 ing in this way gained over the admiral, he addressed himself to Adei- 
 mantus, the son of Ocyus, the Corinthian leader, who was the only re- 
 monstrant now, and who still threatened to sail away from Artemisium 
 and not wait for the other captains. Addressing himself to this man, 
 Themistocles said with an oatli, " Thou forsake us? By no means ! I 
 will pay thee better for remaining than the Mede would for leaving thy 
 friends " — and straightway he sent on board the ship of Adeimantus a 
 present of three talents of silver. So these two captains were won by gifts, 
 and came over to the views of Themistocles, who was thereby enabled 
 to gratify the wishes of the Euboeans. He likewise made his own gain 
 on the occasion ; for he kept the rest of the money, and no one knew of 
 it. The commanders who took the gifts thought that the sums were fur- 
 nished by Athens, and had been sent to be used in this way. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that the Greeks stayed at Eubcea and there gave 
 battle to the enemy. 
 
 Here is the device of Themistocles for detaching the sub- 
 ject Ionian Greeks from the interest of Xerxes. It reads 
 like a larger contrivance of 0-dys'seus. In truth, Themisto- 
 cles might be a study in real life from the Odysseus of 
 Homer's romance. Herodotus :
 
 Herodotus. 149 
 
 Thcmibtocles chose uiit ihe swiftest sailers from auioiiLj the Athenian 
 vessels, and proceeding to the various watering-places along the coast, 
 cut inscriptions on the rocks, which were read by the lonians the day 
 following, on their arrival at Artemisium. The inscriptions ran thus : 
 " Men of Ionia, ye do wrong to fight against your own fathers and to give 
 your help to enslave Greece. We beseech you, therefore, to come over, 
 if possible, to our side : if you cannot do this, then, we pray you, stand 
 aloof from the contest yourselves, and persuade the Carians to do the 
 like. If neither of these things be possible, and you are hindered, by a 
 force too strong to resist, from venturing upon desertion, at least when 
 we come to blows, fight backwardly, remembering that you are sprung 
 from us, and that it was through you we first provoked the hatred of the 
 barbarians." Themistocles, in putting up these inscriptions, looked, I 
 believe, to two chances — either Xerxes would not discover them, in 
 which case they might bring over the lonians to the side of the Greeks ; 
 or they would be reported to him and made a ground of accusation 
 against the lonians, who would thereupon be distrusted, and would not 
 be allowed to take part in the sea-fights. 
 
 AVhen the time came for finally deciding where the Grecian 
 fleet should make its stand against the Persians, Themistocles 
 took infinite trouble to secure a vote in favor of Salamis. 
 Finding, to his disgust, that the majority at last were going 
 against him, he took a bold step. Let Herodotus tell what 
 it was : 
 
 He went out secretly from the council, and instructing a certain man 
 what he should say, sent him on board a merchant ship to the fleet of 
 the Medes. The man's name was Sicinnus ; he was one of Themisto- 
 cles' household slaves, and acted as tutor to his sons ; in after times, 
 when the Thespians were admitting persons to citizenship, Themistocles 
 made him a Thespian, and a rich man to boot. Tiie ship brought 
 Sicinnus to the Persian fleet, and there he delivered his message to the 
 leaders in these words: " Tlie Athenian commander has sent me to 
 you privily, without the knowledge of the other Greeks. He is a well- 
 wisher to the king's cause, and would rather success should attend on 
 you than on his countrymen ; wherefore he bids me tell you, that fear 
 has seized the Greeks and they are meditating a hasty flight. Now then 
 it is open to you to achieve the best work that ever ye wrought, if only 
 ye will hinder their escaping. They no longer agree among themselves, 
 so that they will not now make any resistance— nay, 'tis likely ye may
 
 150 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 see a fight already begun between sucli as favour and sucli as oppose 
 your cause." The messenger, when he had thus expressed himself, de- 
 parted and was seen no more. 
 
 Herodotus reports as follows a message sent, after the 
 Persians depart, by Themistocles to Xerxes : 
 
 " Themistocles the Athenian, anxious to render thee a service, has 
 restrained the Greeks, who were impatient to pursue thy ships, and to 
 break up the bridges at the Hellespont. Now, therefore, return home 
 at thy leisure." 
 
 The greed of Themistocles was as great as his genius. 
 Commencing his shameless levies with the Andrians, he used 
 his power to enforce a general scheme of spoliation for his 
 own aggrandizement on the exposed and helpless isles of 
 Greece. It is melancholy that Herodotus should be, as 
 probably he was, justified in the heavy indictment brought 
 against this great representative Greek in the following 
 words : 
 
 Meanwhile Themistocles, who never ceased his pursuit of gain, sent 
 threatening messages to the other islanders with demands for different 
 sums, employing the same messengers and the same words as he had 
 used toward the Adrians. " If," he said, " they did not send him the 
 amount required, he would bring the Greek fleet upon them, and besiege 
 them till he took their cities.'' By these means he collected large sums 
 from the Carystians and the Parians, who, when they heard that Andros 
 was already besieged, and that Themistocles was the best esteemed of 
 all the captains, sent the money through fear. Whether any of the other 
 islanders did the like, I cannot say for certain ; but I think some did 
 besides those I have mentioned. However, the Carystians, though they 
 complied, were not spared any the more; but Themistocles was softened 
 by the Parians' gift, and therefore they received no visit from the army. 
 In this way it was Themistocles, during his stay at Andros, obtained 
 money from the islanders, unbeknown to the other captains. 
 
 Herodotus was, like nearly every writer of the first class 
 in every literature, a man of comparatively high moral tone. 
 Comparatively, we say, and this qualification is necessary. 
 For there are stories told by Herodotus which it would not
 
 Herodotus. 151 
 
 cio fur us to repeat in these pages. But the fault in taste 
 and in ethical standard is the fault, not of the man, but of 
 his age and of heathenism. The total effect of the history — 
 and this is the individual praise of Herodotus — makes for, 
 rather than against, good morals. The fluent garrulity of the 
 historian, his evident willingness to gratify popular appetite 
 — perhaps we should say, rather, his own frankly genuine 
 sympathy with popular appetite — makes his pages a marvel- 
 ously perfect mirror to reflect for all generations the features 
 and the lineaments of the age and the race to which he be- 
 longed. The literary image thus immortally preserved we 
 prize and prize highly; but as for the original of the image, 
 the reality itself, that did not perish too soon. 
 
 V. 
 
 THUCYDIDES. 
 
 Thucydides is not so entertaining an historian as Herod- 
 otus. This is due partly to the nature of his subject ; but 
 partly it is due to the nature of the man. Indeed, since it 
 was mainly the nature of the man that prescribed his choice 
 of a subject, it may fairly be said that the difference, existing 
 against Thucydides as compared with Herodotus, in point of 
 entertainingness, is chiefly attributable to the less engaging 
 personal quality of the author himself. 
 
 What Thucydides describes is the so-called Pel-o-pon-ne'- 
 sian war. This is the name given to a conflict, continued 
 with little interruption during twenty-seven years, between 
 Sparta (chief Peloponnesian power) with her allies, on the 
 one side, and Athens with her allies, on the other. The con- 
 flict was confined almost exclusively to the states and colo- 
 nies of Greece. It partook strongly of the character of a civil
 
 Classic Greek Course in Eiiglis/i. 
 
 war. The prize contended for was leadership in Hellenic 
 affairs, Sparta envied Athens her empire. Or, to put the 
 matter from the other point of view, Athens threatened the in- 
 dependence of Sparta and of Hellas. The result of this mut- 
 ual jealously was that, continuously, for the space of almost a 
 whole human generation, the states of Greece devoted them- 
 selves energetically to the business of destroying one another. 
 Energetically, but not exclusively; for Athens, meantime — 
 and this is one of the miracles of history — warring, as it were, 
 with her left hand, carried forward, with her right, those 
 matchless achievements of hers, in letters and in arts, which 
 have made her name the immortal synonym and symbol of 
 genius, of culture, and of taste. It is beyond measure aston- 
 ishing that, embroiled in internecine war at home, embarked 
 in arduous naval expeditions abroad, suffering, almost to 
 decimation, within her own city walls from a plague unsur- 
 passed for virulence, this incomparably spirited little munici- 
 pality, probably not at her height of prosperity numbering 
 more than about twenty thousand free citizens (representing 
 a total population of, say, five hundred thousand souls), 
 should, at this very same moment of her history, have been 
 living a life of the intellect flowering into such products as 
 Socrates, Plato, Xenophon, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Thu- 
 cydides. 
 
 For Thucydides wrote of his own limes in his history. Of 
 his own times, but, alas ! of his own times, in only one aspect 
 of those times, the aspect of war. Immensely is this to be 
 regretted. No account whatever, scarcely even a hint, from 
 that master hand, of the double life that Athens lived during 
 all those troubled days ! You would scarcely guess from 
 Thucydides, that, besides her remarkable activity in war, 
 Athens was maintaining meantime a parallel activity more 
 remarkable still that was not of war, in the production of 
 such works in literature and in art as, generally and justly, are 
 assumed to be sufficiently described when they are simply
 
 Thucydides. 15- 
 
 described as works of peace. The masterpieces of poetry, of 
 sculpture, and of architecture, which were the fruit of those 
 years — what enhanced interest they acquire in your eyes 
 when you remember that Atliens achieved them during the 
 protracted agony of a war destined to issue in disaster to 
 herself almost equivalent to her own destruction! Conceive 
 the pleasure with which, amid the annals of battle or of 
 plague, we should have read, in the assured and graphic 
 delineation of Thucydides, episodes of information about the 
 literary and artistic life of Athens — episodes decorated, as 
 he could have decorated them, with illustrious contemporary 
 names ! How such diversifications would have relieved and 
 illuminated the sombre monotony of his history! 
 
 But Thucydides did not know that he was writing also for 
 us — perhaps, had he known, would not have cared for our 
 wishes. He was intensely and narrowly Greek. There was 
 for him no world outside of Hellas. The colonial birth and 
 breeding, perhaps it was, of Herodotus, that gave this different 
 genius a more cosmopolitan breadth of sympathy than be- 
 longed to Thucydides. Thucydides thought that never in 
 the world had there been a war so great as promised in its 
 imminency to be the Peloponnesian war. At the very outset, 
 therefore, of the struggle he began to take notes in prepara- 
 tion for his liistory. One is glad that Thucydides estimated, 
 as he did, the magnitude of his theme, since otherwise it 
 seems likely we should not have had the present work. But 
 the actual fact is that there has rarely a war occurred and 
 been made the subject of serious historical report, that to the 
 world at large was of less moment than the Peloponnesian 
 war. Simply a (juarrcl in the Hellenic family, it was costly, 
 disgraceful, disastrous — to them — but lo mankind in general 
 of scarcely the smallest direct concern. The history of Thu- 
 cydides accordingly is not important as history; but, first, as 
 literature, and, secondly, as fund of illustration for the Greek 
 national genius, it is of the very liighest importance. It is
 
 154 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 composed in the form of annals — that is, the events and inci- 
 dents are related chronologically by years. It is incomplete, 
 ending abruptly in the middle of the twenty-first year of the 
 war. 
 
 Of the author himself, beyond such scant autobiographical 
 notices as the history itself contains, little is known. " Thu- 
 cydides an Athenian," is his own description of himself. 
 When he became an Athenian, that is, when he was born, no 
 one can positively say. The date given on doubtful author- 
 ity is 471 B.C. This must be pretty near the mark, for the 
 historian tells us ^that he was of mature age when the war 
 commenced, and that was 431 B.C. The writer was himself 
 an actor in the affairs of which he wrote ; but the part he 
 performed was not prosperous, and it seems that, according 
 to a way the Athenians had, he was banished for his mis- 
 carriage in generalship. Twenty years of exile gave him an 
 opportunity to look at matters with a strong parallax — that is, 
 from the Peloponnesian, in place of the Athenian, point of 
 view. During this long absence of Thucydides from his 
 native city, a sharp change in literary style and taste took 
 place at Athens, nothing less than the transition from the Old 
 Attic, so called, to the New. This mutation in mode Thu- 
 cydides did not share. He remains the great representative 
 in prose, as is ^schylus in verse, of the old Attic literature. 
 There seems a certain fitness between his own personal char- 
 acter as displayed in his writings, and the austere diction 
 and syntax in which Thucydides wrote. Ellipsis, lack of 
 strict grammatical concord, archaic idiom, sententiousness, 
 not infrequent obscurity, are marks of his style. These 
 traits almost disappear — they disappear certainly as far as 
 they should — in the magically perfect translation of Mr, 
 Jowett, a translation, we doubt not, as near to ideal in 
 fidelity and in felicity, as exists of any work in any language. 
 Let us begin at once with Thucydides in Mr. Jowett's trans- 
 lation ;
 
 Thucydides. 155 
 
 Thucydides, an Athenian, wrote the history of the war in which tlie 
 Peloponnesians and the Athenians fought against one another. He 
 began to write when they first took up arms, believing that it would be 
 great and memorable above any previous war. For he argued that both 
 states were then at the full height of their military power, and he saw 
 the rest of the Hellenes either siding or intending to side with one or 
 other of them. No movement ever stirred Hellas more deeply than 
 this; it was shared by many of the Barbarians, and might be said even 
 to affect the world at large. 
 
 The foregoing is the way in which Thucydides commences 
 his history. The effect upon "the world at large" was lim- 
 ited to the exciting of a disposition in the Persians to par- 
 ticipate, by intrigue or by alliance, in the conflict which was 
 embroiling the Greeks — this, with a view, on the part of the 
 Asiatics, to the ultimate incorporation of dissolving Hellas 
 into their barbaric empire. 
 
 The chief passage in which our author sets forth his own 
 method of historical composition is too important to be omit- 
 ted. We give it : 
 
 As to the speeches which were made either before or during the war, 
 it was hard for me, and for others who reported them to me, to recollect 
 the exact words. I have, therefore, put into the mouth of each speaker 
 the sentiments proper to the occasion, expressed as I thought he would 
 be likely to express them, while at the same time I endeavored, as nearly 
 as I could, to give the general purport of what was actually said. Of 
 the events of the war I have not ventured to speak from any cliance infor- 
 mation, nor according to any notion of my own ; I have described noth- 
 ing but what I either saw myself, or learned from others of whom I 
 made the most careful and particular inquiry. The task was a laborious 
 one, because eye-witnesses of the same occurrences gave different ac- 
 counts of them, as they remembered or were interested in the actions of 
 one side or the other. And very likely the strictly historical character 
 of my narrative may be disappointing to the ear. But if he who desires 
 to have before his eyes a true picture of the events which have happened, 
 and of the like events which may be expected to happen hereafter in the 
 order of human things, shall pronounce what I have written to be use- 
 ful, then I shall be satisfied. My history is an everlasting possession, 
 not a prize composition which is heard and forgotten.
 
 156 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Themistocles once more. In retrospectively telling us of 
 him, Thucydides, without expressly saying so, makes his his- 
 tory meet and continue the history of Herodotus. 
 
 We simply remind our readers that the close of the Persian 
 war indeed left Xerxes in disastrous retreat, but it also left 
 Athens in ruins. The Lacedaemonians sent word to the 
 Athenians not to rebuild their city walls. For this advice 
 they pleaded certain specious reasons ; but their real motive, 
 Thucydides says, was jealousy of Athens. Now comes in 
 that man of many wiles, Themistocles. Let Thucydides 
 speak : 
 
 To this [the Lacedaemonian suggestion about the city walls] the Athe- 
 nians, by the advice of Themistocles, replied, that they would send an 
 embassy of their own to discuss the matter, and so got rid of the Spartan 
 envoys. He then proposed that he should himself start at once for 
 Sparta, and that they should give him colleagues who were not to go im- 
 mediately, but were to wait until the wall reached the lowest height which 
 could possibly be defended. The whole people, men, women, and chil- 
 dren, should join in the work, and they must spare no building, private 
 or public, which could be of use, but demolish them all. Having given 
 these instructions and intimated that he would manage affairs at Sparta, 
 he departed. On his arrival he did not at once present himself officially 
 to the magistrates, but delayed and made excuses ; and when any of 
 them asked him " why he did not appear before the assembly," he said 
 " that he was waiting for his colleagues, who had been detained by some 
 engagement, he was daily expecting them, and wondered that they had 
 not appeared." 
 
 The friendship of the Lacedaemonian magistrates for Themistocles in- 
 duced them to believe him ; but when every body who came from Athens 
 declared positively that the wall was building and had already reached a 
 considerable height, they knew not what to think. He, aware of their 
 suspicions, desired them not to be misled by reports, but to send to Ath- 
 ens men whom they could trust out of their own number who would see 
 for themselves and bring back word. They agreed ; and he at the same 
 time privately instructed the Athenians to detain the envoys as quietly 
 as they could, and not let them go until he and his colleagues had got 
 safely home. For by this time Ha-bron'i-chus, the son of Lys'i-cles, and 
 Ar-is-ti'des, the son of Ly-sim'a-chus, who were joined with him in the 
 embassy, had arrived, bringing the news that the wall was of sufficient
 
 Thucydidcs. 157 
 
 heiglit ; and he was afraid that the Lacedremonians, when they heard 
 the truth, might not allow them to return. So the Athenians detained 
 the envoys, and Themistocles, coming before the Lacedaemonians, at 
 length declared in so many words that Athens was now provided with 
 walls and could protect her citizens ; henceforward, if the Lacedaemoni- 
 ans or their allies wished at any time to negotiate, they must deal with 
 the Athenians as with men who knew quite well what was for their own 
 and the common good. When they boldly resolved to leave their city 
 and go on board ship, they did not first ask the advice of the Lacedae- 
 monians, and, when the two states met in council, their own judgment 
 had been as good as that of any one. And now they had arrived at an 
 independent opinion that it was better far, and would be more advan- 
 tageous, both for themselves and for the whole body of tlie allies, that 
 their city should have a wall ; when any member of a confederacy had 
 not equal military advantages, his counsel could not be of equal weight or 
 worth. Either all the allies should pull down their walls, or they should 
 acknowledge that the Athenians were in the right. 
 
 Themistocles \/as something besides ?. consummate trick- 
 ster ; he was a far-seeing statesman. He it was who con- 
 ceived for Athens the idea which afterward, einbraced and 
 carried to its complete realization by Pericles, made that city 
 during a brief and splendid culmination of her power, if not 
 quite mistress of Hellas, at least undisputed leader in Hellenic 
 affairs. Here is the passage in which Thucydides describes 
 the policy forecast by Themistocles. (We need but direct 
 our readers' attention to the fact that Athens, situated some 
 four or five miles inland from the sea, had her harbor — or 
 rather her harbors, for there were three of them — on a penin- 
 sula called the Pi-roe'us) : 
 
 Themistocles also persuaded the Athenians to finish the Piraeus, of 
 which he had made a beginning in his year of office as Archon. The 
 situation of the place, which had three natural havens, was excellent ; 
 and, now that the Athenians had become sailors, he thought that a good 
 harbor would greatly contril)ute to the extension of their power. For 
 he first dared to say that " tlicy must make the sea tlicir domain," and 
 he lost no time in laying the foundations of their emjiirc. By his advice 
 they built the wall of such a width that two wagons carrying the stones 
 could meet and pass on the top ; this width may still be traced at the
 
 158 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 PiiEeus; inside there was no rubble or mortar, but the whole wall was 
 made up of large stones hewn square, wliich were clamped on the outer 
 face with iron and lead. The height was not more than half what he 
 had originally intended ; he had hoped by the very dimensions of tlie 
 wall to paralyze the designs of an enemy, and he thought that a handful 
 of the least efficient citizens would suffice for its defense, while the rest 
 might man the fleet. His mind was turned in this direction, as I con- 
 ceive, from observing that the Persians had met with fewer obstacles by 
 sea than by land. The Piraeus appeared to him to be of more real con- 
 sequence than the upper city. He was fond of telling the Athenians 
 that if they were hard pressed they should go down to the Piraeus and 
 fight the world at sea. 
 
 Thus the Athenians built their walls and restored their city immedi- 
 ately after the retreat of the Persians. 
 
 Themistocles tarnished his glory with outright treason at 
 last. With the story of this, and of the inexhaustible resources 
 which Themistocles displayed in avoiding the consequences 
 of his exposure and in pushing his fortunes in Persia, we dis- 
 miss this brilliant but unscrupulous Greek from our view. 
 Thucydides says : 
 
 Now the evidence which proved that Pausanias [king of Sparta] was 
 in league with Persia implicated Themistocles ; and the Lacedaemonians 
 sent ambassadors to the Athenians charging him likewise with treason, 
 and demanding that he should receive the same punishment. The 
 Athenians agreed, but having been ostracised he was living at the time 
 in Argos, whence he used to visit other parts of the Peloponnese. The 
 Lacedaemonians were very ready to join in the pursuit ; so they and the 
 Athenians sent officers who were told to arrest him wherever they should 
 find him. 
 
 Themistocles received information of their purpose, and fled from the 
 Peloponnesus to the Cor-cy-rae'ans, who were under an obligation to him. 
 The Corcyraeans said that they were afraid to keep him, lest they should 
 incur the enmity of Athens and Lacedaemon ; so they conveyed him to 
 the neighboring continent, whither he was followed by the officers, who 
 constantly inquired in which direction he had gone and pursued him 
 everywhere. Owing to an accident, he was compelled to stop at the 
 house of Ad-me'tus, king of the Molossians, who was not his friend. 
 He chanced to be absent from home, but Themistocles presented him- 
 self as a suppliant to his wife, and was instructed by her to take their
 
 Thucydides. 159 
 
 child and sit at the hearth. Admetus soon returned, and then Themis- 
 tocles told him who he was, adding, that if in past times he had opposed 
 any request which Admetus had made to the Athenians, he ought not to 
 retaliate on an exile. He was now in such extremity that a far weaker 
 adversary than he could do him a mischief, but a noble nature should 
 not be revenged by taking at a disadvantage one so good as himself. 
 Themistocles further argued that he had opposed Admetus in some 
 matter of business, and not when life was at stake ; but that, if Admetus 
 delivered him up, he would be consigning him to death. At the same 
 time he told him who his pursuers were and what was the charge against 
 him. 
 
 Admetus, hearing his words, raised him up, together with his own son, 
 from the place where he sat holding the child in his arms, which was 
 the most solemn form of supplication. Not long afterward the Atheni- 
 ans and Lacedaemonians came and pressed him to give up the fugitive, 
 but he refused ; and as Themistocles wanted to go to the King [of Per- 
 sia], sent him on foot across the country to the sea at Pydna (which was 
 in the kingdom of Alexander). There he found a merchant vessel sail- 
 ing to Ionia, in which he embarked ; it was driven, however, by a 
 storm to the station of the Athenian fleet which was blockading Naxos. 
 He was unknown to his fellow-passengers, but, fearing what might hap- 
 pen, he told the captain who he was and why he fled, threatening, if he 
 did not save his life, to say that he had been bribed to take him on 
 board. The only hope was that no one should be allowed to leave the ship 
 while they had to remain off Naxos ; if he complied with his request, 
 the obligation should be abundantly repaid. The captain agreed, and, 
 after anchoring in a rough sea for a day and a night off the Athenian 
 station, he at length arrived at Ephesus. Themistocles rewarded him 
 with a liberal present ; for he received soon afterward from his friends 
 the property which he had deposited at Athens and Argos. He then 
 went up the country with one of the Persians who dwelt on the coast, 
 and sent a letter to Artaxerxes, the son of Xerxes, who had just suc- 
 ceeded to the throne. The letter was in the following words: "I, 
 Themistocles, have come to you ; I who of all Hellenes did your house 
 the greatest injuries, so long as I was compelled to defend myself against 
 your father ; but still greater benefits when I was in safety and he in 
 danger during his retreat. And there is a debt of gratitude due to me." 
 (Here he noted how he had forewarned Xerxes at Salamis of the resolu- 
 tion of tlie Hellenes to withdraw, and how through his influence, as he 
 pretended, they had refrained from breaking down the bridges.) " Now 
 I am here, able to do you many other services, and persecuted by the
 
 i6o Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Hellenes for your sake. Let me wait a year, and then I will myself ex- 
 plain why I have come." 
 
 The king is said to have been astonished at the boldness of his char- 
 acter, and told him to wait a year as he proposed. In the interval he 
 made himself acquainted, as far as he could, with the Persian language 
 and the manners of the countiy. When the year was over he arrived at 
 the court and became a greater man there than any Hellene had ever 
 been before. This was due partly to his previous reputation, and partly 
 to the hope which he inspired in the king's mind that he would enslave 
 Hellas to him ; above all, his ability had been tried and not found want- 
 ing. For Themistocles was a man whose natural force was unmistaka- 
 ble ; this was the quality for which he was distinguished above all other 
 men ; from his own native acuteness, and without any study, either 
 before or at the time, he was the ablest judge of the course to be pur- 
 sued in a sudden emergency, and could best divine what v\'as likely to 
 happen in the remotest future. Whatever he had in hand he had the 
 power of explaining to others, and even where he had no experience he 
 was quite competent to form a sufficient judgment ; no one could foresee 
 with equal clearness the good or evil event which was hidden in the 
 future. In a word, Themistocles, by natural power of mind and with 
 the least preparation, was of all men the best able to extemporize the 
 right thing to be done. A sickness put an end to his life, although some 
 say that he poisoned himself because he felt that he could not accomplish 
 what he had promised to the king. 
 
 While Athens had been reviving through the genius of 
 Themistocles, Sparta had been making herself odious through 
 the insolence of Pausanias. Thus Hellas forsook Sparta and 
 came over to Athens. Then, in her turn, Athens became 
 overbearing and unbearable, and the Peloponnesian war 
 broke out. Pericles was in power at the time. We should 
 like, did space permit, to give the speech in favor of war 
 which Thucydides puts into the mouth of Pericles. With a 
 single specimen, however, of that Periclean eloquence which 
 contemporaries praised as Olympian, but which survives only 
 in the free redaction of Thucydides, we shall be forced to 
 make our readers content ; and the specimen must be the cel- 
 ebrated oration pronounced by him on the Athenian dead at 
 the close of the first year of the war. To this we proceed at
 
 Thiicydides. \ 6 1 
 
 once. The occasion is described and the oration reported 
 by Thucydides as follows (the dots occurring indicate omis- 
 sions necessary for economy of space): 
 
 In accordance with an old national custom, the funeral of those who 
 first fell in this war was celebrated by the Athenians at the public charge. 
 The ceremony is as follows : Three days before the celebration they 
 erect a tent in which the bones of the dead are laid out, and every one 
 brings to his own dead any offering which he pleases. At the time of 
 the funeral the bones are placed in chests of cypress wood, which are 
 conveyed on hearses ; there is one chest for each tribe. Tiiey also carry 
 a single empty litter decked with a pall for all whose bodies are missing 
 and cannot be recovered after the battle. The procession is accom- 
 panied by any one who chooses, whether citizen or stranger, and the 
 female relatives of the deceased are present at the place of interment and 
 make lamentation. The public sepulchre is situated in the most beauti- 
 ful spot outside the walls ; there they always bury those who fall in war : 
 only after the battle of Marathon the dead, in recognition of their pre- 
 eminent valor, were interred on the field. When the remains have been 
 laid in the earth, some man of known ability and high reputation, 
 chosen by the city, delivers a suitable oration over them, after which the 
 people depart. Such is the manner of interment ; and the ceremony 
 was repeated from time to time throughout the war. Over those who 
 were the first buried Pericles was chosen to speak. At the fitting mo- 
 ment he advanced from the sepulchre to a lofty stage, which had been 
 erected in order that he might be heard as far as possible by the multi- 
 tude, and spoke as follows : 
 
 FUNERAL SPEECH. 
 
 , . . " Before I praise the dead I should like to point out by what 
 principles of action we rose to power, and under what institutions and 
 tiirough what manner of life our empire became great. For I conceive 
 that such thoughts are not unsuited to the occasion, and that this numer- 
 ous assembly of citizens and strangers may profitably listen to them. 
 
 "Our form of government does not enter into rivalry with the institu- 
 tions of others. [Pericles must be understood as freely slanting at 
 Sparta.] We do not copy our neighbors, but are an example to tiicm. 
 It is true that we are called a democracy, for the administration is in the 
 hands of the many and not of the few. But while the law secures equal 
 justice to all alike in their private disputes, the claim of excellence is 
 also recognized; and when a citizen is in any way distinguished, he is 
 11
 
 1 62 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 preferred to the public service, not as a matter of privilege, but as the 
 reward of merit. Neither is poverty a bar, but a man may benefit his 
 country whatever be the obscurity of his condition. There is no exclu- 
 siveness in our public life, and in our private intercourse we are not 
 suspicious of one another, nor angry with our neighbor if he does what 
 he likes ; we do not put on sour looks at him which, though harmless, 
 are not pleasant. While we are thus imconstrained in oiir private inter- 
 course, a spirit of reverence pervades our public acts ; we are prevented 
 from doing wrong by respect for authority and for tlie laws, having an 
 especial regard to those which are ordained for the protection of the in- 
 jured, as well as to those unwritten laws which bring upon the transgressor 
 of them the reprobation of the general sentiment. 
 
 " And we have not forgotten to provide for our weary spirits many 
 relaxations from toil ; we have regular games and sacrifices throughout 
 the year ; at home the style of our life is refined ; and the delight which 
 we daily feel in all these things helps to banish melancholy. Because of 
 the greatness of our city the fruits of the whole earth flow in upon us ; 
 so that we enjoy the goods of other countries as freely as of our own. 
 
 " Then, again, our military training is in many respects superior to 
 that of our adversaries. Our city is thrown open to the world, and we 
 never expel a foreigner or prevent him from seeing or learning any thing 
 of which the secret if revealed to an enemy might profit him. We rely 
 not upon management or trickery, but upon our own hearts and hands. 
 ' And in the matter of education, whereas they from early youth are 
 always undergoing laborious exercises which are to make them brave, 
 we live at ease, and yet are equally ready to face the perils which they 
 face. And here is the proof. The Lacedeemonians come into Attica 
 not by themselves, but with their whole confederacy following ; we go 
 alone into a neighbor's country ; and although our opponents are fighting 
 for their homes and we on a foreign soil, we have seldom any difficulty in 
 overcoming them. Our enemies have never yet felt our united strength ; 
 the care of a navy divides our attention, and on land we are obliged to 
 send our own citizens everywhere. But they, if they meet and defeat a 
 part of our army, are as proud as if they had routed us all, and when de- 
 feated they pretend to have been vanquished by us all. 
 
 " If, then, we prefer to meet danger with a light heart but without 
 laborious training, and with a courage which is gained by habit and not 
 enforced by law, are we not greatly the gainers? Since we do not an- 
 ticipate the pain, althougli, when the hour comes, we can be as brave 
 as those who never allow themselves to rest ; and thus, too, our city is 
 equally admirable in peace and in war. For we are lovers of the beau-
 
 Thucydides. i6 
 
 o 
 
 tiful, yet simple in our tastes, and we cultivate the mind without loss of 
 manliness. Wealth we employ, not for talk and ostentation, but when 
 there is a real use for it. To avow poverty with us is no disgrace : the 
 true disgrace is in doing nothing to avoid it. An Athenian citizen does 
 not neglect the state because he takes care of his own household ; and 
 even those of us who are engaged in business have a very fair idea of 
 politics. We alone regard a man who takes no interest in public affairs, 
 not as a harmless, but as a useless character; and if few of us are origi- 
 nators, we are all sound judges of a policy. The great impediment to 
 action is, in our opinion, not discussion, but the want of that knowledge 
 which is gained by discussion preparatory to action. For we have a 
 peculiar power of thinking before we act, and of acting too, whereas other 
 men are courageous from ignorance, but hesitate upon reflection. And 
 they are surely to be esteemed the bravest spirits who, having the 
 clearest sense both of the pains and pleasures of life, do not on that 
 account .shrink from danger. In doing good, again, we are unlike 
 others ; we make our friends by conferring, not by receiving favors. 
 Now he who confers a favor is the firmer friend, liecause he would fain 
 by kindness keep alive the memory of an obligation ; but the recipient 
 is colder in his feelings, because he knows that in requiting another's 
 generosity he will not be winning gratitude, but only paying a debt. 
 We alone do good to our neighbors, not upon a calculation of interest, 
 but in the confidence of freedom and in a frank and fearless spirit. To 
 sum up : T say that Athens is the school of Hellas, and that the indi- 
 vidual Athenian in his own person seems to have the power of adapting 
 himself to the most varied forms of action with the utmost versatility 
 and grace. This is no passing and idle word, but truth and fact ; and 
 the assertion is verified by the position to which these qualities have 
 raised the state. For in the hour of trial Athens alone among her con- 
 temporaries is superior to the report of her. No enemy who comes 
 against her is indignant at the reverses which he sustains at the hands of 
 such a city ; no subject complains that his masters are unworthy of him. 
 And we shall assuredly not be without witnesses ; there are mighty 
 monuments of our power which will make us the wonder of this and of 
 succeeding ages ; we shall not need the praises of Ilomer or of any 
 other panegyrist whose poetry may please for the moment, although his 
 representation of the facts will not bear the light of day. P'or we have 
 compelled every land and every sea to open a path for our valor, and 
 have everywhere planted eternal memorials of our friendship and of 
 our enmity. Such is llic city for wiiose sake these men nobly fought 
 and died ; they could not bear the thought that she might be taken
 
 164 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 from them ; and every one of us who survive should gladly toil on her 
 behalf. 
 
 " I have dwelt upon the greatness of Athens because I want to show 
 you that we are contending for a higiier prize than those who enjoy none 
 of these privileges, and to establish, by manifest proof, the merits of these 
 men whom I am now commemorating. Their loftiest praise has been 
 already spoken. For in magnifying the city I have magnified them, and 
 men like them whose virtues made her glorious. And of how few Hel- 
 lenes can it be said as of them, that their deeds, when weighed in the 
 balance, have been found equal to their fame ! Methinks that a death 
 such as theirs has been gives the tme measure of a man's worth ; it may 
 be the first revelation of his virtues, but is at any rate their final seal. 
 For even those who come short in other ways may justly plead the valor 
 with which they have fought for their country; they have blotted out the 
 evil with the good, and have benefited the state more by their public 
 services than they have injured her by their private actions. None of 
 these men were enervated by wealth or hesitated to resign the pleasures 
 of life ; none of them put off the evil day in the hope, natural to pov- 
 erty, that a man, though poor, may one day become rich. But, deeming 
 that the punishment of their enemies was sweeter than any of these 
 things, and that they could fall in no nobler cause, they determined, at 
 the hazard of their lives, to be honoi-ably avenged, and to leave the rest. 
 They resigned to hope their unknown chance of happiness ; but in the 
 face of death they resolved to rely upon themselves alone. And when 
 the moment came they were minded to resist and suffer, rather than to 
 fly and save their lives ; they ran away from the word of dishonor, but 
 on the battle-field their feet stood fast, and in an instant, at the height 
 of their fortune, they passed away from the scene, not of their fear, but 
 of their glory. 
 
 " Such was the end of these men ; they were worthy of Athens, and 
 the living need not desire to have a more lieroic spirit, although they 
 may pray for a less fatal issue. The value of such a spirit is not to be 
 expressed in words. Any one can discourse to you forever about the 
 advantages of a brave defense which you know already. But instead of 
 listening to him, I would have you day by day fix your eyes upon the 
 greatness of Athens, until you become filled with the love of her ; and 
 when you are impressed by the spectacle of her glory, i^eflect that this 
 empire has been acquired by men who knew their duty and had the 
 courage to do it, who in the hour of conflict had the fear of dishonor 
 always present to them, and who, if ever they failed in an enterprise, 
 woitld not allow their virtues to be lost to their country, but freely gave
 
 Thucydides. 165 
 
 their lives to her as ihe fairest offering which they could present at her 
 feast. The sacrifice whicli they collectively made was individually repaid 
 to them ; for they received again each one for himself a praise which 
 grows not old, and the noblest of all sepulchres — I speak not of that in 
 which their remains are laid, but of that in which their glory survives, 
 and is proclaimed always and on every fitting occasion, both in word and 
 deed. For the whole earth is the sepulchre of famous men ; not only 
 are they commemorated by columns and inscriptions in their own coun- 
 try, but in foreign lands there dwells also an unwritten memorial of them, 
 graven not on stone, but in tlie hearts of men. 
 
 " I have paid the required tribute, in obedience to the law, making use 
 of such fitting words as I had. The tribute of deeds has been paid in 
 part ; for the dead have been honorably interred, and it remains only 
 that their children should be maintained at the public charge until they 
 are grown up ; this is the solid prize with which, as with a garland, 
 Athens crowns her sons living and dead, after a struggle like theirs. 
 For where the rewards of virtue are greatest, there the noblest citizens 
 are enlisted in the service of the state. And now, when you have duly 
 lamented, every one his own dead, you may depart." 
 
 " Such," adds the historian, " was the order of the funeral 
 celebrated, in this winter, with the end of which ended the 
 first year of the Peloponnesian war." 
 
 How strikingly like, in tone and even in expression, the 
 funeral oration of Pericles and the address delivered by 
 President Lincoln, at the dedication of the Gettysburg Na- 
 tional Cemetery ! 
 
 Thucydides's description of the plague which now afflicted 
 Athens is remarkable for its stern realism and its restrained 
 l)athos. "I was myself attacked," the historian says, "and 
 witnessed the sufferings of others." Here is a condensation 
 of his account : 
 
 Many who were in perfect healtli, all in a moment, and without any 
 apparent reason, were seized willi violent heats in the head and with 
 redness and inflammation of llic eyes. Internally tlie throat and the 
 tongue were quickly suffused with blood, and the ])realh became unnat- 
 ural and fclid. There fijllowed sneezing and hoarseness ; in a short
 
 1 66 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 time the disorder, accompanied by a violent cougli, reached the che.st ; 
 then fastening lower down, it would move the stomach and bring on all 
 the vomits of bile to which physicians have eVer given names ; and they 
 were very distressing. An ineffectual retching, producing violent con- 
 vulsions, attacked most of the sufferers. . . . They insisted on being 
 naked, and there was nothing which they longed for more eagerly than 
 to throw themselves into cold water. And many of those who had no 
 one to look after them actually plunged into the cisterns, for they were 
 tormented by unceasing thirst, which was not in the least assuaged 
 whether they drank little or much. They could not sleep. . . . Either 
 they died on the seventh or ninth day, not of weakness, for their 
 strength was not exhausted, but of internal fever, wliich was the end of 
 most ; or, if they survived, then the disease descended into the bowels 
 and there produced violent ulceration; severe diarrhoea at the same time 
 set in, and at a later stage caused exhaustion, which finally, with few ex- 
 ceptions, carried them off. . . . Some, again, had no sooner recovered 
 than they were seized with a forgetfulness of all things, and knew neither 
 themselves nor their friends. 
 
 The malady took a form not to be described, and the fury with which 
 it fastened upon each sufferer was too much for human nature to endure. 
 . . . Most appalling was the despondency which seized upon any one 
 who felt himself sickening ; for he instantly abandoned his mind to de- 
 spair, and, instead of holding out, absolutely threw away his chance of 
 life. Appalling too was the rapidity with which men caught the infec- 
 tion ; dying like sheep if they attended on one another ; and this was 
 the principal cause of mortality. . . . But whatever instances there may 
 have been of such devotion, more often the sick and the dying were 
 tended by the pitying care of those who had recovered, because they 
 knew the course of the disease and were themselves free from apprehen- 
 sion. For no one was ever attacked a second time, or not with a fatal 
 result. . . . The dead lay as they had died, one upon another, while 
 others hardly alive wallowed in the streets and crawled about every 
 fountain craving for water. The temples in which they lodged were full 
 of the corpses of those who died in them ; for the violence of the calam- 
 ity was such that men, not knowing where to turn, grew reckless of all 
 law, human and divine. The customs which had hitherto been observed 
 at funerals were universally violated, and they buried their dead each 
 one as best he could. Many, having no proper appliances, because the 
 deaths in their household had been so frequent, made no scruple of using 
 the burial-place of others. When one man had raised a funeral pile, 
 others would come, and throwing on their dead first, set fire to it ; or
 
 Thucydides. 167 
 
 when some other corpse was already burning, before they could be 
 stopped would throw their own dead upon it and depart. 
 
 There were other and worse forms of lawlessness which the plague 
 introduced at Athens. Men who had hitherto concealed their indul- 
 gence in pleasure now grew bolder. For, seeing the sudden change, — 
 how the rich died in a moment, and those who had nothing immedi- 
 diately inherited their j^roperty, — they reflected that life and riches were 
 alike transitory, and they resolved to enjoy themselves while they could, 
 and to think only of pleasure. Who would be willing to sacrifice him- 
 self to the law of honor when he knew not whether he would ever live 
 to be held in honor ? The pleasure of the moment and any sort of thing 
 which conduced to it took the place both of honor and of expediency. 
 No fear of God or law of man deterred a criminal. Those who saw all 
 perishing alike, thought that the worship or neglect of the gods made no 
 difference. For offenses against human law no punishment was to be 
 feared ; no one would live long enough to be called to account. Already 
 a far heavier sentence had been passed and was hanging over a man's 
 head ; before that fell, why should he not take a little pleasure ? 
 
 The Athenians, light-hearted and high-hearted as they 
 were, felt depressed. They blamed Pericles as the author 
 of their miseries. Thucydides reports the proudly dignified, 
 reproving, yet inspiriting speech with which the " Olympian " 
 encountered and subdued their mood. " The popular in- 
 dignation," however, so Thucydides says, " was not pacified 
 until they had fined Pericles ; but soon afterward, with the 
 usual fickleness of the multitude, they elected him general 
 and. committed all their affairs to his charge." But Pericles 
 did not long survive to light and guide the Athenian state 
 on its now perilous way. In the third year of the war he 
 died. The admiring portrait that Thucydides draws of the 
 character of tliis great statesman and orator is too noble, 
 alike in its subject and in its art, not to be supplied to our 
 readers. Thucydides is singular in seldom according per- 
 sonal praise. But with Pericles he was fascinated, and he 
 could not refrain his hand from the few strokes that would fi.x 
 his favorite's image forever, a possession to posterity. The 
 admirers of Webster will not fail to see how well a great
 
 1 68 Classic Greek Course in JSns:lis/t. 
 
 statesman and orator of our own nation might have sat for the 
 following picture : 
 
 After his death his foresight was even better appreciated than during 
 his life. . . . He, deriving authority from his capacity and acknowledged 
 worth, being also a man of transparent integrity, was able to control 
 the multitude in a free spirit ; he led them rather than was led by them ; 
 for, not seeking power by dishonest arts, he had no need to say pleas- 
 ant things, but, on the strength of his own high character, could venture 
 to oppose and even to anger them. When he saw them unseasonably 
 elated and arrogant, his words humbled and awed them ; and, when 
 they were depressed by groundless fears, he sought to reanimate their 
 confidence. Thus Athens, though still in name a democracy, was, in 
 fact, ruled by her greatest citizen. But his successors were more on an 
 equality with one another, and, each one struggling to be first himself, 
 they were ready to sacrifice the whole conduct of affairs to the whims 
 of the people. 
 
 Next and last, Thucydides's account of the famous Sicilian 
 expedition. This enterprise was nothing less than an attempt 
 on the part of Athens, adventured in the utmost stress of the 
 Peloponnesian war, to capture Syracuse in Sicily, a Greek 
 city nearly as populous and powerful as Athens herself. The 
 magnificent light-heartedness, tempered by tears, with which 
 the undertaking was entered upon, the inexhaustible spirit 
 with which through various fortune it was prosecuted, the 
 approach that it made to success, failing but as it were by 
 the breadth of a hair, and, finally, the dreadful disaster, the 
 remediless overthrow, fleet and army annihilated, with which 
 it was overwhelmed — all this Thucydides recounts in a nar- 
 rative which for picturesqueness and pathos and power it 
 would be hard to overmatch out of the pages of any histo- 
 rian, ancient or modern. The Athenian Nic'i-as, whom, slow, 
 conservative, timid, the readers of that charming book of 
 heroic romance, Plutarch's Lives, will remeinber in contrast 
 with the dashing, and brilliant, and profligate Alcibiades, had 
 begged the Athenian assembly to ponder well the perils of 
 the project before they undertook it. But Alcibiades, with
 
 Thucydides. i6g 
 
 the ardor of irresponsible unscrupulous youth, urged them 
 on, and prevailed. Thucydides says : 
 
 All alike were seized with a passionate desire to sail, the elder among 
 them convinced that they would achieve the conquest of Sicily, — at any 
 rate such an armament could suffer no disaster ; the youth were longing 
 to see with their own eyes the marvels of a distant land, and were con- 
 fident of a safe return ; the main body of the troops expected to receive 
 present pay, and to conquer a country which would be an inexhaustible 
 mine of pay for the future. The enthusiasm of the majority was so 
 overwhelming that, although some disapproved, they were afraid of 
 being thought unpatriotic if they voted on the other side, and therefore 
 lield their peace. 
 
 The actual setting out is thus described: 
 
 Early in the morning of the day appointed for their departure, the 
 Athenians and such of their allies as had already joined them went 
 down to the Piraeus and began to man the ships. The entire popidation 
 of Athens accompanied tliem, citizens and strangers alike. The citizens 
 came to take farewell, one of an acquaintance, another of a kinsman, 
 another of a son ; the crowd as they passed along were full of hope and 
 full of tears ; hope of conquering Sicily, tears because they doubted 
 whether they would ever see their friends again, when they thought of 
 the long voyage on which they were sending them. At the moment of 
 parting the danger was nearer ; and terrors which had never occurred 
 to tliem when they were voting the expedition now entered into their 
 souls. Nevertheless their spirits revived at the sight of the armament 
 in all its strength and of the abundant provision wliich tliey had made. 
 The strangers and the rest of the multitude came out of curiosity, desir- 
 ing to witness an enterprise of which the greatness exceeded belief. 
 
 No armament so magnificent or costly had ever been sent out by any 
 single Hellenic power. . . . On the fleet the greatest pains and expense 
 had been lavished by the trierarchs and the state. The public treasury 
 gave a drachma a day to each sailor, and furnished empty hulls for sixty 
 swift sailing vessels, and for forty transports carrying hoplites. All 
 these were manned with the best crews which could be obtained. The 
 trierarchs, besides the pay given by the state, added somewhat more out 
 of their own means to the wages of the upper ranks of 'rowers and of 
 the petty officers. The figure-heads and other fittings provided by 
 them were of the most costly description. Every one strove to the ut- 
 most that his (jwn ship might excel both in beauty and swiftness. The
 
 Classic Greek Course i'?j Engli's/i. 
 
 infantry had been well selected and the lists carefully made up. There 
 was the keenest rivalry among the soldiers in the matter of arms and 
 personal equipment. And while at home the Athenians were thus com- 
 peting with one another in the performance of their several duties, to 
 the rest of Hellas the expedition seemed to be a grand display of 
 their power and greatness, rather than a preparation for war. . . . 
 Men were quite amazed at the boldness of the scheme and the mag- 
 nificence of the spectacle, which were everywhere spoken of, no less 
 than at the great disproportion of the force when compared wijh that 
 of the enemy against whom it was intended. Never had a greater 
 expedition been sent to a foreign land ; never was there an enterprise 
 in which the hope of future success seemed to be better justified by 
 actual power. 
 
 When the ships were manned and every thing required for the voyage 
 had been placed on board, silence was proclaimed by the sound of the 
 trumpet, and all with one voice before setting sail offered up the custom- 
 ary prayers ; these were recited, not in each ship, but by a single herald, 
 the whole fleet accompanying him. On every deck both officers and 
 men, mingling wine in bowls, made libations from vessels of gold and 
 silver. The multitude of citizens and other well-wishers who were look- 
 ing on from the land joined in the prayer. The crews raised the Paean, 
 and when the libations were completed put to sea. After sailing out 
 for some distance in single file, the ships raced with one another as far 
 as ^'E-gi'na : thence they hastened onward to Corcyra, where the allies 
 who formed the rest of the army were assembling. 
 
 It will be impossible to detail, even in a summary manner, 
 the incidents of the struggle at Syracuse. The success of the 
 Athenians depended upon their being able to complete an 
 investment of the city. Already the Syracusan assembly 
 were on the point of discussing the question of a capitula- 
 tion, when Gylippus, a Lacedaemonian general, approached 
 with succor for the besieged. Thucydides : 
 
 He arrived just at the time when the Athenians had all but finished 
 their double wall, nearly a mile long, reaching to the Great Harbor ; 
 there remained only a small portion toward the sea, upon which they 
 were still at work. Along the remainder of the line of wall, which 
 extended toward Trog'ilus [Troj'i-lus] and the northern sea, the stones 
 were mostly lying ready ; a part was half-finished, a part had been 
 completed and left. So near was Syracuse to destruction.
 
 Thucydides. 171 
 
 The end came. First there was a sea-fight in which the 
 Athenian fleet was disastrously defeated. So broken now 
 in spirit were the invaders that, not even for the purpose 
 of seeking to escape, could they be prevailed upon to re- 
 embark in the vessels that remained to them. A retreat by 
 land was resolved upon. The contrast between the end of 
 the expedition and that holiday picnicking commencement of 
 it which Thucydides described, is incomparably striking and 
 pathetic. Thucydides : 
 
 On the third day after the sea-fight, when Nicias and Demosthenes 
 thought that their preparations were complete, tlie army began to move. 
 They «ere in a dreadful condition ; not only was there the great fact 
 that they had lost their whole fleet, and instead of their expected triumph 
 had brought the utmost peril upon Athens as well as upon themselves, 
 but also the sights which presented themselves as they quitted the camp 
 wei'e painful to every eye and mind. The dead were unburied, and 
 when any one saw the body of a friend lying on the ground he was 
 smitten with sorrow and dread, while the sick or wounded who still sur- 
 vived but had to be left were even a greater trial to the living and more 
 to be pitied than those who were gone. Their prayers and lamentations 
 drove their companions to distraction ; they would beg that they might 
 be taken with them, and call by name any friend or relation whom they 
 saw passing ; tliey would hang upon their departing comrades and fol- 
 low as far as they could, and when their limbs and strength failed them 
 and they dropped behind many were the imprecations and cries which 
 they uttered. So that the whole army was in tears, and such was their 
 despair that they could hardly make up their minds to stir, although 
 they were leaving an enemy's country, having suffered calamities too 
 great for tears already, and dreading miseries yet greater in the unknown 
 future. There was also a general feeling of shame and self-reproach 
 — indeed, they seemed, not like an army, but like the fugitive population 
 of a city captured after a siege; and of a great city too. For the whole 
 multitude who were marching together numbered not less than forty 
 thousand. Each of them took with liim any thing he could carry which 
 was likely to be of use. Even the heavy-armed and cavalry, contrary to 
 llicir i)ractice when under arms, conveyed about tlieir persons tlieir own 
 food, some because they had no attendants, others because they could 
 not trust them ; for they had long been desertin;^, and most of them had 
 gone off all at once. Nor was the food which they carried sufficient ;
 
 1^2 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 for the supplies of the camp had failed. Their disgrace and the univer- 
 sality of the misery, although there might be some consolation in the 
 very community of suffering, was nevertheless at that moment hard to 
 bear, especially when they remembered from what pomp and splendor 
 they had fallen into their present low estate. Never had an Hellenic 
 army experienced such a reverse. They had come intending to enslave 
 others, and they were going away in fear lest they would be themselves 
 enslaved. Instead of the prayers and hymns with which they had put 
 to sea, they were now departing amid appeals to heaven of another sort. 
 They were no longer sailors but landsmen, depending, not upon their 
 fleet, but upon their infantry. Yet in face of the great danger which still 
 threatened them all these things appeared endurable. 
 
 Nicias exhorted the wretched troops with noble spirit. 
 The key in which, according to Thucydides, this invalid 
 general spoke to his men is given in the following two sen- 
 tences at the close of his harangue : 
 
 If you now escape your enemies, those of you who are not Athenians 
 may see once more the home for which they long, while you Athenians 
 will again rear aloft the fallen greatness of Athens. For men, and not 
 walls or ships in which are no men, constitute a state. 
 
 High heart did not avail. The retreating Athenian army 
 suffered every hardship and melted rapidly away. Reaching 
 a river under close pursuit, they hoped to secure a little re- 
 spite. The respite they actually secured is thus described 
 by Thucydides : 
 
 Being compelled to keep close together they fell one upon another, 
 and trampled each other under foot : some at once perished, pierced by 
 their own spears ; others goL entangled in the baggage and were carried 
 down the stream. The Syracusans stood upon the farther bank of the 
 river, which was steep, and hurled missiles from above on the Athenians, 
 who were huddled together in the deep bed of the stream and for the 
 most part were drinking greedily. The Peloponnesians came down the 
 bank and slaughtered them, falling chiefly upon those who were in the 
 river. Whereupon the water at once became foul, but was drank all 
 the same, although muddy and dyed with blood, and the crowd fought 
 for it. 
 
 At last, when the dead bodies were lying in heaps one upon another
 
 Thiicydides. 1 7 3 
 
 in the water, and the army was utterly undone, some perishing in the 
 river, and any who escaped being cut off by the cavalry, Nicias sur- 
 rendered to Gylippus, in whom he had more confidence than in the 
 Syracusans. He entreated him and the Lacedaemonians to do what they 
 pleased with himself, but not to go on killing the men. 
 
 What they pleased to do with Nicias was to put him to 
 death. " No one of the Hellenes in my time was less deserv- 
 ing of so miserable an end ; for he lived in the practice of 
 every virtue." So, with frugally expressed, but not frugal, 
 praise Thucydides dismissed Nicias. 
 
 The fate of the rank and file of the surrendered army was 
 more lingering, but not less dreadful. After many months of 
 starvation and every misery endured by them as captives in 
 the public quarries, they were sold into slavery. Thucydides, 
 in review and summary of all, says : 
 
 Of all the Hellenic actions which took place in this war, or indeed of 
 all tlie Hellenic actions which are on record, this was the greatest — the 
 most glorious to the victors, the most ruinous to the vanquished ; for 
 they were utterly and at all points defeated, and their sufferings were 
 prodigious. Fleet and army perished from the face of the earth ; noth- 
 ing was saved, and of the many who went forth few returned home. 
 
 Thus ended the Sicilian expedition. 
 
 And thus shall end our presentation of Thucydides. 
 
 VI. 
 
 PLATO. 
 
 Socrates is not more easily foremost among Greek phi- 
 losophers than is Plato foremost among Greek philosophical 
 writers. This distinction, of philosopher and philosophical 
 writer, it is necessary in the present case to make, for the 
 reason that Socrates, as our readers will not need to be re- 
 minded, did his whole work in the intellectual world with
 
 I 7 4 Classic Greek Course in EnglisJu 
 
 use of tongue alone, never once publishing a written word. 
 Foremost of Greek philosophical writers, we have not hesi- 
 tated to pronounce Plato. But we think of Plato's illustri- 
 ous disciple, Aristotle, and we are almost ready to say tliat 
 were the terms of the question only a little changed — were 
 we to decide, not which of the two was the greater philo- 
 sophical writer, but which was the greater philosophical 
 genius, we should need to pause and to hesitate. While to 
 Plato, however, philosophy was the one exclusive pursuit of 
 his intellectual life, philosophy was simply one of various 
 intellectual pursuits to Aristotle. Poet as well as philoso- 
 pher — poet more than philosopher, some might be tempted 
 to say — was Plato. But he wrote his poetry in the form of 
 philosophy. Aristotle, besides being a philosopher, was a 
 kind of encyclopaedist. He by no means, like Plato, gave 
 his literary production always the one form of philosophy so- 
 called. We should not, perhaps, go much amiss to say that 
 Aristotle's chief motive, even in literature, was scientific and 
 practical, while Plato's chief motive, even in philosophy, was 
 literary and poetical. 
 
 Plato is a voluminous writer. And he enjoys the fortune, 
 singular among ancient classical authors, to survive in all his 
 works. In fact he may in a sense be said to survive in more 
 than all his works; for many works have come down to us 
 bearing Plato's name, that probably Plato never wrote. 
 
 The Republic is, with one exception (the Laws), the 
 largest, and it is, without exception, the greatest, of Plato's 
 productions. It is named from an episode in it. The im- 
 propriety of the naming is less gross than might seem, for 
 the episode is so long that it threatens to absorb the whole 
 work. If, according to the title, the Republic ought primarily 
 to give us the writer's ideal of the state, incidentally, in Plato's 
 ample way of treating his subject, it does, in fact, give us his 
 ideas and speculations on a wide range of topics. 
 
 It is our plan to make our reproduction of Plato centre
 
 Plato. 175 
 
 chiefly about the person of Socrates. Indeed, in any just 
 representation of Plato, Socrates could not but be a very 
 conspicuous figure. Plato gives his master the chief part in 
 nearly every one of his dialogues, and some of his dialogues 
 he ])uts wholly into his master's mouth, by making Socrates 
 speak throughout, reporting, to select friends of his, conver- 
 sations that he has somewhere held with persons perhaps 
 casually encountered by him in the streets of Athens, or 
 between Athens and the Pirreus. This latter is the case 
 with the Republic. The properly, the characteristically, 
 S<5cratic element is, however, present in very different de- 
 grees in diff"erent dialogues. 
 
 From the Republic we first take, for illustration of the art 
 with which Plato enlivens and garnishes the text of what had 
 else been somewhat tedious and bare dialectical dialogue, the 
 following pretty fable, attributed by him to tradition. Read- 
 ers will be glad to see the true original of a legend with 
 which, through allusion encountered in literature, they Avill 
 already perhaps have become familiar. Gy'ges (soft G), 
 who figures in this tale from Plato, figures also in the popu- 
 lous page of Herodotus. Indeed, Herodotus tells of him, 
 with some important variations, this identical story. The 
 feature of the ring is peculiar to Plato. Along with the fable 
 itself we give enough of the setting of the fable to show with 
 what illustrative purpose the fable was used by the speaker in 
 Plato's dialogue. Glaucon is the speaker. He undertakes 
 to set forth, for Socrates to overthrow it, a notion which he 
 avers to be current and accepted among men, namely, the 
 notion that injustice is better policy than justice. Men prac- 
 tice justice, (ilaucon says, only where they cannot success- 
 fully practice injustice. Make them free to do as they please, 
 and they will please to be unjust. Here is his argument, in 
 the words of Plato : 
 
 Tlie liberty whicli we arc sui)i)osing may he most convenieiUly given 
 to tlicm ill the form of such a power as is said to have been possesscil by
 
 176 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Gyges, the ancestor of Croesus, the Lydian. For Gyges, according to 
 the tradition, was a shepherd and servant of the king of Lydia, and, 
 while lie was in the field, there was a storm and earthquake, which 
 made an opening in the earth at the place where he was feeding his 
 flock. He was amazed at the sight, and descended into the opening, 
 where, among other marvels, he beheld a hollow brazen horse, having 
 doors, at which he stooping and looking in saw a dead body, of stature, 
 as appeared to him, more than human, and having nothing on but a gold 
 ring ; this he took from the finger of the dead, and reascended out of the 
 opening. Now the shepherds met together, according to custom, that 
 they might send their monthly report concerning the flock to the king ; 
 and into their assembly he came having the ring on his finger, and as he 
 was sitting among them he chanced to turn the collet of the ring tov\'^rd 
 the inner side of the hand, when instantly he became invisible, and the 
 others began to speak of him as if he were no longer there. He was 
 astonished at this, and again touching the ring he turned the collet out- 
 ward and reappeared ; thereupon he made trials of the ring, and always 
 with the same result ; when he turned the collet inward he became in- 
 visible, when outward he reappeared. Perceiving this, he immediately 
 contrived to be chosen messenger to the court, where he no sooner ar- 
 rived than he seduced the queen, and with her help conspired against 
 the king, and slew him, and took the kingdom. Suppose now that 
 there were two such magic rings, and the just put on one of them, and 
 the unjust the other ; no man is of such adamantine temper that he 
 would stand fast in justice, — that is what they think. No man would 
 dare to be honest when he could safely take what he liked out of the 
 market, or go into houses and lie with any one at his pleasure, or kill or 
 release from prison whom he would, and in all respects be like a god 
 among men. Then the actions of the just would be as the actions of 
 the unjust; just or unjust would arrive at last at the same goal. And 
 this is surely a great proof that a man is just, not willingly or because 
 he thinks that justice is any good to him individually, but of necessity, 
 for wherever any one thinks that he can safely be unjust, there he is 
 unjust. For all men believe in their hearts that injustice is far more 
 profitable to the individual than justice, and he who takes this line of 
 argument will say that they are right. For if you could imagine any 
 one having such a power, and never doing any wrong or touching what 
 was another's, he would be thought by the lookers on to be a most 
 wretched idiot, although they would praise him to one another's faces, 
 and keep up appearances with one another from a fear that they too 
 might be suff"erers of injustice. Enough of this.
 
 Plato. 177 
 
 " Enough of this," says Plato's speaker, and enough surely, 
 say we, at least for the purpose of showing the lamentable 
 standard of ethics that must have prevailed in antiquity. In 
 close connection with the foregoing passage occurs another 
 passage worth quoting. Glaucon still speaks. He tells Soc- 
 rates that the "eulogists of injustice," that is to say, men in 
 general — for men in general according to this witness, what- 
 ever may be the strain of their talk, really act on the principle 
 that injustice is better than justice — men in general, holds 
 Glaucon, would expect for the ideally just person — what fort- 
 une in the world do you suppose.-* Why, nothing less than 
 this : ** He will be scourged, racked, bound, will have his eyes 
 burnt out, and at last, after suffering every kind of evil, he will 
 be impaled." Language strangely approaching the truth of 
 what did befall the historical Just Man ! 
 
 Every body has heard of the so-styled " Platonic love." 
 .\ passage of the Republic will explain what this conception 
 is. It may simply be premised that there was rife in the 
 ancient Greek and Roman world a practice of impure affinity 
 between man and man. The word "love " in the mouth of a 
 Greek was quite as likely to mean this indecent relation as 
 it was to mean any more natural bond of affection between 
 the two different sexes. In the ideal republic, such an un- 
 chaste relation of man to man was not to be tolerated. It is 
 tonic and purifying to read the passage in Plato from which 
 we limit ourselves to take the following sentence containing 
 the conclusion, on the subject, arrived at by the colloquists. 
 It is Socrates who speaks : 
 
 Then I suppose that in the city which we are founding you would make 
 a law that a friend should use no other familiarity to his love than a fa- 
 ther would use to his son, and this only for a virtuous end, and he must 
 first have the other's consent ; and this rule is to limit him in all his in- 
 tercourse, and he is never to go further, or, if he exceeds, he is to be 
 deemed guilty of coarseness and bad taste. 
 
 Such, in the Platonic description, is "Platonic love." 
 12
 
 178 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 With exquisite verisimilitude Plato makes Socrates, in the 
 midst of his imaginings, to be now and again interrupted by 
 his interlocutors with questions of a practical sort concern- 
 ing the possibility of realizing his dreamed-of ideal society. 
 Socrates puts off his questioners, with suave and self-poised 
 postponement, until at last they threaten him with what he 
 pleasantly calls the " third wave " of difficulty. This form 
 of expression alludes to the supposed fact, or the real, that 
 every third wave of a tide coming in is stronger than the two 
 preceding. Here is the way in which Socrates shows him- 
 self equal to the occasion that the dialogue has created for 
 him. Plato: 
 
 Now, then, I said, I go to meet that which I liken to the greatest of 
 waves, yet shall the word be spoken, even though the running over of 
 the laughter of the wave shall just sink me beneath the waters of laugh- 
 ter and dishonor ; and do you attend to me. 
 
 Proceed, he said. 
 
 I said : Until, then, philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of 
 this world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political great- 
 ness and wisdom meet in one, and those commoner natures who follow 
 either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to stand aside, cities 
 will never cease from ill — no, nor the human race, as I believe — and then 
 only will this our State have a possibility of life and behold the light of 
 day : this was what I wanted but was afraid to say, my dear Glaucon ; 
 for to see that there is no other way either of private or public happiness 
 is indeed a hard thing. . 
 
 Of Plato's own experience in the attempt to make his words 
 come true, and to exhibit to the world the edifying spectacle 
 of an actual state presided over by a philosopher — in the per- 
 son of an exemplar of the class no less renowned than him- 
 self — we shall presently have something interesting to say. 
 That will be when we reach the point, not forgotten, though 
 postponed, of telling our readers very briefly the story of 
 Plato's life. 
 
 In the following passage, readers will find it not difficult to 
 fancy a spirit present strangely greater than any mere philos-
 
 Plato. 179 
 
 ophy, a spirit akin, almost, to the New Testament in the 
 highest power of that inspired book, Plato (Socrates chiefly- 
 speaking) ; 
 
 Then there is a very small remnant, Adeimantus, I said, of worthy 
 disciples of philosophy : perchance some noble nature, brought up under 
 good influences, and in the absence of temptation, who is detained by 
 exile in her service, which he refuses to quit ; or some lofty soul born in 
 a mean city, the politics of which he contemns or neglects ; and perhaps 
 there may be a few who, having a gift for philosophy, leave other arts, 
 which they justly despise, and come to her ; and peradventure there are 
 some who are restrained by our friend Theages's bridle (for Theages, you 
 know, had every thing to divert him from philosophy ; but his ill health 
 kept him from politics). My own case of the internal sign is indeed 
 hardly worth mentioning, as very rarely, if ever, has such a monitor been 
 vouchsafed to any one else. Those who belong to this small class have 
 tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and have also 
 seen and been satisfied of the madness of the multitude, and known tliat 
 there is no one who ever acts honestly in the administration of States, 
 nor any helper who will save any one who maintains the cause of the 
 just. Such a saviour would be like a man who has fallen among wild 
 beasts — unable to join in the wickedness of his fellows, neither would he 
 be able alone to resist all their fierce natures, and therefore he would be 
 of no use to the State, or to his friends, and would have to throw away 
 his life before he had done any good to himself or others. And he re- 
 flects upon all this, and holds his peace, and does his own business. He 
 is like one who retires under the shelter of a wall in the storm of dust 
 and sleet which the driving wind hurries along ; and when he sees the 
 rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content if only he can live his 
 own life and be pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart in peace 
 and good-will, with bright hopes. 
 
 And he who does this, he said, will have done a great work before he 
 departs. 
 
 Yes, I said, a great work, but not the greatest, unless he find a State 
 suitable to him; for in a State which is suitable to him he will have a 
 larger growth, and be the saviour of his country as well as of himself. 
 
 The "internal sign," to which Socrates in the foregoing 
 passage alludes, is the monition of his "daemon," or "spirit " 
 — a kind of divinity within him that governed his conduct. 
 Just what Socrates meant is not agreed. Perhaps nothing
 
 i8o Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 more than his conscience, perhaps an indwelling supernat- 
 ural being. Whatever the Socratic "daemon " was, it was a 
 benign and beneficent influence, very necessary to be taken 
 account of in trying to understand the character and conduct 
 of Socrates. How much pathos of wisdom there is in the 
 sigh of Socrates for a suitable State in which the anointed 
 philosopher might do his work for the saving of mankind ! 
 Opportunity is as indispensable as the man. 
 
 It happened to our poet-philosopher, so tradition says, 
 to have an opportunity to attempt, on a noble scale, the 
 actualization of his ideal. He visited Syracuse, a city flour- 
 ishing then in a magnificent prosperity under the reign, or 
 tyranny so called, of Dionysius. Introduced to that ruler, 
 Plato opened to him the vision that had ravished his own 
 soul. But Dionysius was enraged instead of enchanted, and 
 he had Plato for his pains sent to the market to be sold as a 
 slave. The philosopher, so the tyrant exclaimed, shall try for 
 himself the truth of his doctrine that the virtuous man is 
 still happy even in chains. Plato's friends bought him in for 
 a round sum, and got him safe back to Athens. Here, or near 
 here, he spent twenty years of his life, teaching philosophy. 
 Disciples thronged to him, of the choicest classes of citizens, 
 from every part of Hellas. The fact that, during the life- 
 time of the teacher, Athens went through the agony of the 
 Peloponnesian war, and came out spoiled of her empire — this 
 great fact of the national history you would hardly once be 
 compelled to remember from any allusion occurring in the 
 dialogues. Plato seems to have been as little a patriot in his 
 time as was Goethe in his time, and as little disturbed by any 
 painful sympathy with his kind from the serenity of philo- 
 sophic contemplation. 
 
 After twenty years thus spent, Plato received from a friend 
 at court a second summons to Syracuse. Dionysius was dead, 
 and Dionysius H., his son, had succeeded to the throne. 
 Plato's friend at court, Dion, was a kinsman of this prince.
 
 Plato. i8i 
 
 and he had inspired the young sovereign with great desire to 
 know Plato. The Athenian philosopher met with an over- 
 whelming welcome to Syracuse. The tyrant himself went 
 down to greet him when he landed, and a public sacrifice of 
 thanksgiving signalized an advent so auspicious. The prom- 
 ise was fair. A new order of things began at the Syracusan 
 court. Philosophy became the fashion. It is said that Dio- 
 nysius was actually ready to change the frame-work of the 
 State — to become himself a constitutional, in place of remain- 
 ing an absolute, monarch. He proposed also to give back 
 their freedom to the subjected Greek cities of Sicily. Plato 
 however preferring that his pupil should be thoroughly 
 grounded in philosophy before he began to put philosophy in 
 practice, nothing practical was done. Meantime the young 
 tyrant was tiring of philosophy, and the courtiers about him 
 were poisoning his mind against both Dion and the " Athe- 
 nian sophist." It resulted that Dion was exiled, and that 
 Plato, after having been kept luxuriously for a time as a pris- 
 oner in the palace, was dismissed to return home. Dionysius, 
 they say, remarked to the philosopher embarking, "You will 
 speak ill of Dionysius in your academy." "Nay, but in the 
 academy we shall have no time to speak at all of Dionysius," 
 was the reply. 
 
 There is more of the romance. Ten years passed and Plato 
 was a third time sent for to come to Syracuse. Dion should 
 be recalled, if Plato would come. Plato went, but Dion, so 
 far from being recalled, now had his property confiscated and 
 his wife given away from himself to another man. Plato had 
 the sad fortune to be himself the bearer of these ill tidings 
 to his friend met on the homeward voyage at the Olympian 
 games. Our readers will be comforted — pagan-wise — to know 
 that Dion had subsequently his turn, a short one, of triumph 
 over his enemy. He entered Syracuse as a conqueror at the 
 head of an army — only, however, to be basely murdered by a 
 treacherous friend.
 
 1 82 Classic Greek Coin-se in E/ii^lish. 
 
 Plato now resumed liis courses in philosophy at Athens, 
 and composed the dialogues that have through so many gen- 
 erations continued his influence and his fame. Diosenes 
 Laertius has a life of him. He taught till he was eighty-one 
 years of age, and, according to Cicero, died pen in hand, 
 seated at his desk. He was a native of ^gi'na. The year 
 of his birth was the same as that in which Pericles died. It 
 is difficult to imagine that a life lived so placidly as, despite 
 his Syarcusan adventures, was Plato's, could have coincided 
 with a period of history so stormy and so disastrous as that 
 of the Peloponnesian war to the Athenian state. The clash 
 of arms seems removed indefinitely far away from the sacred 
 tranquillity of the grove of academe. Plato must, however, 
 we suppose, have done duty with the rest, watching against 
 the foe in that evil day which, in the philosopher's early man- 
 hood, came upon Athens. Probably, too, a boy of fifteen, he 
 went down to the Piraeus, with the whole holiday city, to see 
 the brilliant Sicilian expedition make that gay start — to tempt 
 its danger and to meet its doom. 
 
 There is in Plato no more distinctively Greek, no more dis- 
 tinctively Platonic, dialogue than the Symposium, or Banquet. 
 This is a report of a conversation in which, with others less 
 distinguished, the comic poet Aristophanes, the tragic poet 
 Ag'a-thon (an author known to us only by name, none of his 
 works surviving, yet plausibly conjectured to have been in 
 genius hardly second to ^schylus or Sophocles), the famous 
 and infamous Alcibiades, are represented as taking part. 
 The place is the house of Agathon, who celebrates a feast in 
 honor of a victory of his muse. Love is the subject of the 
 dialogue. Each speaker has it for a kind of task imposed 
 upon him to make the finest speech he can in favor of love. 
 Love is here conceived of in such a way, a way so equivocal 
 — in short, so pagan and so Grecian — that a large part of the 
 whole dialogue would be unfit for reproduction in these .pages. 
 But were the several discourses unobjectionable on the score
 
 Plato. 1 8 
 
 o 
 
 of moral purity, still it were a taste not to be acquired, save 
 through long habituation to the Greek classics that would 
 qualify thoroughly to enjoy the Symposium of Plato. It is a 
 piece of Greek writing at the extreme point of remove from 
 modern standards. 
 
 To one passage in particular of this dialogue there attaches 
 an interest derived from frequency of allusion to it in recent 
 literature, that might make us wish to admit it here, in suffi- 
 cient exemplification of the whole composition. But unfortu- 
 nately the inseparable original quality of this passage puts 
 such transfer of it quite out of the question. There would 
 probably be fewer sentimental allusions to Plato's idea of hu- 
 man beings as created mutual halves, each half to wander 
 about in quest of its fellow, were it better known in what 
 terms, and with pleasantry how unchaste, that idea is intro- 
 duced in the pages of Plato — fitly, too, introduced as from 
 the mouth of the ribald comic poet Aristophanes. There 
 could not be a better illustration of the change from ancient 
 Greek taste and morality to Christian, than the contrast be- 
 tween the original in Plato, and the forms under which that 
 original is made to appear in modern allusion. So much 
 for moral ugliness made aesthetically beautiful in Plato's 
 Symposium. 
 
 But there is moral beauty too, made more beautiful, in this 
 unique piece of literature. Alcibiades, coming in drunk, is 
 made by Plato to become the eulogist of Socrates, His 
 eulogy is doubly so characteristic, first of the author, and 
 then of the subject — perhaps trebly so characteristic we 
 should say, thus adding, thirdly, of Pkito himself — that we 
 must give this passage at least in extract from the Sympo- 
 sium. For sheer want of room we have to omit the life-like 
 description of tlie disorderly arrival of Alcibiades with his 
 reveling rout, and the well-turned banter, never erring from 
 urbanity, that passed between Alcibiades and Socrates, be- 
 fore the former, first having begged his hearers not to won-
 
 184 Classic Greek Course in Eiii^Iis/i. 
 
 der if he spoke anyhow as things came into his mind, pro- 
 ceeded to discourse as follows : 
 
 I shall praise Socrates in a figure which will appear to him to be a 
 caricature, and yet I do not mean to laugh at him, but only to speak the 
 truth. I say, then, that he is exactly like the masks of Si-le'uus, which 
 may be seen sitting in the statuaries' shops, having pipes and flutes in 
 their mouths ; and they are made to open in the middle, and there are 
 images of gods inside them. I say, also, that he is like Mar'sy-as, the 
 satyr. You will not deny, Socrates, that your face is like that of a satyr. 
 Aye, and there is a resemblance in other points, too. For example, you 
 are a bully, — that I am in a position to prove by the evidence of wit- 
 nesses, if you will not confess. And are you not a flute-player ? That 
 you are and a far more wonderful performer than Marsyas. For he, 
 indeed, with instruments charmed the souls of men by the power of his 
 breath, as the performers of his music do still : for the melodies of Olym- 
 pus are derived from the teaching of Marsyas, and these, whether they 
 are played by a great master, or by a miserable flute-girl, have a power 
 which no others have ; they alone possess the soul and reveal the wants 
 of those who have need of gods and mysteries, because they are inspired. 
 But you produce the same effect with the voice only, and do not require 
 the flute : that is the difference between you and him. When we hear 
 any other speaker, even a very good one, his words produce absolutely 
 no effect upon us in comparison, whereas the very fragments of you and 
 your words, even at second-hand, and however imperfectly repeated, 
 amaze and possess the soul of every man, woman, and child who comes 
 within hearing of them. And if I were not afraid that you would think 
 me drunk, I would have sworn as well as spoken to the influence which 
 they have always had, and still have, over me. For my heart leaps within 
 me more than that of any Corybantian reveler, and my eyes rain tears 
 when I hear them. And I observe that many others are affected in the 
 same way. I have heard Pericles and other great orators, but though I 
 thought that they spoke well, I never had any similar feeling ; my soul 
 was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at the thought of my own slav- 
 ish state. But this Marsyas has often brought me to such a pass, that I 
 have felt as if I could hardly endure the life which I am leading (this, 
 Socrates, you admit) ; and I am conscious that if I did not shut my 
 ears against him, and fly from the voice of the siren, he would detain me 
 until I grew old sitting at his feet. For he makes me confess that I 
 ought not to live as I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul, and busy- 
 ing myself with the concerns of the Athenians ; therefore I hold my cars
 
 Plato. 185 
 
 and tear myself away from him. And he is the only person who ever made 
 me ashamed, which you might think not to be in my nature, and there is 
 no one else who does the same. For I know that I cannot answer him 
 or say that I ought not to do as lie bids, but when I leave his presence 
 the love of popularity gets the better of me. And therefore I run away 
 and fly from him, and when I see him I am ashamed of what I have con- 
 fessed to him. And many a time I wish that he were dead, and yet I 
 know that I should be much more sorry than glad, if he were to die : so 
 that I am at my wit's end. . . . He and I went on the expedition to Pot- 
 i-dse'a ; there we messed together, and I had the opportunity of observ- 
 ing his extraordinary power of sustaining fatigue and going witiiout food 
 when our supplies were intercepted at any place, as will happen with an 
 army. In the faculty of endurance he was superior not only to me but 
 to every body ; there was no one to be compared to him. Yet at a fes- 
 tival he was the only person who had any real powers of enjoyment, 
 and though not willing to drink, he could if compelled beat us all at 
 that, and the most wonderful thing of all was that no human being had 
 ever seen Socrates drunk ; and that, if I am not mistaken, will soon be 
 tested. His endurance of cold was also surprising. There was a severe 
 frost, for the winter in that region was really tremendous, and everybody 
 else either remained indoors, or, if they went out, had on no end of cloth- 
 ing, and were well shod, and had their feet swathed in felts and fleeces : 
 in the midst of this, Socrates, with his bare feet n the ice, and in his or- 
 dinary dress, marched better than any of the other soldiers who had their 
 shoes on, and they looked daggers at him because he seemed to despise 
 them. 
 
 I have told you one tale, and now I must tell you another, which is 
 worth hearing, of the doings and sufferings of this enduring man while 
 he was on the expedition. One morning he was thinking about some- 
 thing which he could not resolve ; and he would not give up, but contin- 
 ued thinking from early dawn until noon — there he stood fixed in thought ; 
 and at noon attention was drawn to him, and the rumor ran through the 
 wondering crowd that Socrates had been standing and thinking about 
 something ever since the break jf day. At last, in tlie evening after sup- 
 per, some lonians, out of curiosity (I should explain that this was not 
 in winter but in summer), brought out their mats and slept in the open 
 air that they might watch him and see whether he would stand all night. 
 There he stood all night as well as II day and the following morning ; 
 and with the return of light he offered up a prayer to the sun, and went 
 his way. . . . Many are the wonders of Socrates vvhicli I might narrate 
 in his praise ; most of his ways might, perhaps, be paralleled in others.
 
 1 86 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 but the most astonishing thing of all is his absolute uulikeness to any 
 human being that is or ever has been. You may imagine Bras'i-das and 
 others to have been like Achilles ; or you may imagine Nestor and An- 
 te'nor to have been like Pericles ; and the same may be said of other 
 famous men ; but of this strange being you will never be able to find any 
 likeness however remote, either among men who now are or who ever 
 have been, except that which I have already suggested of Silenus and 
 the satyrs ; and this is an allegory not only of himself, but also of his 
 words. For, although I forgot to mention this before, his words are 
 ridiculous when you first hear them ; he clothes himself in language that 
 is as the skin of the wanton satyr — for his talk is of pack-asses, and 
 smiths, and cobblers, and curriers, and he is alsvays repeating the same 
 things in the same words, so that an ignorant man who did not know him 
 might feel disposed to laugh at him ; but he who pierces the mask and 
 sees what is within will find that they are the only words which have a 
 meaning in them, and also the most divine, abounding in fair examples 
 of virtue, and of the largest discourse, or rather extending to the whole 
 duty of a good and honorable man. 
 This, friends, is my praise of Socrates. 
 
 What a charming idealization of Socrates ! Did Alcibiades 
 ever utter it ? Could he have uttered it .'' And drunk .'* Did 
 Plato make it all up ? However first produced, to what ex- 
 tent was it true of Socrates .? Of Alcibiades.? We never can 
 certainly tell. But in any case the ideal itself, with its rav 
 ishing beauty, remains and is imperishable. That it should 
 have sprung up at all in the bosom of a civilization so cor- 
 rupt, is marvelous. That it should have had a living embodi- 
 ment, as perhaps indeed in Socrates it had, is a marvel of 
 marvels. That such an embodied ideal should have been 
 pushed to the doom of the hemlock — alas, that that alone 
 should not be marvelous ! Those parts of Plato which tell 
 the story of the end of this great teacher — teacher, rather 
 than philosopher, we should ourselves be disposed to call 
 Socrates — will follow presently. Meantime a brief term of 
 delay with some other of Plato's works. 
 
 The Phasdrus is a complement of the Banquet. Like that, 
 it treats the subject of love. The two colloquists, Phaedrus
 
 Plato. 187 
 
 and Socrates, take a walk together outside the wall, and Soc- 
 rates, like Dr. Johnson, city-lover, is smitten with the charms 
 of the country. The bits of delicious landscape and scenery 
 in the dialogue we must transfer to our canvas. We use our 
 magic ring of Gyges and invisibly join Socrates and Phasdrus, 
 as they walk and talk and behold. Plato : 
 
 Socrates. Turn this way ; let us go to the I-lis'sus, and sit down at 
 some quiet spot. 
 
 Phadrus. I am fortunate in not having my sandals, and as you never 
 have any, I think that we may go along the brook and cool our feet in 
 the water; this is the easiest way, and at midday and in the summer is 
 far from being unpleasant. 
 
 Soc. Lead on, and look out for a place in which we can sit down. 
 
 Phmdr. Do you see that tallest plane-tree in the distance? 
 
 Soc. Yes. 
 
 Phcedr. There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which we 
 may either sit or lie down. 
 
 Soc. Move on. 
 
 Phadr. I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not some- 
 where here at which Bo're-as is said to have carried off Or-i-thy'i-a from 
 the banks of the Ilissus. 
 
 Soc. That is the tradition. 
 
 Phcedr. And is this the exact spot ? The little stream is delightfully 
 clear and bright ; I can fancy that there might be maidens playing near. 
 
 Soc. I believe that the spot is not exactly here, but about a quarter of 
 a mile lower down, where you cross to the temple of Agra, and I think 
 that tliere is some sort of altar of Boreas at the place. 
 
 Phcedr, I don't recollect ; but I wish that you would tell me whether 
 you believe this tale. . . . 
 
 Soc. I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says ; and 
 I sliould be absurd indeed, if while I am still in ignorance of myself I 
 were to be curious about that which is not my business. And therefore 
 I say farewell to all this ; the common opinion is enough for me. For, 
 as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about myself Am 
 I indeed a wonder more complicated and swollen with passion than the 
 serpent Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom 
 Nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny ? But here let me ask 
 you, friend: Is not this tlie plane-tree to which you were conducting us? 
 
 Phcedr, Yes, this is the tree.
 
 1 88 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed, and a fair and shady resting-place, full of summer 
 sounds and scents. There is the lofty and spreading plane-tree, and the 
 agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest blossom and the greatest 
 fragrance ; and the stream which flows beneath the plane-tree is deli- 
 ciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this 
 must be a spot sacred to Ach-e-lo'us and the Nymphs ; moreover, there 
 is a sweet breeze, and the grasshoppers chirrup ; and the greatest charm 
 of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear 
 Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide. 
 
 Phcedr. I always wonder at you, Socrates ; for when you are in the 
 country you really are like a stranger who is being led about by a guide. 
 Do you ever cross the border? I rather think that you never venture 
 even outside the gates. 
 
 Soc. Very true, my good friend ; and I hope that you will excuse me 
 when you hear the reason, which is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and 
 the men who dwell in tlie city are my teachers, and not the trees, or the 
 country. Though I do, indeed, believe that you have found a spell with 
 which to draw me out of the city into the country, as hungry cows are 
 led by shaking before them a bait of leaves or fruit. For only hold up 
 the bait of discourse, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over 
 the wide world. And now, having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do 
 you choose any posture in which you can read best. Begin. 
 
 What could be more charming ? Rural, but not rustic, is 
 the grace with which Plato touches these things. 
 
 The Gorgias is a noble dialogue. There is a good deal of 
 quibbling in it; but it ends in the following truly lofty and 
 pathetic passage. Socrates has been, with consummate art, 
 made by Plato to foreshadow his own final doom of death ; 
 and then, framing a myth, he preaches from the myth a moral, 
 for height of noble difficulty never perhaps equaled anywhere 
 out of Scripture : 
 
 Socrates. Listen, then, as stoiy-tellers say, to a very pretty tale, whicli 
 I dare say that you may be disposed to regard as a fable only, but which, 
 as I believe, is a true tale, for I mean, in what I am going to tell you, to 
 speak the truth. Homer tells us how Zeus and Po-sei'don and Pluto 
 divided the empire which they inherited from their father. Now in the 
 days of Cronos there was this law respecting the destiny of man, which 
 has always existed and still continues in heaven, that he who has lived
 
 Plato. 189 
 
 all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when he dies, to the islands 
 of the blest, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the reach of 
 evil, but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the 
 house of vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus. And in 
 the time of Cronos, and even later in the reign of Zeus, the judgment 
 was given on the very day on which the men were to die ; the judges 
 were alive, and the men were alive ; and the consequence was that the 
 judgments were not well given. Then Pluto and the authorities from 
 the islands of the blest came to Zeus, and said that the souls found their 
 way to the wrong places. Zeus said : " I shall put a stop to this ; the 
 judgments are not well given, and the reason is that the judged have 
 their clothes on, for they are alive ; and there are many having evil souls 
 who are appareled in fair bodies, or wrapt round in wealth and rank, 
 and when the day of judgment arrives many witnesses come forward and 
 witness on their behalf, that they have lived righteously. The judges 
 are awed by them, and they themselves too have their clothes on when 
 judging, their eyes and ears and their whole bodies are interposed as a 
 veil before their own souls. This all stands in the way ; there are the 
 clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged. What is to be done ? 
 I will tell you : In the first place, I will deprive men of the foreknowl- 
 edge of death, which they at present possess ; that is a commission, the 
 execution of which I have already intrusted to Pro-me'theus : in the 
 second place, they shall be entirely stripped before they are judged, for 
 they shall be judged when they are dead ; and the judge too shall be 
 naked, that is to say, dead; he with his naked soul shall pierce into the 
 other naked soul as soon as each man dies, he knows not when, and is 
 deprived of his kindred, and has left his brave attire in the world above, 
 and then the judgment will be just. I knew all about this before you 
 did, and therefore I have made my sons judges; two from Asia, Mi'nos 
 and Rhad-a-man'thus, and one from Europe, ^'a-cus. And these, 
 when they are dead, shall judge in the meadow where three ways meet, 
 and out of which two roads lead, one to the islands of the blessed, and 
 the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus shall judge those who come from 
 Asia, and yliacus those who come from Europe. And to Minos I shall 
 give the primacy, and lie shall hold a court of appeal, in case either of 
 the two others are in doubt : in this way the judgment respecting the 
 last journey of men will be as just as possilde." 
 
 This is a tale, Callicles, which I have heard antl believe, and from 
 which I draw the following inferences : Death, if I am right, is in the 
 first place the separation from one another of two tilings, soul and body ; 
 this, and nothing else. And after they are separated they retain their
 
 igo Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 several characteristics, which are much the same as in life ; the body has 
 the same nature and ways and affections, all clearly discernible ; for 
 example, lie who by nature or training or both was a tall man while 
 he was alive, will remain as he was, after he is dead ; and the fat man 
 will remain fat; and so on; and the dead man, who in life had a fancy 
 to have flowing hair, will have flowing hair. And if he was marked 
 with the whip and had the prints of the scourge, or of wounds in him 
 when he was alive, you might see the same in the dead body ; and if his 
 limbs were broken or misshapen when he was alive the same appear- 
 ance would be visible in the dead. And in a word, whatever was the 
 habit of the body during life would be distinguishable after death, either 
 perfectly, or in a great measure and for a time. And I should infer 
 that this is equally true of the soul, Callicles ; when a man is stripped of 
 the body, all the natural or acquired affections of the soul are laid open 
 to view. And when they come to the judge, as those from Asia came to 
 Rhadamanthus, he places them near him and inspects them quite im- 
 partially, not knowing whose the soul is : perhaps he may lay hands on 
 the soul of the great king, or of some other king or potentate, who has 
 no soundness in him, but his soul is marked with the whip, and is full of 
 the prints and scars of perjuries, and of wrongs which have been plastered 
 into him by each action, and he is all crooked with falsehood and im- 
 posture, and has no straightness, because he has lived witliout truth. 
 Him Rhadamanthus beholds, full of deformity and disproportion, which 
 is caused by license and luxury and insolence and incontinence, and 
 dispatches him ignominiously to his prison, and there he undergoes the 
 punishment which he deserves. 
 
 And, as I was saying, Rhadamanthus, when he gets a soul of this 
 kind, knows nothing about him, neither who he is, nor who his parents 
 are ; he knows only that he has got hold of a villain ; and seeing this, he 
 stamps him as curable or incurable, and sends him away to Tartarus, 
 whither he goes and receives his recompense. Or, again, he looks with 
 admiration on the soul of some just one who has lived in holiness and 
 truth ; he may have been a private man or not ; and I should say, Calli- 
 cles, that he is most likely to have been a philosopher who has done his 
 own work, and not troubled himself witli the doings of other men in his 
 life-time ; him Rhadamanthus sends to the islands of the blest. .^Eacus 
 does the same; and they both have sceptres, and judge; and Minos 
 is seated, looking on, as Odysseus in Homer declares that he saw 
 him — 
 
 " Holding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead."
 
 Plato. 191 
 
 Now I, Callicles, am persuaded of the truth of these things, and I con- 
 sider how I shall present my soul whole and undefiled before the judge 
 in that day. Renouncing the honors at which the world aims, I desire 
 only to know the truth, and to live as well as I can, and, when the time 
 comes, to die. And, to the utmost of my power, I exhort all other men 
 to do the same. And, in return for your exhortation of me, I exhort 
 you also to take part in the great combat, which is the combat of life, 
 and greater than every other earthly conflict. And I retort your re- 
 proach of me, and say, that you will not be able to help yourself when 
 the day of trial and judgment, of which I was speaking, comes upon you ; 
 you will go before the judge, the son of ^-gi'na, and when you are in 
 the hands of justice you will gape and your head will swim round, just as 
 mine would in the courts of this world, and very likely some one will 
 shamefully box you on the ears, and put upon you every sort of insult. 
 
 Perhaps this may appear to you to be only an old wife's tale which you 
 contemn. And there might be reason in your contemning such tales, if 
 by searching we could find out any thing better or truer : but now you 
 see that you and Polus and Gorgias, who are the three wisest of the 
 Greeks of our day, are not able to show that we ought to live any life 
 which does not profit in another world as well as in this. And of all 
 that has been said, nothing remains unshaken but the saying, that to do 
 injustice is more to be avoided than to suffer injustice, and that the 
 reality and not the appearance of virtue is to be followed above all things, 
 as well in public as in private life ; and that when any one has been 
 wrong in any thing, he is to be chastised, and that the next best thing 
 to a man being just is that he should become just, and be chastised and 
 punished ; also that he should avoid all flattery of himself as well as of 
 others ; of the few as of the many : and rhetoric and any other art should 
 be used by him, and all his actions should be done, always with a view 
 to justice. 
 
 Follow me then, and I will lead you where you will be happy in life 
 and after death, as your own argument shows. And never mind if some 
 one depises you as a fool, and insults you, if he has a mind ; let him 
 strike you, by Zeus, and do you be of good cheer and do not mind the 
 insulting blow, for you will never come to any harm in the practice of 
 virtue, if you are a really good and true man. When we have practiced 
 virtue in common, we will betake ourselves to politics, if that seems de- 
 siralile, or we will advise aljout whatever else may seem good to us, for 
 we shall be better able to judge then. In our present condition we 
 ought not to give ourselves airs, for even on the most important subjects 
 we are always changing our minds ; and what state of education does
 
 192 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 that imply? Let us, then, take this discourse as our guide, which sig- 
 nifies to us that the best way of life is to practice justice and every virtue 
 in life and death. This way let us go, and in this exhort all men to follow, 
 not in that way in which you trust and in which you exhort me to follow 
 you ; for that way, Callicles, is nothing worth. 
 
 We open the Parmenides and take at random a short section 
 out of the conversation, to let our readers see for themselves 
 what we have been meaning by our remarks on the barren- 
 ness of much that is encountered in Plato. The subject dis- 
 cussed is the idea of unity, Parmenides must needs have a 
 respondent. " Shall I propose the youngest ?" he asks. But 
 we proceed now in the words of Plato; warning, meantime, 
 the reader not curious to see how void of any thing to reward 
 curiosity may be page after page of hard logic-chopping, that 
 this next passage of quotation may safely be skipped. Par- 
 menides speaks : 
 
 Shall I propose the youngest ? He will be the most likely to say 
 what he thinks, and not raise difficulties ; and his answers will give me 
 time to breathe. I am the one whom you mean, Parmenides, said Aris- 
 toteles ; for I am the youngest, and at your service. Ask, and I will an- 
 swer. Parmenides proceeded: If one is, he said, the one cannot be 
 many? Aris. Impossible. Par. Then the one cannot have parts, and 
 cannot be a whole? Aris. How is that? Par. Why, the part would 
 surely be the part of a whole? Aris. Yes. Par. And that of wliich no 
 part is wanting, would be a whole? Aris. Certainly. Par. Then, in 
 either case, one would be made up of parts ; both as being a whole, and 
 also as having parts ? Aris. Certainly. Par. And in either case, the 
 one would be many, and not one ? Aris. True. Par. But surely one 
 ought to be not many, but one? Aris. Surely. Par. Then, if one is to 
 remain one, it will not be a whole, and will not have parts? Aris. No. 
 Par. And if one has no parts, it will have neither beginning, middle, nor 
 end; for these would be parts of one? Aris. Right. Par. But then, 
 again, a beginning and an end are the limits of every thing? Aris. Cer- 
 tainly. Par. Then the one, neither having beginning nor end, is un- 
 limited ? Aris. Yes, unlimited. Par. And therefore formless, as not 
 being able to partake either of round or straight. Aris. How is that? 
 Par. Why, the round is that of which all the extreme points are equi- 
 distant from the centre ? Aris. Yes. Par. And the straight is that of
 
 Plato. T93 
 
 which the middle intercepts the extremes? Aris. True. Par. Then 
 the one would have parts, and would be many, whether it partook of a 
 straight or of a round form ? Aris. Assuredly. Par. But having no 
 parts, one will be neither straight nor round? Aris. Right. Par. Then, 
 being of such a nature, one cannot be in any place, for it cannot be 
 either in another or in itself. Aris. How is that ? Par. Because, if one 
 be in another, it will be encircled in that other in which it is contained, 
 and will touch it in many places ; but that which is one and indivisible, 
 and does not partake of a circular nature, cannot be touched by a circle 
 in many places. Aris. Certainly not. Par. And one being in itself, 
 will also contain itself, and cannot be other than one, if in itself; for 
 nothing can be in any thing which does not contain it. Aris. Impossi- 
 ble. Par. But, then, is not that which contains other than that which 
 is contained ? for the same whole cannot at once be affected actively and 
 passively ; and one will thus be no longer one, but two ? Aris. True. 
 Par. Then one cannot be anywhere, either in itself or in another? 
 Aris. No. 
 
 In the Parmenides, there are not less than sixty stretched- 
 out pages of uninterrupted hair-splitting — uninterrupted, 
 mark, we say — not distinguishable in point of fruit or juice 
 from what our readers have now seen. 
 
 And now for the farewell to Socrates, a man undoubtedly 
 to us moderns the most engaging figure of the ancient Gre- 
 cian world. From among the five chief pieces that relate to 
 Socrates dying, or about to die, we make choice for our pur- 
 pose of the Crito and the Phaedo. 
 
 The Apology purports to be the speech of Socrates to his 
 
 judges, pronounced partly before the conviction, but partly 
 
 also after, and then ostensibly in mitigation or commutation 
 
 of his sentence to death. The Apology was spoken in vain. 
 
 Socrates was condemned to drink the hemlock. While he 
 
 waits in prison till he may lawfully die — for a certain sacred 
 
 ship must first return from Delos — he is visited there by his 
 
 friend Crito, with a proposal that he make an escape. The 
 
 dialogue entitled Crito gives us the conversation that ensued 
 
 between the two. We have no means of knowing whether 
 
 the incident of this visit and proposal really occurred or not. 
 13
 
 194 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 But nothing can harm the serene and immortal beauty of the 
 representation. By permission we use for our extracts from 
 the Crito a little volume entitled "Socrates," from the hand 
 of an accomplished American translator, Miss Mason. Our 
 previous extracts have been supplied by Mr. Jowett's incom- 
 parable version of Plato's works entire. Here is the opening 
 of the dialogue : 
 
 Socrates. Why have you come at this time of day, Crito ? Is it not 
 still quite early ? 
 
 Crito. It is early indeed. 
 
 .S". About what time is it ? 
 
 C. Day is just becjinning to dawn. 
 
 S. I wonder that the keeper of the prison was willing to answer your 
 knock. 
 
 C. He is used to me now, Socrates, I have been here so often ; and 
 besides, he has received some kindness at my hands. 
 
 S. Have you just come, or have you been here some time? 
 
 C. Some little time. 
 
 .S*. Then why did you not wake me up at once, instead of sitting by in 
 silence? 
 
 C. By Zeus, O Socrates, I for my part should not have wished to be 
 awakened to such a state of sleeplessness and sorrow. But I have for 
 some time been looking at you with wonder to see you sleep so serenely ; 
 and I purposely did not awaken you, that you might pass the remainder 
 of your time as peacefully as possible. Often before in the course of 
 your life have I esteemed you fortunate in having such a nature, but 
 never so much as now, in this present misfortune, seeing how easily and 
 calmly you bear it. 
 
 S. But do you not see, Crito, that it would be quite inconsistent in one 
 of my age to be disturbed at having to die now ? 
 
 C. But when others, Socrates, of the same age are overtaken by like 
 misfortunes, their age does not prevent their being distressed at the fate 
 before them. 
 
 .S". That is true. But why have you come so early? 
 
 C. To bring bad news, Socrates; though not for you, it seems. But 
 for myself and for all your friends it is indeed bitter and grievous; and 
 I, above all others, shall find it most hard to bear. 
 
 .S". What is it ? Has the ship come from Delos, on whose arrival I am 
 to die ?
 
 Plato. 195 
 
 C. She has not actually arrived, but I suppose she will be here to-day, 
 to judge from tidings brought by certain persons who have just come from 
 Sunium and report that they left her there. It is evident, from what 
 they say, that she will be here to-day, and thus to-morrow, Socrates, 
 your life must needs end. 
 
 S. But this, Crito, is for the best. If it please the gods, so be it. I 
 do not think, however, that the ship will arrive to-day. 
 
 C. Whence do you infer this? 
 
 S. I will tell you. I am to die on the morrow of the day on which 
 the ship arrives? 
 
 C. So say they who order these things, you know. 
 
 S. Well, then, I do not think she will arrive on this coming day, but 
 on the following one. I infer this from a certain dream which I had 
 this very night, only a little while ago. It was by some lucky chance 
 that you did not awaken me earlier. 
 
 C. What was your dream ? 
 
 S. It seemed to me that a woman in white raiment, graceful and fair 
 to look upon, came toward me, and, calling me by name, said : 
 
 " On the third day, Socrates, thou shall reach the coast of fertile 
 Phthia." 
 
 C. What a strange dream, Socrates ! 
 
 S. But clear withal, Crito, it seems to me. 
 
 C. Only too clear. But, O beloved Socrates, be persuaded by me 
 while there is yet time, and save yourself. 
 
 There follows hereupon a considerable stretch of conversa- 
 tion between Socrates and Crito, in which Crito urges every 
 inducement (including offer of money and personal help), 
 with the condemned man, to seek safety in escape, and Soc- 
 rates gently but firmly puts every inducement aside. Socrates 
 at length says: 
 
 .S". Consider it thus. Suppose, as we were on the point of running 
 away, or whatever else you may call it, the laws and the state should 
 come and say: "Tell us, Socrates, what is this that you think of doing? 
 Are you not, by the deed which you are about to undertake, thinking to 
 destroy, so far as in you lies, the laws and the whole state? For you 
 do not deem it possible, do you, that that state can survive and not be 
 overthrown in which the decisions of the courts do not ]irevail, but are 
 by private individuals set aside and brought to nauLjht?" How shall 
 we reply, Crito, to this, and to other like questions? Any one, above
 
 196 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 all an orator, might have much to say in behalf of the law we are break- 
 ing, which commands that judgments once decreed shall be decisive. 
 Or shall we make answer that the state has injured us and not given 
 righteous judgment ? Shall we say this, or what shall we say ? 
 
 C. This, by Zeus, O Socrates. 
 
 .S". What then, if the law answer: "And is this what was agreed be- 
 tween us, Socrates, or was it not rather that you should abide by the 
 judgments decreed by the state? . . . 
 
 " In this very trial you were at liberty, if you had wished, to propose 
 the penalty of exile, so that what you are now attempting to do against 
 the will of the city, you could then have done with her consent. You 
 boasted at that time that if you had to die you would not be distressed, 
 for you preferred, as you said, death to exile. But now you feel no 
 shame at the recollection of your own words, nor have you any rever- 
 ence for us, the laws, since you are trying to destroy us, and are acting 
 as would the meanest slave, tiying to run away in defiance of the cove- 
 nants and agreements according to which you had pledged yourself to be 
 governed as a citizen. . . . 
 
 " Thus you will confirm the opinion of your judges, so that your sen- 
 tence will appear to have been justly awarded. For whosoever is a cor- 
 rupter of the laws is very sure to appear also as a corrupter of young and 
 thoughtless men. . . . What language will you use, O Socrates ? Will 
 you affirm, as you have done here, that virtue and justice and institutions 
 and laws are the things most precious to men. . . . All those discourses 
 concerning justice and other virtue — what is to become of them ? Or is 
 it perhaps on account of your children that you wish to live, so that you 
 may bring them up and educate them? But what then? Will you take 
 them to Thessaly, and there bring them up and educate them, making 
 them aliens to their country, that this also they may have to thank you 
 for? Or perhaps you think that they will be better cared for and edu- 
 cated here in Athens for your being alive, even if you are not living with 
 them. Your friends, you say, will look after them. But do you suppose 
 that, while they will do this if you depart for Thessaly, they will not if 
 you depart for Hades? Assuredly, if they who call themselves your 
 friends are good for any thing, you must believe that they will. 
 
 " But, Socrates, be persuaded by us who have brought you up, and do 
 not place your children or your life or any thing else above the right ; 
 that, when you have arrived in Hades, you may have all these things to 
 urge in your defense before those who reign there. For neither in this 
 life does it appear better or more just or more holy for you or for any one 
 belonging to you thus to act, nor when you shall have arrived in the other
 
 Plato. ig-j 
 
 woiid will It be lo your advantage. As it is now, if you depart hence, 
 you go as one wronged, not by us, the laws, but by men ; but if you take 
 to flight, thus disgracefully rendering back injustice and injury by break- 
 ing the covenants and agreements which you yourself made with us, and 
 working evil against those whom least of all you ought to injure — your 
 own self as well as your friends, your country, and ourselves — we shall 
 be angry with you here while you are yet alive, and our brothers, the 
 laws in Hades, will not receive you kindly, knowing that you sought, so 
 far as in you lay, to destroy us. So do not, we beg you, let Crito per- 
 suade you to follow his advice rather than ours." 
 
 These, you must know, my dear friend Crito, are the words which I 
 seem to hear, even as the Corybantes imagine that they hear the sound 
 of the flutes ; and their echo resounding within me makes me unable to 
 hear aught beside. Know, therefore, that if you say any thing contrary 
 to this, you will but speak in vain. Nevertheless, if you think that any 
 thing will be gained thereby, say on. 
 
 C. No, Socrates, I have nothing more to say. 
 
 S. Then so let it rest, Crito; and let us follow in this way, since in 
 this way it is that God leads. 
 
 With excellent taste and judgment Plato tells the story of 
 the end in a conversation made to take place after the lapse 
 of an interval of time from the actual occurrence of the in- 
 cidents related. The name of the dialogue in which this is 
 done is the Phgedo. 
 
 The distance of time interposed has the effect to subdue and 
 soften the outlines of the action. The baldness and harsh- 
 ness that might otherwise have been felt are quite enchanted 
 away from the scene. Nothing is left to infuse one element 
 of sharp or crude into the exquisite sweet pathos of the 
 marvelous story. What wonder Cicero could never read the 
 story without tears .-' Scarce to be wondered at, if, on read- 
 ing the Phaedo, Socrates's disciple Cle-om'bro-tus did indeed, 
 as is related of him, cast himself into the sea in a fit of vain 
 remorse that he was so wanting to the master in his extremity 
 as not to take the trouble of being present with him at the 
 closing scene. The contrast and the resemblance warrant 
 the celebrated remark of the French infidel, Rousseau :
 
 198 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 "Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ died likn a 
 God." 
 
 But we must not talk further about what our readers have 
 yet to see. And how shall we show them the Phsedo in its 
 just light, without letting them see it all ? But this, of 
 course, is out of the question. The scenery, the reliefs, the 
 transitions, the exchanges of question and reply, the slow and 
 gradual growth of the atmosphere that envelops all and sets 
 life as into a picture — these things we have to lose, and, los- 
 ing these, we run the risk of losing the Phsedo. The gra- 
 cious play of affectionate irony that beautifies the " coming 
 bulk of death " — this disappears, and what a difference! The 
 groping of hands that feel after immortality in the darkness — 
 what shall compensate for that effect withdrawn .? But there 
 is no help for us, and — lest we grieve long enough to take up 
 the room that might have been so used as to forestall occasion 
 of grieving — here is the conclusion to the most pleasing and 
 touching of all Plato's dialogues, the Phsedo. We once more 
 let Miss Mason do our translating; Socrates speaks: 
 
 "You, too, Simmias and Cebes, and all the rest of you, must each one 
 day take this journey ; ' but now,' as a tragic poet would say, ' me the 
 voice of fate is calling,' and it is well-nigh time that I should think of 
 the bath ; for it seems better for me to bathe before drinking the poison, 
 and not give the women the trouble of washing my body." 
 
 When he had thus spoken, Crito said: "Very well, Socrates; but 
 what charge have you to give me or our friends here, about your chil- 
 dren or any thing else, which we may most gratify you by fulfilling? " 
 
 "Only what I have always said, Crito," answered he, " nothing new; 
 that if you will take heed to yourselves, you will, whatever you do, 
 render me and mine and your own selves a service, even if you do not 
 make any promises now. But if you do not take heed to yourselves, 
 and will not try to follow in the path which I have now and heretofore 
 pointed out, you will bring nothing to pass, no matter how many or how 
 solemn promises you make." 
 
 " We will indeed try our best," said he ; " but how do you wish us to 
 bury you ?" 
 
 "Just as you please," he answered, " if you only get hold of me, and
 
 Plato. 199 
 
 do noi let me escape you." And quietly laughing and glancing at us, he 
 said : 
 
 *' I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that this Socrates who is now 
 talking with you and laying down each one of these propositions is my 
 very self; for his mind is full of the thought that I am he whom he is 
 to see in a little while as a corpse ; and so he asks how he shall buiy 
 me. Thus, that long argument of mine, the object of which was to 
 show that after I have drunk the poison I shall be among you no 
 longer, but shall go away to certain joys prepared for the blessed, seems 
 to him but idle talk, uttered only to keep up your spirits as well as my 
 own." . . . 
 
 Thus saying he got up and went into another room to bathe, and 
 Crito followed him ; but us he requested to stay behind. We remained, 
 therefore, talking over with one another and inquiring into what had 
 been said ; ever and again coming back to the misfortune which had 
 befallen us ; for we looked upon ourselves as doomed to go through the 
 rest of life like orphans, bereft of a father. 
 
 After he had bathed, his children were brought to him — for he had 
 three sons, two very young, and one who was older — and the women of 
 his household also arrived. And having talked with them, in the pres- 
 ence of Crito, and given them all his directions, he bade them depart, 
 and himself returned to us. It was now near sunset, for he had spent a 
 long time in the inner room. He came then and sat down with us, but 
 he did not speak much after this. And the servant of the Eleven came 
 and standing by him said : " I shall not have to reproach you, O Socra- 
 tes, as I have others, with being enraged and cursing me when I an- 
 nounce to them, by order of the magistrates, that they must drink the 
 poison ; but during this time of your imprisonment I have learned to 
 know you as the noblest and gentlest and best man of all that have ever 
 come here, and so I am sure now that you will not be angry with me ; 
 for you know the real authors of this, and will blame them alone. And 
 now — for you know what it is I have come to announce — farewell, and 
 try to bear as best you may the inevitable." And upon this, bursting into 
 tears, he turned and went away; and Socrates, looking after him, said: 
 
 " May it fare well with you also ! We will do what you have bidden." 
 And to us he added : " IIow courteous the man is! Tlie whole time I 
 have been here he has been constantly coming to see me, and has fre- 
 quently talked to me, and shown himself to be the kindest of men ; and 
 see how feelingly he weeps for me now ! But come, Crito, we must obey 
 hiin. So let the j)oison be brought, if it is already mixed ; if not, let the 
 man mix it."
 
 200 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 And Crito said : " But, Socrates, the sun, I think, is still upon the 
 mountains, and has not yet gone down. Others, I know, have not taken 
 the poison till very late, and have feasted and drunk right heartily, some 
 even enjoying the company of their intimates, long after receiving the 
 order. So do not hasten, for there is yet time." 
 
 But Socrates said : " It is very natural, Crito, that those of whom you 
 speak should do this, for they think to gain thereby ; but it is just as 
 natural that I should not do so, for I do not think that, by drinking the 
 poison a little later, I should gain any thing more than a laugh at my 
 own expense, for being greedy of life and 'stingy when nothing is left.' 
 So go and do as I desire." 
 
 At these words Crito motioned to the servant standing by, who then 
 went out, and after some time came back with the man who was to give 
 the poison, which he brought mixed in a cup. And Socrates, seeing the 
 man, said : 
 
 *' Well, my friend, I must ask you, since you have had experience in 
 these matters, what I ought to do }" 
 
 "Nothing," said he, "but walk about after drinking until you feel a 
 heaviness in your legs, and then, if you lie down, the poison will take 
 effect of itself." 
 
 With this, he handed the cup to Socrates, who took it right cheerfully, 
 O Echecrates [E-kek'ra-tes], without tremor, or change of color or coun- 
 tenance, and, looking at the man from under his brows with that intent 
 gaze peculiar to himself, said : " What say you to pouring a libation from 
 this cup to one of the gods? Is it allowed or not ? " 
 
 "We prepare, Socrates," answered he, " only just so much as we think 
 is the right quantity to drink." 
 
 "I understand," said he ; "but prayer to the gods is surely allowed, 
 and must be made, that it may fare well with me on my journey yonder. 
 For this, then, I pray, and so be it ! " 
 
 Thus speaking, he put the cup to his lips, and right easily and blithely 
 drank it off. Now most of us had until then been able to keep l^ack our 
 tears ; but when we saw him drinking, and then that he had finished the 
 draught, we could do so no longer. In spite of myself, my tears burst 
 forth in floods, so that I covered my face and wept aloud, not for him 
 assuredly, but for my ovvn fate in being deprived of such a friend. Now 
 Crito, even before I gave way, had not been able to restrain his tears, 
 and so had moved away. But A-pol-lo-do'rus all along had not ceased 
 to weep ; and now, when he burst into loud sobs, there was not one of 
 those present who was not overcome by his tears and distress, except 
 Socrates himself. But he asked: "What are you doing, you strange
 
 Plato. 20 1 
 
 people? My chief reason for sending away the women was, that we 
 might be spared such discordance as this ; for I have heard that a man 
 ought to die in solemn stillness. So pray be composed, and restrain 
 yourselves ! " 
 
 On hearing this, we were ashamed, and forced back our tears. And 
 he walked about until he said that he began to feel a heaviness in his 
 legs, and then he lay down on his back, as he had been told to do. 
 Thereupon the man who had given the poison, taking hold of him, ex- 
 amined from time to time his feet and legs, and then, pressing one foot 
 hard, asked if he felt it, to which he answered. No ; and after that, again 
 his legs, and then still higher, showing us the while that he was getting 
 cold and stiff. Then Socrates himself did the same, and said that by the 
 time the poison had reached his heart he should be gone. And now he 
 was cold nearly up to his middle, when, uncovering his face, for he had 
 covered it up, he said — and these were his last words — " Crito, we owe 
 a cock to ^sculapius. Pay the debt, and do not neglect it." 
 
 " It shall be done, Socrates," said he. " But think if you have noth- 
 ing else to say." 
 
 There was no answer to this question ; but after a moment Socrates 
 stirred, and when the man uncovered him we saw that his face was set. 
 Crito, on seeing this, closed his mouth and eyes. Such was the end, O 
 Echecrates, of our friend, a man whom we may well call, of all men 
 known to us of our day, the best, and besides tlie wisest and the most 
 just. 
 
 What a gentle ending — told how gently, but with what power 
 of pathos gently told — to that matchless pagan life ! For such 
 a case, shall we not at least "faintly trust the larger hope.' " 
 
 Platonism had a remarkable revival in Neo-Platonism 
 (New Platonism) long after the great teacher's death. This 
 was when Alexandria had become the transferred chief seat 
 of Greek letters. Neo-Platonism exercised a powerful influ- 
 ence for many centuries on Christian theology. That influ- 
 ence is, perhaps, not yet spent. About a century ago, Thomas 
 Taylor, known in literary history as "the Platonist," pre- 
 sented to the world the example of an Englishman, born so 
 to speak out of due time and out of due place, swearing into 
 the words of Plato. 
 
 That Zeus, if he had spoken Greek, would have spoken it
 
 202 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 like Plato, was the sentence of antiquity. Praise could not 
 further go. Though some might be inclined to place De- 
 mosthenes before him, Plato will, no doubt, always remain in 
 general consent the greatest prose writer of ancient Greece. 
 
 VII. 
 ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 With ^schylus we enter upon a representation of Greek 
 tragic poetry. 
 
 The first thing important in preparation for a right esti- 
 mate of Greek tragedy is to disabuse the mind of a certain 
 very natural false prepossession. We English-speakers, we 
 students of Shakespeare, have, of course, formed our ideas of 
 what tragedy is from the examples familiar to us of Shake- 
 speare's art in this line of literary production. Nothing more 
 instinctive than that we should look to find a body of litera- 
 ture in Greek that has the same name, tragedy, having also 
 the same character. Nothing more instinctive, and nothing 
 more fallacious. Greek tragedy and English tragedy are two 
 very distinct affairs. They both have their conventions, but 
 their conventions are widely different. If you judge the 
 Greek tragedy by the standard of the English, you will think 
 very ill of the Greek. Conversely, if you judge the English 
 tragedy by the standard of the Greek, you will think very ill 
 of the English. But you will, in either case, commit a crit- 
 ical blunder and think very wrongly. 
 
 Regard Greek tragedy as an attempt to represent real life 
 on the stage, and you will be right in pronouncing Greek 
 tragedy very rude literary art, art entirely unworthy of the 
 praise it has received. But Greek tragedy was no such at- 
 tempt. Its material was not reality, and its aim was not to 
 produce a life-like representation. We may state the differ-
 
 ^schylus. 203 
 
 ence between ancient tragedy and modern in a single anti- 
 thetical sentence : Modern tragedy presents real life idealized; 
 ancient tragedy presented an ideal life realized. The sub- 
 jects of Greek tragedy were myths in which nobody believed 
 — that is, in which nobody believed as every body believes in 
 the things of real life. The staple myths of Greek tragedy 
 concerned heroes that were demigods. There was a certain 
 tacit, quasi-religious — a conventional — acceptance of these 
 myths, an acceptance of them sufficient to render them a 
 suitable basis on which to impress whatever lesson of wisdom 
 the tragic poet might wish to teach. 
 
 For Greek tragedy was a great institute of teaching. Its 
 motive to teach was quite in the ascendant over its motive to 
 amuse. Whereas modern dramatic art seeks first to enter- 
 tain, and then, if at all, to instruct and profit, the ancient 
 tragedy reversed this order and was first didactic, and, after 
 that, for the sake of didactics, diverting. Unless you under- 
 stand this about Greek tragedy, you will be staggered in read- 
 ing ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. You will wonder 
 that these writers could ever have won the renown they en- 
 joy. Remember, then, that whereas the modern tragedy aims 
 to represent life, somewhat ideally, as life really is, and even 
 makes its boast of not trying to enforce any moral, of being 
 content with itself as art without seeking to make itself aught 
 as ethics, of leaving the whole business of didactics to the ser- 
 mon and the essay — Greek tragedy, on the other hand, had it 
 for its chief purpose to teach. It represented action only, or 
 mainly, for the sake of so teaching the more impressively. 
 Milton, in the Paradise Regained, hits the truth exactly : 
 
 Thence what the lofty, grave tragedians taught 
 
 In cliorus or iambick, teachers best 
 
 Of moral prudence, with delight received 
 
 In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 
 
 Of fate and chance and change in Inunan life, 
 
 High actions and high passions best describing.
 
 204 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 ft' 
 
 It is worthy of being noted, by the way, that thus the Greek 
 example fails the modern devotees of art at a very important 
 point. Those who maintain the doctrine of art for art's sake, 
 are fond of drawing precedent from ancient Greece. 'Art,' 
 they are in the habit of saying, ' is spoiled when it tries to 
 preach. Look at Greece. How Greece delighted in beauty! 
 Greece was wise enough to let beauty have its place, and 
 stand alone sufficient to itself. Do not blame,' so say these 
 critics, ' do not blame Shakespeare for being simply an artist. 
 Suffer him to represent life, and do not insist on his pointing 
 a moral.' But the Greek tragedians did just this forbidden 
 thing. And who can be supposed to understand, better than 
 did the ancient Greeks, the full rights of art as against the 
 claims of ethics ? 
 
 The Greek tragedies were represented by daylight in the 
 open air, before assemblages that numbered their tens of 
 thousands of spectators. The blue sky was roof to the im- 
 mense amphitheatre, rocks, woods, and mountains, and tem- 
 ples of the gods, were the inclosing walls. The glorious sun 
 was the common light of all their seeing. These circum- 
 stances rendered such illusion as is sought in the modern 
 spectacle a tiling quite out of the question for the antique 
 stage. There was, indeed, anciently no attempt to produce 
 the effect of such illusion. The actors wore masks on their 
 faces and buskins on their feet. Besides this, they wore a 
 kind of wig designed to make them look taller, and dressed 
 with padding designed to make them look larger, than life. 
 Such an accoutrement forbade any true acting. There 
 was no play of feature visible to spectators, and there could 
 be no free movement and gesture of the body. The whole 
 spectacle partook of the character of something statuesque, 
 something half superhuman. It was a series as if of tableaux — 
 the figures fixed, immobile, marmoreal. The design was, in- 
 deed, to impose a kind of awe on the imagination, to subdue, to 
 render docile — this, rather than to present a life-like scene.
 
 ^schylus. 205 
 
 yEschylus, born 525 B. C, was the true originator of Greek 
 tragedy. He found the stage occupied by a chorus of 
 singers, v/hose lyric chant was the chief feature of the dra- 
 matic occasion. Apart from the chorus there was but one 
 actor. This one actor diversified the monotony of the per- 
 formance with a narrative monologue ; or perhaps there was 
 a dialogue carried on between him and the leader of the 
 chorus. -(Eschylus introduced a second actor, and thereby 
 transformed wliat was essentially lyric into dramatic — for 
 now the choral part became secondary from having pre- 
 viously been principal ; created in fact the tragedy. Changes 
 were afterward incorporated, but tragedy remained for the 
 Greeks substantially what ^schylus made it. The number 
 of actors apart from the chorus was always very small. The 
 history of classic Greek tragedy covered an exceedingly short 
 space of time. The three masters, ^schylus, Sophocles, and 
 Euripides, were in part mutual contemporaries. And these 
 three are all the Greek tragedians that survive to us in their 
 works. 
 
 Each one of the three was a fecund genius, ^schylus 
 produced, it is said, no less than seventy tragedies. But 
 Sophocles lived a long life productive to a late moment, and 
 one hundred and thirteen tragedies are credited to him. 
 Euripides was, in fruitfulness, exactly a mean between the 
 two ; he wrote ninety-two tragedies. But let not our readers 
 be over hasty in counting themselves rich. Only seven trage-' 
 dies of ^schylus, and only seven of Sophocles, are now ex- 
 tant. From Euripides we have seventeen. 
 
 .^schylus was born in an Attic village near Athens. He 
 was of a noble family, and his character corresponded ; for 
 he was in spirit, high, liaughty, and conservative. He fought 
 at Marathon, and, with a brother of his, bore off a prize ad- 
 judged by his countrymen for valor. At Salamis, too, ten 
 years later, he took part against the Persians. One of his 
 tragedies, The Persians, treats the downfall of Xerxes. This
 
 2o6 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 piece, by the way, is unique in Greek tragedy for finding the 
 personages of its plot, not in myth, but in history. In com- 
 pensation, there is an element of ghostly supernatural intro- 
 duced — the spirit of Darius rising from the dead to teach the 
 Persian grandees that so the gods chastise the insolence of 
 Xerxes. In the interval between Marathon and Salamis, 
 ^schylus wrote tragedies, and several times was crowned 
 victor in the competitions arranged by the Athenians to take 
 place among their rival tragic poets. But falling toward the 
 last into disfavor with his fellow-citizens — as they in turn 
 fell into disfavor with him — he retired to Syracuse, where, at 
 the magnificent and munificent court of Hiero, he was con- 
 tent to pass the closing years of his life. 
 
 ^schylus was a kind of Michael Angelo, in the largeness, 
 in the ruggedness, and in the audacity, of his genius — in the 
 loftiness and pride of his character as well. Colossal, Titanic 
 — are such adjectives as one wishes to use in describing 
 ^schylus. He was the most aspiringly sublime of all the 
 ancient poets. And yet he said of himself, in a self-disdain- 
 ing way — which had, perhaps, more of pride than of meek- 
 ness in it — that he had given in his tragedies only " fragments 
 picked up from the mighty feasts of Homer." And true it 
 is, that all Greek tragedy, including the share in it of ^schy- 
 lus, dealt largely with the cycle of myths that centre about 
 the Homeric tale of Troy. 
 
 In choosing from among the greatest of the extant works 
 of ^schylus, we hesitate in almost hopeless balance between 
 the Pro-me'theus Bound and the Agamemnon, for presenta- 
 tion to our readers. Let us arbitrarily say the Prometheus 
 Bound. 
 
 Prometheus was a mythical being of superhuman rank, 
 who stole fire from heaven and brought it to men. For this 
 offense against Zeus, he was condemned to be chained alive 
 to a rocky cliff in the Cau'ca-sus. Prometheus himself is, of 
 course, the chief personage in the action. The drama begins
 
 ^siliyliis. 207 
 
 with the scene of the chaining. Conversation first takes 
 place between He-phnes'tus (Vulcan) and two allegoric char- 
 acters, Strength and Force, while these three rivet the cap- 
 tive divinity to the rock. This accomplished, Prometheus is 
 visited in his solitude by a troop of nymphs, with whom he 
 holds prolonged discourse. He expresses himself with un- 
 conquerable pride against Zeus, claiming to possess a secret 
 not known to the monarch himself of Olympus, on which, 
 nevertheless, the stability of that monarch's kingdom de- 
 pends. While the haughty sufferer is in the height of his 
 defiance of Zeus, the Thunderer sends a tempest, in the 
 midst of which Prometheus disappears and the tragedy ends. 
 Such, in brief, is the action of the poem. 
 
 The Prometheus Unbound is a lost work of ^schylus. 
 Shelley has ventured after a certain sort to supply its place 
 with a creation of his own. Of this modern attempt at com- 
 pleting of a great antique torso, we may, in due time, say 
 something, but now forthwith to presentation of the torso 
 itself. 
 
 The Prometheus Bound of ^schylus attracted the learn- 
 ing and the genius of Mrs. Browning to give it form in 
 English verse. We shall chiefly use Mrs. Browning's trans- 
 lation here. It is a noble piece of work, admirable for schol- 
 arship in Greek, and as English literature marred only by 
 those technical faults of execution which Mrs. Browning, 
 with all her resplendent gifts, never, except in her rarest 
 felicities of mood, was fortunate enough wholly to escape. 
 The original poem, like all the Greek tragedies, was written 
 chiefly in iambics. Iambic blank verse, Mrs. Browning's 
 choice for her task, is accordingly a fit mould of English 
 translation. The parts, however, of the chorus, with certain 
 lyric passages besides, are given by ^Eschylus (and like is the 
 usage of all the Greek tragedians) in various other metres. 
 Such exceptional portions of the tragedy Mrs. Browning ap- 
 propriately renders in correspondingly varied English style,
 
 2o8 Classic Greek Course in Eii^s;lis/i. 
 
 with added garnish of rhyme. The entire length of the 
 tragedy is eleven hundred and fourteen Greek lines. Mrs. 
 Browning's version makes about fourteen hundred lines in 
 English. 
 
 The first scene opens with Strength speaking ; 
 
 Strength. We reach the utmost limit of the earth, 
 
 Tlie Scythian track, the desert without man, 
 And now, Hephaestus, thou must needs fulfill 
 The mandate of our Father, and with links 
 Indissoluble of adamantine chains, 
 Fasten against this beetling precipice 
 This guilty god. Because he filched away 
 Thine own bright flower, the glory of plastic fire, 
 And gifted mortals with it — such a sin 
 It doth behoove he expiate to the gods, 
 • Learning to accept the empeiy of Zeus 
 And leave off his old trick of loving man. 
 
 Strength is a burly, fierce fellow. But Hephaestus shows 
 some feeling : 
 
 HephcBstus. O Strength and Force, for you, our Zeus's will 
 Presents a deed for doing, no more ! — but I, 
 I lack your daring, up tliis storm-rent chasm 
 To fix with violent hands a kindred god^ 
 Howbeit necessity compels me so 
 That I must dare it — and our Zeus commands 
 With a most inevitable word. [ To Prometkeus .•] Ho, thou ! 
 High-thoughted son of Themis who is sage ! 
 
 • • • • a • 
 
 Thou art adjudged to guard this joyless rock, 
 Erect, unslumbering, bending not the knee. 
 And many a cry and unavailing moan 
 To utter on the air. For Zeus is stern. 
 And new-made kings are cruel. 
 
 Force has nothing whatever to say. But Strength and 
 
 Hephaestus keep up a colloquy while the work goes on. 
 
 Hephaestus sighs: 
 
 I would some other hand 
 
 Were here to work it
 
 yEsc/tylus. 209 
 
 Whereto, 
 
 All work hath its pain 
 Except to rule the gods, 
 
 replies Strength, generalizing philosophically. He adds: 
 
 There is none free 
 Except King Zeus. 
 
 A few more similar exchanges of remark occur between 
 the two, Strength meanwhile keeping a strict eye to the busi- 
 ness in hand. Hephaestus is disposed to regard the task as 
 now done, when Strength exclaims: 
 
 Still faster grapple him — 
 Wedge him in deeper — leave no inch to stir I 
 He's terrible for finding a way out 
 From the irremediable. 
 
 Hephaestus apparently tries to relieve the tension by put- 
 ting on an indifferent air of compliance ; but Strength is not 
 to be cajoled: 
 
 Strength. Now, straight through the chest. 
 
 Take him and bite him with the clenching tooth 
 Of the adamantine wedge, and rivet him. 
 
 This is too much for Hephaestus, who bursts out — this time 
 to Prometheus : 
 
 Alas, Prometheus, what thou sufferest here 
 I sorrow over. 
 
 Strength is not yet done with his relentless hounding on 
 of Hephaestus to his task. But at length even Strength is 
 satisfied. Prometheus is left to his solitude and chains and 
 pains, with a fierce farewell speech from Strength, conceived 
 as follows : 
 
 Methinks the Daemons gave thee a wrong name, 
 Prometheus, which means Providence — because 
 Thou dost thyself need providence to see 
 Thy roll and ruin from the top of doom. 
 14
 
 2IO Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Prometheus, forsaken, soliloquizes: 
 
 O holy ^ther, and swift winged Winds, 
 And river-wells, and laughter innumerous 
 Of yon sea-waves ! Earth, mother of us all. 
 And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you — 
 Behold me a god, what I endure from gods ! 
 
 Behold, with throe on throe, 
 
 How, wasted by this woe, 
 I wrestle down the myriad years of time ! 
 
 Behold, how fast around me. 
 The new King of the happy ones sublime 
 Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me 1 
 • •••••• 
 
 Alas me ! what a murmur and motion I hear 
 
 As of birds flying near ! 
 
 And the air undersings 
 
 The light stroke of their wings — 
 And all life that approaches I wait for in fear. 
 
 What Prometheus heard was the approach of the winged 
 sea-nymphs. These constitute a chorus. 
 
 The sea-nymphs and Prometheus chant responsively to 
 each other through several pages of lofty lyrical dialogue. 
 The sea-nymphs sympathize with the suffering god, and say 
 hard things of Zeus. Prometheus on his part lets out dark 
 hints of something that he knows, deeply concerning the 
 interests of his conqueror and torturer. The sea-nymphs are 
 tantalized. They beg Prometheus to tell them all about the 
 matter. Prometheus seems to yield, and, beginning with 
 retrospect, proceeds, interrupted from time to time by the 
 nymphs, to the following purpose : 
 
 When gods began with wrath, 
 And war rose up between their starry brows, 
 Some choosing to cast Chronos from his throne 
 That Zeus might king it there, and some in haste 
 With opposite oaths that they would have no Zeus 
 To rule the gods forever — I, who brought 
 The counsel I thought meetest, could not move
 
 ^schylus. 211 
 
 The Titans, children of the Heaven and Earth, 
 What time, disdaining in their rugged souls 
 My subtle machinations, they assumed 
 It was an easy thing for force to take 
 The mastery of fate. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Tartarus, 
 With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
 Because I gave that counsel, covers up 
 The antique Chronos and his siding hosts. 
 And, by that counsel helped, the king of gods 
 Hath recompensed me with these bitter pangs ! 
 For kingship wears a cancer at the heart — 
 Distrust in friendship. Do ye also ask. 
 What crime it is for which he tortures me — 
 That shall be clear before you. When at first 
 He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
 Made various gifts of glory to the gods. 
 And dealt the empire out. Alone of men. 
 Of miserable men, he took no count, 
 But yearned to sweep their track off from the world, 
 And plant a newer race there. Not a god 
 Resisted such desire, except myself! 
 I dared it ! I drew mortals back to light, 
 From meditated ruin deep as hell ! 
 For which wrong, I am bent down in these pangs 
 Dreadful to suffer, mournful to behold — 
 And I, who pitied man, am thought myself 
 Unworthy of pity — while I render out 
 Deep rhythms of anguish 'neath the harping hand 
 That strikes me thus ! — a sight to shame your Zeus ! 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Chorus. And didst thou sin 
 
 No more than so? 
 Prometheus. I did restrain besides 
 
 My mortals from premeditating death. — 
 Cho. How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of dcalli ? 
 Pro. I set blind hopes to inhabit in their house. 
 Cho. By that gift, thou didst help thy mortals well. 
 Pro. I gave them also, — fire 
 Cho. And have they now, 
 
 Those creatures of a day, the red-eyed fire ?
 
 2 1 2 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Pro. They have ! and shall learn by it many arts. 
 Cho. And, truly, for such sins Zeus tortures thee. 
 
 And will remit no anguish ? Is there set 
 
 No limit before thee to thine agony? 
 Pro. No other ! only what seems good to Him. 
 • ••••• 
 
 But mourn not ye for griefs 
 I bear to-day ! — hear rather, dropping down 
 To the plain, how other woes creep on to me, 
 And learn the consummation of my doom. 
 Beseech you, nymphs, beseech you, grieve for me 
 Who now am grieving ! — for Grief walks the earth, 
 And sits down at the foot of each by turns. 
 
 The sentiment with which the foregoing extract closes is 
 highly characteristic of the grave and solemn genius of -^s- 
 chylus. 0-ce'an-us (Ocean-god) now arrives, and joins the 
 company of sympathizers with Prometheus. Prometheus, 
 greeting him, flings out high words against Zeus. Oceanus 
 is worldly-wise, and he counsels the captive thriftily. He 
 proposes a plan of intervention with Zeus on behalf of the 
 
 sufferer : 
 
 Prometheus, I behold — and I would fain 
 Exhort thee, though already" subtle enough, 
 To a better wisdom. Titan, know thyself. 
 And take new softness to thy manners since 
 A new king rules the gods. 
 
 • .■••• 
 
 Beseech thee, use me then 
 For counsel ! do not spurn against the pricks — 
 Seeing that who reigns, reigns by cruelty 
 Instead of right. And now, I go from hence, 
 And will endeavor if a power of mine 
 Can break thy fetters through. For thee— be calm, 
 And smooth thy words from passion. Knowest thou not 
 Of perfect knowledge, thou who knowest too much. 
 That where the tongue wags, ruin never lags ? 
 
 But Prometheus says : * No, there is no hope. Zeus is not 
 to be entreated. You will only bring trouble on yourself.'
 
 JEschylus. 213 
 
 The speech of Prometheus is, however, too magnificent not 
 to be spread out somewhat at large. In it he gives glimpses, 
 in powerful description, of that ancient war of the Giants 
 against Zeus, which resulted in overthrow and punishment 
 to the rebel Titans. Of these, Atlas was one — " my brother 
 Atlas," Prometheus calls him. Atlas was condemned to bear 
 up the heaven and the earth upon his shoulders. Hundred- 
 headed Typhon the fell was another rebel overthrown. He 
 was sentenced to heave and toss uneasily under ^tna. But 
 here is Titan ^schylus himself upon the Titans, fitly pre- 
 sented in the truly Titanic translation of Mrs. Browning. 
 Prometheus says to Oceanus : 
 
 Take rest, 
 And keep thyself from evil. If I grieve, 
 I do not therefore wish to multiply 
 The griefs of others. Verily, not so ! 
 For still my brother's doom doth vex my soul — 
 My brother Atlas, standing in the west. 
 Shouldering the column of the heaven and earth, 
 A difficult burden ! I have also seen, 
 And pitied as I saw, the earth-born one. 
 The inhabitant of old Cilician caves. 
 The great war-monster of the hundred heads 
 (All taken and bowed beneath the violent Hand), 
 Typhon the fierce, who did resist the gods, 
 And, hissing slaughter from his dreadful jaws, 
 Flash out ferocious glory from his eyes, 
 As if to storm the throne of Zeus ! Whereat, 
 The sleepless arrow of Zeus flew straight at him — 
 The headlong bolt of thunder breathing flame. 
 And struck him downward from his eminence 
 Of exultation! Through the very soul 
 It struck him, and his strength was withered up 
 To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now, he lies 
 A helpless trunk supinely, at full length 
 Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 
 By roots of iEtna — high upon whose tops 
 Hephaestus sits and strikes the flashing ore. 
 From thence the rivers of fire shall burst away
 
 214 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Hereafter, and devour vvitli savage jaws 
 The equal plains of fruitful Sicily, 
 Such passion he shall boil back in hot darts 
 Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame, 
 Fallen Typhou — howsoever struck and charred 
 By Zeus's bolted thunder ! But for thee, 
 Thou art not so unlearned as to need 
 My teaching — let thy knowledge save thyself. 
 I quaff the full cup of a present doom, 
 And wait till Zeus hath quenched his will in wrath. 
 Oceanus. Prometheus, art thou ignorant of this, 
 That words do medicine anger? 
 Prometheus. If the word 
 
 With seasonable softness touch the soul. 
 And, where the parts are ulcerous, sear them not 
 By any rudeness. 
 
 The "words do medicine anger," of ^schylus, recalls that 
 of Milton: 
 
 Apt words have power to suage 
 The tumors of a troubled mind. 
 
 Oceanus, undissuaded by Prometheus, speeds him off to see 
 what he may be able to effect for the captive. The nymphs 
 intervene with strophe and antistrophe of soothing sympathy, 
 one group of the chorus answering another, and then Prome- 
 theus resumes his part : 
 
 Beseech you, think not T am silent thus 
 Through pride or scorn ! I only gnaw my heart 
 With meditation, seeing myself so wronged. 
 For so — their honors to these new-made gods. 
 What other gave but I, and dealt them out 
 With distribution ? Ay — but here I am dumb! 
 For here, I should repeat your knowledge to you, 
 If I spake aught. List rather to the deeds 
 I did for mortals ! — how, being fools beft)re, 
 I made them wise and true in aim of soul. 
 And let me tell you — not as taunting men, 
 But teaching you the intention of my gifts, 
 How, first beholding, they beheld in vain,
 
 j£schyliis. 215 
 
 And hearing, heaid not, but, like shapes in dreams, 
 
 Mixed all things wildly down the tedious time, 
 
 Nor knew to build a house against the sun 
 
 Willi wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft knew, 
 
 But lived, like silly ants, beneath the ground 
 
 In hollow caves unsunned. There, came to them 
 
 No steadfast sign of winter, nor of spring 
 
 Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of fruit. 
 
 But blindly and lawlessly they did all things, 
 
 Until I taught them liow the stars do rise 
 
 And set in mystery, and devised for them 
 
 Number, the inducer of philosophies, 
 
 The synthesis of Letters, and besides. 
 
 The artificer of all things. Memory, 
 
 That sweet Muse-mother. I was first to yoke 
 
 The seiTile beasts in couples, carrying 
 
 An heirdom of man's burdens on their backs. 
 
 I joined to chariots, steeds, that love the bit 
 
 They champ at — the chief pomp of golden ease ! 
 
 And none but I originated ships. 
 
 The seaman's chariots, wandering on the brine 
 
 With linen wings. And I — O, miserable ! — 
 
 Who did devise for mortals all these arts, 
 
 Have no device left now to save myself 
 
 From the woe I suffer. 
 
 The chorus are wise sympathizers. They let grief have 
 its way. By the simple echoing back, in chime with him, of 
 what Prometheus says, they console him better than by any 
 intrusion of advice they could : 
 
 Most unseemly woe 
 Thou sufferest, and dost stagger from the sense. 
 Bewildered ! Like a bad leech falling sick 
 Thou art faint of soul, and canst not find the drugs 
 Required to save thyself. 
 
 This unlocks Prometheus's heart still wider, and draws 
 from him additional proud pathetic claim of service rendered 
 by himself to mankind. The nymphs in chorus wish them- 
 selves security against the dreadful wrath of Zeus.
 
 2i6 Classic Greek Course t'ti English. 
 
 But here enters a strange new personage into the action. 
 It is no other than hapless I'o, a mortal maiden, loved by 
 Zeus, and for that reason tormented of Here, Zeus's wife. 
 Here has revengefully changed lo into a heifer, and she 
 now drives her victim ever from land to land helpless and 
 mad under the sting of a gadfly. lo, suffering and forlorn 
 under her own shameful transformation, is arrested by the 
 encounter in Prometheus of grief greater than her own. 
 She begs to know from him why he is in that hard case, 
 and having been told briefly asks further what still awaits 
 herself. 
 
 Prometheus not having yet told her all that lay before her, 
 lo was immeasurably distressed to hear even such part of her 
 predestined woes. To her, asking why she had not better 
 at once dash herself down the rocks and make an end, Pro- 
 metheus says, ' For me is no release from ills in death. I 
 must suffer till Zeus cease to reign.* * And will Zeus ever 
 cease foreign?* eagerly asks lo ; *How?' * Through one, 
 at a remove of thirteen generations, born of you,' replies 
 Prometheus; and this is the connection in fate between the 
 two which has justified the introduction of lo into the drama. 
 Only tantalized with this unsatisfying glimpse of the future, 
 lo begs to know more. Prometheus offers her an option. 
 She shall either hear the full measure of her own appointed 
 sorrows, or she shall hear how he himself, Prometheus, is at 
 length to be released. The chorus interposes with, 'Tell to 
 her the one and to me the other.* And Prometheus complies. 
 He is highly explicit in his itinerary of poor lo's future wan- 
 derings ; but when he comes to the matter of his own deliv- 
 erance he is oracularly obscure. His deliverer will be a per- 
 sonage designated only by a pronoun — it will be a certain 
 He. That is the sense of the passage. 
 
 lo hereupon falls into a fresh paroxysm of her anguish, and 
 with a frenzied outcry in lyrical numbers dashes out of the 
 scene. The chorus, in strophe, antistrophe, and epode, chant
 
 yEsc/iylus, 2 1 7 
 
 their sentiments in view of what they have seen and heard. 
 We give only Id's anguished lament uttered as she disappears: 
 
 lo. Eleleu, eleleu ! 
 
 How the spasm and the pain 
 And the fire on the brain 
 
 Strilve, burning me through ! 
 IIow the sting of the curse, all aflame as it flew. 
 
 Pricks me onward again 1 
 How my heart, in its terror, is spurning my breast. 
 And my eyes, like the wheels of a chariot, roll round ! 
 I am whirled from my course, to the east, to the west. 
 In the whirlwind of phrensy all madly inwound — 
 And my mouth is unbridled for anguish and hate. 
 And my words beat in vain, in wild storms of unrest. 
 On the sea of my desolate fate. 
 
 What follows is a fine bit of audacity from Prometheus in 
 menacing defiance of Zeus. Mrs. Browning rises equal to 
 the sublimity of her original — as Prometheus dares and flouts 
 the thunder of the Thunderer in this high fashion ; 
 
 Now, therefore, let him sit 
 And brave the imminent doom, and fix his fate 
 On his supernal noises, hurtling on 
 With restless hand, the bolt that breathes out fire — 
 For these things shall not help him, none of them, 
 Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 
 To shame, and lower than patience. Such a foe 
 He doth himself prepare against himself, 
 A wonder of unconquerable Hate, 
 An organizer of sublimer fire 
 Than glares in lightnings, and of grander sound 
 Than aught the thunder rolls, outthundering it, 
 With power to shatter in Poseidon's fist 
 The trident-spear, whicli, while it plagues tlie sea. 
 Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, and Zeus, 
 Precipitated thus, shall learn at lengtli 
 The difference betwixt rule and servitude. 
 
 The chorus, true to the character of choruses — ever wise, 
 though sometimes commonplace (but is not real wisdom
 
 2i8 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 generally commonplace ?) — counsels self-restraint to Prome- 
 theus, Prometheus is only goaded to fiercer scorn thereby. 
 He bursts out as follows : 
 
 Reverence thou, 
 Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever reigns, 
 Whenever reigning ! but for me, your Zeus 
 Is less than nothing. Let him act and reign 
 His brief hour out according to his veill — 
 He will not, therefore, rule the gods too long. 
 But, lo ! I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
 That new-made menial of the new-crowned king. 
 He doubtless comes to announce to us something new. 
 
 Hermes, messenger of Zeus, comes requiring, from the 
 king of gods and men, that Prometheus speak plainly out 
 his boasted secret, Prometheus answers proudly, and con- 
 cludes : 
 
 Do I seem 
 To tremble and quail before your modern gods ? 
 Far be it from me ! For thyself, depart. 
 Re-tread thy steps in haste. To all thou hast asked, 
 I answer nothing. 
 
 Altercation ensues between Hermes and Prometheus, 
 Prometheus speaking with a rebellious loftiness and pride 
 worthy of Milton's Satan. Here, indeed, is as much true 
 parallel for the first books of the Paradise Lost as any thing 
 in literature could furnish. We add a further specimen. 
 Prometheus says to Hermes : 
 
 No torture from his hand 
 Nor any machination in the world 
 Shall force mine utterance, ere he loose, himself, 
 These cankerous fetters from me ! For the rest, 
 Let him now hurl his blanching lightnings down, 
 And with his white-winged snows and mutterings deep 
 Of subterranean thunders, mix all things, 
 Confound them in disorder. None of this 
 Shall bend my sturdy will, and make me speak 
 The name of his dethroner who shall come.
 
 ^sc/iylus. 219 
 
 Hermes is exasperatingly calm and advisory. But he 
 
 threatens withal ; 
 
 Absolute will disjoined 
 
 From perfect mind is worse than weak. Behold, 
 
 Unless my words persuade thee, what a blast 
 
 And whirlwind of inevitable woe 
 
 Must sweep persuasion through thee. For at first 
 
 The Father will split up this jut of rock 
 
 With the great thunder and the bolted flame. 
 
 And hide thy body where a hinge of stone 
 
 Shall catch it like an arm ; — and when thou hast passed 
 
 A long black time within, thou shalt come out 
 
 To front the sun while Zeus's winged hound, 
 
 The strong carnivorous eagle, shall wheel down 
 
 To meet thee, self-called to a daily feast. 
 
 And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear off 
 
 The long rags of thy flesh, and batten deep 
 
 Upon thy dusky liver. Do not look 
 
 For any end moreover to this curse, 
 
 Or ere some god appear, to accept thy pangs 
 
 On his own head vicarious, and descend 
 
 With unreluctant step the darks of hell 
 
 And gloomy abysses around Tartarus. 
 
 The chorus chimes in with Hermes in the customary 
 strain of choric worldly-wisdom : 
 
 Our Hermes suits his reasons to the times ; 
 At least I think so — since he bids thee drop 
 Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield to him ! 
 When the wise err, their wisdom makes their shame. 
 
 Prometheus abides stout and defiant : 
 
 Let the locks of the lightning, all bristling and whitening. 
 
 Flash, coiling me round. 
 While the aether goes surging 'neath thunder and scourging 
 
 Of wild winds unbound ! 
 Let the blast of the firmament whirl from its place 
 
 The earth rooted below. 
 And the brine of the ocean, in rapid emotion, 
 
 Be it driven in the face
 
 220 Classic Greek Course in EnglisJi. 
 
 Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk to and fro ! 
 Let him hurl me anon, into Tartarus — on — 
 
 To the blackest degree, 
 With Necessity's vortices strangling me down ; 
 But he cannot join death to a fate meant for me ! 
 
 Hermes advises the sea-nymphs to withdraw and leave the 
 maniac to his fate, lest they, too, be involved in his impend- 
 ing ruin. And now one is reminded of the title to a chapter 
 in The Mill on the Floss : " Showing that Old Acquaintances 
 are Capable of Surprising Us." For the chorus most unex- 
 pectedly replies with spirit, nay, with magnificent heroism, 
 to the counsel of Hermes. The sea-nymphs decide to share, 
 with the high-hearted sufferer, his dark and dreadful fate ; 
 
 Chorus. Change thy speech for another, tliy thought for a new, 
 
 If to move me and teach me indeed be thy care ! 
 For thy words swerve so far from the loyal and true, 
 
 That the thunder of Zeus seems more easy to bear. 
 How ! couldst teach me to venture such vileness ? behold ! 
 I choose, with this victim, this anguish foretold ! 
 
 I recoil from the traitor in hate and disdain — 
 And I know that the curse of tlie treason is worse 
 
 Than the pang of the chain. 
 
 The tragedy ends with the following sublime salutation and 
 welcome, from Prometheus, of his doom. 
 
 Ay ! in act, now — in word, now, no more. 
 
 Earth is rocking in space ! 
 And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar. 
 
 And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face, 
 And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round. 
 
 And the blasts of the winds universal leap free 
 And blow each upon each with a passion of sound. 
 
 And cether goes mingling in storm with the sea ! 
 Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread, 
 
 From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along. 
 O, my mother's fair glory ! O, yEther, enringing. 
 All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing, 
 
 Dost see how I suffer this wrong ?
 
 ^schylus. 221 
 
 The sentiment naturally inspired in the sympathetic breast 
 by the spectacle of enduring and defying Prometheus is very 
 well expressed by the Ettrick Shepherd in that strange com- 
 pound of the noble and the base, the Noctes Ambrosianae 
 of Christopher North. The quaint Scottish dialect adds a 
 pleasant piquancy to the expression : " Ane amaist fears to 
 pity him, lest we wrang fortitude sae majestical." 
 
 In conclusion, it may be said generally of ^schylus, that 
 his chief fault was, as the French would express it, the fault 
 of his chief virtue. Grandeur, sublimity, was the great char- 
 acteristic of his genius. But he was sometimes grandiose 
 when he meant to be grand, sometimes simply swelling when 
 he meant to be sublime. Here was the point in him found 
 open to caricature, when Lucian in his Prometheus (or Cau- 
 casus) travestied the great master, in his characteristic, irrev- 
 erent, but irresistibly amusing style. That Lucian could not 
 make ^schylus wholly ridiculous is proof enough that ^s- 
 chylus had an indestructible element in him of genuineness. 
 
 VIII. 
 SOPHOCLES. 
 
 The proud and perhaps scornful spirit of ^schylus had 
 to brook the mortification of being supplanted in fashion and 
 favor by a younger rival. Sophocles came up, a smiling 
 youth, and, with what to us half seems an easy and uncon- 
 scious grace, took off for himself the crown of supremacy in 
 tragjc verse that had been wont to sit on the brow of ^s- 
 chylus. Sophocles lived long to enjoy his triumphs, frequently 
 but not quite uninterruptedly repeated throughout a produc- 
 tive career almost as remarkably protracted as was that of 
 the painter Titian — -two pictures by whom are displayed in 
 Venice side by side, one done in the twentieth, and the other
 
 22 2 . Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 in the ninetieth, year of the artist's age. Sophocles, an old 
 man, was accused of doting, by litigants who through this 
 charge would invalidate before the law some transaction of 
 his prejudicial to their interest. The poet triumphantly con- 
 futed his accusers by reciting anew choric ode of his (pres- 
 ently to be shown our readers) in praise of the beauties of 
 Colonus. The authenticated incidents of his life are not 
 many, and the few are not important. He was richly and 
 variously gifted — with personal charm, with happy tempera- 
 ment, with popular favor, with good fortune of almost every 
 sort, as, beyond all these things, with an exquisite taste and a 
 beautiful genius. " He has died well, having suffered no 
 evil," was a poet's sentence on Sophocles, pronounced not 
 long after his decease. Aristophanes, who could not be bitter 
 enough toward Euripides, represents Sophocles abiding in 
 the under world, aloof from strife, "gentle there, even as he 
 tvas gentle here." It would seem, however, that the virtue of 
 Sophocles was a Greek virtue, that is — alas, to be obliged to 
 say it ! — a virtue not intolerant of unchaste life. 
 
 Fortunately for the fame of this great poet, he survives in 
 seven of his masterpieces. Among these, however — master- 
 pieces all — it is, on the whole, not difficult to make our pres- 
 ent choice. We must make our readers acquainted with the 
 CEd'i-pus Ty-ran'nus, or Qildipus the King. This tragedy is 
 considered, by perhaps the majority of qualified critics, to be 
 not only the best work of Sophocles, but the " bright consum- 
 mate flower " of all Greek tragedy. 
 
 We begin with the argument prefixed to the play by Prof. 
 Lewis Campbell, whose translation we shall chiefly use: 
 
 " La'i-us, the descendant of Cadmus, and king of Thebes 
 (or Thebe), had been told by an oracle that, if a son were 
 born to him by his wife Jocasta, the boy would be his father's 
 death. 
 
 " Under such auspices CEdipus was born, and to elude the 
 prophecy was exposed by his parents on Mount Cith-ae'-ron.
 
 Sophocles. 223 
 
 But he was saved by a compassionate shepherd and became 
 the adopted son of Pol'y-bus, king of Corinth. When he grew 
 up he was troubled by a rumor that he was not his father's 
 son. H; went to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphi, and 
 was told — not of his origin but of his destiny — that he should 
 be guilty of parricide and incest. 
 
 " He was too horror-stricken to return to Corinth, and as 
 he traveled the other way, he met Laius going from Thebes 
 to Delphi. The travelers quarreled, and the son killed his 
 father, but knew not whom he had slain. He went onward 
 till he came near Thebes, where the Sphinx was making 
 havoc of the noblest citizens. Oedipus solved her riddle and 
 overcame her, and as Laius did not return, was rewarded with 
 the regal sceptre, — and with the hand of the queen. 
 
 ''He reigned nobly and prosperously, and lived happily 
 with Jocasta, by whom he had four children. 
 
 " But after some years a plague descended on the people, 
 and Apollo, on being inquired of, answered that it was for 
 Laius's death. The act of regicide must be avenged. CEdi- 
 pus undertakes the task of discovering the murderer, — and in 
 the same act discovers his own birth, and the fulfillment of 
 both the former oracles. 
 
 " Jocasta hangs herself, and (Edipus, in his despair, puts 
 out his eyes." 
 
 It is the object of Sophocles to present at first the protag- 
 onist of his play. King CEdipus, in the character of a man 
 supremely prosperous and happy. The prosperity and the 
 happiness are, however, not real. This the spectators of the 
 play, familiar beforehand with the story of CEdipus, perfectly 
 understand. Their interest in the spectacle is not the inter- 
 est of persons awaiting with curiosity an unforeseen develop- 
 ment of plot. It is rather the interest of observers who, 
 themselves in the secret of the future, contemplate the con- 
 duct of persons involved in a destiny of which they, the 
 observed, are unaware.
 
 2 24 Classic Greek Course in Ens:lish 
 
 A' 
 
 We may omit the opening scene, in which tlie sympathies 
 of the spectators are by the poet skillfully engaged on behalf 
 of King Oidipus unconsciously in the toils of fate. In re- 
 sponse to the appeals of his people he issues his royal man- 
 date against the unknown murderer of Laius, as follows (the 
 spectators shudder with pity and horror, considering how, in 
 the terms of this edict, unconsciously the king is denouncing 
 himself): 
 
 Whoever is the author of the deed, 
 I here prohibit all within this realm 
 Whereof I wield the sovereignty and sway, 
 To admit him to their doors or speak with him, 
 Or share with him in vow or sacrifice 
 Orlustral rite. All men shall thrust him forth, 
 Our dark pollution, so to me revealed 
 By this day's oracle from Pytho's cell. 
 
 Thus firm is mine allegiance to the God 
 And your dead sovereign in this holy war. 
 
 And now the king, blindfold to fate, imprecates — in form 
 as upon another — upon himself, a fearful curse : 
 
 Now on the murderer, whether he lurk 
 
 In lonely guilt, or with a numerous band, 
 
 I here pronounce this curse ; let his crushed life 
 
 Perish forlorn in hopeless misery. 
 
 Next, I pray Heaven, should he or they be housed 
 
 With my own knowledge in my home, that I 
 
 May suffer all I imprecate on them. 
 
 A colloquy ensues between CEdipus and the chorus, most 
 artfully contrived by Sophocles to increase the tension of the 
 situation. A certain blind prophet, Tei'-re'si-as by name — 
 Milton mentions him for parallel with himself in the Paradise 
 Lost — is to be invoked. This prophet is reluctant to appear, 
 knowing in himself what a burden he bears of doom for the 
 king. He comes at last, and the situation grows gradually 
 more intense throughout the conversation that follows be- 
 tween the king and the seer. The king speaks first in the
 
 Sophocles. 225 
 
 character of a gracious sovereign paying just tribute, which 
 ought to be appreciated, to a venerable prophet. The stub- 
 born reticence of the prophet — reticence inspired, the spec- 
 tator understood how, but the king did not know or guess — 
 at last irritated CEdipus. The baffled monarch begins to 
 divine the reason for the strange behavior of Teiresias — but 
 to divine it utterly wrong. He suspects his brother-in-law, 
 Creon, of designs against himself. Creon, Q^^dipus thinks, 
 has set Teiresias on to engender among the people distrust 
 of their king. But the dialogue is too important not to be 
 shown somewhat at large : 
 
 (Ed. O thou whose universal thought surveys 
 All knowlege and all mysteries, in heaven 
 And on the earth beneath, thy mind perceives, 
 Teiresias, though thine outward eye be dark, 
 What plague is wasting Thebe, who in thee, 
 Great sir, finds her one saviour, her sole guide. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 We cast ourselves on thee : and beautiful 
 
 It is to use the power one hath for good. 
 Tei. Ah ! terrible is knowledge to the man 
 
 Whom knowledge profits not. This well I knew. 
 
 But had forgotten. Else had I ne'er come hither. 
 CEd. Why dost thou bring a mind so full of gloom ? 
 Tei. Let me go home. Thy part and mine to-day 
 
 Will best be borne, if thou obey me there. 
 CEd. Rebellious and ungrateful ! to deprive 
 
 The state that reared thee of thine utterance now. 
 Tei. Thy speech, I see, is crossing thine intent ; 
 
 And I would shield me from the like mishap. 
 (Ed. Nay, if thou knowest, turn thee not away : 
 
 Lo, all these suppliants are entreating thee ! 
 Tei. Yea, for ye all are blind. Never will I 
 
 Utter the sound that shall reveal thine evil. 
 (Ed. So, then, thou hast the knowledge of the crime 
 
 And wilt not tell, but rather woukist betray 
 
 This people, and destroy thy fatherland ! 
 Tei. You press me to no purpose. I'll not pain 
 
 Thee, nor myself. Thou wilt hear nought from me. 
 15
 
 2 26 Classic Greek Course in Ens; lis h 
 
 A' 
 
 ffiif. How? Miscreant! thy stubbornness would rouse 
 Wrath in a breast of stone. Wilt thou still keep 
 That silent, hard, impenetrable mien ? 
 
 Tci. You censure me for my harsh mood. Your own 
 Dwells unsuspected with you. Me you blame ! 
 
 (JEd. Who can be mild and gentle, when thou speakest 
 
 Such words to mock this people ? 
 Tei. It will come : 
 
 Although I bury it in silence liere. 
 CEd. Must not the king be told of what will come? 
 Tei. No word from me At this, an if thou wilt. 
 
 Rage to the height of passionate veliemence. 
 Old. Ay, and my passion shall declare my thought. 
 
 'Tis clear to me as daylight, thou hast been 
 
 The arch-plotter of this deed ; yea, thou hast done 
 
 All but the actual blow. Hadst thou thy sight, 
 
 I would pronounce thee the sole murderer. 
 Tei. Ay, sayst thou so ? — I charge thee to abide 
 
 By that thou hast proclaimed ; and from this hour 
 
 Speak not to any Theban nor to me. 
 
 Thou art the vile polluter of the land. 
 GLd. O void of shame ! What wickedness is this ? 
 
 What power will give thee refuge for such guilt ? 
 Tei. The might of truth is scatheless. I am free. 
 (Ed. Whence gottest thou this truth ? Not from thine art. 
 Tei. From thee, whose rage impelled my backward tongue. 
 QLd. Say it once more, that I may know the drift. 
 7V/. Was it so dark ? Or wouldst thou tempt my voice ? 
 (Ed. I cannot say 'twas clear. Speak it again. 
 Tei. I say thou art the murderer whom thou seekest. 
 (Ed. Again that baleful word ! But thou slialt rue. 
 Tei. Shall I speak something more, to feed thy wrath ? 
 (Ed. All is but idleness. Say what thou wilt. 
 Tei. I tell thee thou art living unawares 
 
 In shameful commerce with thy near'st of blood, 
 
 Ignorant of the abyss wherein thou best. 
 (Ed. Mean'st thou to triumph in offending still ? 
 Tei. Yes, if the might of truth be any thing. 
 (Ed. It is, for other men, but not for thee, 
 
 Blind as thou art in eyes and ears and mind. 
 Tei. O miserable reproach, which all who now 
 
 Behold thee, soon shall thunder forth on thee !
 
 Sophocles. 227 
 
 GLd. Nursed in unbroken night, thou canst nut harm, 
 
 Or me, or any man who seelh the day. 
 Tei. No, not from me proceeds thy fall ; the God, 
 
 Who cares for this, is able to perform it. 
 CEd. Came this device from Creon or thyself? 
 Tei. Not Creon : thou art thy sole enemy. 
 (Ed. O wealth and sovereign power and high success 
 
 Attained through wisdom and admired of men, 
 
 What boundless jealousies environ you ! 
 
 l)Ut for thy reverend look 
 Thou hadst atoned thy trespass on the spot ! 
 
 The chorus intervene with the soft answer wliich turns 
 away wrath : 
 
 Ch. \o\\x friends would humbly deprecate the wrath 
 That sounds both in your speech, my lord, and his. 
 That is not what we need, but to discern 
 How best to solve the heavenly oracle. 
 
 Teiresias has time, during this short intervention from the 
 chorus, to collect himself. He resumes speech to Q^dipus, 
 and enigmatically, with stern truth, threatens the impendiiv,' 
 doom : 
 
 Tei. Though thou art sovereign here, the right of speech 
 Is my prerogative no less. Not thee 
 I serve, but Phcebus. He protects my life. 
 Small need of Creon's arm to shelter me ! 
 Now, then : my blindness is thy theme :~th<ni hast 
 Thine eyes, nor seest where thou art sunk in woe. 
 What halls thou dost inhabit, or with whom : 
 Knowest not from whence thou art — nay, to thy kin, 
 Buried in death and here above the ground, 
 Unwittingly art a most grievous foe. 
 And when thy father's and thy mother's curse 
 With fearful tread shall drive thee from the land. 
 On both sides lashing thee, — thine eye so clear 
 Seeing but darkness in that day, — O, then, 
 WHiat region will not shudder at thy cry ? 
 What echo of Cithaeron will be mute.
 
 2 28 Classic Greek Course in En^a^iish. 
 
 When thou perceiv'st, what bride-song in thy hall 
 Wafted thy gallant bark with flattering gale 
 To anchor, — where ? And other store of ill 
 Thou seest not, that shall show thee as thou art, 
 Merged with thy children in one horror of birth. 
 Then slander noble Creon, and revile 
 My sacred utterance ! No life on earth 
 More wretchedly shall be crushed out, than thine. 
 
 Represented as remaining, in spite of what the prophet has 
 said, still unaware of being himself the murderer sought, 
 CEdipus burst out in a fierce Begone ! to Teiresias. Teire- 
 sias, going, turns and aims this parting Parthian arrow at the 
 king: 
 
 Tei. I go, but I will speak. Why should I fear 
 
 Thy frown ? Thou ne'er canst ruin me. The word 
 
 Wherefore I came is this. The man you seek 
 
 With threatening proclamation of the guilt 
 
 Of Laius's blood, that man is here to-day, 
 
 An alien sojourner supposed from far, 
 
 But by and by he shall be certified 
 
 A true-born Theban : nor will such event 
 
 Bring him great joy ; for, blind from having sight 
 
 And beggared from high fortune, with a staff 
 
 In stranger lands he shall feel forth his way ; 
 
 Shown living with the children of his loins. 
 
 Their brother and their sire, and to the womb 
 
 That bare him, husband-son, and, to his father. 
 
 Parricide and co-rival. Now go in, 
 
 Ponder my words ; and if thou find them false, 
 
 Then say my power is naught in prophecy. 
 
 The chorus now comes in with one of those lyrics of sen- 
 timent and reflection which give voice to the supposed feel- 
 ings of an ideal spectator present in the action itself to see 
 what is done and to hear what is said. The occurrence of a 
 lyric strain from the chorus seems after a sort to divide the 
 tragedy into acts or scenes. We give this choric song. It 
 will be observed that the chorus maintains here the conven-
 
 Sophocles. 229 
 
 Uunal character of choruses in being as neutral as possible, 
 and conservative: 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Whom hath the voice from Pytho's rocky throne 
 
 Loudly declared to have done 
 
 Horrors unnamable with blood-stained hand ? 
 
 With speed of storm-swift car 
 
 'Tis time he fled afar 
 
 With mighty footsteps hurrying from the land. 
 
 For, armed with lightning brand. 
 
 The son of Zeus assails him with fierce bounds. 
 
 Hunting with Death's inevitable hounds. 
 
 Late from divine Parnassus' snow-tipped height 
 
 This utterance sprang to light, 
 
 To track by every path the man unknown. 
 
 Through woodland caverns deep 
 
 And o'er the rocky steep 
 
 Like vanquish'd bull he roams the wild alone. 
 
 With none to share his moan. 
 
 Shunning that prophet-voice's central* sound. 
 
 Which ever lives, and haunts him, hovering round. 
 
 The reverend Seer hath stirred me with strange awe. 
 
 Gainsay I cannot, nor yet think him true. 
 
 I know not how to speak. My fluttering heart 
 
 In wild expectancy sees nothing clear. 
 
 Things past and future with the present doubt 
 
 Are shrouded in one mist. What quarrel lay 
 
 'Twixt Cadmus' issue and Corinthus' heir 
 
 Was never shown me, from old times till now. 
 
 By one on whose sure word I might rely 
 
 In running counter to the king's fair fame. 
 
 Wreaking for Laius his mysterious death. 
 
 Zeus and Apollo scan the ways of men 
 With perfect vision. But of mortals here. 
 Why should the prophet have more gifts than I ? 
 What certain proof is told ? A man through wit 
 May pass another's wisdom in the race. 
 
 • Proceeding from Delphi, the centre of the earth.
 
 230 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 But never, till I see the word fulfilled, 
 Will I confirm their clamor against the king. 
 In open day the female monster came : 
 Then perfect witness made his wisdom clear. 
 Thebe has tried him and delights in him. 
 Wherefore my heart shall still believe him good. 
 
 Creon enters at this point to protest, publicly, against the 
 criminations of himself indulged in by the king. The chorus, 
 with solemn non-committal platitudes, avoids, and seeks to 
 pacify, Creon's indignation. In reply to Creon's first pro- 
 testing speech against QEdipus, the chorus volunteers a 
 charitable suggestion on the king's behalf, which gives occa- 
 sion to a highly characteristic exchange between Creon and 
 the chorus, of question on the one side, and evasive answer 
 on the other : 
 
 Ck. Perchance 'twas but the sudden flash of wrath. 
 
 Not the deliberate judgment of the soul. 
 Cr. Whence came the fancy — that Teiresias spake 
 
 False prophecies, set on to this by me ? 
 Ck. Such was the word ; I know not how advised. 
 Cr. And were the eyes and spirit not distraught, 
 
 When the tongue uttered this to ruin me ? 
 Ck. I cannot say. To what my betters do 
 
 I am blind. But see, the king comes forth again. 
 
 The stormy altercation that ensues when QEdipus re-enters, 
 between him and his indignant brother-in-law Creon, with the 
 sage interjection from the chorus, of remarks designed as 
 buffers to soften the shock between the angry brothers-in-law 
 — all this we omit. 
 
 Jocasta, wife and queen, enters. She upbraids, with much 
 impartiality, both her husband and her brother, who feel 
 obliged each to vindicate himself. The chorus, divided up 
 into five different groups, contribute interruptions in the 
 usual vein of calm and commonplace choric wisdom. The 
 purport of that which all, Jocasta and the groups of chorus, 
 propound is, that the two estranged kinsmen be reconciled.
 
 Sophocles. 231 
 
 CEdipus urges that they arc bent on dooming him to death 
 or banishment, whereupon the fifth group of chorus breaks 
 forth in this lyric protest and adjuration : 
 
 Ch. 5. No, by the Sun I swear. 
 
 Vaunt-courier of the host of heaven. 
 For may I die the last of deaths, 
 Unblest of God or friend, 
 If e'er such thought were mine. 
 But O ! this pining land 
 Afflicts my hapless soul, 
 To think that to her past and present woe 
 She must add this, which springs from } our debate. 
 
 The foregoing invocation, or conjuration, from the chorus, 
 of Helios would, it must be borne in mind by our readers, 
 be far more impressive to spectators of the play who — as was 
 the case at tragic exhibitions in ancient Athens — could follow 
 the uplifted faces of the actors, while, with hands also point- 
 ing thither, they looked toward the open sky and beheld 
 there the glorious sun himself, visible to all, shining down 
 from his majestic station — far more impressive, we say, than 
 can well be imagined by those who have only seen stage 
 representations indoors by the garish artificial light of the 
 modern theatre. 
 
 Creon, after a few more exchanges of altercation with Qildi- 
 pus, withdraws, and the chorus, in groups again, first, second, 
 third, fourth, fifth, intervene with sage counsel to the king 
 and his queen, Jocasta. They beg CEdipus to explain to Jo- 
 casta the situation between himself and Creon, wliich he in 
 brief accordingly does. Jocasta thereupon seeks to re-assure 
 the mind of CEdipus, disturbed by the sinister soothsaying 
 of Teiresias — as follows : 
 
 Hearken to me, and set your heart at rest 
 On that you speak of, whilst I make you see 
 No mortal thing is touched by prophecy. 
 Of tiiat I'll give thee proof concise and clear.
 
 232 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Word came to Laius once, I will not say 
 
 From Phoebus' self, but from his ministers. 
 
 The king should be destroyed by his own son, 
 
 If son were born to him from me. What followed ? 
 
 Laius was slain, by robbers from abroad, 
 
 Saith Rumor, in a cross-way : but the child 
 
 Grew not three days, ere by my husband's hand 
 
 His feet were locked, and he was cast and left 
 
 By messengers on the waste mountain wold. 
 
 So Ph&ebus neither brought upon the boy 
 
 His father's murder, nor on Laius 
 
 The thing he greatly feared, death by his son. 
 
 Such issue came of prophesying words. 
 
 Therefore regard them not. God can himself 
 
 With ease bring forth what for his ends he needs. 
 
 Jocasta's encouraging discourages. Quite unawares she 
 wakes unwelcome memories in the breast of ffidipus. Con- 
 ceive how an Athenian audience, sharing the dreadful secret 
 of destiny still veiled to Q^dipus, would hang in a luxury of 
 anticipative horror, heightened and softened with sympathy, 
 on the conversation that now follows between the king and 
 the queen — a conversation prepared for with such skill by 
 the poet. This conversation we give in full ; for the whole 
 scene, brought to its just completion by the solemn chant of 
 the chorus at the end, is one of the finest dramatic passages 
 in Sophocles. CEdipus, remember, has a dreadful misgiving 
 as he listens to the story told by Jocasta : 
 
 CEd. What strange emotions overcloud my' soul, 
 
 Stirred to her depths on hearing this thy tale ! 
 yo. What sudden change is this ? What is thy thought I 
 CEd. Did I not hear thee say, King Laius 
 
 Was at a cross-road overpowered and slain ? 
 yo. So ran the talk that yet is current here. 
 (Ed. Where was the scene of this unhappy blow ? 
 yo. Phocis the land is named : the parted ways 
 
 Lead from one point to Daulia and to Delphi. 
 (Ed. And since the event how much of time is passed ?
 
 Sophocles. 233 
 
 Jo. 'Twas just ere you appeared with prospering speed 
 
 And took the kingdom, that the tidings came. 
 CEd. What are thy purposes against me, Zeus ? 
 Jo. Why thus intent on such a thought, O king? 
 iEd. Nay, ask me not. But tell me first what height 
 
 Had Laius, and what share of manly bloom ? 
 Jo. Tall, with dark locks just sprinkled o'er with gray: 
 
 In shape and bearing much resembling thee. 
 (Ed. O heavy fate ? How all unknowingly 
 
 I laid that dreadful curse on my own head ! 
 Jo. How? 
 
 I tremble as I gaze on thee, O king ! 
 CEd. The fear appalls me that the seer can see. 
 
 Tell one thing more, to make me doubly sure. 
 Jo. I am loth to speak, but, when you ask, I will. 
 CEd. Had he scant following, or, as princes use, 
 
 Full numbers of a well-appointed train? 
 Jo. There were but five in all : a herald one: 
 
 And Laius traveled in the only car. 
 CEd. Woe ! woe ! *Tis clear as daylight. Who was he 
 
 That brought you this sad message, O my queen? 
 Jo. A home-slave, who alone returned alive. 
 CEd. And is he now at hand within the house ? 
 Jo. No, truly. When he came from yonder scene, 
 And found thee reigning after Laius" death. 
 He touched my hand, and plied an urgent prayer 
 That I would send him to o'erlook the flocks 
 And rural pastures, so to live as far 
 As might be from the very thought of Thebes. 
 And lie obtained from me his suit. No slave 
 Had richlier merited such boon than he. 
 CEd. Can he be brought again immediately? 
 Jo. Of course he can. But wliy desire it so ? 
 CEd. Words have by me been spoken, O my queen. 
 Which furnish too much cause for that desire. 
 Jo. Then come he shall. But I may surely claim 
 
 To hear what in thy state goes heavily. 
 CEd. Thou shalt not lose thy rights in such an hour, 
 When I am harrowed thus with doubt and fear. 
 To whom more wortliy should I tell my grief? 
 My father was Corinthian Polybus,
 
 2 34 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 My mother Dorian Merope — I lived 
 
 A prince among that people till a chance 
 
 Encountered me, Worth wonder, but, though strange, 
 
 Not worth the anxious thoughts it waked in me. 
 
 For at a feasting once over the wine 
 
 One deep in liquor called to me aloud, 
 
 Hail, thou false foundling of a foster-sire ! 
 
 That day with pain I held my passion down, 
 
 But straightway on the morrow I went near 
 
 And questioned both my parents, who were fierce 
 
 In wrath at him whose lips had let this fall. 
 
 For their part I was satisfied, but still 
 
 It galled me, for the rumor would not die. 
 
 Unknown to both my parents then I went 
 To Pytho, where, as touching my desire, 
 Phcebus denied me ; but brake forth instead 
 With other oracles of misery 
 And horrible misfortune, how that I 
 Must know my mother's shame, and cause to appear 
 A birth intolerable to human view. 
 And do to death the author of my life. 
 I fled forth at the word, and, measuring now 
 Corinthia's region by the stars of heaven. 
 Went roaming, where I never might behold 
 Those shameful prophecies fulfilled on me. 
 So traveling on, I came even to the place 
 Where, as thou tell'st the King of Thebe fell. 
 And, O my wife, I will hide nauglU from thee. 
 When I drew near the cross-road of your tale, 
 A herald, and a man upon a car. 
 Like your description, there encountered me. 
 And he who went before, and he himself 
 The gray-beard, sought to thrust me from the path. 
 Then in mine angry mood I sharply struck 
 The driver-man that turned me from the way ; 
 Which when the elder saw, he watched for me 
 As I passed by, and from the chariot-seat 
 Smote full upon my head with the fork'd goad ; 
 But paid no equal price, for, by a blow 
 From this right hand, smit with my staff, he fell 
 Instantly rolled out of the car supine.
 
 Sophocles. 235 
 
 I slew them every one. Now if that stranger 
 
 Had aught in common with King Laius, 
 
 What wretch on earth was e'er so lost as I ? 
 
 Whom have the Heavens so followed with their hate? 
 
 No house of Tiieban or of foreigner 
 
 Must any more receive me, none henceforth 
 
 Must speak to me, but push me from the door ! 
 
 I, I have laid this curse on mine own head? 
 
 Yea, and this arm that slew him now enfolds 
 
 His queen. O cruel stain ! Am I not vile? 
 
 Polluted utterly ! Yes, I must flee, 
 
 And, lost to Thebe, nevermore behold 
 
 My friends, nor tread my country, lest I meet 
 
 In marriage mine own mother, and bring low 
 
 His head that gave me life and reared my youth, 
 
 My father, Polybus. Ah ! right were he 
 
 Who should declare some god of cruel mood 
 
 Had sent this trouble upon my soul ! Ye powers, 
 
 Worshiped in holiness, ne'er may I see 
 
 That day, but perish from the sight of men. 
 
 Ere sins like these are branded on my name ! 
 
 Ch. Thy fear is ours, O king : yet lose not hope. 
 Till thou hast heard him who beheld the deed. 
 (Ed. Ay, that is all I still have left of hope, 
 
 To bide the coming of the shepherd man. 
 
 Jo. What eager thought attends his presence here? 
 lEd. I'll tell thee. Should his speech accord with thine 
 My life stands clear from this calamity. 
 
 Jo. What word of mine agreed not with the scene? 
 CEd. You said he spake of robbers in a band 
 
 As having slain him. Now if he shall still 
 Persist in the same number I am free. 
 One man and nuiny cannot be the same. 
 But should he tell of one lone traveler, 
 Then, unavoidably, this falls on me. 
 
 Jo. .So 'twas given out by him, be sure of that. 
 He cannot take it back. Not I alone 
 But all the people heard him speak it so. 
 And should he swerve in aught from his fust tale, 
 He ne'er will show the murder of the king 
 Rightly accordant with the oracle.
 
 2T,G Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 For Phoebus said expressly he should fall 
 Through him whom I brought forth. But that poor babe 
 Ne'er slew his sire, but perished long before. 
 Wherefore henceforth I will pursue my way 
 Regardless of all words of prophecy. 
 CEd. Wisely resolved. But still send one to bring 
 The laborer-swain, and not be slack in this. 
 Jo. I will, and promptly. Pass we now within ! 
 My whole desire is but to work thy will. 
 
 The chorus which immediately follows is as famous, and 
 justly as famous, as any in ancient Greek tragedy. We give 
 it in Mr. Robert Whitelaw's version : 
 
 O may my constant feet not fail, \St'-ophe 1.] 
 
 Walking in paths of righteousness 
 
 Sinless in word and deed — 
 
 True to those eternal laws 
 
 That scale forever the high steep 
 
 Of heaven's pure ether, whence they sprang : 
 
 For only in Olympus is their home, 
 
 Nor mortal wisdom gave them birth, 
 
 And, howsoe'er men may forget, 
 
 They will not sleep ; 
 
 For the might of the god within them grows not old. 
 
 Rooted in pride the tyrant grows ; YAnti strophe 1.] 
 
 But pride that with its own too-much 
 
 Is rashly surfeited. 
 
 Heeding not the prudent mean, 
 
 Down the inevitable gulf 
 
 From its high pinnacle is hurled, 
 
 Where use of feet or foothold there is none. 
 
 But, O kind gods, the noble strength, 
 
 That struggles for the state's behoof, 
 
 Unbend not yet : 
 
 In the gods have I put my trust — I will not fear. 
 
 But whoso walks disdainfully, \^Strophe 2.] 
 
 In act or word. 
 
 And fears not justice, nor reveres 
 
 The throned gods. 
 
 Him let misfortune slay
 
 Sophocles. 237 
 
 For his ill-starred wantoning, 
 
 Should he heap unrighteous gains, 
 
 Nor from unhallowed paths withhold his feet, 
 
 Or reach rash hands to pluck forbidden fruit. 
 
 Who shall do this, and boast 
 
 That yet his soul is proof 
 
 Against the arrows of offended Heaven? 
 
 If honor crown such deeds as these, 
 
 Not song, but silence, then for me ! 
 
 To earth's dread centre, unprofaned [^Antisliophe 2.] 
 
 By mortal touch, 
 
 No more with awe will I repair. 
 
 Nor Abac's shrine, 
 
 Nor the Olmpian plain, 
 
 If the truth stands not confessed. 
 
 Pointed at by all the world. 
 
 O Zeus supreme, if rightly thou art called — 
 
 Lord over all — let not these things escape 
 
 Thee and thy timeless sway ! 
 
 For now men set at naught 
 
 Apollo's word, and cry, "Behold, it fails ! " 
 
 His praise is darkened witii a doubt ; 
 
 And faith is sapped, and Heaven defied. 
 
 Jocasta, in her distress of mind, goes to worship at the 
 nearest religious altar. But a messenger arrives from Corinth 
 with news of the death of King Polybus, the reputed father 
 of CEdipus. Jocasta is overjoyed. She hurries off an at- 
 tendant to summon CEdipus. Oedipus, hearing the news, 
 exclaims : 
 
 Ah ! my Jocasta, who again will heed 
 The Pythian hearth oracular, and birds 
 Screaming in air, blind guides ! that would have made 
 My father's death my deed ; but he is gone. 
 Hidden underneath the ground, while I stand here 
 Harmless and weaponless: — unless, perchance, 
 My absence killed him, — so he may have died 
 Through me. But be that as it may, the grave 
 That covers Polybus from sight, hath closed 
 One voice of prophecy, worth nothing now.
 
 238 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 We are to imagine the keenly anguished pleasure with 
 which Greek spectators would receive this temporary relief 
 to Qi^dipus — knowing as they do within themselves that it is 
 a mere suspension of the inevitable catastrophe, an exquis- 
 itely tantalizing prolongation, provided for them by the 
 poet, of the tense emotion proper to the tragic spectacle of 
 a man vainly and unconsciously struggling, or anon ceasing 
 to struggle, like a captured fly, in the cruel spider's-web 
 of fate. But Oedipus shudders with a chill of fear amid 
 the very glow of his joy. His Corinthian mother, widow of 
 King Polybus, survives, and he dreads the fulfillment of the 
 oracle respecting his crime of incest with her. To remove 
 this fear, the messenger from Corinth explains that Q^^dipus 
 was not true son to Polybus and his Corinthian queen — ■ 
 that he was to them merely an adopted son. Whose true 
 son, then, was he.-* But this the Corinthian messenger can- 
 not reveal. Another man must be called, he, namely, who 
 placed Qiidipus, a babe, in this informant's hands. But now 
 let the dialogue, thus in part anticipated, proceed in the 
 words of Sophocles : 
 
 (Ed. Another gave me, then? You did not find me ? 
 JMess. Another herdsman passed thee on to me. 
 
 (Ed. Can you describe liim ? Tell us what you know. 
 Mess. He was called one of Laius' people, sure. 
 (Ed. Of Laius once the sovereign of this land? 
 Mess. Yea, surely, he was tlie shepherd of his flock. 
 
 (Ed. And is he still alive for me to see ? 
 Mess. You Thebans are most likely to know that. 
 (Ed. Speak, any one of you in presence here, 
 
 Can you point out the swain he tells us of. 
 In town or country having known of him ? 
 The time for this discovery is full come. 
 Ch. Methinks it is no other than the peasant 
 
 Whom thou didst seek before to see: but this 
 Could best be told by Queen Jocasta there. 
 (Ed. We lately sought that one should come, my queen. 
 Know'st thou, is this of whom he speaks the same ?
 
 Sophocles. 239 
 
 Jo. What matter who? Regard not, nor desire 
 
 Even vainly to remember aught he saith. 
 t£V. When I have found such tokens of my birtli, 
 
 I must disclose it. 
 jfo. As you love your life, 
 
 By heaven I beg you, search no further here ! 
 Tlie sickness in my bosom is enougli. 
 (Ed. Nay, never fear. Were I proved thrice a slave 
 
 And waif of bondwomen, you still arc noble. 
 "jfo. Vet hearken, I implore you : do not so. 
 (Ed. I cannot hear you. I must know this through. 
 yo. Witli clear perception I advise the best. 
 (Ed. This " best advice " is ever mine annoy. 
 Jo. Wretched one, never may you know your birth ! 
 (Ed, Will some one go and fetch the herdman hither? 
 
 Leave her to revel in her lordly line ! 
 Jo. O horrible ! O lost one ! This alone 
 
 I speak to thee, and no word more forever. \Exit^ 
 Ch. CEdipus, wherefore is Jocasta gone. 
 
 Driven madly by wild grief? I needs must fear 
 Lest from this silence she make sorrow spring. 
 (Ed. Leave her to raise what storm she will. But I 
 Will persevere to know mine origin. 
 Though from an humble seed. Her woman's pride 
 Is shamed, it may be, by my lowliness. 
 But L whilst I account myself the son 
 Of prospering Fortune, ne'er will be disgraced. 
 For She is my true mother : and the months 
 Coheirs with me of the same father. Time, 
 Have marked my lowness and mine exaltation. 
 So born, so nurtured, I can fear no change. 
 That I need shrink to search this to the end. 
 [CEdipus remains, and gazes toward the country, while the chorus 
 sing.] 
 
 This choric song we omit. 
 
 Enters the Theban shepherd expected by the king. ']"he 
 Corinthian messenger and the jtist-arrivcd shepherd are mu- 
 tually confronted and asked to identify each otlier. The old 
 Theban hesitates, but the Corinthian refreshes his memory.
 
 240 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 The messenger from Corinth, pointing to CEdipus, then 
 says : 
 
 Mess. Fiiend, yonder is the infant whom we knew. 
 Theb. Sh. Confusion seize thee, and thy evil tongue ! 
 
 (Ed. Check not his speech, I pray thee, for thy words 
 Call more than his for chastisement, old sir. 
 Theb. Sh. O my dread lord, wherein do I offend ? 
 
 (Ed. Thou wilt not answer him about the child. 
 Theb. Sh. He knows not what he speaks. His end is vain. 
 
 (Ed. So ! Thou'lt not tell to please us, but the lash 
 Will make thee tell. 
 Theb. Sh. By all that's merciful 
 
 Scourge not this aged frame ! 
 
 (Ed. Pinion him straight ! 
 
 Theb. Sh. Unhappy ! wherefore ? what is't you would know ? 
 
 (Ed. Gave you the child he asks of to this man ? 
 Theb. Sh. I gave it him. Would I had died that hour ! 
 
 (Ed. Speak rightly, or your wish will soon come true. 
 Theb. Sh. My ruin comes the sooner, if I speak. 
 
 (Ed. You mean to keep us in suspense, I see. 
 Theb. Sh. Not so. I said long since, " I gave the child." 
 
 (Ed. Whence ? Was't your own, or from another's hand ? 
 Theb. Sh. 'Twas not mine own ; another gave it me. 
 
 (Ed. What Theban gave it, from what home in Thebes ? 
 Theb. Sh. O, I implore thee, master, ask no more ! 
 
 (Ed. You perish, if I have to ask again. 
 Theb. Sh. The child was of the stock of Laius. 
 
 (Ed. Slave-born, or rightly of the royal line ? 
 Theb. Sh. Ah, me ! Now comes the horror to my tongue ! 
 
 (Ed. And to mine ear. But thou shalt tell it me ! 
 Theb. Sh. He was described as Laius' son : but she. 
 
 Thy queen, within the palace, best should know. 
 
 (Ed. How ? Did she give it thee ? 
 Theb. Sh. My lord, she did. 
 
 (Ed. With what commission ? 
 Theb. Sh. I was to destroy him. 
 
 (Ed. How could a mother's heart be steeled to this ? 
 Theb. Sh. With fear of evil prophecies. 
 
 (Ed. What were they ? 
 
 Theb. Sh. 'Twas said the child should be his father's death.
 
 Sophocles, 241 
 
 QSd. What then possessed tliee to give up the child 
 To this old man ? 
 Thcb. Sh. Pity, my sovereign lord ! 
 
 Supposing he would take him far away 
 Unto the land whence he was come. But he 
 Preserved him to great sorrow. For if thou 
 Art he this man hath said, be well assured 
 Thou bear'st a heavy doom. 
 
 (Ed. O honihie ! 
 
 Horrible ! All is known, as sunlight clear ! 
 O may I nevermore behold the day, 
 Since proved accursed in my parentage, 
 In those I live with, and in him I slew ! 
 
 The solemn chorus of Theban elders take up now their 
 music, and chant, in mournful recitative, the lesson of what 
 they have seen, as follows : 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O tribes of living men, 
 How nothing-worth I count you while ye stand ! 
 
 For who of all the train 
 Draws more of happiness into his hand 
 Than to seem bright, and, seeming, fade in gloom ? 
 O, Qidipus, by thine all-hapless doom 
 
 Too clearly 'tis expressed 
 
 Naught in mortality is blest. 
 Thou that surpassing all in skill 
 
 With perfect aim didst kill 
 The crook-clawed minstrel as a tower 
 Saving my land from death's dark power, 
 And winning for thyself the name 
 Of Thebo's king, and noblest fame, 
 
 Thou, thou, art fallen at last 
 
 To misery unsurpassed. 
 
 Who, in life's dark reverse. 
 
 Like thee hath felt the curse 
 Of destiny, the assault of boundless pain ? 
 
 O CEdipus renowned. 
 
 Who in one haven found 
 
 Harbor for son and sire 
 10
 
 242 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 When led with nuptial fire ! 
 Ah ! how could'st thou so long remain 
 The furrower of thy father's field, 
 Borne patiently and unrevealed? 
 
 Crimes from thyself concealed 
 All-searching time hath opened to the day, 
 
 And shown thee with clear ray. 
 Long while, in hideous bond, spouse, father, child. * 
 
 O Laius' fatal son. 
 
 Would I had ne'er thee known ! 
 
 My heart cries loud for thee 
 
 In tones of agony, 
 , And frenzied exclamation wild. 
 
 For, to speak sooth, thou didst restore my life. 
 And gav'st my soul sweet respite after strife. 
 
 Something meantime — that is, during the choric chant — 
 has been passing behind the scenes. A second messenger 
 comes forward to announce the suicide of the queen. QEdi- 
 pus himself, raging through the palace, found her hanging 
 by the neck apparently already dead. He undid the noose, 
 but from this point let Sophocles, through the messenger, 
 
 tell the tale : 
 
 'Twas terrible 
 To see what followed — for he tore away 
 The brooch-pins that had fastened her attire, 
 And, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root. 
 Saying, Henceforth they should not see the evil 
 Suffered or done by him in the past time, 
 But evermore in darkness now should scan 
 The features he ought never to have seen. 
 And not discern the souls he longed to know. 
 Thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes 
 He dashed the points into his eyes; and soon 
 The bleeding pupils moistened all his beard, 
 Nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once 
 The ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower. 
 Thus from two springs, from man and wife together, 
 Burst the joint evil that is now o'erflowing. 
 And the old happiness in that past day
 
 Sophocles. 243 
 
 Was truly happy, but the present hour 
 Hath groaning, death, disaster, shame, all ill 
 Without exemption, that hath e'er been named. 
 
 "A hateful sight, yet one thou needs must pity," is the 
 form of announcement with which the second messenger, 
 having closed his story, ushers now the blinded QSdipus 
 upon the stage. The chorus exclaim at sight of him, with 
 mingled pity and horror. CEdipus himself bursts out (we 
 use for this next extract the extraordinarily fine rendering of 
 Mr. Whitelaw): 
 
 O thou thick cloud of darkness, 
 
 That on my life hast settled 
 
 Abominable, unutterable, 
 
 Indomitable, 
 
 By pitiless winds swept hitlierward on me ; 
 
 Alas ! 
 
 And yet again, alas, and woe is me ! 
 
 Such maddening pain 
 
 Of those sharp daggers at my eyes, 
 
 Blent with remembrance of my misery. 
 
 Pierces my inmost soul. 
 
 The chorus rejily with non-committal sympathy (Mr. 
 Whitelaw for translator this once again): 
 
 No marvel if, in such extremity. 
 
 Thy grief is twofold, as thy suffering is. 
 
 TEdipus, nevertheless, is touched with even such a token of 
 kindness, and answers gratefully. To the inquiry what power 
 impelled him to put out his own eyes, " Apollo, O my friends, 
 Apollo," is his answer. It is but lukewarm friendliness that 
 the chorus show the king, in the dialogue which follows. 
 Poor CEdipus, however, in his low estate, is fain to be thank- 
 ful for scant measure of human sympathy now. 
 
 The crisis of the tragic interest past, it is, henceforward 
 to the close of the poem, the poet's jiroblcm to let down the 
 high-wrought emotions of the spectators, by smooth and easy
 
 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 cadence, to a calm mood of suitable ethic or religious awe. 
 With what skill the tension is gradually relaxed ! Bad art 
 it would have been in Sophocles either to close at the climax 
 or to permit a sudden violent descent. 
 
 The just limits of our space forbid us to display all this at 
 full. We plunge into the prolonged lamentations of Qj^dipus, 
 at the point where he refers to his children : 
 
 Thou CrecHi, shall provide. As for my sons, 
 I pray thee burden not thyself with them. 
 They ne'er will lack subsistence — they are men. 
 But my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn. 
 Who never had a meal apart from mine, 
 But ever shared my table, yea, for them 
 Take heedful care ; and grant me, though hut once, 
 Yea, I beseech thee, with these hands to feel. 
 Thou noble heart ! the forms I love so well. 
 And weep with them our common misery. 
 O, if my arms were round them, I might seem 
 To have them as of old when I could see. — 
 What ? Am I fooled once more, or do I hear 
 My dear ones weeping ? And hath Creon sent, 
 Pitying my sorrows, mine own children to me 
 Whom most I love? Can this be truth I utter? 
 Creon. Yea, I have done it. For I knew the joy 
 Thou ever hadst in this, thy comfort now. 
 Qid. Fair be thy fortune, and, for this last deed. 
 May Heaven protect thee better far than me ! 
 Where are ye, O my children? Come, draw near 
 To these my hands of brother blood with you. 
 Hands that have made so piteous to your sight 
 The spectacle of his once brillinnt eyes. 
 Who all in blindness, with no thought of ill. 
 Became your father at that fount of life, 
 Where he himself had being ! O ! for you 
 I weep, not seeing you, when I take thought 
 Of all the bitter passages of fate 
 That must attend you among men. For where 
 Can ye find fellowship, what civic throng 
 Shall ye resort unto, what festival,
 
 Sophocles. 245 
 
 From whence, instead of sights or sounds enjoyed, 
 Ye will not come in tears unto your home ? 
 And when ye reach the marriageable bloom. 
 My daughters, who will be the man to cast 
 His lot with the unfortunate, and take 
 All those reproaches on his name, which press 
 So sorely on my parents and on you ? 
 
 And who will marry you ? No man, my daughters ; 
 But ye must wither, childless and unwed. 
 
 But look with pity upon their youth, thus left 
 Forlorn of all protection save from thee. 
 Noble one, seal this promise with thy hand ! 
 For you, my children, were ye of an age 
 To ponder speech, I would have counseled you 
 Full carefully. Now I would have you pray 
 To dwell where 'tis convenient, that your life 
 May find more blessing than your father knew. 
 Cr. Tliou hast liatl enough of weeping. Close thee in thy 
 
 chamber walls. 
 Qui. I must yield, thougli sore against me. 
 Cr. Yea, for strong occasion calls. 
 
 (Ed. Know'st thou on what terms I yield it ? 
 Cr. Tell me, let us hear and know. 
 
 CEd. That ye send me from the country. 
 Cr. God alone can let thee go. 
 
 (Ed. But the gods long since abhor me. 
 Cr. Thou wilt sooner gain that boon. 
 
 (Ed. Then consent. 
 
 Cr. 'Tis not my wont to venture promises too soon. 
 (Ed. Lead me now within the palace. 
 Cr. Come, but leave thy children. 
 
 (Ed. Nay ! 
 
 Tear not these from my embraces ! 
 Cr. Think not all things to command. 
 
 (Ed. Of the good thou hadst beforetime much hath fleeted from 
 thy hand. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Dwellers in our native Thcbe, fix on CEdipus your eyes. 
 Who resolved llie dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise.
 
 246 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Glorious, like a sun he mounted, envied of the popular tliruiig ; 
 Now he sinks in seas of anguish, plunged the lashing waves among. 
 Therefore, with the old-world sages, waiting for the final day, 
 I will call no mortal happy, while he holds his house of clay. 
 Till without one pang of sorrow, all his hours have passed away. 
 
 Sophocles himself almost fulfilled, in the happy closing of his 
 long career, the hard requirement that his chorus, " with the 
 old-world sages," here repeats. 
 
 IX. 
 
 EURIPIDES. 
 
 The third member of the great tragical triumvirate of 
 Greece was Euripides. The great tragical triumvirate, we 
 say — but it ought not to be forgotten that, besides .■^schylus, 
 Sophocles, and Euripides, who alone survive to us in their 
 productions, there flourished in Athens, at the same time 
 with these, other tragedians then scarcely less famous than 
 they. 
 
 Euripides was born, an Athenian (480 B. C), in the year, 
 perhaps on the day, of the battle of Salamis. He had a long 
 career; but, though born some years after, he died a few 
 months before, his generous, more prosperous, but not more 
 popular rival — Sophocles. It was one of those graceful acts 
 which so well became the genius and the character of the 
 latter, that he signalized his sorrow over the death of his 
 peer, by causing the actors in his own next play to appear in 
 mourning for the loss of Euripides. Aristophanes, on the 
 contrary, persecuted Euripides, even in his grave. 
 
 Of one play of Euripides we are fortunate in possessing a 
 version from no less a master than Mr. Robert Browning. It 
 happily chances, too, that this play is precisely the one 
 which, of all the extant works of Euripides, we should in any 
 case have wished to present to our readers. It is the Alcestis.
 
 Euripides. 247 
 
 IMr. Browning's Alcestis must be looked for under the title 
 of "Balaustion's Adventure." Balaustion (wild pomegranate 
 flower) is the pet name, invented by Mr. Browning, of a 
 Greek girl, also invented by Mr. Browning, who, at the time 
 of the Sicilian Expedition, escaped from the island of Rhodes 
 (on the point then of revolting from Athens to Sparta) and 
 fled in a small vessel — she and with her a number of like- 
 minded companions bent on making their way to the Peirseus. 
 They were pursued by pirates, and, mistaking Sicily for Crete, 
 rowed hard to land near Syracuse, where, detected as Athe- 
 nian in sympathy by a song with which they had cheered 
 themselves in rowing, they were met with a repulse, which, 
 however, changed to a welcome, when it was found out that 
 Balaustion could recite a play of Euripides. The Alcestis 
 was the play. Such is the plot of Mr. Browning's poem. 
 The plot has a foundation in fact, or, at least, in tradition. 
 It is said that Athenian captives in Syracuse that knew 
 snatches of Euripides could earn for themselves substantial 
 advantages by reciting these for the gratification of their 
 kindred Greek-speaking masters. 
 
 The story of the Alcestis of Euripides is very simple. Alces- 
 tis was wife and queen to Admetus, king of Pherai, in Thessaly. 
 Admetus was, by grace from Apollo, granted the privilege of 
 not dying, on 'condition of his being able to find some one who 
 would agree to die in his stead when his turn should come. 
 Alcestis became the required substitute and died, but was 
 brought back to life by Heracles, and restored to her husband. 
 
 The play opens with a prologue from Apollo, who, after 
 explaining the situation for the enlightenment of spectators 
 (compare the prologue to Milton's Mask of Comus), has a 
 fruitless colloquy with Death, come now for his prey, Al- 
 cestis having reached the day of her doom. With this col- 
 loquy we begin our citations from the play. A curious 
 passage it is. Some critics pronounce it very fine, and some 
 critics pronounce it very foolish.
 
 248 Classic Greek Course in E/i^^Iish. 
 
 Jealous Death suspects Apollo of intention to interfere a 
 second time with his rights. Apollo says he has no idea of 
 using with Death any plea but justice. Whereupon Death 
 significantly slanting at Apollo's customary weapon : 
 
 Death. What need of bow, were justice arms enougli ? 
 
 Apollo. Ever it is my wont to bear the bow. 
 
 De. Ay, and with bow, not justice, lielp this liouse. 
 
 .4p. I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me, too. 
 
 De. And now wilt force from me this second corpse? 
 
 Ap. By force I took no corpse at first from tliee. 
 
 De. How, then, is he above ground — not beneath ? 
 
 Ap. He gave his wife, instead of him, thy prey. 
 
 De. And prey, this time at least, I bear below ! 
 
 Ap. Go, take her ! for I doubt persuading thee — 
 
 De, To kill the doomed one ? What my function else? 
 
 Ap. No ! Rather to despatch the true mature. 
 
 De. Truly I take thy meaning — see thy drift ! 
 
 Ap. Is there a way, then, she may reach old age ? 
 
 YJf". Xo way ! I glad me in my honors, too ! 
 
 Ap. But, young or old, thou tak'st one life — no more 
 
 De. Younger they die, greater rny praise redounds ! 
 
 Ap. If she die old — the sumptuous funeral ! 
 
 De. Thou layest down a law the rich would like ! 
 
 Ap. How so ? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense ? 
 
 De. Who could buy substitutes would die old men. 
 
 Ap. It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace ? 
 
 De. This grace I will not grant ; thou know'st my ways ! 
 
 Ap. Ways harsh to men, hateful to gods, at least ! 
 
 De. All things thou canst not have : my rights for me ! 
 
 Apollo retorts with a vague prophecy that Heracles will 
 soon be at hand to rob Death after all of his prey. Death 
 rejoins once again with a savage show of his grinning teeth, 
 as Apollo withdraws. Apollo gone, a chorus of sympathizers 
 assemble at the palace door, to learn about the progress of 
 events within. Knowing what impends, they inquire, draw 
 inferences, and bewail, by turns. Is Alcestis dead.' But 
 there is no sound of lamenting to be heard. Can the corpse
 
 Euripides. 249 
 
 have been already carried forth? No signs appear that this 
 has happened. 
 
 Presently the full chorus join in symphony accentuated, we 
 are to sujipose, with rhythmic movement in dance. We omit 
 tliis passage. A palace-maid comes out, who describes to the 
 chorus the beautiful behavior of Alcestis about to die, as 
 follows : 
 
 Hear wliat slie did indoors, and wonder tlien ! 
 For, when she felt the crowning day was come, 
 She washed with river waters lier white skin, 
 And, taking from the cedar closets forth 
 Vesture and ornament, bedecked herself 
 Nobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed : 
 " Mistress, because I now depart the world, 
 Falling before thee the last time, I ask — 
 Be motlier to my orphans ! wed the one 
 To a kind wife, and make the other's mate 
 Some princely person : nor, as I who bore 
 My children perish, suffer that they, too. 
 Die all untimely, but live, happy pair. 
 Their full glad life out in the fatherland ! " 
 And every altar through Admetos' house 
 She visited and crowned and prayed befoie, 
 Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the bougiis 
 Without a tear, without a groan — no change 
 At all to that skin's nature, fair to see, 
 Caused bv the imminent evil. But this done, 
 Reaching her chamber, falling on her lied, 
 Tliere, truly, bur>t she into tears, and spoke: 
 
 But, when of many tears she had her fill, 
 She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forili, 
 Vet — forth the chamber — still keeps turning back, 
 And casts her on the couch again once more. 
 Her children, clinging to their mother's robe, 
 Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms. 
 And, as a'dying womati might, embraced 
 Now one and now the other : 'neath the roof, 
 All of the household servants wept as well. 
 Moved to compassion for iheir mistress ; she
 
 250 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Extended her right hand to all and each, 
 And there was no one of such low degree 
 She spoke not to nor had an answer from. 
 Such are the evils in Admetos' house. 
 Dying — why, he had died ; but, living, gains 
 .Such grief as this he never will forget ! 
 
 There is more description from the palace attendant of 
 what was passing within, accompanied or interchanged with 
 more choral lamentation. Mr. Browning, while a sad pro- 
 cession issues from the palace, avails himself of the occasion 
 to introduce a considerable passage of interpretation 'and in- 
 terpolation highly characteristic of his very peculiar genius. 
 This we omit of course — not because it is devoid of interest, 
 but for the twofold reason that it would be somewhat obscure 
 to those not already versed in Browning, and that it does not 
 belong to Euripides. Now appears dying Alcestis with her 
 husband, her son, and the chorus. Poor Alcestis, with that 
 Greek love of light, would see the sun once more. The dia- 
 logue that ensues, if dialogue it should be called, say, rather, 
 the monologue-apostrophe of Alcestis interrupted by excla- 
 mations from Admetus which she, in her rapt state, at first 
 does not heed — this passage, whatever it is to be styled, de- 
 serves to be given. Mr. Browning at this point breaks in so 
 much with matter not of Euripides that we forsake him for 
 the moment to take up here the version of Mr. Potter : 
 
 Alcestis. Thou sun, and thou fair light of day ! ye clouds 
 That ill quick eddies whirl along the sky ! 
 Admetus. Sees thee and me most wretched, yet in naught 
 Offending 'gainst the gods that thou shouldst die. 
 Ale. O earth, ye tower'd roofs, thou bridal bed, 
 Raised in lolcos, my paternal seat ! 
 Adm. O thou poor sufferer, raise thee, leave me not ; 
 
 Intreat the powerful gods to pity thee.' 
 A!c. I see the two-oar'd boat, the Stygian barge ; 
 And he that wafts the dead grasps in his hand 
 His pole, and calls me ; " Why dost thou delay ?
 
 Euripides. 
 
 Hasle ihee ; thou liugeresl ; all is ready here ! " 
 Charon, impatient, speeds me to be gone. 
 AJm. A melancholy voyage this to me. 
 
 thou unhappy, what a fate is ours I 
 
 Ale, He drags me, some one drags me to the gates 
 That close upon the dead ; dost thou not see 
 IIow stern he frowns beneath his gloomy brows, 
 The impetuous Pluto ? What wouldst thou with me? 
 Off, let me go. Ah, what a dreary path, 
 Wretched, most wretclied, must I downward tread ! 
 
 Adiii. To thy friends mournful, most to me, and these 
 Thy children, who with me this sorrow share. 
 Ale. No longer hold me up, hold me no longer ; 
 
 Here lay me down : I have not strength to stand ; 
 Death is hard by : dark night creeps o'er my eyes. 
 My children, O, my children, now no more, 
 Your mother is no more : farewell ; may you, 
 More happy, see the golden light of heaven ! 
 
 Adm. Ah, what a mournful word is this ! to me 
 
 Than any death more painful : by the gods 
 Forsake me not ; shouldst thou be taken from me, 
 
 1 were no more ; in thee I live ; thy love, 
 Thy sweet society, my soul reveres. 
 
 We may now return to Mr. Browning for tlie speech in 
 which Alcestis, becoming conscious once more of Admetus, 
 adjures him to be true to her own memory, and, for their 
 joint sake, to their children : 
 
 Alkestis. Admetos, how things go with me thou seest, 
 I wish to tell thee, ere I die, w hat things 
 I will should follow. I — to honor thee. 
 Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange, 
 Continued looking on the daylight here — 
 Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Do me in turn a favor — favor, since 
 Certainly I shall never claim my due, 
 For nothing is more precious than a life: 
 But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say. 
 Loving our children here no less tlian I,
 
 '52 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 If head and heart be sound in lliee at least. 
 Uphold them, make them masters of my house, 
 Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair, 
 Who, being a worse wife than I, through spite 
 Will raise her hand against both thine and mine ; 
 Never do this at least, I piay to thee ! 
 
 • . . . . 
 
 Farewell, l)e happy ! And to thee, indeed, 
 Husband, the boast remains permissible, 
 Thou hadst a wife was worthy ! and to you 
 Children, as good a mother gave you birth. 
 
 The chorus cheerfully undertake for Admetus that he will 
 perform his wife's wishes. Admetus also answers up for him- 
 self. He mixes, it will be seen, a bitter dash of the unfilial 
 with the overflowing sweet of his conjugal : 
 
 Admetos. Fear not, and, since I had thee living, dead 
 Alone wilt thou be called my wife: no fear 
 That some Thessalian ever styles herself 
 Bride, hails this man for husband in thy place ! 
 
 And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief, 
 But grief that lasts while my own days last, love — 
 Love, for my liate is she who bore me, now, 
 And him I hate, my father: loving ones. 
 Truly, in word, not deed ! But thou didst pay 
 All dearest to thee down, and buy my life. 
 Saving me so ! Is tliere not cause enough 
 That I, who part witji such companionship 
 In thee, should make my moan ? 
 
 • • . . . 
 
 But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine, 
 So that to Kore crying, or her lord, 
 In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee, 
 Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dog 
 Nor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across, 
 Should stay me till again I made thee stand 
 Living, within the light ! But, failing this. 
 There, where thou art, await me when I die. 
 Make ready our abode, my house-mate still !
 
 Euripides. 253 
 
 For in the self-same cedar, ine willi thee, 
 Will I provide that these our friends shall place, 
 My side lay close by thy side ! Never, corpse 
 Although I be, would I division bear 
 From thee, my faithful one of all the world ! 
 Alkestis. O, children ! now yourselves have heard these things— 
 Your father saying he will never wed 
 Another woman to be over you, 
 Nor yet dishonor me ! 
 AdiHctos. And now at least 
 
 I say it, and I will accomplish too ! 
 Alk. Then, for such promise of accomplishment. 
 Take from my hand these children ! 
 Adiit. Thus I take — 
 
 Dear gift from the dear hand ! 
 Alk. Do thou become 
 
 Mother, now, to these children in my place ! 
 Adm. Great tlie necessity I should be so. 
 At least to these bereaved of thee ! 
 Alk. Child— child ! 
 
 Just when I needed most to live, below 
 Am I departing from you both! 
 Adm. Ah me ! 
 
 And what shall I do then left lonely thus? 
 Alk. Time will appease thee : who is dead is naught. 
 Adm. Take me with thee : take, by the gods below ! 
 
 Alk. We are sufficient, we who die for thee. 
 Adm. O, Powers ! ye widow me of what a wife ! 
 
 Alk. And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now ! 
 Adm. Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed ! 
 
 Alk. She once was — now is nolliing, thou may'st say. 
 Adm. Raise thy face, nor forsake thy children thus ! 
 Alk. Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not ! 
 
 Hut — fare ye well, my children ! 
 Adm. Look on them — 
 
 Look ! 
 Alk. I am nothingness. 
 
 Adm. What dost thou ! Leav'st — 
 
 Alk. Farewell ! 
 
 The most pathetic of the tragedians, Aristotle considers 
 I'.iiripides to be. Here, exercising good art, the poet prolongs 
 the pathos of the scene of death with additional exclamations
 
 254 Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 from Admetus, from the children, and from the chorus of 
 bystanders. Admetus bids his Thessalian subjects share his 
 grief with him. They must clip their own locks, and shear 
 their horses' manes. Twelve months they must refrain from 
 cheerful music. 
 
 The chorus hereupon chant, moving in mystic dance the 
 while, as follows (for this lyric strain we use Mr. Potter's 
 rhymed version) : 
 
 STROPHE I. 
 
 Immortal bliss be thine, 
 Daughter of Pelias, in the realms below ; 
 Immortal pleasures round thee flow, 
 Though never there the sun's bright beams shall shine. 
 Be the black-brow'd Pluto told, 
 And the Stygian boatman old, 
 Whose rude hands grasp the oar, the rudder guide, 
 
 The dead conveying o'er the tide, 
 Let him be told, so rich a freight before 
 His light skiff never bore : 
 Tell him, that o'er the joyless lakes 
 The noblest of her sex Tier dreaiy passage takes. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE 1. 
 
 Thy praise the bards shall tell. 
 When to their hymning voice the echo rings ; 
 
 Or when they sweep the solemn strings, 
 And wake to rapture the seven-chorded shell ; 
 Or in Sparta's jocund bowers 
 Circling when the vernal hours 
 Bring the Carnean feast ; while through the night 
 
 Full-orb'd the high moon rolls her light ; 
 Or where rich Athens, proudly elevate, 
 Shows her magnific state; 
 Their voice thy glorious death shall raise, 
 And swell the enraptured strain to celebrate thy praise. 
 
 STROPHE H. 
 
 O, that I had the power, 
 Could I but bring thee from the shades of night 
 Again to view this golden light,
 
 Euripides. 255 
 
 To leave that boat, to leave that dreary shore, 
 Where Cocytus, deep and wide, 
 Rolls along his sullen tide ! 
 For thou, O best of women, thou alone 
 
 For thy lord's life daredst give thy own. 
 Light lie the earth upon that gentle breast, 
 And be thou ever bless'd ! 
 But should he choose to wed again, 
 Mine and thy children's hearts would hold him in disdain. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE II. 
 
 When, to avert his doom, 
 His mother in the earth refused to lie ; 
 
 Nor would his ancient father die 
 To save his son from an untimely tomb ; 
 
 Though the hand of time had spread 
 Hoar hairs o'er each aged head ; 
 In youth's fresh bloom, in beauty's radiant glow. 
 
 The darksome way thou daredst to go, 
 And for thy youthful lord's to give thy life. 
 Be mine so true a wife, 
 Though rare the lot : then should I prove 
 The indissoluble bond of faithfulness and love. 
 
 In the foregoing version of this Euripidean chorus, our 
 readers have the opportunity of studying the symmetry, or 
 correspondence in measure, between line and line, in strophe 
 and antistrophe of the elaborate Greek choral ode. 
 
 The sorrowful monotony of the play now suffers a sudden, 
 almost staggering, interruption. Heracles (Hercules) bursts 
 in with a gruff and bluff heartiness of unconscious discord, 
 which Mr. Browning well reproduces. He conceives this 
 demigod as a great, wholesome-hearted, generous champion 
 of mankind, feeding enormously, but not gluttonously, simply 
 to repair the waste of his prodigious exertions on behalf of 
 the suffering. He thus, through his Greek girl Balaustion 
 puts a fine poetic gloss upon what otherwise would seem 
 gross conduct on Heracles's part.
 
 256 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 We must shorten the story of how Admetus concealed from 
 Heracles the true situation of affairs and got him to stay as 
 guest, under the impression that only a stranger woman of 
 the house had died. Admetus did not quite lie outright to 
 his guest-friend. Who is the man that has died ? inquires 
 Heracles. Not a man — a woman, evades Admetus. Alien, 
 then, or born kin of thine ? pursues Heracles. Alien, parries 
 Admetus, though still related to my house. Bystanders and 
 domestics are surprised to see Admetus insist at such cost on 
 being hospitable to the stranger. However, the complaisant 
 chorus laud the hospitality of the house in a strain which, 
 fortunately, we are able to show our readers under a noble 
 form given to it by one who signs only the initials " T. E. 
 W." to this choice fragment of translation, published first as 
 a contribution to the " College Magazine," Dublin, October, 
 
 1857: 
 
 Hail, house of the open door, 
 
 To the guest and the wanderer free ! 
 The lord of tlie lyre himself of yore 
 
 Deigned to inhabit thee. 
 In thy halls disguised in his shepherd's weeds 
 He endured for a while to stay, 
 Through the upland rocks 
 To the feeding flocks 
 Piping his pastoral lay. 
 And the spotted lynx was tame 
 
 With the joy of the mighty spell ; 
 And a tawny troop, the lions came 
 
 From the leafy Othrys' dell ; 
 
 And where the tall pines waved their locks. 
 
 Still as thy lute would play, 
 
 Light tripped the fawn 
 
 O'er the level lawn 
 
 Entranced by the genial lay. 
 
 The house wliere the lord Admetus bides 
 Is blest for the Pythian's sake — 
 
 Fast by the shores that skirt the tides 
 Of the pleasant Boebian lake ;
 
 Euripides. 257 
 
 His fallows and fields the Molossiaiis bound 
 Toward the stalls of the Steeds of Day, 
 And to airy sweep 
 Of ^gean steep 
 All Pelion owns his sway. 
 He will welcome his guest with a moistened lid, 
 
 Though the halls be opened wide ; 
 And affection's tear will start unbid 
 
 For her that hath lately died. 
 For the noble heart to its sorrows yields ; 
 But wise is the good man's breast, 
 And my faith I pliglit 
 He will act aright 
 By the dead and the stranger guest. 
 
 Admetus invites the sympathizing chorus to sahite his dead 
 wife as she is borne to the tomb. But Euripides provides for 
 us a fresh surprise. It is a scene between Admetus and his 
 father Pheres. A most unseemly altercation takes place be- 
 tween father and son over the very bier of the dead. Mere 
 selfishness has seldom appeared more unrelievedly repulsive 
 than in this scene it appears as exemplified in Admetus. 
 The Avhole representation seems to us to waver on a razor- 
 edge between the serious and comic. We condense a speci- 
 men. Pheres enters with a. train of servants bringing funeral 
 gifts for the deceased Alcestis. He speaks : 
 
 Pheres. Take this tribute of adornment, deep 
 
 In the earth let it descend along with her! 
 Behooves we treat the body with respect 
 Of one who died, at least, to save thy life, 
 Kept me from being childless, nor allowed 
 That I, bereft of thee, sliould peak and pine 
 In melancholy age. 
 
 ■ • • • ■ • 
 
 I maintain, if mortals must 
 Marry, this sort of marri.nge is the sole 
 Permitted those among tliem who are wise ! 
 Admetos. Neither to this interment called by me 
 Comest thou, nor tliy presence I account 
 17
 
 258 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Among the covetable proofs of love. 
 As for thy tribute of adornment, — no ! 
 Ne'er shall she don it, ne'er in debt to thee 
 Be buried! What is thine, that keep thou still: 
 Then it behooved thee to commiserate 
 When I was perishing : but thou, who stood'st 
 Foot-free o' the snare, wast acquiescent then 
 That I, the young, should die, not thou, the old. 
 Wilt thou lament this corpse thyself hast slain? 
 Thou wast not, then, true father to this flesh, 
 Nor she, who makes profession of my birth, 
 And styles herself my mother. 
 
 And yet a fair strife had been thine to strive, 
 Dying for thine own child ; and brief for thee 
 In any case, the rest of time to live ; 
 While I had lived, and she, our rest of time, 
 Nor I been left to groan in solitude. 
 
 How vainly do these aged pray for death, 
 Abuse the slow drag of senility ! 
 But should death step up, nobody inclines 
 To die, nor age is now the weight it was I 
 Chorus. Pause ! 
 
 Enough the present sorrow ! Nor, O son. 
 Whet thus against thyself thy father's soul ! 
 
 Plicres. Never did I receive it as a law 
 Hereditary, no, nor Greek at all. 
 That sires in place of sons were bound to die. 
 
 Long I account the time to pass below. 
 
 And brief my span of days ; yet sweet the same. 
 
 Shrewdly hast thou contrived how not to die 
 For evermore now ; 'tis but still persuade 
 The wife for the time being — take thy place !^ 
 What, and thy friends who would not do the like 
 These dost thou carp at, craven thus thyself? 
 Crouch and be silent, ci'aven ! Comprehend 
 That, if thou lovest so that life of tliine.
 
 Euripides. 259 
 
 Why every body loves his own life, too ; 
 
 So, good words henceforth ! If thou speak us ill, 
 
 Many and true an ill thing shalt thou hear ! 
 
 Clio. Too much evil spoke 
 
 On both sides! 
 
 But the unspeakable wrangle runs on page after page, for 
 all the sound admonition of the chorus. Admetus at last 
 bids the funeral train proceed. 
 
 The scene returns to Heracles in the house. The free 
 manner of the guest displeased the servant detailed to wait 
 upon him. This testy old fellow soliloquizes to the guest's 
 disadvantage as follows (we abridge) : 
 
 Here am I helping make at home 
 A guest, some fellow ripe for wickedness, 
 Robber or pirate, while she goes her way 
 Out of her house : and neither was it mine 
 To follow in procession, nor stretch forth 
 Hand, wave my lady dear a last farewell, 
 Lamenting who to me and all of us 
 Domestics was a mother: myriad harms 
 She used to ward away from every one. 
 And mollify her husband's ireful mood. 
 I ask, then, do I justly hate or no 
 This guest, this interloper on our grief? 
 
 There follows, in Mr. Browning's poem, a long passage of 
 the English poet's own, very nobly idealizing and transfiguring 
 Heracles. All this changed Heracles is found, by a creative 
 poetic eye, between the lines of Euripides — who himself sim- 
 ply makes Heracles speak out with rough good-humor to the 
 vinegar-visaged attendant, thus : 
 
 Her. Thou, tliere ! 
 
 Why louk'st so solemn and so thought-absorbed ? 
 To guests, a servant should not sour-faced be, 
 But do the honors with a mind url)ane. 
 
 Give ear to me, then ! For all flesh to die 
 Is nature's due ; nor is there any one
 
 26o Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Of mortals with assurance he shall last 
 The coming morrow : for, what's born of chance 
 Invisibly proceeds the way it will, 
 Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize. 
 This, therefore, having heard and known through me, 
 Gladden thyself ! Drink! Count the day-by-day 
 Existence thine, and all the other — chance ! 
 • • • • • • 
 
 Wilt not thou, then, — discarding overmuch 
 Mournfulness, do away with this shut door, 
 Come drink along witli ine, be-garlanded 
 This fashion ? Do so — and — I well know what — 
 From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind, 
 The pit-pat fall o' the flagon-juice down throat 
 Soon will dislodge thee from bad harborage ! 
 
 It soon comes out, for the enlightenment of Heracles, that 
 it was Alcestis herself who had died. Heracles suffers a vio- 
 lent revulsion from gay to sad. He exclaims : 
 
 Her. But I divined it ! seeing, as I did, 
 
 His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair, 
 His countenance ! 
 
 And do I revel yet 
 With wreath on head ? But — thou to hold thy peace, 
 Nor tell me what a woe oppressed my friend ! 
 Where is he gone to bury her? Wliere am I 
 To go and find her? 
 
 Heracles takes his resolution. He will go to the tomb and 
 rescue Alcestis yet. Here are his words : 
 
 Hdf. O much-enduring heart and hand of mine ! 
 
 I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stolcd 
 King of the corpses ! I sliall find him, sure, 
 Drinking beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice : 
 And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap 
 Out of my lair, and seize — encircle him 
 Till one hand join the other round about — 
 There lives not who shall pull him out from me.
 
 Euripides. 2A1 
 
 Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go ! 
 
 But even say I miss the booty — say, 
 
 Death comes not to the boltered blood — why then 
 
 Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place 
 
 O' Kore and the king there — make demand, 
 
 Confident I shall bring Alkestis back, 
 
 So as to put her in the hands of him 
 
 My host, that housed me, never drove me off; 
 
 Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke, 
 
 Being a noble heart and honoring me ! 
 
 ■ • • • • • 
 
 Meantime the procession returns from the grave. With 
 admirable amplification of pathetic speech and circumstance 
 Euripides displays the grief suffered by Admetus revisiting 
 his "chambers emptied of delight." The chorus intervene 
 with their exasperating commonplace of consolation. They 
 end by chanting a high strain in celebration of the inexora- 
 bleness of Necessity. This we give in the rhymed version of 
 Potter : 
 
 STROPHE I. 
 
 My venturous foot delights 
 To tread the Muses' arduous heights : 
 Their hallow'd haunts I love to explore, 
 
 And listen to their lore : 
 Yet never could my searching mind 
 Aught, like Necessity, resistless find: 
 No herb, of sovereign power to save. 
 Whose virtues Orpheus joy'd to trace, 
 And wrote them in the rolls of Thrace ; 
 
 Nor all tliat Phoebus gave. 
 Instructing the Asclepian train. 
 When various ills the human frame assail. 
 To heal the wound, to soothe the pain, 
 
 'Gainst her stern force avail. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE I. 
 
 Of all the powers divine 
 Alone none dares approach her shrine : 
 To her no hallow'd image stands, 
 
 No altar she commands ;
 
 262 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 In vain the victim's blood would flow ; 
 
 She never deigns to hear the suppliant now. 
 Never to me may'st thou appear, 
 Dread goddess, with severer mien, 
 That oft, in life's past tranquil scene. 
 
 Thou hast been known to wear. 
 By thee Jove works his stern behest : 
 
 Thy force subdues ev'n Scythia's stubborn steel ; 
 Nor ever does thy rugged breast 
 The touch of pity feel. 
 
 STROPHE II. 
 
 And now, with ruin pleased, 
 On thee, O king, her hands have seized, 
 And bound thee in her iron chain : 
 
 Yet her fell force sustain ; 
 For, from the gloomy realms of niglit 
 No tears recall the dead to life's sweet light ; 
 No virtue, though to heaven allied, 
 Saves from the inevitable doom : 
 Heroes and sons of gods have died. 
 
 And sunk into the tomb. 
 Dear, while our eyes her presence bless'd 5 
 Dear, in the gloomy mansions of the dead : 
 Most generous she, the noblest, best, 
 
 Who graced thy nuptial bed. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE II. 
 Thy wife's sepulchral mound 
 Deem not as common worthless ground, 
 That swells their breathless bodies o'er, 
 
 Who die, and are no more. 
 No : be it honor'd as a shrine 
 Raised high, and hallow'd to some power divine. 
 The traveler, as he passes by, 
 Shall thither bend his devious way ; 
 With reverence gaze, and with a sigh 
 
 Smite on his breast, and say, 
 " She died of old to save her lord ; 
 Now bless'd among the bless'd. Hail, power revered ; 
 To us thy wonted grace afford ? " 
 Such vows shall be preferr'd.
 
 Euripides. 2(iT^ 
 
 liuL see, Adnielus, lo thy house 1 ween, 
 Alcmena's son bends his returning steps. 
 
 By tliis time Heracles has come back with a genuine sur- 
 prise prepared for Admetus. But there is considerable 
 suspense of the agreeable shock. This provides for a pro- 
 longed enjoyment, on the part of spectators, who watch the 
 scene between Heracles and Admetus with the delicious in- 
 terest of persons admitted to the secret of a gracious plot 
 in process of unfolding before their eyes. First, Heracles 
 upbraids Admetus for not having been frank with him about 
 the death of Alcestis. He then mysteriously adverts to the 
 woman he has brought with him. In a contest just waged 
 by him, he had won her for prize. Would Admetus be good 
 enough to take charge of her while he (Heracles) should 
 be absent on his next adventure.^ But Admetus demurs. 
 He urges various reasons why it were not meet. Glancing 
 at the woman's form, he exclaims at her resemblance to 
 Alcestis. Then to Heracles he says, entreating: 
 
 Adnulos. Ah. me ! 
 
 Take — by the gods ! — this woman from my sight. 
 Lest thou undo me, the undone before ! 
 Since I seem — seeing her — as if I saw 
 My own wife ! And confusions cloud my heart, 
 And from my eyes the springs break forth ! Ah me, 
 Unhappy ! — How I taste, for the first time, 
 My misery in all its bitterness ! 
 
 The chorus venture to advise in favor of taking the woman. 
 The interchange following of short, generally one-line, re- 
 marks between Heracles and Admetus must be given our 
 readers. This brisk back-and-forth is a favorite form of dia- 
 logue with the Greek tragedians. Readers may see it imi- 
 tated in Milton's Mask of Comus. Also, in Milton's Samson 
 Agonistes — which is almost Greek tragedy itself reproduced, 
 alike in form and in power, though, by the Hebrew spirit of 
 the author and of the subject, the English poem is unavoid-
 
 264 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 ably qualified and heightened with a characteristic difference. 
 I'he "Atalanta in Calydon " of Mr. Swinburne is another 
 modern antique worthy to be studied and — herein unlike 
 many of this gifted but not scrupulous poet's productions — ■ 
 morally not unfit to be studied. Now the dialogue of ap- 
 proach to the final disclosure. We choose for this the ren- 
 dering of Potter, which reproduces better the effect of the 
 single lines in the original Greek : 
 
 Hercules. O that from Jove I had tlie power to bring 
 
 Back from the mansions of the dead thy wife 
 To heaven's fair light, that grace achieving for thee ! 
 Admettis. I know thy friendly will: but how can this 
 
 Be done ? The dead return not to this light ! 
 
 Her. Check, then, thy swelling griefs ; with reason rule them. 
 Adm. How easy to advise, but hard to bear ! 
 
 Her. What would it profit shouldst thou always groan ? 
 Adtn. I know it ; but I am in love with grief 
 
 Her, Love to the dead calls forth the ceaseless tear. 
 Adm. O, I am wretched more than words can speak. 
 
 Her. A good wife hast thou lost : who can gainsay it? 
 Adm. Never can life be pleasant to me more. 
 
 Her. Thy sorrow now is new ; time will abate it. 
 Adm. Time, say'st thou ? Yes, the time that brings me death. 
 
 Her. Some young and lovely bride will bid it cease. 
 Adm. No more; what sayest thou? Never would I tliink — 
 
 Her. Wilt thou still lead a lonely, widow'd life ? 
 Adm. Never shall other woman share my bed. 
 
 Her. And think'st tliou this will aught avail the dead ? 
 Adm. This honor is her due where'er she be. 
 
 Her. This hath my praise, though near allied to frenzy. 
 Adm. Praise me or not, I ne'er will wed again. 
 
 Her. I praise thee that thou art faithful to thy wife. 
 Adm. Though dead, if I betray her, may I die ! 
 
 Her. Well, take this noble lady to thy house. 
 Adm. No, by thy father Jove let me entreat thee. 
 
 Her. Not to do this would be the greatest wrong. 
 Adm. To do it would with anguish rend my heart. 
 
 Her. Let me prevail ; this grace may find its meed. 
 Adm. O that thou never hadst received this prize !
 
 Euripides. 265 
 
 Her. Yet in my victory thou art victor with me. 
 Adm. 'Tis nobly said ! yet let this woman go. 
 Her. If she must go, she shall ; but must she go? 
 Adm. She must, if I incur not thy displeasure. 
 Her. There is a cause that prompts my earnestness. 
 Adm. Thou hast prevail'd, but much against my will. 
 Her. The time will come when thou wilt thank me for it. 
 Adm. Well, if I must receive her, lead her in. 
 Her. Charge servants with her ! No, that must not be. 
 Adm. Lead her thyself then, if thy will incline thee. 
 Her. No, to thy hand alone will I commit her. 
 Adm. I touch her not ; but she hath leave to enter. 
 Her. I shall intrust her only to thy hand. 
 Adm. Thou dost constrain me, king, against my will. 
 Her. Venture to stretch thy hand, and touch the stranger's. 
 Adm. I touch her as I would the headless Gorgon. 
 Her. Hast thou her hand ? 
 Adm. I have. 
 
 Her. Tlien hold her safe ; 
 
 Hereafter thou wilt say the son of Jove 
 Hath been a generous guest. View now her face : 
 See if she bears resemblance to thy wife ; 
 And thus made happy, bid farewell to grief. 
 Adm. O gods, what shall I say? 'Tis marvelous. 
 Exceeding hope. See I my wife indeed. 
 Or doth some god distract me with false joy? 
 Her. In very deed dost thou behold thy wife. 
 Adm. See that it be no phantom from beneath. 
 Her. Make not thy friend one that evokes the shades. 
 Adm. And do I see my wife, whom I entomb'd ? 
 Her. I marvel not that thou art diffident. 
 Adm. I touch her ; may I speak to her as living ? 
 Her. Speak to her, thou hast all thy heart could wish. 
 Adm. Dearest of women, do I see again 
 
 That face, that person? This exceeds all hope. 
 I never thought that I should see thee more. 
 Her. Thou hast her ; may no god be envious to tiiee ! 
 Adm. O be thou bless'd, thou generous son of Jove ! 
 Thy fathers might protect thee ! Thou alone 
 I last raised her to me : from the realms below 
 How hast thou brought her to the light of life?
 
 2 66 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Her. I fought with him that lords it o'er the shades. 
 
 Adm. Where with the gloomy tyrant didst thou fight? 
 Her. I lay in wait, and seized him at the tomb. 
 
 Adm. But wherefore doth my wife thus speechless stand ? 
 Ifer. It is not yet permitted that thou hear 
 
 Her voice addressing thee, till from the gods 
 That rule beneath she be unsanctified 
 With hallow'd rites, and the third morn return. 
 But lead her in ; and, as thou art just in all 
 Besides, Admetus, see thou reverence strangers. 
 Farewell : I go to achieve the destined toil 
 For the imperial son of Sthenelus. 
 
 Adm. Abide with us, and share my friendly hearth. 
 Her. That time will come again : this demands speed. 
 
 Adm. Success attend thee : safe mayest thou return 
 Now to my citizens I give in charge. 
 And to each chief, that for this bless'd event 
 They institute the dance, let the steer bleed. 
 And the rich altars, as they pay their vows, 
 Breathe incense to the gods ; for now I rise 
 To better life, and grateful own the blessing. 
 
 The chorus have the last word and moralize the action, 
 
 thus : 
 
 Cho. With various hand the gods dispense our fates : 
 
 Now showering various blessings, which our hopes 
 
 Dared not aspire to ; now controlling ills 
 
 We deem'd inevitable : thus the god. 
 
 To these hath given an end exceeding thought. 
 
 Such is the fortune of this happy day. 
 
 There is a wide, and even violent, difference of oj^inion 
 among good authorities on the merits of Euripides. Some 
 critics consider him essentially melodramatic in quality, rather 
 than truly tragic. But, in the face of whatever criticism, he 
 has constantly persisted a popular poet.
 
 Aristophanes. 267 
 
 X. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 Aristophanes stands alone as representative to us of Greek 
 comedy. There were many other comic poets in Greece ; 
 but Aristophanes enjoys the fortune of surviving in a number 
 (eleven) of his productions, while all his peers and rivals 
 have vanished from human memory in every thing but per- 
 haps a name surrounded with its vain tradition of pristine 
 renown. 
 
 We could hardly let this volume appear without a chapter 
 inscribed by title to Aristophanes. But we shall feel it nec- 
 essary to make this our monument to his genius hardly more 
 than a cenotaph in his honor. A handful, nay, a pinch, of 
 dust is all that will here be collected to suggest the literary 
 remains of Aristophanes. Comedy is in its nature one of 
 the most fugacious of all literary forms. Incredible archae- 
 ological learning and pains have been expended in the en- 
 deavor to revive the knowledge of history and of manners 
 needful to the intelligent appreciation of Aristophanes. But 
 the truth is, that the spirit of the Aristophanic comedy was 
 an excessively volatile spirit. Long ago it escaped hopelessly, 
 hopelessly evanished, into the illimitable air. Nobody will 
 ever gather it thence again and restore it to the body of lit- 
 erature which once it made quick with a sparkle of vivacity 
 as brilliant as it was evanescent, but which it, fleeing away, 
 left for the most part irredeemably stale, flat, and unprofitable. 
 
 The feature that strikes one most is probably the enor- 
 mous indulgence of the grotesque and fantastic that Aristo- 
 phanes displays. Verisimilitude, probability, is violated with 
 the utmost conceivable license. Indeed, it seems to be a 
 law of the Aristophanic comedy to let fancy run absolutely 
 riot. There is something of the spirit of the carnival pres-
 
 268 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 ent in it all. The broadest farce, the most Titanic sport, 
 invention the most capricious, personal abuse without limit, 
 coarseness, incredible coarseness, abound. The coarseness 
 is a coarseness so utterly devoid of scruple that, insinuation 
 and indirection quite dispensed with, indecency flaunts itself 
 naked, not only without shame, but without consciousness, 
 or rather with a staggjering air of actual piety — as if lewd- 
 ness were religion. Every imaginable excess reigns here 
 and revels. 
 
 The idea just suggested of piety present in Athenian 
 comedy to sanction and sanctify lewdness, must not be taken 
 to be rhetorical hyperbole. It is literal fact. The comedies 
 of Athens were always presented as a part of the great Di- 
 onysiac festivals occurring at Athens three times each year. 
 The wild extravagances in conduct that made up these fes- 
 tivals of Bacchus were not things winked at by public senti- 
 ment, but things enjoined by public sentiment and encour- 
 aged. They became, indeed, portion and parcel of the na- 
 tional religion. It was an illustration of what Paul says of 
 the heathen world : " As they did not like to retain God in 
 their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind 
 to do those things which are not convenient." Conceive the 
 confusion of moral ideas implied in such a state of things ! 
 Vice not simply practiced, but practiced as virtue ! Orgies 
 of uncleanness celebrated for worship of God ! The awful 
 admonitory words of Jesus recur, " If the light that is in thee 
 be darkness, how great is that darkness ! " 
 
 Of course it is impossible to illustrate with example the 
 nastiness of Aristophanes. And paradoxical though it be 
 thought, we shall have in candor to say that the nastiness is 
 less an offense to the moral, than it is to the aesthetic, sense 
 of the modern reader. There is no allurement to sin in it. 
 It is too frank — too little insidious for that. Mr. Swinburne, 
 at his worst, is far more evil than at his worst is Aristoph- 
 anes, Accepted modern operas too there are, more truly im-
 
 Aristophanes. 269 
 
 moral in influence than are the scandalizingly free and roys- 
 tering comedies of ancient Athens. 
 
 Creon was the favorite butt of Aristophanes the political 
 satirist. Of Aristophanes the critic and the wit in literature 
 and philosophy, the most illustrious targets were Euripides 
 and Socrates. The comedy of The Frogs makes game of 
 Euripides, while Socrates is set up as a laughing-stock in the 
 comedy of The Clouds. The Knights is the piece which 
 chiefly pays the comedian's compliments to Creon. The 
 perfectly frank, and perfectly transparent, though anonymous, 
 abuse with which Aristophanes treats his ideal demagogue, 
 may be judged from the following extract. The chorus 
 speaks or chants (John Hookham Frere is our translator) : 
 
 Close around him, and confound him, the confounder of us all ; 
 Pelt him, pummel him, and maul him ; rummage, ransack, overhaul liim, 
 Overbear him, and oulbawl him ; bear him down, and bring him under. 
 Bellow like a burst of thunder, Robber ! harpy ! sink of plunder ! 
 Rogue and villain ! rogue and cheat ! rogue and villain, I repeat ! 
 Oftener than I can repeat it, has the rogue and villain cheated. 
 Close around him, left and right : spit upon him, spurn and smite: 
 Spit upon him as you see ; spurn and spit at him like me. 
 
 In The Clouds Socrates is made to do duty as a representa- 
 tive sophist, and the sophists are the object of the comedian's 
 ridicule. Much speculation has been indulged in as to the 
 reason why Aristophanes should have put Socrates into this 
 part, cince Socrates was, in fact, always opposing the sophists. 
 For ourselves, we suspect that exactly this was Aristophanes's 
 . reason for the liberty he took with his friend Socrates. It 
 would have an irresistibly comic effect to invert well-under- 
 stood relations in this broadly obvious way. The absurdity 
 of giving on the stage the familiar and naturally almost 
 comic face and figure of Socrates to the representative 
 sophist — a character with whom that philosopher was under- 
 stood to be incessantly at war — tliis would be a joke level to 
 the capacity of the least enlightened Athenian. Then, in
 
 270 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Socrates thus represented, to jumble confusedly together the 
 function of the sophist — namely, undertaking to prove the 
 negative or the affirmative at choice of any proposition what- 
 ever, with the function of the true philosopher — namely, 
 seeking truth and wisdom — such, we submit, was the comic 
 design of Aristophanes in this play of The Clouds. Besides, 
 it must be admitted that there really was, at times, if the re- 
 port of his friendly pupil Plato is to be trusted, enough of 
 the true sophist in Socrates to add the equivalent necessary 
 of verisimilitude to the comic representation. 
 
 The opening scene of The Clouds presents a bedroom in 
 which a father and a son are sleeping. The father waking 
 tries in vain to fall asleep again. Thoughts of pecuniary 
 embarrassment disturb his mind. Bills are coming due that 
 he knows not how to meet. His son, meantime, talks in his 
 sleep of horses and races. The son is at length roused by the 
 sire, and the two sally forth together. The old gentleman 
 has an idea. His son shall go to the "thinking-shop" of 
 Socrates the sophist, and there learn how, by rhetoric, to 
 evade the payment of the paternal debts. But the graceless 
 young rascal will not go. The father, at last, is fain to go 
 himself. A student admits him into the house. After a little 
 preliminary conversation, the visitor catches sight of a human 
 figure suspended from the ceiling in a basket. Now a bit of 
 Aristophanes in his own words : 
 
 Stranger. Who hangs dangling in the basket yonder? 
 Stttdt-nt. Himself. 
 
 S/r. And who's himself? 
 
 Stud. Why, Socrates. 
 
 Str. Ho, Socrates ! Call him, you fellow — call loud. 
 Stud. Call him yourself— I've. got no time for calling. 
 
 {Exit indoors.') 
 Str. Ho, Socrates! Sweet, darling .Socrates ! 
 Sac. Why callest thou me, poor creature of a day ? 
 Str. First tell me, pray, what are you doing up there ? 
 Soc. I walk in air, and contemplate the sun.
 
 A ristophanes. 271 
 
 Sh. O, that's the way that you despise the gods — 
 You get so near them on your perch there — ch ? 
 
 Soc. I never could have found out things divine 
 Had I not hung my mind up thus and mixed 
 My subtle intellect with its kindred air. 
 Had I regarded such things from below 
 I had learnt nothing. For the earth absorbs 
 Into itself the moisture of the brain — 
 It is the very same case with water-cresses. 
 
 Str. Dear me ! so water-cresses grow by thinking ! 
 
 Socrates, having learned the errand of his visitor, chants a 
 song of invitation to the Clotids to descend for the old gen- 
 tleman's help. The descent of the Clouds is attended with 
 a gentle roll of thunder. The Clouds sing together while 
 they, probably still invisible, approach. Their song is a 
 lyric much admired. Mr. Collins in his volume on Aristoph- 
 anes ("Ancient Classics for English Readers") gives the fol- 
 lowing version of it : 
 
 (chorus oi" CLOUDS ill the distance.) 
 
 Eternal clouds ! 
 
 Rise we to mortal view, 
 Embodied in bright shapes of dewy sheen, 
 Leaving the depths serene 
 Where our loud-sounding Father Ocean dwells. 
 
 For the wood-crowned summits of the hills : 
 
 Thence shall our glance command 
 
 The beetling crags which sentinel the land. 
 
 The teeming earth, 
 
 The crops we bring to birth ; 
 Thence shall we hear 
 The music of the ever-flowing streams, 
 The low, deep thunders of the booming sea. 
 
 Lo, the bright Eye of Day unwearied beams ! 
 
 Shedding our veil of storms 
 
 From our immortal forms, 
 We scan with keen-eyed gaze this nether sphere. 
 
 Readers of Shelley will be reminded of his beautiful and 
 powerful poem of " The Cloud." The Clouds, drawing
 
 272 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 nearer, sing again, Socrates meantime lying prostrate with 
 adoration, and the stranger convulsed with comic terror at 
 the accompanying thunder. The Clouds " materialize " as 
 fleecy-frocked maidens floating airily in, to the number of 
 twenty-four. The old gentleman turns out to be a poor 
 pupil, and does not get on. The son is finally prevailed 
 upon to go in place of his father. The father introduces him 
 to Socrates with pride : 
 
 He was so very clever always, naturally ; 
 
 When he was but so high, now, he'd build mud-houses, 
 
 Cut out a boat, make a cart of an old shoe. 
 
 And frogs out of pomegranate-stones — quite wonderful ! 
 
 We are bound to say that in the passage following, descrip- 
 tive of the discipline through which the young man goes, 
 there is something to inspire one's respect. The Just Argu- 
 ment and the Unjust are personified and impersonated on 
 the stage. It is a kind of Aristophanic version of the sophist 
 Prod'i-cus's noble allegory of the " Choice of Heracles." 
 The two Arguments dispute. The Just Argument holds 
 language like this : 
 
 Cast in thy lot, O youtli, with me, and choose the better paths — 
 So shalt thou hate the Forum's prate, and shun the lazy baths ; 
 Be shamed for what is truly shame, and blush when shame is said, 
 And rise up from thy seat in hall before the hoary head ; 
 Be duteous to thy parents, to no base act inclined, 
 But keep fair Honor's image deep within thine heart enshrined ; 
 And speak no rude, irreverent word against the father's years. 
 Whose strong hand led thine infant steps and dried thy childhood's 
 tears. 
 
 But the Unjust Argument answers and prevails. Here is 
 a specimen of the Aristophanico-Socratic style in which the 
 dialogue is carried forward : 
 
 Unjust A. Come, now, from what class do our lawyers spring? 
 Jusl A. Well — from the blackguards.
 
 Aristophanes. 273 
 
 Unj. A. I believe you. Tell me 
 
 Again, what are our tragic poets ? 
 Just A. Blackguards. 
 
 Unj. A. Good ; and our public orators? 
 Just A. Blackguards all. 
 
 Unj. A. D'ye see now, how absurd and utterly worthless 
 
 Your arguments have been ? And now look round — 
 {turning to the audience) 
 
 Which class amongst our friends here seems most numerous ? 
 Just A. I'm looking. 
 
 Unj. A. Well, now tell me what you see. 
 
 Just A. (after gravely and attentively examining the ro-ws of spectators) 
 
 The blackguards have it, by a large majority. 
 
 There's one, I know — and yonder there's another — 
 
 And there, again, that fellow with long hair. 
 
 Of course such buffoonery would bring down the house. 
 The Just Argument throws up the case. The son is now 
 crammed for his contest with the father's creditors. He 
 easily beats them all out of court. But the father's delight is 
 seriously modified when his son makes an unexpected use of 
 his new accomplishment. The hopeful youth thrashes his 
 own father, and proceeds with easy volubility to justify him- 
 self in the act. The aggrieved parent seeks his revenge on 
 Socrates and the Clouds. Taking with him his slaves, he 
 carries the torch to the " thinking-shop." The incendiary 
 old gentleman, perched on his ladder, to the students asking 
 him what he is about there, replies : 
 
 Holding a subtle disputation with the rafters. 
 
 And Socrates himself, at length aroused by the noise, is, with 
 
 a retort turned upon himself of his own explanation as to his 
 
 situation in the hanging-basket, told by the sarcastic father: 
 
 I walk in air and contemplate the sun. 
 
 Aristophanes is eminently an author to be studied less for 
 delight than for melancholy instruction on the state of mor- 
 als and of manners prevalent in the most polislied nation of 
 the ancient pagan world. 
 18
 
 2 74 Classic Greek Course in English 
 
 XI. 
 PINDAR (SAPPHO, SIMONIDES). 
 
 Homer is not more unquestionably first in fame among 
 the epic poets of antiquity than among ancient lyric poets is 
 Pindar. 
 
 Pindar was of Thebes in Boeotia, a country celebrated in 
 proverb for the mental dullness of its inhabitants. This poet 
 may fairly be judged to take away that reproach. He flour- 
 ished during perhaps three quarters of a century, from about 
 522 B. C. He was of aristocratic blood, and he was aristocratic 
 in feeling. Little is known of his life. There is a tradition, 
 which one likes to believe trustworthy, that he had a Theban 
 countrywoman, Co-rin'na, who fairly beat him in a poetical 
 contest waged between the two when he was young. After- 
 ward, so the legend goes on, he brought her a poem of his, 
 sown thick with Theban mythology. She had herself advised 
 this resource to the ambitious young poet; but, "You should 
 sow with the hand, not with the sack," was her criticism on 
 his over-profusion, Tennyson alludes in The Princess to 
 " fair Corinna's triumph." 
 
 Pindar was the most fortunate of poets. Popular every- 
 where, he was also the pet of noblemen and princes. His 
 poetry was all occasional, that is, written for occasions, and 
 it was written to order for hire. The most of what remains 
 consists of triumphal odes celebrating victories won in the 
 great national games of Greece. 
 
 Pindar had the audacity of genius. He shrank from noth- 
 ing arduous or dangerous that tempted him. He soared — 
 but it was not with the wing of Ic'a-rus — into the region of 
 the sun. His figures are bold to the verge of the incon- 
 ceivable. This makes him a very difficult writer to translate. 
 The English poet, Cowley, who made some odes that he called
 
 Pindar {Sappho, Simonides). 275 
 
 Pindaric, said, about doing Pindar into English, that, to ren- 
 der him literally, would make the public cry out. It is one 
 madman translating another. 
 
 Let us begin with a sample of Pindar's dithyrambics. 
 These constitute a wild, stormy, tumultuous metre, in which 
 we have only fragments remaining from the lyre of Pindar. 
 Mr. H. N. Coleridge, nephew of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 the poet, shall here be our translator. The fragment trans- 
 lated is an almost presumptuous ode of address to the Olym- 
 pian divinities, inviting them to descend to the worship of 
 men : 
 
 Down to our dance, gods ! 
 Come down from Olympus — 
 Hither descend 1 
 Glory o'er Athens and joyance bestowing, 
 O light, as ye wont, in the forum o'erflowing, 
 Where the crowds, and the chorus, and sacrifice blend ! 
 Lo, they come ! Now the violet-coronals bring, 
 And pure honey dew-drops 
 Fresh gather'd in spring. 
 
 See me advancing 
 Under Jove's guidance 
 Singing divine ! — 
 'Tis the ivy-clad Boy ! — God Bromius we name him ; 
 With a cry and a shout Eriboas we claim him ! 
 O ! begotten of mother of old Cadmus' line 
 In the mighty embrace of omnipotent sire — 
 I come from afar off 
 
 To lead thy bright quire ! 
 
 For the new palm-bud 
 
 Caught glance from the prophet 
 Of Nemea's strand ; 
 When the nectarous plants felt the spring-tide sweet-smelling, 
 What time the young hours oped the ports of their dwelling ! 
 Now the violet blooms are chance-flung on the land. 
 And the rose and the rose-leaf are wreath'd in the hair. 
 
 And voices and pi])ings 
 
 Ring loud in the air I
 
 276 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 We next give, using Gary's version, Pindar's celebrated 
 hymn to the Graces. A " soft Lydian air " the poem is : 
 
 O ye, ordained by lot to dwell 
 Where Cephisian waters well ; 
 And hold your fair retreat 
 'Mid herd of coursers beautiful and fleet, 
 Renowned queens, that take your rest 
 In Orchomenus the blest, 
 Guarding with ever-wakeful eye 
 The Minyans' high-born progeny ; — 
 To you my votive strains belong : 
 List, Graces, to your suppliant's song ! 
 For all delightful things below. 
 All sweet, to you their being owe ; 
 And at your hand their blessings share 
 The wise, the splendid, and the fair. 
 
 Nor without the holy Graces, 
 The gods, in those supernal places, 
 Their dances or their banquets rule: 
 Dispensers they of all above, 
 Throughout the glorious court of Jove ; 
 Where each has placed her sacred stool 
 By the golden-bow'd Apollo, 
 Whom in his harpings clear they follow ; 
 And the high majestic state 
 Of their eternal Father venerate. 
 
 Daughters of heaven ; — Aglaia, thou, 
 Darting splendors from thy brow ; 
 With musical Euphrosyne, — 
 Be present. Nor less call I thee, 
 Tuneful Thalia, to look down 
 On the joyous rout, and own 
 Me their bard, who lead along, 
 For Asopichus the throng 
 Tripping light to Lydian song ; 
 And Minya for thy sake proclaim 
 Conqueress in the Olympic game. 
 
 Waft, Echo, now thy wing divine 
 To the black dome of Proserpine ;
 
 Pindar {Sapplio, St'monides). 277 
 
 And marking Cleodamus there, 
 Tell the glad tidings ; — how his son, 
 For him, hath crown'd his youthful hair 
 With plumes in Pisa's valley won. 
 
 With the dallying, long-lingering spirit of the foregoing 
 strain, is sharply contrasted the swift sweep of the following 
 lyric description of Bel-ler'o-phon's adventure with the celes- 
 tial winged steed Peg'a-sus. This passage occurs in the course 
 of a triumphal ode. Pindar's habitual method was to associ- 
 ate some suitable bit of mythology with his subject. In this 
 way he secured variety of material for his various occasions. 
 In the present case silence concerning the final fate of Bel- 
 lerophon was dictated to the poet by his object. VVe use 
 Gary again as translator: 
 
 Straight to the winged steed rushed on, 
 With sturdy step, Bellerophon ; 
 And seizing, to his cheek applied 
 The charm that sooth'd his swelling pride. 
 Them soon the azure depths enfold 
 Of ether waste and cold ; 
 Whence leveling his aim, 
 The Amazonian crew, 
 And Chimcera breathing flame. 
 And the Solymi he slew. 
 His final doom in silence past 
 Shall be by me conceal'd. 
 The ancient stalls of Jove at last 
 The courser, in Olympus, held. 
 
 The first Pythian ode is one of the series inscribed to Pin- 
 dar's royal patron, Hi'e-ro of Syracuse, who had condescended 
 to be a victor in a chariot-race. But in truth to contend in 
 the Pythian games was rather a presumption than a conde- 
 scension, even on the part of a king. It is impossible to 
 exaggerate the enthusiasm with which the games of Greece 
 were resorted to by competitors and spectators. To be 
 crowned conqueror in one of the contests, not only was
 
 278 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 glorious for the conqueror himself, but the state or city to 
 which the conqueror belonged was deemed to be glorified in 
 the glory of her citizen. The present ode is long and elabo- 
 rate. Gary : 
 
 O thou, whom Phoebus and the quire 
 Of violet-tressed Muses own, 
 Their joint treasure, golden Lyre, 
 Ruling step with warbled tone, 
 Prelude sweet to festive pleasures ; 
 Minstrels hail thy sprightly measures 
 Soon as shook from quivering strings, 
 Leading the choral bands, thy loud preamble rings. 
 In the mazes, steep'd, expire 
 Bolts of ever-flowing fire. 
 Jove's eagle on the sceptre slumbers, 
 Possess'd by thy enchanting numbers 
 On either side, his rapid wing. 
 Drops, entranc'd the feather'd king ; 
 Black vapor o'er his curved head, 
 Sealing his eyelids, sweetly shed ; 
 Upheaving his moist back he lies 
 Held down with thrilling harmonies. 
 Mars the rough lance has laid apart, 
 And yields to song his stormy heart. 
 No god but of his mood disarm'd. 
 Is with thy tuneful weapons charm'd ; 
 Soon as Latona's sapient son 
 And deep-zon'd Muses have their lays begun. 
 But whomsoever Jove 
 Hath look'd on without love, 
 
 Are anguish'd when they hear the voiceful sound ; 
 Whether on land they be, 
 Or in the raging sea; 
 
 With him, outstretch'd on dread Tartarian bound. 
 Hundred-headed Typhon ; erst 
 In famed Cilicia's cavern nurst ; 
 Foe of the gods ; whose shaggy breast. 
 By Cuma's sea-beat mound, is prest ; 
 Pent by plains of Sicily, 
 And that snow'd pillar heavenly high,
 
 Pt7idar {Sappho, Sirnonides). 279 
 
 ^^Ltiia, nurse of ceaseless frost; 
 From whose cavern'd depths aspii-e, 
 In purest folds upwreathing, tost, 
 Fountains of approachless fire. 
 By day, a flood of smoldering smoke, 
 With sullen gleam, the torrents pour; 
 But in darkness, many a rock. 
 Crimson flame, along the shore. 
 Hurl to the deep with deafning roar. 
 From that Worm, aloft are thrown 
 The wells of Vulcan, full of fear ; 
 A marvel strange to look upon ; 
 And, for the passing mariner. 
 As marvelous to hear ; 
 How ^Etna's top with umbrage black, 
 And soil, do hold him bound ; 
 And by that pallet, all his back 
 Is scored with many a wound. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Intent this man to praise, 
 I trust to whirl my javelin, brazen-tipt. 
 Not out of limit, yet that all who raise 
 A rival arm, shall be by far outstript. 
 
 At close of glory's boastful day, 
 Sure as the mighty pass away. 
 To point their lives alone remain 
 Recording tale and poet's strain. 
 Fades not the worth of Croesus mild : 
 But Phalaris, with blood defil'd. 
 His brazen bull, his torturing flame, 
 Hand o'er alike to evil fame 
 In every clime. No tuneful string. 
 No voice, that makes the rafters ring, 
 Receive his name, in hall or liower, 
 When youth and joyance wing the hour. 
 
 First prize to mortals, good success ; 
 Next portion, good renown ; 
 Whomever both conspire to bless, 
 He wins the highest crown.
 
 28o Classic Greek Course in Ens^iish. 
 
 Mr. H, N. Coleridge's sentence on Pindar, which may be 
 condensed into this, is perhaps not unjust : 
 
 "Such as he was, he stood, and he stands, aloft and aloof 
 — unsurpassable — inimitable — incomparable. . , the absolute 
 master of lyric song." 
 
 If we seem by our order of treatment to make Sappho a 
 sort of pendant to Pindar, that is not to imply on her part 
 either posteriority in time or inferiority in genius. Sappho, 
 in fact, preceded Pindar by two generations, and her tradi- 
 tion is that of a poetical genius perhaps even surpassing him. 
 A Tenth Muse, Plato calls her, and she remains to this day 
 in general estimation among those entitled to adjudge her 
 just rank, from the various trustworthy indications that sur- 
 vive, the foremost woman of genius in the world. The loss 
 of her poems is probably one of the greatest losses that the 
 literature of mankind ever suffered. 
 
 The one surviving complete piece of Sappho's is her Hymn 
 to Aph-ro-di'te. This we give in a version from the hand of 
 Mr. T. W. Higginson: 
 
 Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite ! 
 Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee, 
 Weigh me not down with weariness and anguish, 
 
 thou most holy ! 
 
 Come to me now ! if ever thou in kindness 
 Harkenedst my words, — and often hast tliou harkened, 
 Heeding, and coming from the mansion golden 
 
 Of thy great Father. 
 
 Yoking thy chariot borne by thy most lovely 
 Consecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions. 
 Wafting swift wings from utmost heights of heaven 
 
 Through the mid-ether: 
 
 Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess, 
 Smiling, with face immortal in its beauty. 
 Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longing 
 
 1 had dared call thee ;
 
 Pindar {^Sappho, Simonides). 281 
 
 Asking whal I sought, thus hopeless in desiring, 
 'Wildered in brain, and spreading nets of passion 
 Alas, for whom ? and saidst thou, " Who hast harmed thee? 
 
 O my poor Sappho ! 
 
 " Though now lie flies, ere long he shall pursue thee ; 
 Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them ; 
 Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee, 
 
 Though thou shouldst spurn hira." 
 
 Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite ! 
 Save me from anguish, give me all I ask for, 
 Gifts at thy hand ; and thine shall be the glory, 
 
 Sacred protector ! 
 
 Si-mon'i-des, too, was an earlier poet than Pindar, but he 
 survives only in a few fragments, or else in very brief epi- 
 grams. He was, like Pindar, a hireling poet, in the sense of 
 being at the service of such patrons as were willing to sub- 
 sidize his muse. In other words, he was poet-laureate, not, 
 like Lord Tennyson, on a royal yearly stipend, but, as the 
 commercial phrase is, by the job. If we may trust Aristotle, 
 he was, upon occasion, spirited as to the price for which he 
 would work. Asked once to celebrate in verse the triumph 
 of mules in a race, he refused, alleging for ground, that to 
 sing of "half-asses " would disgrace his lyre. The induce- 
 ment was increased, and Simonides, bethinking himself now 
 that mules, if they were offspring of asses, were also offspring 
 of horses, accepted the task proposed and burst out with mag- 
 nificent well-paid-for poetical enthusiasm, " Daughters of 
 tempest-footed steeds ! " Your point of view is a great 
 matter in the art of putting things. One must not lightly 
 think too ill of the poet-laureate that may be hired. Words- 
 worth did not scruple to ennoble this poet by describing him 
 as "pure Simonides." 
 
 The fame of Simonides rests chiefly on his epigrams, " Epi- 
 gram," as thus used, must be understood to mean a short 
 piece, probably of verse, designed for an inscription. Mil-
 
 282 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 tiades is said to have erected a statue of the god Pan, in 
 commemoration of this Arcadian divinity's supposed inter- 
 vention on behalf of the Greeks against the Medo-Persians 
 during the invasion under Darius. Mark the fitness, sim- 
 plicity, density, fullness, with which the following epigram on 
 the statue tells the whole story. The traits specified are very 
 well reproduced in the translation : 
 
 Me, goat-foot Pan, the Arcad — the Medes* fear, 
 The Athenians' friend — Miltiades placed here. 
 
 The most celebrated, perhaps, of all the epigrams of Simon- 
 ides is that on the Spartan Three Hundred who fell at Ther- 
 mopylae. It is thus fitly and felicitously rendered by Mr. 
 
 Bowles : 
 
 Go tell the Spartans, thou that passest by. 
 That here, obedient to their laws, we lie. 
 
 These epigrammatic poems are not what one would call 
 brilliant. Their merit is their severe simplicity. They grow 
 upon one in power, according as they grow in familiarity. 
 This is exactly what should be the case with them. They 
 would not else be suited to their purpose. 
 
 With predecessors like Sappho and Simonides, Pindar 
 must owe it as much to his fortune as to his merit, that he 
 stands apart and alone in his superior fame. It is, perhaps, 
 an instance of the survival less of the fittest, than of the most 
 fortunate. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THEOCRITUS (BION, MOSCHUS). 
 
 Theocritus is the great name in Greek idyllic poetry. 
 With Theocritus are associated, in a kind of parasitic re- 
 nown, two other Greek pastoral poets, Bion and Moschns. 
 These two are chiefly celebrated as authors of elegies that not 
 only are fine in themselves, but are noteworthy for being
 
 Theocritus {Bion, Moschus). 283 
 
 originals of elegiac odes in English not surpassed in beauty 
 and power by any minor poems in the language. We refer 
 to Milton's Lycidas and Shelley's Adonais. The latter po- 
 ems are modeled, not at all in servile imitation, but simply 
 in elegant reminiscence and allusion, upon Bion's Lament for 
 Adonis, and Moschus's still more famous Lament for Bion. 
 
 The two disciples and followers of Theocritus — Bion and 
 Moschus — are less simple, less natural, less genuine, as well 
 as less vigorous, than their master. We begin by presenting 
 them in a few specimen extracts out of the two poems just 
 mentioned from their hands. Of Bion and Moschus, the 
 men, we know literally nothing — unless as to Bion, Moschus's 
 elegy on his friend be taken to afford a trace, faint indeed, of 
 biographic information. Here area few stanzas from Bion's 
 elegy, entitled The Epitaph of Adonis. The translator is 
 Mr, J. M, Chapman : 
 
 I and the Loves Adonis dead deplore : 
 The beautiful Adonis is indeed 
 Departed, parted from us. Sleep no more 
 In purple, Cypris ! but in watchet weed, 
 All-wretched ! beat thy breast and all aread — 
 '* Adonis is no more." The Loves and I 
 Lament him. O ! her grief to see him bleed. 
 Smitten by white tooth on his whiter thigh. 
 Out-breathing life's faint sugh upon the mountain high ! 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 " Alas for Cypris !" sigh the Loves, " deprived 
 Of her fair spouse, she lost her beauty's pride ; 
 Cypris was lovely whilst Adonis lived, 
 But with Adonis all her beauty died." 
 Mountains, and oaks, and streams, that broadly glide, 
 Or wail or weep for her ; in tearful rills 
 For her gush fountains from the mountain side ; 
 Redden the flowers from grief; city and hills 
 With ditties sadly wild, lorn Cytherea fills, 
 
 ■ • • • ' • 
 
 Their curls are shorn : on© breaks his bow ; another 
 His arrows and the quiver ; this unstrings,
 
 284 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 And takes Adonis' sandal off ; his brother 
 In golden urn the fountain water brings ; 
 This bathes his thighs ; that fans him with his wings. 
 The Loves, " Alas for Cypris ! " weeping say : 
 Hymen hath quenched his torches ; shreds and flings 
 The marriage wreath away ; and for the lay 
 Of love is only heard the doleful " weal-away." 
 
 Now the lament for Bion by Moschus, in the excellent 
 prose translation of Mr. Banks. The title is, The Epitapli 
 of Bion, a Loving Herdsman : 
 
 Plaintively groan at my bidding, ye woodland dells, and thou Dorian 
 water, and weep, rivers, the lovely Bion ; now wail at my bidding, ye 
 plants, and now, groves, utter a wail ; now may ye flowers breathe forth 
 your life in sad clusters ; blush now sorrowfully, ye roses, now, thou 
 anemone ; now, hyacinth, speak thy letters, and with thy leaves lisp 
 ' ai,' ' ai,' more than is thy wont : a noble minstrel is dead. 
 
 Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. 
 
 Ye nightingales, that wail in the thick foliage, tell the news to the 
 Sicilian waters of Ar-e-tliu'sa, that Bion the herdsman is dead, that with 
 him both the song is dead, and perished is Doric minstrelsy. 
 
 Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 Echo amid the rocks laments, because thou art mute, and mimics no 
 more thy lips ; and at thy death the trees have cast off their fruit, and 
 the flowers have all withered ; good milk hath not flowed from ewes ; 
 nor honey from hives ; but it has perished in the wax wasted with grief; 
 for no longer is it meet, now that thy honey is lost, to gather that. 
 
 Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. 
 
 All along with thee, O herdsman, have perished the Muses' gifts, 
 charming kisses of maidens, lips of boys : and around thy tomb weep 
 sad-visaged Loves. Venus loves thee far more than the kiss, with whicli 
 lately she kissed dying Adonis. This is a second grief to thee, most 
 musical of rivers ! This, O Me'les, is a fresh grief ; to thy sorrow per- 
 ished Homer aforetime, that sweet mouth of Cal-li'o-pe, and men say 
 thou didst deplore thine illustrious son in streams of much weeping, and 
 didst fill all the sea with thy voice : now again thou weepest another 
 son, and pinest over a fresh woe. Both were beloved by the fountains ; 
 the one indeed was wont to drink of the Peg-a-se'an spring ; the other.
 
 Theocritus {Bion Moschus). 285 
 
 to enjoy a draught of the Arethusa. And the one sang the fair daughter 
 of Tyn'da-rus, and the mighty son of Thetis, and Men-e-la'us, son of 
 A'treus : but the other would sing not of wars, nor tears, but Pan ; and 
 would sound the praise of herdsmen, and feed the herd as he sang : 
 and he was wont to fashion Pan's pipes, and to milk the sweet heifer, 
 and to teach the lips of youths, and to cherish Eros in his bosom, and 
 rouse a passion in Aphrodite. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Begin, Sicilian Muses, begin the lament. 
 
 Alas, alas, when once in a garden the mallows have died, or the green 
 parsley, or blooming crisp dill, they live again after, and spring up an- 
 other year. But we, the great, and brave, or wise of men, after we have 
 once died, imheard of in hollow earth, sleep a right long and boundless 
 slumber, from which none are roused. ... 
 
 Yet were I able, like Or'pheus, having gone down to Tar'ta-rus, like 
 Ulysses once, or as Al-ci'des in days of yore, I too would haply descend 
 to the home of Pluto, that I might see thee, and, if thou singest to 
 Pluto, that I might hear what thou singest. Nay, but in the presence of 
 the damsel (Pro-ser'pine) warble some Sicilian strain, sing some pleasant 
 pastoral. She too, being Sicilian, sported on the ^Etnsean shores, and 
 knew the Doric song : nor will thy strain be unhonored ; and as of old 
 to Orpheus, sweetly singing to his lyre, she gave Eu-ryd'i-ce to return, 
 so will she send thee, Bion, to thy hills. . . . 
 
 (For mythologic and other allusions, see Index.) 
 Of Theocritus personally we knovv^ almost as little as of 
 Bion and Moschus. He is generally referred to Syracuse of 
 Sicily, but we guess, with much confidence, that he must also 
 have passed a part of his life in Alexandria. There is strong 
 internal evidence that he knew something of Hebrew litera- 
 ture, that is, of the Bible. This would have been quite nat- 
 ural, since his time coincided with that of the making of the 
 famous Septuagint Greek version of the Old Testament, 
 executed at Alexandria under the auspices of Ptolemy Phila- 
 delphus. There are suggestions of Scripture imagery and 
 phrase in a number of the Theocritan idylls. The date of 
 Theocritus's birth is placed between 284 and 280 B. C. 
 
 As a specimen of Theocritus in his purely bucolic or pas- 
 toral vein, we select the first idyll. This is entitled The
 
 2 86 Classic Greek Course in Efiglis/i. 
 
 Death of Daphnis. It is a dialogue between two shepherds, 
 including a song from one of them, drawn out by invitation 
 of the other, to the memory of Daphnis, a herdsman that has 
 died. The poem belongs in the same company with those 
 which we have already given from Bion and Moschus. This 
 is the original of which those are echoes. (The possible 
 original, of which this also is an echo, has been lost.) 
 
 We omit, for brevity's sake, the conversation between the 
 shepherds introductory to that song itself on the death of 
 Daphnis which gives its name to the idyll, and which really 
 constitutes the substance of the poem. The lines of highly 
 realistic conclusion, after the song, we give to show the poet's 
 art in ending. The " sweet Maids " of the refrain are the 
 Muses invoked for assistance to the singer. The death of 
 Daphnis is a case of pining away under disappointment in 
 love. We condense from Mr. C. S. Calverley's delightfully 
 sympathetic translation : 
 
 THYRSIS [sings]. 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 The voice of Thyrsis. Etna's Thyrsis I. 
 Where were ye, Nymphs, O where, while Daphnis pined ? 
 In fair Peneus' or in Pindus' glens ? 
 For great Anapus' stream was not your haunt. 
 Nor Etna's cliff, nor Acis* sacred rill. » 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 O'er him the wolves, the jackals howled o'er him ; 
 The lion in the oak-copse mourned his death. 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 The kine and oxen stood around his feet, 
 The heifers and the calves wailed all for him. 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 First from the mountain Hermes came, and said, 
 " Daphnis, who frets thee ? Lad, whom lov'st thou so ? " 
 
 • ••••# 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 Came Aphrodite, smiles on her sweet face, 
 False smiles, for heavy was her heart, and spake :
 
 Theocritus {Bion, Moschus). 287 
 
 " So, Daphnis, thou must try a fall with Love ! 
 But stalwart Love hath won the fall of thee." 
 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 Then " Ruthless Aphrodil^," Daphnis said, 
 "Accursed Aphrodite, foe to man ! 
 Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set ? 
 Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe." 
 
 • ••••• 
 Begin, sweet Maids, begin the ivoodland song. 
 
 " Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear .' 
 
 Ye'll see no more by grove or glade or glen 
 
 Your herdsman Daphnis ! Arethuse, farewell. 
 
 And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris' side. 
 
 Begin, szveet Maids, begin the woodland song. 
 " I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine, 
 Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves. 
 
 • ••••• 
 Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. 
 
 " Come, king of song, o'er this my pipe, compact 
 With wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip : 
 For surely I am torn from life by Love. 
 
 Forget, stveet Maids, forget your woodland song. 
 " From thicket now and thorn let violets spring. 
 Now let white lilies drape the juniper. 
 And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong: 
 For Daphnis dies. Let deer pursue the hounds, 
 And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale. 
 
 Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song." 
 So spake he, and he never spake again. 
 Fain Aphrodite would have raised his head ; 
 But all his thread was spun. So down the stream 
 Went Daphnis: closed the waters o'er a head 
 Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved. 
 
 Now give me goat and cup ; that I may milk 
 The one, and pour the other to the Muse. 
 Fare ye well, Muses, o'er and o'er farewell ! 
 I'll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be. 
 
 GOATHERD. 
 
 Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb 
 Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of yEgilus ;
 
 288 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 For ne'er cicala trilled so sweet a song. 
 Here is the cup : mark, friend, how sweet it smells : 
 The Hours, thou'lt say, have washed it in their well. 
 Hither, Cissaetha 1 Thou, go milk her ! Kids, 
 Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram. 
 
 The piece, The Festival of Adonis, now to follow and to 
 finish our presentation of Theocritus, is not a pastoral poem. 
 On the contrary, it is pronouncedly a poem of the city. But 
 it is eminently fit to be called an idyll, that is, a little picture. 
 For a little picture it is — a picture true and vivid, as if painted 
 by the sunbeam, as if, that is to say, a photograph — of a day's 
 life, the life of a religious holiday, lived by two women of the 
 common class, in the great Greek city of Alexandria, in the 
 time of Theocritus. Here is the poem, in a prose rendering, 
 by Mr. Matthew Arnold. But we give first the prefatory ex- 
 planation supplied by the translator. 
 
 " The idyll is dramatic. Somewhere about two hundred 
 and eighty years before the Christian era, a couple of Syra- 
 cusan women, staying at Alexandria, agreed, on the occasion 
 of a great religious solemnity — the feast of Adonis — to go 
 together to the palace of King Ptolemy Philadelphus, to see 
 the image of Adonis, which the Queen Ar-sin'o-e, Ptolemy's 
 wife, had had decorated with peculiar magnificence. A 
 hymn, by a celebrated performer, was to be recited over the 
 image. The names of the two women are Gorgo and Prax- 
 in'o-e ; their maids, who are mentioned in the poem, are 
 called Eu'no-e and Eu'ty-chis. Gorgo comes, by appoint- 
 ment, to Praxinoe's house to fetch her, and there the dia- 
 logue begins:" 
 
 Gorgo. Is Praxinoe at home? 
 
 Praxiiioe. My dear Gorgo, at last ! Yes, here I am. Eunoe, find a 
 chair, — get a cushion for it. 
 
 G. It will do beautifully as it is. 
 
 P. Do sit down. 
 
 G. O, this gadabout spirit ! I could hardly get to you, Praxinoe, 
 through all the crowd and all the carriages. Nothing but heavy boots.
 
 Theocritus {Bion, Moschus). 289 
 
 nothing but men in uniform. And what a journey it is ! My dear child, 
 you really live too far oflf. 
 
 P. It is all that insane husband of mine. He has chosen to come out 
 here to the end of the world, and take a hole of a place, — for a house it 
 is not, — on purpose that you and I might not be neighbors. He is always 
 just the same ; — any thing to quarrel with one ! any thing for spite ! 
 
 G. My dear, don't talk so of your husband before the little fellow. 
 Just see how astonished he looks at you. Never mind, Zo-pyr'i-o, my 
 pet, she is not talking about papa. 
 
 P. Good heavens ! the child does really understand. 
 
 G. Pretty papa ! 
 
 P. That pretty papa of his the other day (though I told him before- 
 hand to mind what he was about), when I sent him to a shop to buy 
 soap and rouge, brought me home salt instead ; — stupid, great, big, inter- 
 minable animal ! 
 
 G. Mine is just the fellow to him. . . . But never mind now, get on 
 your things, and let us be off to the palace to see the Adonis. I hear 
 the queen's decorations are something splendid. 
 
 P. In grand people's houses every thing is grand. What things you 
 have seen in Alexandria ! What a deal you will have to tell to any 
 body who has never been here ! 
 
 G. Come, we ought to be going. 
 
 P. Every day is holiday to people who have nothing to do. Eunoe, 
 pick up your work ; and take care, lazy girl, how you leave it lying 
 about again ; the cats find it just the bed they like. Come, stir your- 
 self, fetch me some water, quick ! I wanted the water first, and the 
 girl brings me the soap. Never mind ; give it me. Not all that, ex- 
 travagant I Now pour out the water : — stupid ! why don't you take care 
 of my dress? That will do. I have got my hands washed as it pleased 
 God. Where is the key of the large wardrobe ? Bring it here ; — 
 quick ! 
 
 G. Praxinoe, you can't think how well that dress, made full, as you've 
 got it, suits you. Tell me, how much did it cost ? — the dress by itself, I 
 mean. 
 
 P. Don't talk of it, Gorgo : more than eight guineas of good hard 
 money. And about the work on it I have almost worn my life out. 
 
 G. Well, you couldn't have done better. 
 
 P. Thank you. Bring me my shawl, and put my hat properly on my 
 
 head ;— properly. No, child (to her little hoy), I am not going to take 
 
 you; there's a bogy on horseback, who bites. Cry as much as you like ; 
 
 I'm not going to have you lamed for life. Now we'll start. Nurse, take 
 
 19
 
 290 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 the little one and amuse him ; call the dog in, and shut the street-door. 
 ( They go oui.) Good heavens ! what a crowd of people ! How on earth 
 are we ever to get through all this ? They are like ants : you can't count 
 them. My dearest Gorgo, what will become of us? here are the royal 
 Horse Guards. My good man, don't ride over me ! Look at that bay 
 horse rearing bolt upright ; what a vicious one ! Eunoe, you mad girl, 
 do take care ! — that horse will certainly be the death of the man on his 
 back. How glad I am now that I left the child safe at home ! 
 
 G. All right, Praxinoe, we are safe behind them ; and they have gone 
 on to where they are stationed. 
 
 /". Well, yes, I begin to revive again. From the time I was a little 
 girl I have had more horror of horses and snakes than of any thing in 
 the world. Let us get on ; here's a great crowd coming this way upon us. 
 
 G. (to an old luomau), Mother, are you from the palace ? 
 
 Old Woman. Yes, my dears. 
 
 G. Has one a tolerable chance of getting there? 
 
 O. IV. My pretty young lady, the Greeks got to Troy by dint of try- 
 ing hard ; trying will do any thing in this world. 
 
 G. The old creature has delivered herself of an oracle and departed, 
 
 P. Women can tell you every thing about every thing, Jupiter's mar, 
 riage with Juno not excepted. 
 
 G. Look, Praxinoe, what a squeeze at the palace-gates ! 
 
 /*. Tremendous ! Take hold of me, Gorgo, and you, Eunoe, take 
 hold of Eutychis ! — tight hold, or you'll be lost. Here we go in all to- 
 gether. Hold tight to us, Eunoe. O dear ! O dear ! Gorgo, there's 
 my scarf torn right in two. For heaven's sake, my good man, as you 
 hope to be saved, take care of my dress ! 
 
 Stranger. I'll do what I can, but it doesn't depend upon me. 
 
 P. What heaps of people ! They push like a drove of pigs. 
 
 Sir. Don't be frightened, ma'am, we are all right. 
 
 /*. May you'be all right, my dear sir, to the last day you live, for the 
 care you have taken of us ! What a kind, considerate man ! There is 
 Eunoe jammed in a squeeze. Push, you goose, push ! Capital ! We 
 are all of us the right side of tlie door, as the bridegroom said when he 
 had locked himself in with the bride. 
 
 G. Praxinoe, come this way. Do but look at that work, how delicate 
 it is ! how exquisite ! Why, they might wear it in heaven. 
 
 /". Heavenly patroness of needlewomen, what hands were hired to do 
 that work? Who designed those beautiful patterns? They seem to 
 stand up and move about, as if they were real ; — as if they were living 
 things, and not needlework. Well, man is a wonderful creature ! And
 
 Theocritus {Bion, Mosc/ius). 291 
 
 look, look, how charming he lies there on his silver couch, with just a 
 soft down on his cheeks, that beloved Adonis, — Adonis, whom one loves 
 even though he is dead I 
 
 Another Stranger. Vou wretched woman, do slop your incessant chat- 
 ter! Like turtles, you go on forever. They are enough to kill one with 
 their broad lingo, — nothing but a, a, a. 
 
 G. Lord, where does the man come from ? What is it to you if we 
 are chatter-boxes ? Order about your own servants ! Do you give orders 
 to Syracusan women? If you want to know, we came originally from 
 Corinth, as Bellerophon did ; wc speak Peloponnesian. I suppose Dorian 
 women may be allowed to have a Dorian accent. 
 
 P. O, honey-sweet Proserpine, let us have no more masters than the 
 one we've got ! We don't the least care for you ; pray don't trouble 
 youi^self for nothing. 
 
 G. Be quiet, Praxinoc ! That first-rate singer, the Argive woman's 
 daughter, is going to sing the Adonis hymn. Slie is the same who 
 was chosen to sing tlie dirge last year. We are sure to have something 
 first-rate from her. She is going through her airs and graces ready to 
 
 begin. 
 
 THE HYMN. 
 
 Mistress, who lovest the haunt of Golgi, and Idalium, and high-peaked 
 E'ryx, Aphrodite that playest with gold ! how have the delicate-footed 
 Hours, after twelve monlh>, brought thy Adonis back to thee from the 
 ever-flowing Ach'e-ron ! Tardiest of the immortals are the boon Hours, 
 but all mankind wait their approach with longing, for they ever bring 
 something with them. ... 
 
 All fruits that the tree bears are laid before him, all treasures of the 
 garden in silver baskets, and alabaster boxes, gold-inlaid, of Syrian un- 
 guent ; and all confectionary that cunning women make on their knead- 
 ing-tray, kneading up every sort of flowers with white meal, and all that 
 they make of sweet honey and delicate oil, and all winged and creeping 
 things are here set before him. And there are built for him green 
 bowers with wealth of tender anise, and little boy-loves flutter about over 
 them, like young nightingales trying their new wings on the tree, from 
 bough to bough. O the ebony, the gold, the eagle of white ivoiy that 
 bears aloft his cup-bearer to Kronos-born Zeus ! And up there, see ! a 
 second couch strewn for lovely Adonis, scarlet coverlids softer than sleep 
 itself (so Mi-le'tus and the Samian wool-grower will say) ; Cypris has 
 hers, and the rosy-armed Adonis has his, that eighteen or nineteen year- 
 ol<l bridegroom. His kisses will not wound, the hair on his lip is yet 
 light.
 
 292 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 Now, Cypris, good-night, we leave thee with thy bridegroom ; but to- 
 morrow morning, with the earliest dew, we will one and all bear him 
 forth to where the waves splash upon the sea-strand, and letting loose 
 our locks, and letting fall our robes, with bosoms bare, we will set up 
 this, our melodious strain : — 
 
 Beloved Adonis, alone of the demigods (so men say), thou art permitted 
 to visit both us and Acheron ! This lot had neither Agamemnon, nor the 
 mighty moon-struck hero, Ajax, nor Hector, the first-born of Hec'u-ba's 
 twenty children, nor Pa-tro'clus, nor Pyrrhus, who came home from Troy, 
 nor those yet earlier Lap'i-thas and the sons of Deu-ca'li-on, nor the Pelas- 
 gians, the root of Argos and of Pelops' isle. Be gracious to us now, 
 loved Adonis, and be favorable to us for the year to come I Dear to us 
 hast thou been at this coming, dear to us shalt thou be when thou comest 
 again. 
 
 We are duly let down with these last words from Gorgo : 
 
 Praxinoe, certainly women are wonderful things. Tliat lucky woman 
 to know all that ! and luckier still to have such a splendid voice ! And 
 now we must see about getting home. My husband has not had his din- 
 ner. That man is all vinegar, and nothing else ; and if you keep liim 
 waiting for his dinner he's dangerous to go near. Adieu, precious 
 Adonis, and may you find us all well when you come next year ! 
 
 The light-hearted, innocent-seeming play of spirits in a 
 dialogue like the foregoing need deceive no reader. Sweet 
 purity did not underlie Greek life ; nor was there with The- 
 ocritus high moral tone in the man to keep free the genius of 
 the poet from faults of indecency in his verse. But grant 
 him his paganism, and Theocritus's poetry is delightful. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 DEMOSTHENES (/CSCHiNES). 
 
 Not more certainly is Homer first in fame among epic 
 poets, and Pindar among poets of the lyre, as we have sever- 
 ally pronounced them, than is Demosthenes first in fame 
 among masters of eloquence. By the side of Demosthenes,
 
 Demosthenes {."Esc/iines). 293 
 
 paired with him in foil and contrast somewhat as with Cicero 
 was Hortensius, as with Webster. Hayne, flourished the orator 
 ^schines. Very evenly matched in oratorio excellence seem 
 the two great orations, pitted against each other still, in their 
 now silent but never-to-be-pacified contention and rivalry — 
 the two acknowledged masterpieces, we mean, respectively 
 of ^schines and of Demosthenes. It is even easy to imagine 
 the chance that should have inverted their actual relative 
 rank in fame. Had but ^schines happened to get the ma- 
 jority of votes instead of Demosthenes, how know we that 
 the literature of subsequent appreciation and criticism would 
 not, with apparent success, have exerted itself to show good 
 reason why such an issue of the trial was according to the 
 respective merits of the men and the orators .'' It is the com- 
 mander who wins the battle, it is the orator who carries the 
 day — in short, it is success, rather than desert of success — 
 that men in general have the habit of crowning. 
 
 But we agree that Demosthenes was in truth the greater 
 orator. To clinch the conclusion, there is that fine story of 
 ^schines which every body knows, ^schines, failing to re- 
 ceive in his suit one fifth part of the votes, felt obliged to 
 leave Athens. He took up at Rhodes the occupation of a 
 teacher of oratory. He there read to his pupils the oration 
 against himself of his rival and conqueror. When his pupils 
 applauded, ^schines exclaimed, "But you should have heard 
 the rascal deliver it himself!" The generosity of this trait 
 in ^schines wins on us irresistibly in behalf of the man that 
 displayed it. 
 
 Still vEschines does show at disadvantage in contrast with 
 Demosthenes. There is in Demosthenes more moral height, 
 more genuineness — certainly not more artifice, but more art ; 
 for Demosthenes was an orator by art. Stormy we call him, 
 and stormy he was, but he stormed by rule and not by 
 caprice. His passion was deep enough and strong enough 
 and earnest enough to submit to be regulated. It was not
 
 294 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 heady. It did not indulge itself. It obeyed necessary law — 
 it served its chosen end. 
 
 The greatest orator in the world forms a nearly ideal ex- 
 ample of what self-culture can do against serious obstacles 
 from nature. Demosthenes was no doubt a man of magnificent 
 mental gifts, but no less was he a man of magnificent will. 
 
 As if to make the example thus supplied in Demosthenes 
 complete by contrast, it happened that against Demosthenes 
 was matched in rivalry a man in whom every natural quali- 
 fication of the orator existed and was carried to its height, 
 ^schines was born an orator. He had a voice like the 
 voice of a herald. Grace and majesty modulated his gesture. 
 Words came to him like affectionate lieges trooping to a king. 
 Yet the orator made outdid the orator born. Demosthenes 
 was greater than ^schines. 
 
 But, mark, eloquence with Demosthenes was an art of 
 getting his hearers' votes, not an art of getting his hearers' 
 praise. You must not look for passages of " fine writing " in 
 the speeches of Demosthenes. His speeches are practical, 
 not poetical. There are no ambitious rhetorical climaxes in 
 them which the audience could, by a round of applause, pay 
 the orator for his trouble in building. You would as soon 
 think of an American jury's applauding the lawyer that was 
 addressing them as think of the Athenian assembly's ap- 
 plauding Demosthenes. The indignant orator would tell 
 them, Spare your cheers while I am speaking, and give me 
 your votes when I have done. 
 
 The speeches that remain of Demosthenes are of two sorts 
 — private and public, or judicial and political ; for Demos- 
 thenes was a lawyer as well as a statesman. As lawyer he 
 wrote, for clients engaged in litigations, speeches which those 
 clients were supposed to deliver for themselves before the 
 court. These speeches he sought to make suit the condition, 
 the circumstances, the character, of the men who were to use 
 them. It would not be wise for us here to reproduce any
 
 Demosthenes {yEsc/iines). 295 
 
 of the private orations of Demosthenes. Of Deraothenes's 
 public orations, those against Philip of Macedon — existing in 
 two series, one called Olj'nthiacs and another Philippics — 
 and in addition to these, the Oration on the Crown, so-called, 
 are the most celebrated. The oration last mentioned is, at 
 least by popular fame, the masterpiece of Demosthenes. 
 
 Let us begin with an extract, brief it must be — the whole 
 oration is brief — from what Mr. Grote pronounces " one of 
 the most splendid harangues ever uttered," namely, the third 
 Olynthiac oration of Demosthenes. 
 
 This oration is so styled from its being about Olynthus, a 
 city threatened by Philip, and seeking from the Athenians 
 succor against him — succor that Demosthenes was anxious 
 the Athenians should send. We condense from a point nearly 
 midway of the oration: 
 
 Is there not a man among you, Athenians, who reflects by what steps 
 Philip, from a beginning so inconsiderable, has mounted to this height 
 of power? First, he took Am-phip'o-lis ; then he became master of 
 Pydna ; then Pot-i-dae'a fell ; then Me-tho'ne ; then came his inroad into 
 Thessaly ; after this, having disposed affairs at Phe'rse, at Pag'a-sse, at 
 Magnesia, entirely as he pleased, he marched into Thrace. Here, while 
 engaged in expelling some and establishing other princes, he fell sick. 
 Again recovering, he never turned a moment from his course to ease and 
 indulgence, but instantly attacked the Olynthians. His expeditions 
 against the Illyrians, the Paeonians, against A-rym'bas, I pass all over. 
 But I may be asked. Why this recital now? That you may know and 
 see your own error, in ever neglecting some part of your affairs, as if be- 
 neath your regard, and that active spirit with which Philip pursues his 
 designs ; which ever fires him, and which never can permit him to rest 
 satisfied with those things he has already accomplished. If, then, he de- 
 termines firmly and invariably to pursue his conquests, and if we are 
 obstinately resolved against every vigorous and effectual measure, think 
 what consequences may we expect ! . . . 
 
 To censure, some one may tell me, is easy and in the power of every 
 man ; but the true counselor should point out that conduct which the 
 present exigence demands. Sensible as, I am, Athenians, that when 
 your expectations have in any instance been disappointed, your resent- 
 ment frequently falls not on those who merit it, but on him who has
 
 296 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 spoken last ; yet I cannot, from a regard to my own safety, suppress 
 what I deem of moment to lay before you. I say, then, this occasion 
 calls for a twofold armament. First, we are to defend the cities of the 
 Olynthians, and for this purpose to detach a body of forces ; in the next 
 place, in order to infest his kingdom, we are to send out our navy 
 manned with other levies. If you neglect either of these, I fear your 
 expedition will be fruitless. For if you content yourselves with infest- 
 ing his dominions, this he will endure, until he is master of Olynthus ; 
 and then he can, with ease, repel the invasion ; or, if you only send suc- 
 cors to the Olynthians, where he sees his own kingdom free from danger, 
 he will apply with constancy and vigilance to the war. and at length 
 weary out the besieged to a submission. Your levies, therefore, must be 
 considerable enough to serve both purposes. These are my sentiments 
 with respect to our armament. 
 
 This, too, demands your attention, Athenians ! that you are now to 
 determine whether it be most expedient to carry the war into his coun- 
 try, or to fight him here. If Olynthus be defended, Macedon will be 
 the seat of war, you may harass his kingdom, and enjoy your own ter- 
 ritories free from apprehensions. But should that nation be subdued by 
 Piiilip, who will oppose his marching hither ? Will the Thebans ? Let 
 it not be thought severe when I affirm that they will join readily in the 
 invasion. Will the Phocians ? a people scarcely able to defend their 
 own country without your assistance. Will any others ? But, sir, cries 
 some one, he would make no such attempt. This would be the greatest 
 of absurdities, not to execute those threats, when he has full power, 
 which, now when they appear so idle and extravagant, he yet dares to 
 utter. And I think you are not yet to learn how great would be the 
 difference between our engaging him here, and there. Were we to be 
 only tliirty days abroad, and to draw all the necessaries of the camp from 
 our own lands, even were there no enemy to ravage them, the damnge 
 would, in my opinion, amount to more than the whole expense of the 
 late war. Add then the presence of an enemy, and how greatly must 
 the calamity be increased ? but farther, add the infamy, and to those 
 who judge rightly, no distress can be more grievous than the scandal of 
 misconduct. 
 
 The translation (Leland's) is fairly good, but no rendering 
 in English could possibly do justice to the incomparable 
 original. Every sentence in Demosthenes lives as if it were 
 animated with an independent life of its own. The balance
 
 Demosf/ienes {^schi'fjes). 297 
 
 of member against member, the epigrammatic point, the con- 
 densation — as of liquid made solid under pressure — the nerve, 
 the vigor, the movement, the inimitable art of arrangement, 
 the carefully happy choice of words, the rhythm, the har- 
 mony, the growth, the culmination, the close — like the blow 
 perhaps of a mace, or like the breaking of a breaker rolling in 
 on the beach — all this is of Demosthenes, and Demosthenes 
 is lost when you lose it, as lose it you must in translation. 
 
 " Philippic " is a word in common English use to denote a 
 piece of violent invective. Emphatically such was indeed 
 the spirit of Cicero's speeches against Antony, called, in imi- 
 tation of the Greek, Philippics. The different character of 
 the Philippics of Demosthenes is very well seen in the fore- 
 going specimen. There is in some of them more energy of 
 personal abuse directed against Philip. But mere brute de- 
 nunciation is by no means the staple of these remarkable 
 speeches of Demosthenes. The one note on which all of 
 them alike are keyed is, March against Philip ! As to the 
 particular measure of support, in this crisis, for Olynthus, 
 Demosthenes was but moderately successful in persuading 
 his countrymen. A few mercenary troops first were sent to 
 the aid of the distressed city, and then at last — too late — a 
 body of Athenian soldiers. Olynthus was destroyed, and 
 there was no breakwater left between the rising Macedonian 
 tide of conquest and Athens. Demosthenes still fought 
 Philip, might and main. But that rising tide was too strong 
 for him. It was helped by the stars in their courses. It 
 swept over Athens, and Athens was free and great no more. 
 
 The Oration on the Crown is named from its object. Its ob- 
 ject was the vindicating for himself by Demosthenes of his 
 just title by merit to receive a civic crown, proposed for him, 
 from the hands of his Athenian fellow-citizens. The propo- 
 sal was made in a decree moved by the orator's friend, Ctesi- 
 phon (Tess'). ^^schines stood forward and opposed the 
 measure. But he did not attack Demosthenes directly. He
 
 298 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 indicted Ctesiphon for offering an illegal decree. The de- 
 cree for crowning Demosthenes was, so ^schines charged, 
 illegal in several respects. For one thing, the laws forbade 
 crowning a public official who was still responsible to the 
 state for submitting accounts of government money expended 
 by him. For a second thing, there was an enactment against 
 crowning any one, as it was now proposed to crown Demos- 
 thenes, in the theatre at the exhibition of the new tragedies. 
 For a third thing, and this in reality the chief thing of all, 
 it was unlawful to make false allegations in a decree proposed 
 — as in the present case was done by Ctesiphon, in declaring 
 Demosthenes a citizen worthy of a crown. 
 
 This opposition of ^schines was opposition, in a sense, 
 after the fact. For the decree of Ctesiphon had been ap- 
 proved by the Council of Five Hundred, and then formally 
 ratified and passed by the Assembly. It was a law. But 
 before the law was carried into effect, that is, before Demos- 
 thenes was actually crowned, ^schines intervened with his 
 indictment against Ctesiphon. This postponed the honoring 
 of Demosthenes ; for, pending the decision on the indict- 
 ment, the ceremony of coronation must wait. And the Dio- 
 nysiac festival was already too close at hand for a decision to 
 be had before that occasion arrived. 
 
 The indictment against Ctesiphon, having served its first 
 purpose in keeping the olive chaplet interwoven with gold 
 from the brow of Demosthenes, was permitted by its author 
 to sleep seven or eight years. Events, by the end of that 
 time, were probably judged to have created a conjuncture 
 favorable to the final crushing of Demosthenes. Victorious 
 Philip had fallen by the hand of an assassin, and Alexander, 
 succeeding prematurely to the throne, had disappointed the 
 hopes and falsified the predictions of Demosthenes by exhib- 
 iting himself far more formidable than even his father. He had 
 erased Thebes from the face of the earth — with a fine magna- 
 nimity, fated to be famous, ostentatiously leaving the Theban
 
 Demosthenes i^yEschines). 299 
 
 poet Pindar's house untouched amid the general ruin. 
 Athens fell abject at the feet of the young Macedonian con- 
 queror, who demanded from her the surrender to himself of 
 her chief orators, Demosthenes of course included. Alex- 
 ander was persuaded out of this extreme severity — placable 
 perhaps because larger affairs claimed his attention. He 
 swept resistlessly into Asia, and established himself upon the 
 throne of Darius. The Lacedaemonian king, Agis, made a 
 rally against him in his absence, but was overwhelmed and 
 slain. Greece prostrate thus under Alexander's heel, now 
 was the hour and power of ^schines. He renewed the 
 prosecution of Ctesiphon, and the duel of ^schines with 
 Demosthenes was finally and fatally joined. 
 
 Fatally — but not after all for Demosthenes. It enhances 
 inconceivably the marvel and the magnificence of Demos- 
 thenes's triumph, that he should have triumphed handi- 
 capped as he was, and against such frightful odds of adverse 
 circumstance. For not only against odds of adverse circum- 
 stance, but heavily handicapped by his own past, Demosthenes 
 went into this oratoric struggle for life or death with ^schi- 
 nes. Demosthenes had said foolish things and done weak 
 things that could not be forgotten. He had denounced 
 Philip as a drunken barbarian brute, and Philip had taken a 
 princely revenge on the orator : For he behaved himself 
 toward Athens in defeat with conspicuous magnanimity ; he 
 carefully sent back to the humiliated city her dead, and her 
 soldiers made prisoners he released to her without ransom. 
 Demosthenes had publicly called Alexander a boy and a 
 madcap, and Demosthenes's madcap boy had straightway 
 proceeded to put the world under his feet. 
 
 But Demosthenes's weakness in conduct was worse than 
 his folly in speech. The brave orator had, so it was re- 
 ported, proved a pusillanimous soldier. Demosthenes had 
 .intrepidly shaken his fist at Macedon from the bema, but he 
 fled from his post like a coward in battle. The patriot, too,
 
 300 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 who had so loftily spurned Macedonian gold — in the Assem- 
 bly — had let Persian gold stick to his palm — in the closet. 
 It probably was not a bribe accepted, but it undeniably was 
 foreign money received. It gave Demosthenes's enemies a 
 chance. History, alas ! leaves us few flawless ideals in hu- 
 man character for our worsliip. Indeed, One only could say, 
 Which of you convinceth me of sin ? But there is in this case 
 a certain unsatisfying compensation. What is deducted from 
 Demosthenes the man is added to Demosthenes the orator. 
 It was against all this disadvantage that Demosthenes was 
 overwhelmingly adjudged to deserve his crown. What a mas- 
 ter of men by speech was this last of the Athenians ! But 
 something of a manager, something of a politician, Demos- 
 thenes must also have been. The confident tone of his speech 
 in self-vindication implies, we think, consciousness, on his part, 
 of strong partisan support in the audience. 
 
 It will be more satisfactory to let our readers prepare 
 themselves for appreciating Demosthenes's defence, by first 
 learning something of yEschines's attack. The legal argu- 
 ment we shall omit from both speeches, ^schines, technic- 
 ally, had much the better of Demosthenes. The law was 
 clear for the conviction of Ctesiphon. Nothing could have 
 been more luminous or more cogent in reasoning than ^s- 
 chines's presentation of the legal points in the case, ^schines 
 sought to make Demosthenes in replying follow his own order 
 in treatment of the topics discussed. The attempt was wise 
 in ^schines, but for Demosthenes to do so would have been 
 fatal. Demosthenes really had little to say in refutation of 
 ^schines on the points of law involved. He did the only 
 thing open to him that gave any promise of success. He 
 made his hearers forget the law, by engaging them at once in 
 discussions of measures, persons, and events. 
 
 The following passage, taken out of the midst of the speech 
 of ^schines, will give our readers some idea of the stinging 
 point with which this consummate orator could press his tre-
 
 Demosthenes {.^schines). 301 
 
 mendous advantage upon his antagonist. (It is necessary 
 only to explain, that after the battle of Ch?eroneia, Demosthe- 
 nes, notwithstanding his inglorious conduct on the field, was 
 chosen to pronounce the set formal oration on the fallen.) 
 Notice the frequent lively shifting of aim, in the orator's 
 words, back and forth, between Demosthenes himself directly 
 accosted in the second person and then again the listening 
 assembly similarly addressed. The audience, by the way, 
 was made up primarily of the Five Hundred composing the 
 tribunal, and secondarily of a number to be counted perhaps 
 by tens of thousands flocking from all parts of Greece to wit- 
 ness that great gladiatorial exhibition of oratory, .^schines 
 draws an effective contrast between the spectacle presented 
 when orphans by battle stood, according to ancient custom, 
 in the theatre, solemnly introduced by the herald as children 
 of the state — between this spectacle and that proposed by the 
 decree of Ctesiphon, namely, Demosthenes, maker of orphans 
 by battle, the coward, the miscreant, standing in the same 
 theatre to be honored with a crown. We give the passage : 
 
 And heic let us recall to mind those gallant men, whom he forced 
 out to manifest destruction, without one sacred rite happily performed, 
 one propitious omen to assure them of success ; and yet, when they had 
 fallen in battle, presumed to ascend their monument with those coward 
 feet that fled from their post, and pronounced his encomiums on their 
 merit. But O thou, who, on every occasion of great and important 
 action, hast proved of all mankind the most worthless, in the insolence 
 of language the most astonishing, canst tliou attempt, in the face of these 
 thy fellow-citizens, to claim the honor of a crown, for the misfortunes 
 in which thou hast plunged thy cily? Or, should he claim it, can you 
 restrain your indignation, and has the memory of your slaughtered 
 countrymen perished with them ? Indulge me for a moment, and im- 
 agine that you are now not in this tribunal, but in the theatre, imagine 
 that you see the herald approaching, and the proclamation prescribed in 
 this decree, on the point of being delivered, and then consider whether 
 will the friends of the deceased shed more tears at tlie tragedies, at the 
 pathetic stories of the great characters to be presented on the stage, or 
 at the insensibility of their country? What inhabitant of Greece, what
 
 302 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 human creature, who has imbibed the least share of liberal sentiments, 
 must not feel the deepest sorrow, when he reflects on- one transaction 
 which he must have seen in the theatre, when he remembers, if he re- 
 members nothing else, that on festivals like these, when the tragedies 
 were to be presented (in those times when the state was well governed 
 and directed by faithful ministers), a herald appeared, and introducing 
 those orphans whose fathers had died in battle, now arrived at maturity, 
 and dressed in complete armor, made a proclamation the most noble 
 and the most effectual to excite the mind to glorious actions ; that these 
 youths, whose fathers lost their lives in fighting bravely for their country, 
 the people had maintained to this their age of maturity; that now, hav- 
 ing furnished them with complete suits of armor, they dismiss them, with 
 prayers for their prosperity, to attend to their respective affairs, and in- 
 vite them to aspire to the highest offices of the state ! 
 
 Such were the proclamations in old times, but such are not now heard. 
 And, were the herald to introduce the person who had made these chil- 
 dren orjilians, what could he say or what could he proclaim ? Should 
 he speak in the form prescribed in this decree, yet the odious truth 
 would still force itself upon you, it would seem to strike your ears with 
 a language different from that of the herald. It would tell you that the 
 Athenian people crowned this man, who scarcely deserves the name of 
 a man, on account of his virtue, though a wretch the most abandoned, 
 and on account of his magnanimity, though a coward and deserter of his 
 post. Do not, Athenians, I conjure you by all the powers of heaven, do 
 not erect a trophy in your theatre, to perpetuate your own disgrace. 
 Do not expose the weak conduct of your country, in the presence of the 
 Greeks, do not recall all their grievous and desperate misfortunes to the 
 minds of the wretched Thebans, who, when driven from their habitations 
 by this man, were received within these walls, whose temples, whose 
 children, whose sepulchral monuments, were destroyed by the corruption 
 of Demosthenes and the Macedonian gold. 
 
 Here is ^schines's fling at Demosthenes for his unhappy- 
 sentence on Alexander: 
 
 He called Alexander a Mar-gi'tes, and had the presumption to assert 
 that he would never stir from Macedon, for that he would be satisfied 
 with parading through his capital, and there tearing up his victims in 
 the search of happy omens. And this, said he, I declare, not from con- 
 jecture, but from a clear conviction of this great truth, that glory is not 
 to be purchased but by blood. The wretch! whose veins have no blood.
 
 Dcmostlic7us {.i^si/iiiit's). 303 
 
 who judged of Alexander, not from the temper of Alexander, but from 
 his own dastardly soul. 
 
 What venom in that last exclamation ! But /I'^schines is 
 by no means mere mordant sarcasm. He has passages, if 
 not of real, at least of well-simulated, moral sentiment and 
 statesman-like gravity. Take the following paragraphs as 
 instances : 
 
 And, now that I have mentioned crowns and public honors, while it 
 yet rests upon my mind, let me recommend this precaution. It must be 
 your part, Athenians, to put an end to this frequency of public honors, 
 these precipitate grants of crowns, else they who obtain them will owe 
 you no acknowledgment, nor shall the state receive the least advantage, 
 for you never can make bad men better, and those of real merit must be 
 cast into the utmost dejection. Of this truth I shall convince you by 
 the most powerful arguments. Suppose a man should ask, at what time 
 this state supported the most illustrious reputation, in the present days 
 or in those of our ancestors ? With one voice you would reply, " In the 
 days of our ancestors." At what time did our citizens display the great- 
 est merit? Then, or now? They were then eminent, now much less 
 distinguished. At what time were rewards, crowns, proclamations, and 
 public honors of every kind most frequent ? Then, or now? Then they 
 were rare and truly valuable, then the name of merit bore the highest 
 lustre, but now it is tarnished and effaced, while your honors are con- 
 ferred by course and custom, not with judgment and distinction. 
 
 It may possibly seem unaccountable, that rewards are now more fre- 
 quent, yet that public affairs were then more flourishing, that our citizens 
 are now less worthy, but were then of real eminence. This is a difficulty 
 which I shall endeavor to obviate. Do you imagine, Athenians, that 
 any man whatever would engage in the games held on our festivals, or 
 in any others, where the victors receive a crown, in the exercises of 
 wrestling, or in any of the several athletic contests, if the crown was to 
 be conferred, not on the most worthy, but on the man of greatest inter- 
 est? Surely no man would engage. But now as the reward of such 
 their victory is rare, hardly to be obtained, truly honorable, and never 
 to be forgotten ; there are champions found, ready to submit to the 
 severest preparatory discipline, and to encounter all the dangers of the 
 contest. Imagine, then, that political merit is a kinil of game, which 
 you are appointed to direct, and consider that, if you grant the prizes to 
 a few, and those the most worthy, and on such condiiions as the laws
 
 304 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 prescribe, you will have many champions in this contest of merit. But, 
 if you gratify any man that pleases, or those who can secure the strong- 
 est interest, you will be the means of corrupting the very best natural 
 dispositions. . . . 
 
 In a democratic state, every man has a sort of kingly power, founded 
 on the laws, and on our public acts, but when he resigns these into the 
 hands of another, he himself subverts his own sovereignty. And then 
 the consciousness of that oath, by which his sentence was to have been 
 directed, pursues him with remorse. 
 
 The very close of the speech of yEschines is sadly marked 
 with bathos : 
 
 And now, bear witness for me, thou Earth ! thou Sun ! O Virtue and 
 Intelligence ! and thou, O Erudition ! which teaches us the just distinc- 
 tion between vice and goodness, I have stood up, I have spoken in the 
 cause of Justice. If I have supported my prosecution with a dignity be- 
 fitting its importance, I have spoken as my wishes dictated, if too defi- 
 ciently, as my abilities admitted. Let what has now been offered, and 
 what your own thoughts must supply, be duly weighed, and pronounce 
 such a sentence as justice and the interests of the state demand. 
 
 Demosthenes begiiis modestly, gravely, with winning appeal 
 and deprecation in his tone. But his speech is very long, 
 and we shall not be able to indicate fully the course of it. 
 Let us strike into the midst — at this point, bearing on .^Eschi- 
 nes's conclusion (Mr. Kennedy our translator) : 
 
 But I must, it seems — though not naturally fond of railing, yet on ac- 
 count of the calumnies uttered by my opponent — in reply to so many 
 falsehoods, just mention some leading particulars concerning him, and 
 show who he is, and from whom descended, that so readily begins using 
 hard words — and what language he carps at, after uttering such as any 
 decent man would have shuddered to pronounce. Why, if my accuser 
 had been ^acus, or Rhadamanthus, or Minos, instead of a prater, a hack 
 of the market, a pestilent scribbler, I don't think he would have spoken 
 such things, or found such offensive terms, shouting, as in a tragedy, " O 
 Earth ! O Sun ! O Virtue! " and the like; and again appealing to Intel- 
 ligence and Education, by which the honorable is distinguished from the 
 base — all this you undoubtedly heard from his lips. Accursed one ! 
 What have you or yours to do with virtue? How should you discern 
 what is honorable or otherwise ? How were you ever qualified ? What
 
 Demosthenes i^JEschines). 305 
 
 right have you to talk about education ? Those who really possess it 
 would never say as much of themselves, but rather blush if another did ; 
 those who are destitute like you, but make pretensions to it from stupid- 
 ity, annoy the hearers by their talk, without getting the reputation which 
 they desire. 
 
 Demosthenes then goes into the life and character of 
 ^schines. Whatever strength of instinctive repugnance 
 Demosthenes really felt to indulging in personal abuse, his 
 repugnance he certainly overcame with swimming success. 
 vEschines is treated to a view of himself that he must have 
 needed all his alleged effrontery to face without flinching. 
 On the whole, it is rather depressing — the spectacle here ex- 
 hibited of scurrilous personal epithets bandied between these 
 two cultivated Athenians. The contrast in tone is enormous 
 that separates these two speeches, from the two, for instance, 
 in which Hayne and Webster fought each other in the Sen- 
 ate of the United States. True, the ancient cause debated 
 was, in its essential nature, more personal than the modern. 
 And Christianity is a diffusive moral influence very different 
 from Olympianism. Yet, after just discriminations made, 
 there still is left a great remainder of moral superiority in 
 favor of the American orators, to be credited, we think, to 
 their individual characters. At least this is true for the case 
 of Webster. 
 
 From personal abuse of yEschines, Demosthenes makes an 
 easy transition to a detail of Hellenic history — in which we 
 could not hope greatly to interest our readers. One graphic 
 narrative, however, of his — a famous passage of oratorio de- 
 scription — will be read by every body with pleasure. How 
 the life of Athens is made to live again in the following vivid 
 verbal photograph of the circumstances attending the arrival 
 in the city of news that El'a-te'a, a vital strategic point in the 
 war against Macedon, was taken by Philip ! 
 
 It was evening. A person came with a message to the presidents, 
 that Elatea was taken. They rose from supper immediately, drove off 
 20
 
 3o6 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 the people from their market-stalls, and set fire to the wicker-frames ; 
 others sent for the generals and called the trumpeter ; and the city was 
 full of commotion. The next morning at day-break the presidents sum- 
 moned the Council to their hall, and you went to the Assembly, and be- 
 fore they could introduce or prepare the question, the whole people were 
 up in their seats. When the Council had entered, and the presidents 
 had reported their intelligence and presented the courier, and he had 
 made his statement, the crier asked — "Who wishes to speak?" — and no 
 one came forward. The crier put the question repeatedly — still no man 
 rose, though all the generals were present, and all the orators, and our 
 country with her common voice called for some one to speak and save 
 her — for when the crier raises his voice according to law, it may justly 
 be deemed the common voice of our country. If those who desired the 
 salvation of Athens were the proper parties to come forward, all of you 
 and the other Athenians would have risen and mounted the platform ; 
 for I am sure you all desired her salvation — if those of greatest wealth, 
 the three hundred — if those who were both, friendly to the state and 
 wealthy, the men who afterward gave such ample donations ; for patri- 
 otism and wealth produced the gift. But that occasion, that day, as it 
 seems, called not only for a patriot and a wealthy man, but for one who 
 had closely followed the proceedings from their commencement, and 
 rightly calculated for what object and purpose Philip carried them on. 
 A man who was ignorant of these matters, or had not long and carefully 
 studied them, let him be ever so patriotic or wealthy, would neither see 
 what measures were needful, nor be competent to advise you. 
 
 Well, then, I was the man called for upon that day. I came forward 
 and addressed you. What I said, I beg you for two reasons attentively 
 to hear — first, to be convinced, that of all your orators and statesmen, I 
 alone deserted not the patriot's post in the hour of danger, but was found 
 in the very moment of panic speaking and moving what your necessities 
 required ; secondly, because at the expense of a little time you will gain 
 large experience for the future in all your political concerns. 
 
 I said — 
 
 But what Demosthenes " said " on that former occasion, 
 briefly and admirably summarized now, we omit — explaining 
 simply that he counseled amity and league with Thebes 
 against Philip. The effect and sequel of his speech in this 
 behalf he thus strikingly displays : 
 
 This and more to the like effect I spoke, and left the platform. It 
 \V^as approved by all ; not a word was said against me. Nor did I make
 
 Demosthenes {.^schines). 307 
 
 the speech without moving, nor make the motion without undertaking 
 the embassy, nor undertake the embassy without prevailing on the 
 Thebans. From the beginning to the end I went through it all ; I 
 gave myself entirely to your service, to meet the dangers which encom- 
 passed Athens. 
 
 Quintilian cites the sentence before the last preceding, as 
 an example of climax, and Cicero imitates it in his oration 
 for Milo. We are now within the suck of the rapids in 
 which the oration of Demosthenes hastens on to take pres- 
 ently its sheer leap in the most magnificent cataract of elo- 
 quence in the world. Demosthenes gave his advice ; but 
 the event was not happy, though the advice was wise. Philip 
 conquered, for all the statesmanship and eloquence of Demos- 
 thenes, ^schines had in his speech insisted on the mis- 
 fortune of the event ; Demosthenes now insists on the good 
 faith and soundness of the advice. With fine indignation at 
 ^schines, mute in counsel but blatant in blame, Demosthe- 
 nes protests : " It was the duty of a good citizen, if he had 
 any other plan, to disclose it at the time, not to find fault 
 now." Then follows an extended passage which we shall not 
 find it in our heart either to interrupt or to abridge, and 
 which shall finish what we have here to give, by way of too 
 little adequate exemplification, from Demosthenes. 
 
 A statesman and a pettifogger, while in no other respect are they 
 alike, in this most widely differ. The one declares his opinion before 
 the proceedings, and makes himself responsible to his followers, to fort- 
 une, to the times, to all men ; the other is silent when he ought to 
 speak ; at any untoward event he grumbles. Now, as I said before, the 
 time for a man who regarded the commonwealth, and for honest coun- 
 sel, was then ; however I will go to this extent — if any one now can 
 point out a better course, or indeed if any other was practicable but the 
 one which I adopted, I confess that I was wrong. For if there be any 
 measure now discovered, which (executed then) would have been to our 
 advantage, I say it ought not to have escaped me. Rut if there is 
 none, if there was none, if none can be suggested even at this day, 
 what was a statesman to do? Was he not to choose the best measures
 
 3o8 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 within his reach and view ? That did I, ^schines, when the crier 
 asked, " Who wishes to speak ?" — not, " Who wishes to complain about 
 the past, or to guarantee the future ?" Whilst you on those occasions 
 sat mute in the Assembly, I came forward and spoke. However, as you 
 omitted then, tell us now. Say, what scheme that I ought to have de- 
 vised, what favorable opportunity was lost to the state by my neglect? 
 — what alliance was there, what better plan, to which I should have 
 directed the people ? 
 
 But no ! The past is with all the world given up ; no one even pro- 
 poses to deliberate about it ; the future it is, or the present, which 
 demands the action of a counselor. At the time, as it appeared, there 
 were dangers impending, and dangers at hand. Mark the line of my 
 policy at that crisis ; don't rail at the event The end of all things is 
 what the Deity pleases ; his line of policy it is that shows the judgment 
 of the statesman. Do not, then, impute it as a crime to me that Philip 
 chanced to conquer in battle ; that issue depended not on me, but on 
 God. Prove that I adopted not all measures that, according to human 
 calculation, were feasible — that I did not honestly and diligently, and 
 with exertions beyond my strength, carry them out — or that my enter- 
 - prises were not honorable and worthy of the state, and necessary. Show 
 me this, and accuse me as soon as you like. But if the hurricane that 
 visited us has been too powerful, not for us only, but for all Greece 
 besides, what is the fair course ? As if a merchant, after taking every 
 precaution, and furnishing his vessel with every thing that he thought 
 would insure her safety, because afterward he met with a storm and his 
 tackle was strained or broken to pieces, should be charged with the 
 shipwreck ! "Well, but I was not the pilot," he might say ; just as I 
 was not the general — " Fortune was not under ray control ; all was 
 under hers." 
 
 Consider and reflect upon this, If with the Thebans on our side we 
 were destined so to fare in the contest, what was to be expected, if we 
 had never had them for allies, but they had joined Philip, as he used 
 every effort of persuasion to make them do ? And if, when the battle 
 was fought three days' march from Attica, such peril and alarm sur- 
 rounded the city, what must we have expected, if the same disaster had 
 happened in some part of our territory ? As it was, do you see ? we 
 could stand, meet, breathe ; mightily did one, two, three days help to 
 our preservation ; in the other case — but it is wrong to mention things 
 of which we have been spared the trial by the favor of some deity, and 
 by our protecting ourselves with the very alliance which you assail. 
 
 All this, at such length, have I addressed to you, men of the jury, and
 
 Demosthenes {^schhies). 309 
 
 to the outer circle of hearers ; for as to this contemptible fellow, a short 
 and plain argument would suffice. 
 
 If the future was revealed to you, .(Eschines, alone, when the state 
 was deliberating on these proceedings, you ought to have forewarned us at 
 the time. If you did not foresee it, you are responsible for the same ig- 
 norance as the rest. Why, then, do you accuse me in this behalf, rather 
 than I you ? A better citizen have I been than you in respect of the 
 matters of which I am speaking (others I discuss not at present), inas- 
 much as I gave myself up to what seemed for the general good, not 
 shrinking from any personal danger, nor taking thought of any ; whilst 
 you neither suggested better measures (or mine would not have been 
 adopted), nor lent any aid in the prosecuting of mine ; exactly what the 
 basest person and worst enemy of the state would do, are you found to 
 have done after the event ; and at the same time Aristratus, in Nax'os, 
 and Ar-is-to-la'us, in Tha'sos, llie deadly foes of our state, are bringing 
 to trial t)ie friends of Athens, and /Eschines at Athens is accusing 
 Demosthenes. Surely the man, who waited to found his reputation upon 
 the misfortunes of the Greeks, deserves rather to perisli than to accuse 
 another ; nor is it possible that one who has profited by the same con- 
 junctures as the enemies of the commonwealth, can be a well-wisher of 
 his country. You sliow yourself by your life and conduct, by your polit- 
 ical action, and even your political inaction. Is any thing going on that 
 appears good for the people ? Eschines is mute. Has any thing un- 
 toward happened or amiss? Forth comes ^iLschines — just as fractures 
 and sprains are put in motion when the body is attacked with disease. 
 
 But since he insists so strongly on the event, I will even assert some- 
 thing of a paradox, and I beg and pray of you not to marvel at its bold- 
 ness, but kindly to consider what I say. If, then, the results had been 
 foreknown to all, if all had foreseen them, and you, .^ivschines, had fore- 
 told them and protested with clamor and outcry — you that never opened 
 your mouth — not even then should the commonwealth have abandoned 
 her design, if she had any regard for glory, or ancestry, or futurity. As 
 it is, she appears to have failed in her enterprise, a thing to which all 
 mankind are liable, if the Deity so wills it ; but then — claiming prece- 
 dency over others, and afterward abandoning her pretensions — she would 
 have incurred the charge of betraying all to Philip. Why, had we 
 resigned without a struggle that whicli our ancestors encountered every 
 danger to win, who would not have spit upon you? Let me not say, 
 the commonwealth or myself! With what eyes, I pray, couhl we have 
 beheld strangers visiting the city, if the result had been what it is, and 
 Philip had been chosen leader and lord of all, but oilier people without
 
 lio Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 us had made the struggle to prevent it ; especially when in former times 
 our country had never preferred an ignominious security to the battle for 
 honor ? 
 
 For what Grecian or what barbarian is ignorant, that by the Thebans, 
 or by the Lacedcemonians who were in might before them, or by tlie 
 Persian king, permission would thankfully and gladly have been given 
 to our commonwealth to take what she pleased and hold her own, pro- 
 vided she would accept foreign law and let another power command in 
 Greece? But, as it seems, to the Athenians of that day such conduct 
 would not have been national, or natural, or endurable ; none could at 
 at any period of time persuade the commonwealth to attach herself in 
 secure subjection to the powerful and unjust ; through every age has she 
 persevered in a perilous struggle for precedency and honor and glory. 
 And this you esteem so noble and congenial to your principles, that 
 among your ancestors you honor most those who acted in such a spirit ; 
 and with reason. For who would not admire the virtue of those men 
 who resolutely embarked in their galleys and quitted country and home, 
 rather than receive foreign law, choosing Themistocles who gave such 
 counsel for their general, and stoning Cyr'si-lus to death who advised 
 submission to the terms imposed — not him only, but your wives also 
 stoning his wife ? Yes ; the Athenians of that day looked not for an 
 orator or a general, who might help them to a pleasant servitude ; they 
 scorned to live if it could not be with freedom. For each of them con- 
 sidered that he was not born to his father or mother only, but also to his 
 country. What is the difference ? He that thinks himself born for his 
 parents only, waits for his appointed or natural end : he that thinks 
 himself born for his country also, will sooner perish than behold her in 
 slavery, and will regard the insults and indignities, which must be borne 
 in a commonwealth enslaved, as more terrible than death. 
 
 Had I attempted to say, that I instructed you in sentiments worthy of 
 your ancestors, there is not a man who would not justly rebuke me. 
 What I declare is, that such principles are your own; I show that before 
 my time such was the spirit of the commonwealth ; though certainly in 
 the execution of the particular measures I claim a share also for myself. 
 The prosecutor, arraigning the whole proceedings, and embittering you 
 against me as the cause of our alarms and dangers, in his eagerness to 
 deprive me of honor for the moment, robs you of the eulogies that should 
 endure forever. For should you, under a disbelief in the wisdom of my 
 policy, convict the defendant, you will appear to have done wrong, not 
 to have suffered what befell you by the cruelty of fortune. But never, 
 never can you have done wrong, O Athenians, in undertaking the
 
 Demosthenes i^yEschines^. 311 
 
 battle for the freedom and safety of all ! I swear it by your forefatliers 
 — those that met the peril at Marathon, those that took the field at 
 Platcea, those in the sea-fight at Salamis, and those at Artemisium, ami 
 many other brave men who repose in the public monuments, all of whom 
 alike, as being worthy of the same honor, the country buried, /Eschines, 
 not only the successful or victorious ! Justly ! For the duty of brave 
 men has been done by all, their fortune has been such as the Deity as- 
 signed to each. 
 
 Accursed scribbler ! you, to deprive me of the approbation and affec- 
 tion of my countrymen, speak of trophies and battles and ancient deeds, 
 with none of which had this present trial the least concern. But I ! — O 
 you third-rate actor! — I, that rose to counsel the state how to maintain 
 her pre-eminence ! in what spirit was I to mount the hustings? In the 
 spirit of one having unworthy counsel to offer? I should have deserved 
 to perish ! You yourselves, men of Athens, may not try private and 
 public causes on the same principles ; the compacts of every-day life you 
 are to judge of by particular laws and circumstances, the measures of 
 statesmen, by reference to the dignity of your ancestors. And if you 
 think it your duty to act worthily of them, you should every one of you 
 consider, when you come into court to decide public questions, that to- 
 gether with your staff and ticket, the spirit of the commonwealth is de- 
 livered to you. 
 
 It was after the crowning triumph of his life, his victory 
 over .(Eschines, that Demosthenes, with other Athenian citi- 
 zens, was put on trial for embezzlement of certain funds 
 deposited in Athens by a fugitive satrap of Alexander the 
 Great. The supreme court, the Areopagus, judged Demos- 
 thenes to be guilty. They fined him fifty talents. Demos- 
 thenes would not, or could not, pay the fine, and he went 
 into exile. Alexander meantime died, and wretched Greece 
 made one desperate struggle more, a vain one, against Mace- 
 don, reigned over now by An-tip'a-ter in Alexander's vacant 
 room. Demosthenes — he had previously been recalled from 
 exile — was part of the price for peace in servitude demanded 
 from Athens by the conqueror. The orator lied ; he was 
 pursued; seeking sanctuary in a temple of Poseidon, he 
 there, still ruthlessly hunted, sucked poison from liis pen, 
 and, dying, crawled, with his last strength, out to liis pur-
 
 312 Classic Greek Course in English. 
 
 suers, that h'is dead body might not djlile the fane oi the 
 god. So perished Demosthenes, and with Demosthenes the 
 greatest and the last of the free voices of Athens. But De- 
 mosthenes's voice has sounded more widely and more po- 
 tently far, since it was silenced that day, than ever it sounded 
 from the bema in Athens; and the future is full of its echoes. 
 
 Let it be borne in mind that Demosthenes was nearly 
 enough a contemporary of Plato to be (not improbably) re- 
 ported as one of Plato's pupils, and it will easily be under- 
 stood within how comparatively short a space of time for 
 their production, the chief glories of ancient Greek literature 
 — Homer always excepted — were embraced. Herodotus was 
 the contemporary and friend of Sophocles ; Sophocles was 
 the contemporary of Plato; Plato was possibly the teacher 
 of Demosthenes, and with Demosthenes the cycle of great 
 original Greek literature may be said to have closed. After 
 this came a literature of the decadence, imitative, parasitic — 
 having its seat now at Alexandria, and now at Syracuse. 
 The Greek literary spirit did not die at last, but it made a 
 transmigration. It was first Hellenistic from being Hellenic, 
 and then, partly through the Roman genius, it went indistin- 
 guishably, but vitally, into the various literatures that have 
 flourished in Europe since the era of Christianity. It no doubt 
 will live as long as literature itself shall live. 
 
 Those of our present readers who hold long enough and 
 follow far enough the clew that we put into their hands, will, 
 as they watch the procession of Latin authors made, ia the 
 next volume, to pass before their eyes, seem to recognize not 
 a few familiar forms and faces and voices. Under the dis- 
 guise of other names and of another speech they will still be 
 Greeks — those who are there encountered in the lengthening 
 labyrinth of letters. Along these mazy paths by eminence it 
 is, that, starting from its ancient haunt in Athens, 
 
 Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
 
 I N DKX. 
 
 Ach'e-ron, a river of the lower world, 291. 
 
 A'cis, a river of Sicily, 2S6. 
 
 A-do'nis, beloved by Venus, and by her, 
 after his death from a wound received in 
 hunting a wild boar, changed into a flow- 
 er. She mourned him yearly on the an- 
 niversary of his death, 283, 284, 291, 292. 
 
 /Eg'i-lus, an Attic deme (township), 287. 
 
 ^S'CHI-NES, (B.C. 389-314), 13, 292,^. 
 
 iES'CHY-LUS(B. C. 525-456), 12,202-221. 
 
 Ag-la'i-a (brightness, splendor), one of the 
 three Graces, 276. 
 
 Al-ci-bi'a-des (B. C. 450-404), 168, 183, 186. 
 
 Al-ex-an'der the Great (B. C. 356-323), 
 299, 302, 311. 
 
 A-na'pus, a river of Sicily, 286. 
 
 Ar-e-thu'sa, fountain near Syracuse, 284, 
 285, 2S7. 
 
 AR-IS-TOPH'A-NES (B. C. 444 ?-38o?)i 
 183, 267-273. 
 
 Ar'is-toi-le (B. C. 384-322), 13, 174. 
 
 Ar'nold, Matthew (i 822-1888), 82, 288,^. 
 
 As-cle'pi-an, adj. from As-c!e'pi-os (JEs- 
 culapius), 261. 
 
 Banks, Rev. J., 284. 
 
 Bent'ley, Richard (1662-1742), 78. 
 
 BI'ON, 282,^^. 
 
 Bowles, William Lisle (i 762-1850), 282. 
 
 Bro'mi-us (the noisy one), a surname of 
 
 Bacchus, from the tumult attending his 
 
 festivals, 275. 
 Browning, Robert (1812-1890), 246,,^. 
 Browning, Mrs. (1809-1861), 55, 207,_^. 
 Bryant, William CuUen (1794-1878), 50-89, 
 
 /ref. 
 Butcher, S. H. (living), 121. 
 
 Cal-li'o-pe, muse of epic poetry, 284. 
 Cal'ver-ly, C. S. (d. 1884), 286,^. 
 Camp'bell, Lewis (living), 222, J/^. 
 Gary, Rev. H. F. (1772-1844), 276, 277. 
 Chapman, George (i557-'634). 93- 
 Chapman, J. .M., 283. 
 
 Chrys'os-tom (347-407), 13. 
 Ci'ce-ro (B. C. 106-43), 182, 307. 
 Co-cy'tus. a river of the lower world, 255. 
 Coleridge, H. N. (1800-1843), 275,280. 
 Col'lins, W. Lucas (living), 271. 
 Cor-in'na, 274. 
 
 Cow'ley, .■\braham (1618-1667), 274. 
 Cow'per, William (1731-1800), 49, 50, 51, 61, 
 
 62, 77^79. 93- 
 Cy'pris (Aph-ro-di'te) (V'^enus), 283, 284, 
 
 291, 292. 
 Cyth-e-re'a (,\phrodite) (Venus), 283. 
 
 DE-MOS'THE-NES(B.C.38s?-322), 13. 
 
 292-312. 
 Di-og'(oj)e-nes La-er'tius (fl. about 210 
 A. D.), 16, 182. 
 
 Er-i-bo'as (loud-shouting, riotous, of Bac- 
 chus), 275. 
 
 E'ros, god of love, 285. 
 
 Eu-phros'y-ne (cheerfulness, mirth), one of 
 the three Graces, 276. 
 
 EU-RIP'I-DES (B.C. 480-406), 12, 246-266. 
 
 Eu-ryd'i-ce, wife of Orpheus, who visited 
 the lower world to bring her back after 
 her death, 285. 
 
 F6n'6-lon (1651-1715), 124. 
 Foster, John (1770-1843), 78. 
 Frere, J. H. (1769-1846), 269. 
 
 Grote, George (1794-1871), 16, 58, 59, 295. 
 
 H.-iw'thorne, Nathaniel (1804-1864), iiS. 
 Hayne, R. V. (1791-1840), 293, 305. 
 HE-ROD'O-TUS (B. C. 484?-42o?), 12, 
 
 124-151, 175. 
 He'si-od (11. 800? B. C), 12. 
 Hig'ginson, T. W. (living), 280. 
 HO'MER (fl. about 1000 B. C), 12, 13, 44- 
 
 124, 125. 
 
 Ic'a-rus, a son of Dacd'a-Ius, who on hi« 
 flight from Crete fell into the A".-gc'aii 
 Sea, 274. 
 
 I-soc'ra-tcs (B. C. 436-338), 13.
 
 314 
 
 Index. 
 
 Jebb, R. C. (living), 90-93. 
 Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784), 1S7. 
 Jow'ett, B. (1817 ), 154.^- 
 
 Lang, Andrew (living), 121. 
 
 Lap'i-thae, Thessalians famous for their 
 combat with the Centaurs, a race of creat- 
 ures half horse, half human, 292. 
 
 Lat-o'na, mother of Apollo and Diana, 27S. 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham (1809-1865), 165. 
 
 Lon-gi'nus (2137-273), 13. 
 
 Louis XIV. (1638-1715), 113, 129. 
 
 Lu'cian (i2d?-2oo?), 221. 
 
 Ma-cau'lay, Lord (1800-1859!, 12, 15, 126. 
 
 Mason, Miss (living"), 194, 198. 
 
 Me'les, Ionian river, near Smyrna, where 
 
 Homer, thence called Mel-e-sig'e-nes, is 
 
 said to have been bom, 284. 
 Milton, John (1608-1674), 47, 55, 61, 71, 74, 
 
 83, 84, 93, H2, 118, 203, 224, 263, 283. 
 Min'yans, a race of nobles in Orchomenus, 
 
 276. 
 MOS'CHUS (3d century H. C), i%2.,ff. 
 
 Ne'me-a, town and river, 275. 
 North, Christopher (John Wilson) (1785- 
 1854), 221. 
 
 Or-chom'e-nus, a city in BcE-o'tia, 276. 
 
 Palmer, G. H. (living), 118. 
 
 Per'i-cles (B. C. 495?-42q), 13, t6o. f., 182. 
 
 Phal'a-ris, a tyrant of Ag-ri-gen'tum, who 
 was himself burned by his indignant peo- 
 ple in a brazen bull made at his order for 
 burning his victims, 279. 
 
 PIN'DAR (B. C. 522?-440?), 12, 274-282. 
 
 PLA'TO (B. C. 429?-34S ?), ", i5. 44, 173" 
 
 202. 
 Plu'tarch {49?-T2o?), 1C8. 
 Pope, Alexander (16S8-1744), 51-57, 7^, 85, 
 
 93- 
 
 Potter, R. (1721-1804), 250, 254, 261, 264. 
 
 Proser'pine, Anglicised form for Latin Pro- 
 ser'pi-na (T^atinized form for Greek Per- 
 seph'o-ne). Differently pronounced by 
 different poets. Milton, Pro-ser'pine ; 
 
 others Pros'er-pine. Queen of the lower 
 world, 285, 291. 
 
 Quin-til'lan (42?-ii8?), 307. 
 
 Raw'lin-son, George (living), 128, 141. 
 Raw'lin-son, Sir Henry (living), 128. 
 
 SAPPHO (Saf'o), (fl. 600? B. C), 12, 280. 
 
 281. 
 Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832), 82. 
 Shelley, P. B. (1792-1822), 207, 271, 283. 
 SI-MON'I-DES (B. C. S56?-467), 281, 282. 
 SOPH'O-CLES (B. C. 495 ?-4o6 ?), 12, 221- 
 
 246. 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles (living), 99, 
 
 264. 268. 
 
 Tac'i-tus (5S?-ii8?), 17. 
 
 Ten'nyson, Lord (living), 63, 64, 66, 84, 
 
 91, 112, 116, 274. 
 Tha-li'a (the blooming one), one of the 
 
 three Graces, also later, muse of comedy 
 
 and of lyric poetry, 276. 
 The-mis'to-cles, 145, 148,149, 150. 
 THE-OC'RITUS (11. 270?), 12. 282-292. 
 Thomson, James (1700-1748), 78. 
 THU-CYD'IDES (B. C. 47i?-4oo?), xa, 
 
 '2S, 127, 151, 173- 
 Tl'tian (tish'an) (1477-157^)- 221. 
 Ty'phon, a giant struck by Jupiter with 
 
 lightning and buried under Mt. ^tna, 
 
 2131 214, 278- 
 
 Virgil, 68, 115, 117, 121. 
 
 Webster, Daniel (1782-1852), 85, 293, 305. 
 Whitelaw, Robert, 236, 243. 
 Whitman, Walt (1819-1892), 99. 
 Wilde, Oscar (living), 99. 
 Wilkinson, Sir J. G. (1797-1875). 128. 
 Wordsworth (1770-1850), 78. 281. 
 Worsley, Philip Stanhope (d. 1866), 94- 
 w'&^freq. 
 
 XEN'O-PHON (B. C. 445?-355?). '2, 
 
 13-44- 
 Xerxes (Zerx'es) (d. 465 B. C), 128, 144- 
 
 150. 156,
 
 TliE EpiE nf ShuL 
 
 By William Cleaver Wilkinson. 
 
 Large 12mo, Pica Type, Gilt Top, 3S6 Pages, 
 
 The Independent^ under the heading, "A Stately Poem," says : " It is a 
 poem cast in a large mold and finished with deliberate care. . . . We 
 might well add that an evenness of register, giving a sense of power (if not 
 of a master, still lofty) sustained with ease, runs entirely through the work. 
 ... A reverential spirit pervades the pages ; but the subject is handled 
 with boldness amounting at times almost to absolute independence. . . . 
 We predict that it will find a host of appreciative and even enthusiastic 
 readers — a host by no means entirely composed of religious people strictly 
 so called. " 
 
 The (London) Spectator says : " Decidedly impressive and attractive. 
 . . . One never wants to lay the book down, and reads it through with in- 
 creasing, rather than flagging, interest." 
 
 The Examiner {"Seiw' York) says: "We venture no prediction regard- 
 ing the ultimate rank of this epic in English literature. ... In the mean- 
 time, it is allowable for one to express a modest conviction that this is a 
 great poem, and to give reasons for the faith that is in him. 
 
 " In form it is admirable. Dr. Wilkinson's verse is of the Miltonic 
 type, rather than the Tennysonian ; strong, varied, harmonious rather than 
 melodic. For an idyll, the Tennysonian verse is excellently suited, but 
 for an epic the stronger verse is indispensable. . . . The handling of the 
 theme suggests Browning, rather than Milton. There is no conscious imi- 
 tation in either case, and in the case of Browning, at least, not even an un- 
 conscious imitation, for Dr. Wilkinson is well known to be no lirown- 
 ingite. ... It is the history of a soul that we have here — a great, heroic 
 soul — a history that authenticates itself as true. . . . The history ... is 
 told with great psychologic and moral insight. The theme is such that a 
 stately and Latinized style fits it like a glove." 
 
 The late Dr. Howard Crosby says : " It seems to me that the book will 
 secure the claim of Professor Wilkinson in the front rank of poets." 
 
 Bishop L II. Vincent says: "It is a poem to be read and re-read — a 
 poem that will live a century hence." 
 
 The IVestern Recorder says: "The Epic of Saul , . . shows that the 
 days of epic poetry are not past. . . . Dr. Wilkinson shows that he is en- 
 titled to a place in the front rank of the world's poets." 
 
 The Chiistian At Work says: "The poem is in fact a masterpiece of 
 literary achievement, and one that is going to stand the test of time." 
 
 Professor II. H. Boyesen says: "I am much impressed with the noble 
 simplicity of language and the elevation of thought in Dr. Wilkinson's 
 Epic of Saul." 
 
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