But throughout the streets of Ilion there was hurrying and shouting of armed men, and terror and cries of women and children; for the hosts of the Achaians were come to take vengeance for the wrongs of Menelaus. Yet Paris heeded not the prayers of his brethren, that he should send back Helen; so she tarried by his side in his gilded chambers, and he went not forth to the battle, till all men reviled him for his evil love, because he had forsaken the fair Oenone.

So for Paris fell the mighty Hector; for him died the brave Sarpedon; and the women of Ilion mourned for their husbands who were smitten down by the Achaian warriors. Fiercer and fiercer grew the strife, for Here and Athene fought against the men of Troy, and no help came from the laughter-loving Aphrodite.

Many times the years went round, while yet the Achaians strove to take the city of Priam, till at last for very shame Paris took from the wall his spear and shield, and went forth to the battle, but the strength of his heart and of his arm was gone, and he trembled at the fierce war-cries, as a child trembles at the roaring of the storm. Then before the walls of Ilion there was fiercer strife, and the bodies of the slain lay in heaps upon the battle plain. Faint and weary, the people of Priam were shut up within the walls, until the Achaians burst into the gates and gave the city to sword and flame. Then the cry of men and women went up to the high heaven, and the blood ran in streams upon the ground. With a mighty blaze rose up the flames of the burning city, and the dream of Paris was ended.

Fast he fled from the wrath of Menelaus, and he cared not to look back on the Argive Helen or the slaughter of his kinsfolk and his people. But the arrow of Philoctetes came hissing through the air, and the barb was fixed in the side of Paris. Hastily he drew it from the wound, but the weapons of Herakles failed not to do their work, and the poison sped through his burning veins. Onwards he hastened to the pine forests of Ida, but his limbs trembled beneath him, and he sank down as he drew nigh to the grassy bank where he had tended his flocks in the former days. "Ah, Oenone," he said, "the evil dream is over, and thy voice comes back to mine ear, soft and loving as when I wooed and won thee among the dells of Ida. Thou hearest me not, Oenone, or else I know that, forgiving all the wrong, thou wouldst hasten to help me."

And even as he spoke Oenone stood before him, fair and beautiful as in the days that were past. The glory as of the pure evening time was shed upon her face, and her eye glistened with the light of an undying love. Then she laid her hand upon him and said, gently, "Dost thou know me, Paris? I am the same Oenone whom thou didst woo in the dells of woody Ida. My grief hath not changed me, but thou art not the same, O Paris, for thy love hath wandered far away, and thou hast yielded thyself long to an evil dream." But Paris said, "I have wronged thee, Oenone, fairest and sweetest, and what may atone for the wrong? The fire burns in my veins, my head reels, and mine eye is dim; look but upon me once, that thinking on our ancient love, I may fall asleep and die."

Then Oenone knelt by the side of Paris, and saw the wound which the arrow of Philoctetes had made; but soon she knew that neither gods nor men could stay the poison with which Herakles had steeped his mighty weapons. There she knelt, but Paris spoke not more. The coldness of death passed over him as Oenone looked down upon his face and thought of the days when they lived and loved amid the dells of Ida.

Long time she knelt by his side, until the stars looked forth in the sky. Then Oenone said, "O Eris, well hast thou worked thy will, and well hath Aphrodite done thy bidding. O Paris, we have loved and suffered, but I never did thee wrong, and now I follow thee to the dark land of Hades."

Presently the flame shot up to heaven from the funeral pile of Paris, and Oenone lay down to rest on the fiery couch by his side.

ACHILLES.

Nine years the Achaians had fought against Ilion to avenge the wrongs and woes of Helen, and still the war went on, and only the words of Kalchas, which he spoke long ago in Aulis, cheered them with the hope that the day of vengeance was near at hand. For strife had arisen between the King, Agamemnon, and the mighty son of Peleus, and it seemed to the men of Argos that all their toil must be for naught. In fierce anger Achilles vowed a vow that he would go forth no more to the battle, and he sat in sullen silence within his tent, or wandered gloomily along the sea-shore. With fresh courage the hosts of the Trojans poured out from their walls when they knew that Achilles fought no more on the side of the Achaians, and the chieftains sought in vain for his help when the battle went against them. Then the face of the war was changed, for the men of Ilion came forth from their city, and shut up the Achaians within their camp, and fought fiercely to take the ships. Many a chief and warrior was smitten down, and still Achilles sat within his tent, nursing his great wrath, and reviling all who came before him with gifts and prayers.

But dearer than all others to the child of the sea-nymph, Thetis, was Patroclus, the son of Menoetius, and the heart of Achilles was touched with pity when he saw the tears stream down his face, and he said, "Dear friend, tell me thy grief, and hide nothing from me. Hast thou evil tidings from our home at Phthia, or weepest thou for the troubles which vex us here?" Then Patroclus spoke out boldly, and said, "Be not angry at my words, Achilles. The strength of the Argives is wasted away, and the mightiest of their chieftains lie wounded or dead around their ships. They call thee the child of Peleus and of Thetis, but men will say that thou art sprung from the rugged rocks and the barren sea, if thou seest thy people undone and liftest not an arm to help them." Then Achilles answered, "My friend, the vow is on me, and I can not go, but put thou on my armor and go forth to the battle. Only take heed to my words, and go not in my chariot against the City of Ilion. Drive our enemies from the ships, and let them fight in the plain, and then do thou come back to my tent."

Then the hearts of the Achaians were cheered, for next to Achilles there was not in all the host a warrior more brave and mighty than Patroclus. At his word the Myrmidons started up from their long rest, and hastily snatched their arms to follow him to the battle. Presently Patroclus came forth. The glistening helmet of Achilles was on his head, and his armor was girt around his body. Only he bore not his mighty spear, for no mortal man might wield that spear in battle but Achilles. Before the tent stood the chariot, and harnessed to it were the horses, Xanthos and Balios, who grow not old nor die.

So Patroclus departed for the fight, and Achilles went into his tent, and as he poured out the dark wine from a golden goblet, he prayed to Zeus, and said, "O thou that dwellest far away in Dodona, where the Selloi do thy bidding and proclaim thy will, give strength and victory to Patroclus, my friend. Let him drive the men of Ilion from the ships and come back safe to me after the battle." But Zeus heard the prayer in part only, for the doom was that Achilles should see Patroclus alive no more.

Then the hosts of the Trojans trembled as Patroclus drew nigh on the chariot of Achilles, and none dared to go forth against him. Onward sped the undying horses, and wherever they went the ground was red with the blood of the Trojans who were smitten down by his spear. Then Sarpedon, the great chief of the Lykians, spake to Glaucus, and said, "O friend, I must go forth and do battle with Patroclus. The people fall beneath his sword, and it is not fit that the chieftains should be backward in the strife." But the doom of Sarpedon was sealed, and presently his body lay lifeless on the ground, while the men of Argos and of Ilion fought for his glittering arms.

Then the doom came on Patroclus also, for Phoebus Apollo fought against him in the battle, and in the dust was rolled the helmet which no enemy had touched when it rested on the head of Achilles. Before him flashed the spear of Hector, as he said, "The hour of thy death is come, Patroclus, and the aid of Achilles can not reach thee now." But Patroclus said only, "It is thy time for boasting now; wait yet a little while, and the sword of Achilles shall drink thy life-blood."

So Patroclus died, and there was a fierce fight over his body, and many fell on both sides, until there was a great heap of dead around it. But away from the fight, the horses Xanthos and Balios wept for their charioteer, and they would not stir with the chariot, but stood fixed firm as pillars on the ground, till Zeus looked down in pity on them, and said, "Was it for this that I gave you to Peleus, the chieftain of Phthia—horses who can not grow old or die, to a mortal man, the most wretched thing that crawls upon the earth? But fear not; no enemy shall lay hands on the chariot of Achilles, or on the immortal horses which bear it. Your limbs shall be filled with new strength, and ye shall fly like birds across the battle-field till ye come to the tent of your master." Then the horses wept no more, but swift as eagles they bore Automedon through the fight, while Hector and his people strove fiercely to seize them. At last the battle was over, and, while the Achaians bore the body of Patroclus to the ships, Antilochus, the son of Nestor, went to the tent of Achilles, and said, "Thy friend is slain, and Hector has his armor."

Then the dark cloud of woe fell on the soul of Achilles. In a fierce grief he threw earth with both hands into the air, and rent his clothes, and lay down weeping in the dust. Far away in her coral caves beneath the sea Thetis heard the deep groans of her child, and, like a white mist, she rose from the waters and went to comfort him; and she said, "Why weepest thou, my son? When Agamemnon did thee wrong, thou didst pray that the Achaians might sorely need thy aid in the battle, and thy wish has been accomplished. So may it be again." But Achilles answered, "Of what profit is it to me, my mother, that my prayer has been heard, since Patroclus, my friend, is slain, and Hector has my armor? One thing only remains to me now. I will slay Hector and avenge the slaughter of Patroclus." Then the tears ran down the cheeks of Thetis as she said, "Then is thine own doom accomplished, for when thou slayest Hector, thou hast not many days to live," "So then let it be," said Achilles; "the mighty Herakles tasted of death; therefore let me die also, so only Hector dies before me."

Then Thetis sought no more to turn him from his purpose, but she went to the house of Hephaistos to get armor for her child in place of that which Hector had taken from Patroclus. And Achilles vowed a vow that twelve sons of the Trojans should be slain at the grave of his friend, and that Hector should die before the funeral rites were done. Then Agamemnon sent him gifts, and spake kindly words, so that the strife between them might end, and Achilles now go forth to fight for the Achaians. So, in the armor which Hephaistos had wrought at the prayer of Thetis, he mounted his chariot, and bade his horses bring him back safe from the battle-field. Then the horse Xanthos bowed his head, and the long tresses of his mane flowed down to the earth as he made answer, "We will in very truth save thee, O mighty Achilles; but thy doom is near at hand, and the fault rests not with us now, or when we left Patroclus dead on the battle-field, for Phoebus Apollo slew him and gave the glory and the arms to Hector." And Achilles said, "Why speak to me of evil omens? I know that I shall see my father and my mother again no more; but if I must die in a strange land, I will first take my fill of vengeance."

Then the war-cry of Achilles was heard again, and a mighty life was poured into the hearts of the Achaians, as they seized their arms at the sound. Thick as withering leaves in autumn fell the Trojans beneath his unerring spear. Chief after chief was smitten down, until their hosts fell in terror within the walls of Ilion. Only Hector awaited his coming, but the shadow of death was stealing over him, for Phoebus Apollo had forsaken the great champion of Troy because Zeus so willed it. So in the strife the strength of Hector failed, and he sank down on the earth. The foot of Achilles rested on his breast, and the spear's point was on his neck, while Hector said, "Slay me if thou wilt, but give back my body to my people. Let not the beasts of the field devour it, and rich gifts shall be thine from my father and my mother for this kindly deed." But the eyes of Achilles flashed with a deadly hatred, as he answered, "Were Priam to give me thy weight in gold, it should not save thy carcass from the birds and dogs." And Hector said, "I thought not to persuade thee, for thy heart is made of iron, but see that thou pay not the penalty for thy deed on the day when Paris and Phoebus Apollo shall slay thee at the Scaean gates of Ilion." Then the life-blood of Hector reddened the ground as Achilles said, "Die, wretch! My fate I will meet in the hour when it may please the undying gods to send it."

But not yet was the vengeance of Achilles accomplished. At his feet lay Hector dead, but the rage in his heart was fierce as ever, and he tied the body to his chariot and dragged it furiously, till none who looked on it could say, "This was the brave and noble Hector." But things more fearful still came afterwards, for the funeral rites were done to Patroclus, and twelve sons of the Trojans were slain in the mighty sacrifice. Still the body of Hector lay on the ground, and the men of Ilion sought in vain to redeem it from Achilles. But Phoebus Apollo came down to guard it, and he spread over it his golden shield to keep away all unseemly things. At last the King, Priam, mounted his chariot, for he said, "Surely he will not scorn the prayer of a father when he begs the body of his son." Then Zeus sent Hermes to guide the old man to the tent of Achilles, so that none others of the Achaians might see him. Then he stood before the man who had slain his son, and he kissed his hands, and said, "Hear my prayer, Achilles. Thy father is an old man like me, but he hopes one day to see thee come back with great glory from Ilion. My sons are dead, and none had braver sons in Troy than I; and Hector, the flower and pride of all, has been smitten by thy spear. Fear the gods, Achilles, and pity me for the remembrance of thy father, for none has ever dared like me to kiss the hand of the man who has slain his son." So Priam wept for his dear child, Hector, and the tears flowed down the cheeks of Achilles as he thought of his father, Peleus, and his friend, Patroclus, and the cry of their mourning went up together.

So the body of Hector was borne back to Ilion, and a great sacrifice was done to the gods beneath the earth, that Hector might be welcomed in the kingdom of Hades and Persephone. But the time drew nigh that the doom of Achilles must be accomplished, and the spear of Phoebus Apollo pierced his heart as they fought near the Scaean gates of Ilion. In the dust lay the body of Achilles, while the Achaians fought the whole day around it, till a mighty storm burst forth from the heaven. Then they carried it away to the ships, and placed it on a couch, and washed it in pure water. And once more from her coral caves beneath the sea rose the silver-footed Thetis, and the cry of the nymphs who followed her filled the air, so that the Achaians who heard it trembled, and would have fled to the ships, but Nestor, the wise chief of the Pylians, said, "Flee not, ye Argives, for those come to mourn for the dead Achilles." So Thetis stood weeping by the body of her child, and the nymphs wrapped it in shining robes. Many days and nights they wept and watched around it, until at last they raised a great pile of wood on the sea-shore, and the flame went up to heaven. Then they gathered up the ashes, and placed them, with the ashes of Patroclus, in a golden urn which Hephaistos wrought and gave to Dionysus, and over it they raised a great cairn on the shore of the Sea of Helle, that men might see it afar off as they sailed on the broad waters.

THE VENGEANCE OF ODYSSEUS.

A fair breeze filled the sail of the Phaeakian ship in which Odysseus lay asleep as in the dreamless slumber of the dead. The wild music of the waves rose on the air as the bark sped on its glistening pathway, but their murmur reached not the ear of the wanderer, for the spell of Athene was upon him, and all his cares and griefs were for a little while forgotten.

The dawn light was stealing across the eastern sky when the good ship rode into the haven of the sea-god, Phorkys, and rested without anchor or cable beneath the rocks which keep off the breath of the harsh winds. At the head of the little bay a broad-leaved olive tree spread its branches in front of a cave where the sea nymphs wove their beautiful purple robes. Gently the sailors raised Odysseus in their arms; gently they bore him from the ship, and placed him on the land with the gifts which Alkinous and Arete and Naosikaa had given to him when he set off to go to Ithaka. So the Phaeakians went away, and Odysseus rested once more in his own land. But when he awoke from his sleep, he knew not where he was, for Athene had spread a mist on land and sea. The haven, the rocks, the trees, the pathways wore a strange look in the dim and gloomy light; but while Odysseus yet pondered where he should stow away the gifts lest thieves should find them, there stood before him a glorious form, and he heard a voice, which said, "Dost thou not know me, Odysseus? I am Pallas Athene, who have stood by thy side to guard thee in all thy wanderings and deliver thee from all thy enemies. And now that thou standest again on thine own land of Ithaka, I have come to thee once more, to bid thee make ready for the great vengeance, and to bear with patience all that may befall thee until the hour be come." But Odysseus could scarcely believe that he was in Ithaka, even though it was Athene who spake to him, until she scattered the mist and showed him the fair haven with its broad-spreading olive trees, and the home of the sea nymphs, and the old hill of Neritos with its wooded sides.



Then they placed the gifts of the Phaeakians in the cave hard by the stream of living waters which flowed through it to the sea, and Athene touched him with a staff, and all the beauty of his form was gone. His face became seamed with wrinkles, his flashing eyes grew dim, and the golden locks vanished from his shoulders. His glistening raiment turned to noisome rags, as Athene put a beggar's wallet on his shoulder and placed a walking staff in his hand, and showed him the path which led to the house of the swineherd Eumaius.

So Odysseus went his way, but when he entered the court-yard of Eumaius in his tattered raiment, the dogs flew at him with loud barkings, until the swineherd drove them away, and led the stranger into his dwelling, where he placed a shaggy goat-skin for him to lie on. "Thou hast welcomed me kindly," said Odysseus, "the gods grant thee in return thy heart's desire." Then Eumaius answered sadly, "My friend, I may not despise a stranger though he be even poorer and meaner than myself, for it is Zeus who sends to us the poor man and the beggar. Little indeed have I to give, for so it is with bondmen when the young chiefs lord it in the land. But he is far away who loved me well and gave me all my substance. I would that the whole kindred of Helen had been uprooted from the earth, for it was for her sake that my master went to fight with the Trojans at Ilion."

Then Eumaius placed meat and wine before him. "It is but a homely meal," he said, "and a poor draught, but the chiefs who throng about my master's wife eat all the fat of the land. A brave life they have of it, for rich were the treasures which my master left in his house when he went to take vengeance for the wrongs of Helen." "Tell me thy master's name, friend," said the stranger. "If he was indeed so rich and great, I may perhaps be able to tell you something about him, for I have been a wanderer in many lands." "Why, what would be the use?" answered the swineherd. "Many a vagabond comes here with trumped-up tales to my master's wife, who listens to them greedily, hoping against hope. No, he must long ago have died; but we love Odysseus still, and we call him our friend, though he is very far away." "Nay, but thou art wrong this time," said the stranger, "for I do know Odysseus, and I swear to thee that the sun shall not finish his journey through the heavens before thy lord returns." But Eumaius shook his head. "I have nothing to give you for your news. Sure I am that Odysseus will not come back. Say no more about him, for my heart is pained when any make me call to mind the friend whom I have lost. But what is your name, friend, and whence do you come?"

Then Odysseus was afraid to reveal himself, so he told him a long story how he had come from Crete, and been made a slave in Egypt, how after many years Phoinix had led him to the purple land, how Pheidon, the chief of the Thesprotians, had showed him the treasures of Odysseus, and how at last he had fallen into the hands of robbers, who had clothed him in beggarly rags and left him on the shore of Ithaka. But still Eumaius would not believe. "I can not trust your tale, my friend, when you tell me that Odysseus has sojourned in the Thesprotian land. I have had enough of such news since an AEolian came and told me that he had seen him in Crete with Idomeneus, mending the ships which had been hurt by a storm, and that he would come again to his home before that summer was ended. Many a year has passed since, and if I welcome you still, it is not for your false tidings about my master." "Well," said Odysseus, "I will make a covenant with you. If he returns this year, you shall clothe me in sound garments and send me home to Doulichion, if he does not, bid thy men hurl me from the cliffs, that beggars may learn not to tell lies." "Nay, how can I do that," said Eumaius, "when you have eaten bread in my house? Would Zeus ever hear my prayer again? Tell me no more false tales, and let us talk together as friends."

Meanwhile Telemachus was far away in Sparta, whither he had gone to seek his father, Odysseus, if haply he might find him; and one night as he lay sleepless on his couch, Athene stood before him and warned him to hasten home. "The suitors are eating up thy substance, and they lie in wait that they may slay thee before the ship reaches Ithaka; but the gods who guard thee will deliver thee from them, and when thou comest to the land, go straightway to the house of Eumaius."

Then in the morning Telemachus bade farewell to Menelaus, and the fair-haired Helen placed in his hands a beautiful robe which her own fingers had wrought. "Take it," she said, "as a memorial of Helen, and give it to thy bride when thy marriage day has come." So they set off from Sparta, and came to Pylos, and there, as Telemachus offered sacrifice, the wise seer Theoklymenus stood by his side, and asked him of his name and race, and when he knew that he was the son of Odysseus he besought Telemachus to take him with him to the ship, for he had slain a man in Argos and he was flying from the avenger of blood. So Theoklymenus, the seer, came with Telemachus to Ithaka.

Then again Odysseus made trial of the friendship of Eumaius, and when the meal was over, he said, "To-morrow, early in the morning, I must go to the house of Odysseus. Therefore, let some one guide me thither. It may be that Penelope will listen to my tidings, and that the suitors will give alms to the old man. For I can serve well, my friends, and none can light a fire and heap on wood, or hand a winecup, more deftly than myself." But Eumaius was angry, and said sharply, "Why not tarry here? You annoy neither me nor my friends, and when Odysseus comes home, be sure he will give you coat and cloak and all else that you may need." And the beggar said, "God reward thee, good friend, for succoring the stranger," and he asked him if the father and mother of Odysseus were yet alive. Then Eumaius told him how his mother had pined away and died after Odysseus went to Ilion, and how Laertes lingered on in a wretched and squalid old age.

But the ship of Telemachus had now reached the land, and he sent some of his men to tell Penelope that her son was come back, while he himself went to the house of Eumaius. Glad indeed was the swineherd to see him, for he had not thought to look upon his face again. And Telemachus said, "Is my mother yet in her home, or has she wedded another, and is the bridal couch of Odysseus covered with the webs of spiders?" "Nay, she is still in her home," said Eumaius; "but night and day she sheds bitter tears in her grievous sorrow." Then Telemachus spied the beggar; and when he learned his story from Eumaius, he was troubled. "What can we do with him? Shall I give him a cloak and a sword and send him away? I am afraid to take him to my father's house, for the suitors may flout and jeer him." Then the beggar put in his word: "Truly these suitors meet us at every turn. How comes it all about? Do you yield to them of your own free will, or do the people hate you, or have you a quarrel with your kinsfolk? If these withered arms of mine had but the strength of their youth, soon should some of these suitors smart for their misdeeds; and if their numbers were too great for me to deal with, better so to die than see them thus devour the land." "Nay, friend, your guesses are wrong," said Telemachus. "The people do not hate me, and I have no feud with my kindred; but these suitors have swarmed in upon us like bees from all the country round about."

Presently Eumaius rose up to go with tidings to Penelope, and when he was gone a glorious form stood before the door, but the eyes only of Odysseus saw her, and he knew that it was Pallas Athene. "The time is come," she said; "show thyself to Telemachus and make ready with him for the great vengeance." Then Athene passed her golden staff over his body, and straightway his tattered raiment became a white and glistening robe. Once more the hue of youth came back to his cheek and the golden locks flowed down over his shoulders, so that Telemachus marveled, and said, "Who art thou, stranger, that thou lookest like one of the bright gods? But now thy garment was torn, and thy hands shook with age." "Nay, I am no god," answered the man of many toils and sorrows, "I am thy father." Then Odysseus kissed his son, and the tears ran down his cheek, but Telemachus would not believe. "Men change not thus," he said, "from age to youth, from squalor and weakness to strength and splendor." "It is the work of Athene," said the stranger, "who can make all things fresh and fair, and if I be not Odysseus, none other will ever come to Ithaka." Then Telemachus put his arms around his father and wept, and the cry of their weeping went up together, and Odysseus said, "The time for vengeance draws nigh. How many are these suitors?" "They may be told by scores," said Telemachus, "and what are two against so many?" "They are enough," answered Odysseus, "if only Zeus and Athene be on their side."

Then Telemachus went to the house of Odysseus, where the suitors were greatly cast down because their messengers had not been able to kill him. And Penelope came forth from her chamber, beautiful as Artemis and Aphrodite, and she kissed her son, who told her how he had journeyed to Sparta, seeking in vain for his father. But Theoklymenus, the seer, put in a word, and said, "Odysseus is now in Ithaka, and is making ready for the day of the great vengeance."

Presently Eumaius went back to his house, and there he found the beggar, for Odysseus had laid aside his glistening robe and the glory of youth had faded away again from his face. So they went to the city together, and sat by the beautiful fountain, whither the people came to draw water, and Melanthius, the goatherd, as he drove the flock for the suitors, spied them out and reviled them. "Thieves love thieves, they say; where hast thou found this vagabond, friend swineherd?" and he pushed Odysseus with his heel. Then Odysseus was wroth, and would have slain him, but he restrained himself, and Eumaius prayed aloud to the nymphs that they would bring his master home. And Melanthius said, "Pray on, as thou wilt, but Telemachus shall soon lie low, for Odysseus shall see Ithaka no more." Then he drove the goats onwards to the house of Odysseus, and Eumaius and the beggar followed him, and as they communed by the way, the swineherd bade him go first into the house, lest any finding him without might jeer or hurt him. But the beggar would not. "Many a hard buffet have I had by land and by sea," he said, "and I am not soon cast down." Soon they stood before the door, and a dog worn with age strove to rise and welcome him, but his strength was gone, and Odysseus wept when he saw his hound, Argos, in such evil plight. Then, turning to Eumaius, he said, "The hound is comely in shape. Was he swift and strong in his youth?" "Never anything escaped him in the chase; but there are none to care for him now." It mattered not, for the twenty long years had come to an end, and when Argos had once more seen his master, he sank down upon the straw and died.

Then Odysseus passed into his house, and he stood a beggar in his own hall, and asked an alms from Antinous. "Give," said he, "for thou lookest like a King, and I will spread abroad thy name through the wide earth. For I, too, was rich once, and had a glorious home, and often I succored the wanderer; but Zeus took away all my wealth, and drove me forth to Cyprus and to Egypt." But Antinous thrust him aside. "What pest is this?" he said. "Stand off, old man, or thou shalt go again to an Egypt and a Cyprus which shall not be much to thy liking." Then Antinous struck him on the back; but Odysseus stood firm as a rock, and he shook his head for the vengeance that was coming. But the others were angry, and said, "Thou hast done an evil deed, if indeed there be a god in heaven; nay, often in the guise of strangers the gods themselves go through the earth, watching the evil and the good."

When the tidings were brought to Penelope, she said to Eumaius, "Go call me this stranger hither, for he may have something to tell me of Odysseus." But the beggar would not go then. "Tell her," he said, "that I know her husband well, and that I have shared his troubles; but I can not talk with her before the sun goes down. At eventide she shall see me."

Then, as Odysseus sate in the hall, there came up to him the beggar Arnaius, whom the suitors called Iros because he was their messenger, and he said, "Get up, old man, and go, for the chiefs have bidden me to cast thee out; yet I would rather see thee depart of thy own will." But Odysseus said, "Nay, friend, there is room enough here for both of us. You are a beggar like me, and let us pray the gods to help us; but lay not thine hand upon me, lest I be angry and smite thee; for if I do, thou wilt not, I take it, care to come again to the house of Odysseus, the son of Laertes." But Iros looked scornfully at him, and said, "Hear how the vagabond talks, just like an old furnace woman. Come now, and gird up thyself, and let us see which is the stronger." Then Antinous, who had heard them quarreling, smiled pleasantly and called to the other suitors: "See here, the stranger and Iros are challenging each other. Let us bring them together and look on." But Iros shrank back in fear as the beggar arose, and only one feeble blow had he given, when Odysseus dashed him to the ground. Then all the suitors held up their hands and almost died with laughter, as the stranger dragged Iros from the hall, and said, "Meddle not more with other men's matters, lest a worse thing befall thee." Then Odysseus gathered up his tattered garment and went and sat down again upon the threshold, while the suitors praised him with loud cheers for his exploit, and Amphinomus held out to him a goblet of rosy wine: "Drink, stranger, and mayest thou have good luck in time to come, for now thy lot is hard and gloomy enough." The kindly words stirred the beggar's heart, and he said, "Hear my counsel, Amphinomus, and trust me who have borne many griefs and sorrows and wandered in many lands since Zeus drove me from my home. Depart from these evil men who are wasting another's substance and heed not the woes that are coming, when Odysseus shall once more stand in his father's house." But Amphinomus would not hear, for so had Athene doomed that he should fall on the day of the great vengeance.

So, laughing at the beggar as he sat quietly on the threshold, the suitors feasted at the banquet table of Odysseus, till the stars looked forth in the sky. But when they were gone away to sleep, Odysseus bade Telemachus gather up their arms and place them in the inner chamber. And they carried in the spears and shields and helmets, while Athene went before with a golden lamp in her hand to light the way. And Telemachus said, "Surely some one of the blessed gods must be here, my father, for walls, beams and pillars all gleam as though they were full of eyes of blazing fire." But Odysseus bade him be silent and sleep, and Telemachus went his way, and Odysseus tarried to take counsel with Athene for the work of the coming vengeance.

Then, as he sat alone in the hall, Penelope came forth from her chamber, to hear what the stranger might tell her of Odysseus. But before she spake, Melantho reviled him as her father, Melanthius, had reviled him by the fountain, and Odysseus said, "Dost thou scorn me because my garments are torn and my face is seamed with age and sorrow? Well, I, too, have been young and strong. See, then, that the change come not on thee when Odysseus returns to his home." Then Penelope asked him straightly, "Who art thou, stranger, and whence hast thou come?" And the beggar said, "Ask me not, for I have had grievous troubles, and the thought of all my woes will force the tears into my eyes, so that ye may think I am mad with misery." But Penelope urged him: "Listen to me, old man. My beauty faded away when Odysseus left me to go to Ilion, and my life has been full of woe since the suitors came thronging round me, because my husband, as they said, lived no more upon the earth. So I prayed them to let me weave a shroud for Laertes, and every night I undid the web which I had woven in the day time. Thus three years passed away, but in the fourth the suitors found out my trick, and I know not how to avoid longer the marriage which I hate. Wherefore tell me who thou art, for thou didst not spring forth a full-grown man from a tree or a stone." Then Odysseus recounted to her the tale which he had told to the swineherd, Eumaius, and the eyes of Penelope were filled with tears as the stranger spoke of the exploits of Odysseus. "Good friend," she said, "thy kindly words fall soothingly on my ear. Here shalt thou sojourn, and I will give thee a robe which I had meant for him who will come back to me no more." But Odysseus would not take it, and he strove to comfort her, till at the last he swore to her that before the year's end her husband should stand before her.

And now, at the bidding of Penelope, his old nurse, Eurykleia, came with water to wash his feet, and looking hard at him she said, "Many a stranger has come to this house, but never one so like in form and voice to my child, Odysseus," and the stranger answered, smiling, "Most folk who have seen us both have marked the likeness." So she knelt down to wash his feet, but Odysseus turned himself as much as he could from the fire, for he feared that she might see the mark of the wound which the boar's tusk had made long ago when he went to Parnassus. But he strove in vain. For presently she saw the scar, and she let go his feet, and the water was spilt upon the ground, as she cried out, "It is Odysseus, and I knew him not until I saw the print of the deadly wound which Autolykus healed by his wondrous power." Then Odysseus bade her be silent, for Athene had dulled the ear of Penelope that she might not hear, and he would not that any should know that the chieftain had come back to his home.



So all were gone, and Odysseus alone remained in the hall through the still hours of night. But when the morning came, the suitors again feasted at the banquet board, and many a time they reviled the beggar and Telemachus, until Penelope brought forth the bow which Iphitus, the son of Eurytus, had given to Odysseus. Then she stood before the chiefs and said, "Whoever of you can bend this bow, that man shall be my husband, and with him I will leave the home which I have loved, and which I shall still see in my dreams." But when Antinous saw it, his heart failed him, for he knew that none had ever bent the bow save Odysseus only, and he warned the suitors that it would sorely tax their strength. Then Telemachus would have made trial of the bow, but his father suffered him not. So Leiodes took it in his hand, and tried in vain to stretch it, till at last he threw it down in a rage, and said, "Penelope must find some other husband; for I am not the man." But Antinous reviled him for his faintheartedness, and made Melanthius bring fat to anoint the bow and make it supple; yet even thus they strove in vain to stretch it.

Then Odysseus went out into the courtyard, whither the cowherd and the swineherd had gone before him, and he said to them, "Friends, are ye minded to aid Odysseus if he should suddenly come to his home, or will ye take part with the men who devour his substance?" And they sware both of them that they would fight for their master to the death. Then Odysseus said, "I am that man, who after grievous woes has come back in the twentieth year to his own land; and if ye doubt, see here is the scar of the wound where the boar's tusk pierced my flesh, when I went to Parnassus in the days of my youth." When they saw the scar, they threw their arms round Odysseus, and they kissed him on his head and his shoulders and wept, until he said, "Stay, friends, lest any see us and tell the suitors in the house. And now hearken to me. These men will not let me take the bow; so do thou, Eumaius, place it in my hands, and let Philoitius bar the gates of the court-yard." But within the hall Eurymachus groaned with vexation because he could not stretch the bow; and he said, "It is not that I care for Penelope, for there are many Achaian women as fair as she; but that we are all so weak in comparison of Odysseus." Then the beggar besought them that he, too, might try, and see whether the strength of his youth still remained to him, or whether his long wanderings had taken away the force of his arm. But Antinous said, "Old man, wine hath done thee harm; still it is well to drink yet more than to strive with men who are thy betters." Then said Penelope, "What dost thou fear, Antinous? Vex not thyself with the thought that the beggar will lead me away as his bride, even if he should be able to stretch the bow of Odysseus." "Nay, lady," he answered, "it is not that; but I dread lest the Achaians should say, 'The suitors could not stretch the bow, but there came a wandering beggar, who did what they strove to do in vain.'"

Then the swineherd took up the bow, but the suitors bade him lay it down again, until at last Telemachus told Eumaius to bear it to Odysseus; and as the swineherd placed it in the beggar's hands, Eurykleia shut the doors of the hall and made them fast with the tackling of a ship. Then, as Odysseus raised the bow, the thunder pealed in the heaven, and his heart rejoiced because Zeus had given him a sign of his great victory. Presently the arrow sped from the string, and Antinous lay dead upon the floor.

Then the others spake in great wrath, and said, "The vultures shall tear thy flesh this day, because thou hast slain the greatest chief in Ithaka." But they knew not, as they spake thus, that the day of the great vengeance was come; and the voice of Odysseus was heard above the uproar, as he said, "Wretches, did ye fancy that I should never stand again in my own hall? Ye have wasted my substance, ye have sought to steal my wife from me, ye have feared neither gods nor men, and this is the day of your doom." The cheeks of the suitors turned ghastly pale through fear; but Eurymachus alone took courage and told Odysseus that Antinous only had done the mischief, because he wished to slay Telemachus and become King in Ithaka in the stead of Odysseus. "Spare, then, the rest, for they are thy people, and we will pay thee a large ransom." But Odysseus looked sternly at him, and said, "Not this house full of silver and gold shall stay my hand in the day of my great vengeance."

Then Eurymachus drew his sword and bade his comrades fight bravely for their lives; but again the clang of the bow was heard, and Eurymachus was stretched lifeless on the earth. So they fell, one after the other, until the floor of the hall was slippery with blood. But presently the arrows in the quiver of Odysseus were all spent, and laying his bow against the wall, he raised a great shield on his shoulder and placed a helmet on his head, and took two spears in his hand. Then Agelaus called to Melanthius, "Go up to the stair-door and shout to the people, that they may break into the hall and save us." But Melanthius said, "It can not be, for it is near the gate of the hall, and one man may guard it against a hundred. But I will bring you arms, for I know that Odysseus and his son have stowed them away in the inner chamber." Hastily he ran thither and brought forth shields and spears and helmets, and the heart of Odysseus failed him for fear as he saw the suitors donning their armor and brandishing the lances. "Who has done this?" he asked, and Telemachus answered, "It is my fault, my father. I left the door ajar, but Eumaius shall go and see whether some of the women have given this help to the suitors, or whether, as I think, it be Melanthius." So Eumaius and the cowherd placed themselves on one side of the chamber door, and when Melanthius came forth with more arms for the chieftains, they caught him, and binding him with stout cords they hoisted him up to the beams and left him dangling in the air. "Keep guard there, Melanthius, all night long in thy airy hammock, and when the golden Morning comes back from the stream of Ocean you will not fail to see her."

But in the hall the troop of suitors stood facing Odysseus and Telemachus in deadly rage, and presently Athene stood before them in the likeness of Mentor. Then all besought her help, and the suitors threatened her, and said, "Be not led astray, Mentor, by the words of Odysseus, for if you side with him, we will leave you neither house nor lands, wife nor children, when we have taken vengeance for the evil deeds of the son of Laertes." But the wrath of Athene was kindled more fiercely, and she said, "Where is thy strength, Odysseus? Many a year the Trojans fell beneath the stroke of thy sword, and by thy wisdom it was that the Achaians stormed the walls of breezy Ilion. And now dost thou stand trembling in thine own hall?" Then the form of Mentor vanished, and they saw a swallow fly away above the roof-tree. In great fear the suitors took council together, and six of them stood forth and hurled their spears at Odysseus and Telemachus. But all missed their mark except Amphimedon and Ktesippus, and these wounded Telemachus on the wrist and Eumaius on the shoulder.

But once again Athene came, and this time she held aloft her awful AEgis before the eyes of the suitors, and the hearts of all fainted for fear, so that they huddled together like cattle which have heard the lion's roar, and like cattle were they slain, and the floor of the hall was floated with blood.

So was the slaughter ended, and the house of Odysseus was hushed in a stillness more fearful than the din of battle, for the work of the great vengeance was accomplished.

But Penelope lay on her couch in a sweet slumber which Athene had sent to soothe her grief, and she heard not the footsteps of Eurykleia as she hastened joyously into the chamber. "Rise up, dear child, rise up. Thy heart's desire is come. Odysseus stands once more in his own home, the suitors are dead, and none are left to vex thee." But Penelope could not believe for joy and fear, even when Eurykleia told her of the mark of the boar's bite which Autolykus and his sons had healed. "Let us go, dear nurse," she said, "and see the bodies of the chieftains and the man who has slain them." So she went down into the hall, and sate down opposite to Odysseus, but she spake no word, and Odysseus also sat silent. And Telemachus said to his mother, "Hast thou no welcome for my father who has borne so many griefs since Zeus took him from his home twenty long years ago?"

And Penelope said, "My child, I can not speak, for my heart is as a stone within me; yet if it be indeed Odysseus, there are secret signs by which we shall know each other." But when she bade Eurykleia make ready the couch which lay outside the bridal chamber, Odysseus asked, hastily, "Who has moved the couch which I wrought with my own hands, when I made the chamber round the olive tree which stood in the courtyard? Scarcely could a mortal man move it, for it was heavy with gold and ivory and silver, and on it I spread a bull's hide gleaming with a purple dye."

Then Penelope wept for joy, as she sprang into his arms; for now she knew that it was indeed Odysseus who had come back in the twentieth year. Long time they wept in each other's arms; but the keen-eyed Athene kept back the bright and glistening horses of the morning, that the day might not return too soon.

Then the fair Eurynome anointed Odysseus, and clothed him in a royal robe; and Athene brought back all his ancient beauty as when he went forth in his youth to Ilion. So they sat together in the light of the blazing torches, and Penelope heard from Odysseus the story of his griefs and wanderings, and she told him of her own sorrows, while he was far away in Ilion avenging the wrongs and woes of Helen. But for all his deep joy and his calm peace, Odysseus knew that here was not the place of his rest.

"The time must come," he said, "when I must go to the land where there is no sea; but the seer who told me of the things that are to be, said that my last hour should be full of light, and that I should leave my people happy."

And Penelope said, "Yet we may rejoice, my husband, that the hateful chiefs are gone who darkened thy house and devoured thy substance, and that once again I hold thee in my arms. Twenty years has Zeus grudged me this deep happiness; but never has my heart swerved from thee, nor could aught stay thee from coming again to gladden my heart as in the morning of our life and joy."

SOLON.

(636 B.C.)

REMEMBRANCE AFTER DEATH.

Let not a death unwept, unhonor'd, be The melancholy fate allotted me! But those who loved me living, when I die Still fondly keep some cherish'd memory.

TRUE HAPPINESS.

(By Solon.)

The man that boasts of golden stores, Of grain, that loads his groaning floors, Of fields with freshening herbage green, Where bounding steeds and herds are seen, I call not happier than the swain, Whose limbs are sound, whose food is plain, Whose joys a blooming wife endears, Whose hours a smiling offspring cheers.

SOPHOCLES.

Sophocles was born at Athens B.C. 495. His father, though a poor mechanic, had the discrimination as well as generosity to bestow an excellent education upon his son, whose great powers began early to unfold themselves, and to attract the notice of the first citizens of Athens. Before he had attained his twenty-fifth year he carried off the prize in a dramatic contest against his senior, AEschylus, and his subsequent career corresponded to this splendid beginning. He is said to have composed one hundred and twenty tragedies, to have gained the first prize twenty-four times, and on other occasions to have ranked second in the list of competing poets. So excellent was his conduct, so majestic his wisdom, so exquisite his poetical capacities, so rare his skill in all the fine arts, and so uninterrupted his prosperity, that the Greeks regarded him as the peculiar favorite of heaven. He lived in the first city of Greece, and throughout her best times, commanding an admiration and love amounting to reverence. He died in extreme old age, without disease and without suffering, and was mourned with such a sincerity and depth of grief as were manifested at the death of no other citizen of Athens.

HERODOTUS.

Scarcely more is known of the celebrated historian, Herodotus, than of the illustrious poet, Homer. He was born in Asia Minor about 484 B.C.

After being well educated he commenced that course of patient and observant travel which was to render his name illustrious as a philosophic tourist and historian. The shores of the Hellespont, Scythia, and the Euxine Sea; the Isles of the AEgaean; Syria, Egypt, Palestine, Colchis, the northern parts of Africa, Ecbatana, and even Babylon were the objects of his unwearied research. On his return from his travels, after about twenty years, he settled for some time at Samos, where he wrote the nine books of his travels in those countries.

The charm of Herodotus' writings consists in the earnestness of a man who describes countries as an eye-witness, and events as one accustomed to participate in them. The life, the raciness, the vigor of an adventurer and a wanderer, glow in every page. He has none of the defining disquisitions that are born of the closet. He paints history, rather than descants on it; he throws the colorings of a mind, unconsciously poetic, over all he describes. Now a soldier—now a priest—now a patriot—he is always a poet, if rarely a philosopher. He narrates like a witness, unlike Thucydides, who sums up like a judge. No writer ever made so beautiful an application of superstitions to truths. His very credulities have a philosophy of their own; and modern historians have acted unwisely in disdaining the occasional repetition even of his fables. For if his truths record the events—his fables paint the manners and the opinions of the time; and the last fill up the history, of which events are only the skeleton.

To account for his frequent use of dialogue, and his dramatic effects of narrative, we must remember the tribunal to which the work of Herodotus was subjected. Every author, unconsciously to himself, consults the tastes of those he addresses. No small coteries of scholars, no scrupulous and critical inquirers, made the ordeal Herodotus underwent. His chronicles were not dissertations to be coldly pondered over, and skeptically conned; they were read aloud at solemn festivals to listening thousands: they were to arrest the curiosity—to amuse the impatience—to stir the wonder of a lively and motley crowd. Thus the historian imbibed naturally the spirit of the tale-teller, as he was driven to embellish his history with the romantic legend—the awful superstition—the gossipy anecdote—which yet characterize the stories of the popular and oral fictionist in the bazaars of the Mussulman, or on the sea-sands of Sicily. Still it has been rightly said, that a judicious reader is not easily led astray by Herodotus in important particulars. His descriptions of localities, of manners and of customs, are singularly correct; and travelers can yet trace the vestiges of his fidelity.

Few enlightened tourists are there who can visit Egypt, Greece, and the regions of the East, without being struck by the accuracy, with the industry, with the patience of Herodotus. To record all the facts substantiated by travelers, illustrated by artists, and amplified by learned research, would be almost impossible; so abundant, so rich, has this golden mine been found, that the more its native treasures are explored, the more valuable do they appear. The oasis of Siwah, visited by Browne, Hornemann, Edmonstone, and Minutuoli; the engravings of the latter, demonstrating the co-identity of the god Ammon and the god of Thebes; the Egyptian mode of weaving, confirmed by the drawings of Wilkinson and Minutuoli; the fountain of the sun, visited by Belzoni; one of the stelae or pillars of Sesostris, seen by Herodotus in Syria, and recognized on the road to Beyrout with the hieroglyphic of Remeses still legible; the kneading of dough, drawn from a sculpture in Thebes, by Wilkinson; the dress of the lower classes, by the same author; the prodigies of Egyptian architecture at Edfou; Caillaud's discovery of Meroe in the depths of AEthiopia; these, and a host of brilliant evidences, center their once divergent rays in one flood of light upon the temple of genius reared by Herodotus, and display the goddess of Truth enshrined within.

The following are the main subjects of his nine books, which were named after the nine muses:—

Book I. CLIO.—Transfer of the Lydian Kingdom from Gyges to Croesus—minority of Cyrus—his overthrow of the Lydian power—rising greatness of Athens and Lacedaemon.

Book II. EUTERPE.—Dissertation on Egypt—Egyptian customs, and the regal succession of that Empire.

Book III. THALIA.—Achievements of Cambyses—his total subjugation of Egypt—election of Darius Hystaspes to the Persian throne, then vacant by the assassination of Smerdis, the impostor.

Book IV. MELPOMENE.—Full narrative of the calamitous expeditions of the Persians against the Scythians in the reign of Darius Hystaspes.

Book V. TERPSICHORE.—The political progress of Lacedaemon, Athens and Corinth—view of their relative resources during the time of Darius—expulsion of Hippias from Athens.

Book VI. ERATE.—Origin of the Kings of Lacedaemon—causes of Darius' hostility to Greece—first Persian invasion of Hellas—battle of Marathon.

Book VII. POLYHYMNIA.—Preparations and grand expedition of Xerxes into Greece—battle at Thermopylae.

Book VIII. URANIA.—Further progress of the Persian arms—Athens captured and burned—defeat of the Persians at the sea-fight of Salamis.

Book IX. CALLIOPE.—Defeat of the Persians at Plataea—defeat at the promontory of Mycale, and their complete retreat within their own territories.

THE CROCODILE.

(By Herodotus.)

The following are the peculiarities of the crocodile: During the winter months they eat nothing; they are four-footed, and live indifferently on land or in the water. The female lays and hatches her eggs ashore, passing the greater portion of the day on dry land, but at night retiring to the river, the water of which is warmer than the night-air and the dew. Of all known animals this is the one which from the smallest size grows to be the greatest, for the egg of the crocodile is but little bigger than that of the goose, and the young crocodile is in proportion to the egg, yet when it is full grown, the animal measures frequently seventeen cubits, and even more. It has the eyes of a pig, teeth large and tusk-like, of a size proportioned to its frame; unlike any other animal, it is without a tongue; it can not move its under-jaw, and in this respect, too, it is singular, being the only animal in the world which moves the upper-jaw but not the under. It has strong claws and a scaly skin, impenetrable upon the back. In the water it is blind, but on land it is very keen of sight. As it lives chiefly in the river, it has the inside of its mouth constantly covered with leeches, hence it happens that, while all the other birds and beasts avoid it, with the trochilus it lives at peace, since it owes much to that bird, for the crocodile, when he leaves the water and comes out upon the land, is in the habit of lying with his mouth wide open, facing the western breeze; at such times the trochilus goes into his mouth and devours the leeches. This benefits the crocodile, who is pleased, and takes care not to hurt the trochilus.

The crocodile is esteemed sacred by some of the Egyptians, by others he is treated as an enemy. Those who live near Thebes, and those who dwell around Lake Moeris, regard them with especial veneration. In each of these places they keep one crocodile in particular, who is taught to be tame and tractable. They adorn his ears with ear-rings of molten stone or gold, and put bracelets on his fore-paws, giving him daily a set portion of bread, with a certain number of victims; and, after having thus treated him with the greatest possible attention while alive, they embalm him when he dies and bury him in a sacred repository. The people of Elephantine, on the other hand, are so far from considering these animals as sacred that they even eat their flesh.

The modes of catching the crocodile are many and various. I shall only describe the one which seems to me most worthy of mention. They bait a hook with a chine of pork and let the meat be carried out into the middle of the stream, while the hunter upon the bank holds a living pig, which he belabors. The crocodile hears its cries and, making for the sound, encounters the pork, which he instantly swallows down. The men on the shore haul, and when they have got him to land, the first thing the hunter does is to plaster his eyes with mud. This once accomplished, the animal is dispatched with ease, otherwise he gives great trouble.

ARTABANUS DISSUADES XERXES.

(By Herodotus.)

The other Persians were silent, for all feared to raise their voice against the plan proposed to them. But Artabanus, the son of Hystaspes, and uncle of Xerxes, trusting to his relationship, was bold to speak: "O King," he said, "it is impossible, if no more than one opinion is uttered, to make choice of the best; a man is forced then to follow whatever advice may have been given him, but if opposite speeches are delivered, then choice can be exercised. In like manner pure gold is not recognized by itself, but when we test it along with baser ore, we perceive which is the better. I counseled thy father, Darius, who was my own brother, not to attack the Scyths, a race of people who had no town in their own land. He thought, however, to subdue those wandering tribes, and would not listen to me, but marched an army against them, and ere he returned home lost many of his bravest warriors. Thou art about, O King, to attack a people far superior to the Scyths, a people distinguished above others both by land and sea. 'Tis fit, therefore, that I should tell thee what danger thou incurrest hereby. Thou sayest that thou wilt bridge the Hellespont, and lead thy troops through Europe against Greece.

"Now, suppose some disaster befall thee by land or sea, or by both. It may be even so, for the men are reputed valiant. Indeed one may measure their prowess from what they have already done; for when Datis and Artaphernes led their huge army against Attica, the Athenians singly defeated them. But grant they are not successful on both elements. Still, if they man their ships, and, defeating us by sea, sail to the Hellespont, and there destroy our bridge—that, sire, were a fearful hazard. And here 'tis not by my own mother wit alone that I conjecture what will happen, but I remember how narrowly we escaped disaster once, when thy father, after throwing bridges over the Thracian Bosphorus and the Ister, marched against the Scythians, and they tried every sort of prayer to induce the Ionians, who had charge of the bridge over the Ister, to break the passage. On that day, if Histiaeus, the King of Miletus, had sided with the other princes, and not set himself to oppose their views, the empire of the Persians would have come to naught. Surely a dreadful thing is this even to hear said, that the King's fortunes depended wholly on one man.

"Think, then, no more of incurring so great a danger when no need presses, but follow the advice I tender. Break up this meeting, and when thou hast well considered the matter with thyself, and settled what thou wilt do, declare to us thy resolve. I know not of aught in the world that so profits a man as taking good counsel with himself; for even if things fall out against one's hopes, still one has counseled well, though fortune has made the counsel of no effect: whereas, if a man counsels ill and luck follows, he has gotten a windfall, but his counsel is none the less silly. Seest thou how God with His lightning smites alway the bigger animals, and will not suffer them to wax insolent, while those of lesser bulk chafe Him not? How likewise His bolts fall ever on the highest houses and the tallest trees? So plainly does He love to bring down everything that exalts itself. Thus oft-times a mighty host is discomfitted by a few men, when God in His jealousy sends fear or storm from heaven, and they perish in a way unworthy of them. For God allows no one to have high thoughts but Himself. Again, hurry always brings about disasters, from which huge sufferings are wont to arise; but in delay lie many advantages, not apparent (it may be) at first sight, but such as in the course of time are seen of all. Such, then, is my counsel to thee, O King.

"And thou, Mardonius, son of Gobryas, forbear to speak foolishly concerning the Greeks, who are men that ought not to be lightly esteemed by us. For while thou revilest the Greeks, thou dost encourage the King to lead his own troops against them; and this, as it seems to me, is what thou art specially striving to accomplish. Heaven send thou succeed not to thy wish! For slander is of all evils the most terrible. In it two men do wrong, and one man has wrong done to him. The slanderer does wrong, forasmuch as he abuses a man behind his back; and the hearer, forasmuch as he believes what he has not searched into thoroughly. The man slandered in his absence suffers wrong at the hands of both; for one brings against him a false charge, and the other thinks him an evil-doer. If, however, it must needs be that we go to war with this people, at least allow the King to abide at home in Persia. Then let thee and me both stake our children on the issue, and do thou choose out thy men, and taking with thee whatever number of troops thou likest, lead forth our armies to battle. If things go well for the King, as thou sayest they will, let me and my children be put to death; but if they fall out as I prophesy, let thy children suffer, and thou, too, if thou shalt come back alive. But shouldst thou refuse this wager, and still resolve to march an army against Greece, sure I am that some of those whom thou leavest behind thee will one day receive the sad tidings that Mardonius has brought a great disaster upon the Persian people, and lies a prey to dogs and birds somewhere in the land of the Athenians, or else in that of the Lacedaemonians; unless, indeed, thou shalt have perished sooner by the way, experiencing in thy own person the might of those men on whom thou wouldst fain induce the King to make war."

SOCRATES.

Socrates was born at Athens about the middle or latter part of April, 469 B.C. He commanded more admiration and reverence than any other individual of ancient or modern times. By his ability and purity he emerged from a barbaric sophistry into the purest form of religion that was ever invented by man, it was nearer like that of Christ than was ever reached by mortal before. The object of his entire philosophy was the attainment of correct ideas concerning moral and religious obligations.

Although Socrates was the son of a sculptor of limited means, he was educated according to the manner of the times. Music and poetry and gymnastic exercises formed the principal part of the education of an Athenian youth, and in these Socrates was instructed.

Through the influence of Crito, a wealthy Athenian who subsequently became an intimate friend and disciple of our philosopher, he was induced to rise into a higher sphere. He then began the study of physics, mathematics, astronomy, natural philosophy, etc.

Socrates, however, was unable to obtain any satisfactory knowledge from the philosophers and teachers of his time. Dissatisfied with the pretended wisdom of the Cosmologists and Sophists he entirely abandoned all speculative subjects and devoted his entire attention to human affairs, and his earnestness as a social reformer brought upon him increasing odium from the "Conservatives" of the day, as well as from that still larger class whose feelings of malice and revenge towards those who expose their follies and their vices, their wicked private customs and public institutions, can never be appeased but with the death of their victim. Accordingly, prejudice, unpopularity and hate finally prevailed, and two charges were brought against him, one of not believing in the national deities and the other of corrupting the youth. That he did not believe in the idols that most of his contemporaries worshiped, is true; but that he corrupted the youth was as absurd as false, for all his teachings tended ever to purify them, and lead them in the paths of virtue and truth. He defended himself, and his defense is a perfect whole, neither more nor less than what it ought to have been. Proudly conscious of his innocence, he sought not to move the pity of his judges, for he cared not for acquittal, and "exhibited that union of humility and high-mindedness which is observable in none, perhaps, with the exception of St. Paul." His speech availed not, and he was condemned to drink the hemlock. He continued in prison thirty days before the sentence was executed, and to this interval we are indebted for that sublime conversation on the immortality of the soul which Plato has embodied in his Phaedo.



At length the fatal day arrived, when he had reached his full three score years and ten. Refusing all means of escape to which his friends continually and importunely urged him, he took the poisoned cup from the hands of the boy who brought it to him in his prison-chamber, drank it off calmly amid the tears and sobs of surrounding friends, walked about till the draught had begun to take effect upon his system, and then laid himself down upon his bed, and soon breathed his last. Such was the life and such the death of this great man. It has been felt as the greatest of all human examples, not only by his own countrymen, but by the whole civilized world.

SOCRATES AND ARISTODEMUS.

(By Socrates.)

We will now relate the manner in which Socrates discoursed with Aristodemus, surnamed the Little, concerning the Deity. For, observing that he neither prayed nor sacrificed to the gods nor yet consulted any oracle, but, on the contrary, ridiculed and laughed at those who did, he said to him:

"Tell me, Aristodemus, is there any man whom you admire on account of his merit?"

Aristodemus having answered, "Many."—"Name some of them, I pray you."

"I admire," said Aristodemus, "Homer for his epic poetry, Melanippides for his dithyrambics, Sophocles for tragedy, Polycletes for statuary, and Xeuxis for painting."

"But which seems to you most worthy of admiration, Aristodemus—the artist who forms images void of motion and intelligence, or one who hath the skill to produce animals that are endued, not only with activity, but understanding."

"The latter, there can be no doubt," replied Aristodemus, "provided the production was not the effect of chance, but of wisdom and contrivance."

"But since there are many things, some of which we can easily see the use of, while we can not say of others to what purpose they were produced, which of these, Aristodemus, do you suppose the work of wisdom?"

"It should seem the most reasonable to affirm it of those whose fitness and utility is so evidently apparent."

"But it is evidently apparent, that He, who at the beginning made man, endued him with senses because they were good for him; eyes, wherewith to behold whatever was visible; and ears, to hear whatever was to be heard. For say, Aristodemus, to what purpose should odors be prepared, if the sense of smelling had been denied? Or why the distinctions of bitter and sweet, of savory and unsavory, unless a palate had been likewise given, conveniently placed, to arbitrate between them, and declare the difference? Is not that Providence, Aristodemus, in a most eminent manner conspicuous, which, because the eye of man is so delicate in its contexture, hath therefore prepared eyelids like doors, whereby to secure it; which extend of themselves whenever it is needful, and again close when sleep approaches? Are not these eyelids provided, as it were, with a fence on the edge of them, to keep off the wind and guard the eye? Even the eyebrow itself is not without office, but, as a penthouse, is prepared to turn off the sweat, which, falling from the forehead, might enter and annoy that no less tender than astonishing part of us! Is it not to be admired that the ears should take in sounds of every sort, and yet are not too much filled by them? That the fore-teeth of the animal should be formed in such a manner as evidently best suited for the cutting of its food, and those on the side for grinding it in pieces? That the mouth, through which this food is conveyed, should be placed so near the nose and the eyes, as to prevent the passing, unnoticed, whatever is unfit for nourishment; while Nature, on the contrary, hath set at a distance, and concealed from the senses, all that might disgust them? And canst thou still doubt, Aristodemus! whether a disposition of parts like this should be the work of chance, or of wisdom and contrivance?"

"I have no longer any doubt," replied Aristodemus; "and, indeed, the more I consider it, the more evident it appears to me, that man must be the masterpiece of some great Artificer, carrying along with it infinite marks of love and favor of Him who hath thus formed it."

"And what thinkest thou, Aristodemus, of that desire in the individual which leads to the continuance of the species? Of that tenderness and affection in the female towards her young, so necessary for its preservation? Of that unremitted love of life, and dread of dissolution, which take such strong possession of us from the moment we begin to be?"

"I think of them," answered Aristodemus, "as so many regular operations of the same great and wise Artist, deliberately determining to preserve what He hath once made."

"But, farther (unless thou desirest to ask me questions), seeing, Aristodemus, thou thyself art conscious of reason and intelligence, supposest thou there is no intelligence elsewhere? Thou knowest thy body to be a small part of that wide-extended earth which thou everywhere beholdest; the moisture contained in it, thou also knowest to be a small portion of that mighty mass of waters whereof seas themselves are but a part, while the rest of the elements contribute, out of their abundance, to thy formation. It is the soul, then, alone, that intellectual part of us, which is come to thee by some lucky chance, from I know not where. If so be, there is indeed no intelligence elsewhere; and we must be forced to confess, that this stupendous universe, with all the various bodies contained therein—equally amazing, whether we consider their magnitude or number, whatever their use, whatever their order—all have been produced, not by intelligence, but chance!"

"It is with difficulty that I can suppose otherwise," returned Aristodemus, "for I behold none of those gods, whom you speak of as making and governing all things, whereas I see the artists when at their work here among us."

"Neither yet seest thou thy soul, Aristodemus, which, however, most assuredly governs thy body: although it may well seem, by thy manner of talking, that it is chance, and not reason, which governs thee."

"I do not despise the gods," said Aristodemus; "on the contrary, I conceive so highly of their excellence, as to suppose they stand in no need of either me or of my services."

"Thou mistakest the matter, Aristodemus; the greater magnificence they have shown in their care of thee, so much the more honor and service thou owest them."

"Be assured," said Aristodemus, "if I once could be persuaded the gods took care of man, I should want no monitor to remind me of my duty."

"And canst thou doubt, Aristodemus, if the gods take care of man? Hath not the glorious privilege of walking upright been alone bestowed on him, whereby he may, with the better advantage, survey what is around him, contemplate, with more ease, those splendid objects which are above, and avoid the numerous ills and inconveniences which would otherwise befall him? Other animals, indeed, they have provided with feet, by which they may remove from one place to another; but to man they have also given hands, with which he can form many things for his use, and make himself happier than creatures of any other kind. A tongue hath been bestowed on every other animal, but what animal, except man, hath the power of forming words with it, whereby to explain his thoughts, and make them intelligible to others? And to show that the gods have had regard to his very pleasures, they have not limited them, like those of other animals, to times and seasons, but man is left to indulge in them whenever not hurtful to him.

"But it is not with respect to the body alone that the gods have shown themselves thus bountiful to man! Their most excellent gift is that soul they have infused into him, which so far surpasses what is elsewhere to be found. For, by what animal, except man, is even the existence of those gods discovered, who have produced, and still uphold, in such regular order, this beautiful and stupendous frame of the universe? What other species of creatures are to be found that can serve, that can adore them? What other animal is able, like man, to provide against the assaults of heat and cold, of thirst and hunger? That can lay up remedies for the time of sickness and improve the strength nature hath given by a well-proportioned exercise? That can receive, like him, information and instruction, or so happily keep in memory what he hath seen, and heard, and learnt? These things being so, who seeth not that man is, as it were, a god in the midst of this visible creation; so far doth he surpass, whether in the endowments of soul or body, all animals whatsoever that have been produced therein! For, if the body of the ox had been joined to the mind of man, the acuteness of the latter would have stood him in small stead, while unable to execute the well-designed plan; nor would the human form have been of more use to the brute, so long as it remained destitute of understanding! But in thee, Aristodemus, hath been joined to a wonderful soul, a body no less wonderful, and sayest thou, after this, 'the gods take no thought for me!' What wouldst thou, then, more to convince thee of their care?"

"I would they should send, and inform me," said Aristodemus, "what things I ought or ought not to do in like manner as thou sayest they frequently do to thee."

"And what then, Aristodemus! Supposest thou, that when the gods give out some oracle to all the Athenians, they mean it not for thee? If, by their prodigies, they declare aloud to all Greece—to all mankind—the things which shall befall them, are they dumb to thee alone? And art thou the only person whom they have placed beyond their care? Believest thou they would have wrought into the mind of man a persuasion of their being able to make him happy or miserable, if so be they had no such power? or would not even man himself, long ere this, have seen through the gross delusion? How is it, Aristodemus, thou rememberest, or remarkest not, that the kingdoms and commonwealths most renowned as well for their wisdom as antiquity, are those whose piety and devotion hath been the most observable? And why thinkest thou that the providence of God may not easily extend itself throughout the whole universe? As, therefore, among men, we make best trial of the affection and gratitude of our neighbor, by showing him kindness, and discover his wisdom, by consulting him in our distress; do thou, in like manner, behave towards the gods, and, if thou wouldst experience what their wisdom, and what their love, render thyself deserving the communication of some of those divine secrets which may not be perpetrated by man, and are imparted to those alone who consult, who adore, who obey the Deity. Then shalt thou, my Aristodemus, understand there is a Being whose eye pierceth throughout all nature, and whose ear is open to every sound; extended to all places; extending through all time, and whose bounty and care can know no other bounds than those fixed by his own creation!"

By this discourse, and others of the like nature, Socrates taught his friends that they were not only to forbear whatever was impious, unjust, or unbecoming before men; but even, when alone, they ought to have a regard to their actions; since the gods have their eyes continually upon us, and none of our designs can be concealed from them.

EURIPIDES.

Euripides flourished about 450 B.C.; was born 480 B.C. He spent his youth in the highest mental and physical training. He was a native of Athens, and enjoyed the most glorious days of her annals, being brought in direct connection with AEschylus and Sophocles, and in his older days was a pupil of Socrates.

In comparing Euripides and the other two masters in Grecian tragedy, it may be said that he ranks first in tragic representation and effect; Sophocles first in dramatic symmetry and ornament; AEschylus first in poetic vigor and grandeur. AEschylus was the most sublime; Sophocles the most beautiful; Euripides the most pathetic. The first displays the lofty intellect; the second exercises the cultivated taste; the third indulges the feeling heart. Each, as it were, shows a fine piece of sculpture. In AEschylus, it is a naked hero, with all the strength, boldness, and dignity of olden time. In Sophocles and Euripides, it may be perhaps the same hero; but with the former, he has put on the flowing robes, the elegant address, and the soft urbanity of a polished age; with the latter, he is yielding to some melancholy emotion, ever heedless of his posture or gait, and casting his unvalued drapery negligently about him. They have been compared by an illustration from another art: "The sublime and daring AEschylus resembles some strong and impregnable castle situated on a rock, whose martial grandeur awes the beholder—its battlements defended by heroes, and its gates proudly hung with trophies." Sophocles appears with splendid dignity, like some imperial palace of richest architecture; the symmetry of the parts and the chaste magnificence of the whole delight the eye and command the approbation of the judgment. The pathetic and moral Euripides has the solemnity of a Gothic temple, whose storied windows admit a dim religious light, enough to show its high embowed roof, and the monuments of the dead which rise in every part, impressing our minds with pity and terror as emblems of the uncertain and short duration of human greatness, and with an awful sense of our own mortality.

ARISTOPHANES.

Very little is known about the life of Aristophanes. He was born about 444 B.C., and devoted himself to comic poetry. He wrote fifty-four plays, of which eleven are extant.

The comedies of Aristophanes are universally regarded as the standard of Attic writing in its greatest purity. His genius was vast, versatile, and original, and his knowledge of human nature surpassed by Homer and Shakspeare alone.

The noble tone of morals, the elevated taste, the sound political wisdom, the boldness and acuteness of the satire, the grand object, which is seen throughout, of correcting the follies of the day, and improving the condition of his country—all these are features in Aristophanes, which, however disguised, as they intentionally are, by coarseness and buffoonery, entitle him to the highest respect from every reader of antiquity. He condescended, indeed, to play the part of jester to the Athenian tyrant. But his jests were the vehicles for telling to them the soundest truths. They were never without a far higher aim than to raise a momentary laugh. He was no farce writer, but a deep philosophical politician; grieved and ashamed at the condition of his country, and through the stage, the favorite amusement of Athenians, aiding to carry on the one great common work, which Plato proposed in his dialogues, and in which all the better and nobler spirits of the time seem to have concurred as by a confederacy—the reformation of an atrocious democracy. There is as much system in the comedies of Aristophanes as in the dialogues of Plato. Every part of a vitiated public mind is exposed in its turn. Its demagogues in the Knights, its courts of justice in the Wasps, its foreign policy in the Acharnians, its tyranny over the allies in the Birds, the state of female society in the Sysistrate and the Ecclesiazusae, and its corrupt poetical taste in the Frogs. No one play is without its definite object; and the state of national education, as the greatest cause of all, is laid open in the Clouds. Whatever light is thrown, by that admirable play, upon the character of Socrates, and the position which he occupies in the Platonic Dialogues—a point, it may be remarked, on which the greatest mistakes are daily made—it is chiefly valuable as exhibiting, in a short but very complete analysis, and by a number of fine Rembrandt-like strokes, not any of which must be overlooked, all the features of that frightful school of sophistry, which at that time was engaged systematically in corrupting the Athenian youth, and against which the whole battery of Plato was pointedly directed.