Welcome as land to the shipwrecked mariner was Ulysses to Penelope. Both wept as he held her in his arms, and the rosy-fingered morn would have found them thus, weeping, with her fair, white arms encircling his neck, had not Pallas prolonged the night that he might relate to her the story of his wanderings. Then, happy in their reunion, the years of sorrow all forgotten, sleep overcame them. At dawn, bidding a brief farewell to his wife, Ulysses went forth to visit his father, and settle as best he might the strife which he knew would result from the slaughter of the suitors.

After Ulysses' mother had died of grief at the prolonged absence of her son, Laertes passed his days wretchedly in a little habitation remote from the palace. There Ulysses found him and made himself known; and there he, Laertes, Telemachus, the aged Dolius, and his six sons faced the people who had been roused to battle by the speech of Eupeithes, whose son Antinoues had been the first of the suitors to fall by the hand of Ulysses. Not heeding the warning of the herald Medon that the suitors had been slain justly, they attacked Ulysses and his handful of followers.

Eupeithes fell first by the spear of Laertes, and a great slaughter would have ensued, had not the combatants been silenced by the voice of Pallas, who commanded all strife to cease. Frightened by this divine command, the enemy fled; and Pallas, descending in the form of Mentor, plighted a covenant between them that Ulysses might live peacefully among them the remainder of his life.



SELECTIONS FROM THE ODYSSEY.

THE PALACE OF ALCINOUES.

Ulysses, having been directed by Nausicaa, reached the gate of the city, and was there met by Pallas in the guise of a maiden with an urn, who instructed him how to approach the king and queen. He passed through the town, wrapped in a cloud by Pallas, and paused on the threshold of Alcinoues's palace.

For on every side beneath The lofty roof of that magnanimous king A glory shone as of the sun or moon. There from the threshold, on each side, were walls Of brass that led towards the inner rooms, With blue steel cornices. The doors within The massive building were of gold, and posts Of silver on the brazen threshold stood, And silver was the lintel, and above Its architrave was gold; and on each side Stood gold and silver mastiffs, the rare work Of Vulcan's practised skill, placed there to guard The house of great Alcinoues, and endowed With deathless life, that knows no touch of age. Along the walls within, on either side, And from the threshold to the inner rooms, Were firmly planted thrones on which were laid Delicate mantles, woven by the hands Of women. The Phaeacian princes here Were seated; here they ate and drank, and held Perpetual banquet. Slender forms of boys In gold upon the shapely altars stood, With blazing torches in their hands to light At eve the palace guests; while fifty maids Waited within the halls, where some in querns Ground small the yellow grain; some wove the web Or twirled the spindle, sitting, with a quick Light motion, like the aspen's glancing leaves. The well-wrought tissues glistened as with oil. As far as the Phaeacian race excel In guiding their swift galleys o'er the deep, So far the women in their woven work Surpass all others. Pallas gives them skill In handiwork and beautiful design. Without the palace-court and near the gate, A spacious garden of four acres lay. A hedge enclosed it round, and lofty trees Flourished in generous growth within,—the pear And the pomegranate, and the apple-tree With its fair fruitage, and the luscious fig And olive always green. The fruit they bear Falls not, nor ever fails in winter time Nor summer, but is yielded all the year. The ever-blowing west-wind causes some To swell and some to ripen; pear succeeds To pear; to apple, apple, grape to grape, Fig ripens after fig. A fruitful field Of vines was planted near; in part it lay Open and basking in the sun, which dried The soil, and here men gathered in the grapes, And there they trod the wine-press. Farther on Were grapes unripened yet, which just had cast The flower, and others still which just began To redden. At the garden's furthest bound Were beds of many plants that all the year Bore flowers. There gushed two fountains: one of them Ran wandering through the field; the other flowed Beneath the threshold to the palace-court, And all the people filled their vessels there. Such were the blessings which the gracious gods Bestowed on King Alcinoues and his house. Bryant's Translation, Book VII.



THE BENDING OF THE BOW.

Penelope, weary of the importunities of the suitors, determined to end the contest by giving them the bow of Ulysses and allowing the one who could successfully send the arrow through the steel rings to become her husband. Having announced her intention, she ascended the stairs to the treasure chamber, where the bow was kept.

Now when the glorious lady reached the room, And stood upon the threshold, wrought of oak And polished by the workman's cunning hand, Who stretched the line upon it, and set up Its posts, and hung its shining doors, she loosed With a quick touch the thong that held the ring, Put in the key, and with a careful aim Struck back the sounding bolts. As when a bull Roars in the field, such sound the beautiful doors, Struck with the key, gave forth, and instantly They opened to her. Up the lofty floor She stepped, where stood the coffer that contained The perfumed garments. Reaching forth her hand, The queen took down the bow, that hung within Its shining case, and sat her down, and laid The case upon her knees, and, drawing forth The monarch's bow, she wept aloud. As soon As that new gush of tears had ceased to fall, Back to the hall she went, and that proud throng Of suitors, bearing in her hand the bow Unstrung, and quiver, where the arrows lay Many and deadly. Her attendant maids Brought also down a coffer, where were laid Much brass and steel, provided by the king For games like these. The glorious lady then, In presence of the suitors, stood beside The columns that upheld the stately roof. She held a lustrous veil before her cheeks, And while on either side of her a maid Stood modestly, bespake the suitors thus:—

"Hear, noble suitors! ye who throng these halls, And eat and drink from day to day, while long My husband has been gone; your sole excuse For all this lawlessness the claim ye make That I become a bride. Come then, for now A contest is proposed. I bring to you The mighty bow that great Ulysses bore. Whoe'er among you he may be whose hand Shall bend this bow, and send through these twelve rings An arrow, him I follow hence, and leave This beautiful abode of my young years, With all its plenty,—though its memory, I think, will haunt me even in my dreams."

She spake, and bade the master of the swine, The good Eumaeus, place the bow and rings Of hoary steel before the suitor train. In tears he bore the bow and laid it down. The herdsman also wept to see again His master's bow.

* * * * *

He (Telemachus) spake and, rising, from his shoulders took The purple cloak, and laid the trenchant sword Aside; and first he placed the rings of steel In order, opening for them in the ground A long trench by a line, and stamping close The earth around them. All admired the skill With which he ranged them, never having seen The game before. And then he took his place Upon the threshold, and essayed the bow; And thrice he made the attempt, and thrice gave o'er, Yet hoping still to draw the cord, and send An arrow through the rings. He would have drawn The bow at the fourth trial, but a nod Given by his father caused him to forbear, Though eager for the attempt.

* * * * *

... And then Eupeithes' son, Antinoues, to the crowd of suitors said:—

"Rise one by one, my friends, from right to left. Begin where he begins who pours the wine." So spake Antinoues, and the rest approved. Then rose Leiodes, son of Oenops, first. He was their seer, and always had his seat Beside the ample bowl. From deeds of wrong He shrank with hatred, and was sore incensed Against the suitors all. He took the bow And shaft, and, going to the threshold, stood And tried the bow, yet bent it not; it galled His hands, for they were soft, and all unused To such a task.

... The swineherd went Forward along the hall, and, drawing near The wise Ulysses, gave into his hands The bow.

* * * * *

... but when the wary chief Had poised and shrewdly scanned the mighty bow, Then, as a singer, skilled to play the harp, Stretches with ease on its new fastenings A string, the twisted entrails of a sheep, Made fast at either end, so easily Ulysses bent that mighty bow. He took And drew the cord with his right hand; it twanged With a clear sound as when a swallow screams. The suitors were dismayed, and all grew pale. Jove in loud thunder gave a sign from heaven. The much-enduring chief, Ulysses, heard With joy the friendly omen, which the son Of crafty Saturn sent him. He took up A winged arrow, that before him lay Upon a table drawn; the others still Were in the quiver's womb; the Greeks were yet To feel them. This he set with care against The middle of the bow, and toward him drew The cord and arrow-notch, just where he sat, And aiming opposite, let fly the shaft. He missed no ring of all; from first to last The brass-tipped arrow threaded every one. Then to Telemachus Ulysses said:—

"Telemachus, the stranger sitting here Hath not disgraced thee. I have neither missed The rings, nor found it hard to bend the bow; Nor has my manly strength decayed, as these Who seek to bring me to contempt pretend; And now the hour is come when we prepare A supper for the Achaians, while the day Yet lasts, and after supper the delights Of song and harp, which nobly grace a feast."

He spake, and nodded to Telemachus, His well-beloved son, who girded on His trenchant sword, and took in hand his spear, And, armed with glittering brass for battle, came And took his station by his father's seat.

Then did Ulysses cast his rags aside, And, leaping to the threshold, took his stand On its broad space, with bow and quiver filled With arrows. At his feet the hero poured The winged shafts, and to the suitors called:—

"That difficult strife is ended. Now I take Another mark, which no man yet has hit. Now I shall see if I attain my aim, And, by the aid of Phoebus, win renown."

He spake; and, turning, at Antinoues aimed The bitter shaft—Antinoues, who just then Had grasped a beautiful two-eared cup of gold, About to drink the wine. He little thought Of wounds and death; for who, when banqueting Among his fellows, could suspect that one Alone against so many men would dare, However bold, to plan his death, and bring On him the doom of fate? Ulysses struck The suitor with the arrow at the throat. The point came through the tender neck behind, Sideways he sank to earth; his hand let fall The cup; the dark blood in a thick warm stream Gushed from the nostrils of the smitten man. He spurned the table with his feet, and spilled The viands; bread and roasted meats were flung To lie polluted on the floor. Then rose The suitors in a tumult, when they saw The fallen man; from all their seats they rose Throughout the hall, and to the massive walls Looked eagerly; there hung no buckler there, No sturdy lance for them to wield. They called Then to Ulysses with indignant words:—

"Stranger! in evil hour hast thou presumed To aim at men; and thou shalt henceforth bear Part in no other contest. Even now Is thy destruction close to thee. Thy hand Hath slain the noblest youth in Ithaca. The vultures shall devour thy flesh for this."

So each one said; they deemed he had not slain The suitor wittingly; nor did they see, Blind that they were, the doom which in that hour Was closing round them all. Then with a frown The wise Ulysses looked on them, and said:—

"Dogs! ye had thought I never would come back From Ilium's coast, and therefore ye devoured My substance here, and offered violence To my maid-servants, and pursued my wife As lovers, while I lived. Ye dreaded not The gods who dwell in the great heaven, nor feared Vengeance hereafter from the hands of men; And now destruction overhangs you all."

He spake, and all were pale with fear, and each Looked round for some escape from death.

Bryant's Translation, Books XXI., XXII.



THE KALEVALA.

"Songs preserved from distant ages."

The national epic of Finland, the Kalevala, or Place of Heroes, stands midway between the purely epical structure, as exemplified in Homer, and the epic songs of certain nations.

It is a purely pagan epic, and from its complete silence as to Finland's neighbors, the Russians, Germans, and Swedes, it is supposed to date back at least three thousand years.

The first attempt to collect Finnish folk-song was made in the seventeenth century by Palmskoeld and Peter Baeng. In 1733, Maxenius published a volume on Finnish national poetry, and in 1745 Juslenius began a collection of national poems. Although scholars saw that these collected poems were evidently fragments of a Finnish epic, it remained for two physicians, Zacharias Topelius and Elias Loennrot, to collect the entire poem. Topelius, though confined to his bed by illness for eleven years, took down the songs from travelling merchants brought to his bedside. His collections were published in 1822 and 1831. Loennrot travelled over Finland, collecting the songs, which he published, arranged in epical form, in 1835. A revised edition was published in 1849.

The Kalevala consists of fifty parts, or runes, containing twenty-two thousand seven hundred and ninety-three lines. Its historical foundation is the contests between the Finns and the Lapps.

Its metre is the "eight syllabled trochaic with the part-line echo," alliteration also being used, a metre familiar to us through Longfellow's "Hiawatha."

The labors of a Wolf are not necessary to show that the Kalevala is composed of various runes or lays, arranged by a compiler. Topelius and Loennrot were conscientious collectors and compilers, but they were no Homers, who could fuse these disconnected runes into one great poem. The Kalevala recites many events in the lives of different heroes who are not types of men, like Rama, or Achilles, or Ulysses, but the rude gods of an almost savage people, or rather, men in the process of apotheosis, all alike, save in the varying degrees of magic power possessed by each.

The Finnish lays are interesting to us because they are the popular songs of a people handed down with few changes from one generation to another; because they would have formed the material for a national epic if a great poet had arisen; because of their pictures of ancient customs, and particularly the description of the condition of women, and because of their frequently beautiful descriptions of nature. But because they are simply runes "loosely stitched together" we can regard them only with interest and curiosity, not with admiration.



BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE KALEVALA.

Andrew Lang's Homer and the Epic, pp. 412-419;

Andrew Lang's Kalevala, or the Finnish National Epic (in his Custom and Myth), 1885, pp. 156-179;

C. J. Billson's Folk-songs, comprised in the Finnish Kalevala, Folk-Lore, 1895, vi. pp. 317-352;

F. C. Cook's Kalevala, Contemporary, 1885, xlvii., pp. 683-702;

Preface of J. M. Crawford's Translation of the Kalevala, 1891.



STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE KALEVALA.

The Kalevala, Tr. by J. M. Crawford, 2 vols., 1891;

The Kalevala, Tr. by W. F. Kirby, through the German translation of Schiefner;

Selections from the Kalevala, Tr. from a German version by J. A. Porter, with an introduction and analysis of the Poem, 1868.



THE STORY OF THE KALEVALA.

Wainamoinen was born upon the ocean after his mother, Ilmatar, daughter of the illimitable Ether, had floated upon its surface for more than seven hundred years. During this time Ilmatar had created the islands, the rocks, and the continents. After eight years of swimming through the ocean, studying his surroundings, Wainamoinen left the waters and swam to a barren promontory, where he could rest himself on dry land and study the sun, the moon, and the starry skies. At last he called to him Pellerwoinen, that the slender youth might scatter seeds broadcast upon the island, sowing in their proper places the birch, the alder, the linden, the willow, the mountain ash, and the juniper. It was not long until the eyes of the sower were gladdened by the sight of trees rising above the hitherto barren soil.

But as Wainamoinen cast his eyes over the place he perceived that the oak, the tree of heaven, was wanting. The acorn planted in the sterile soil developed not until Tursas, the giant, arose from the ocean, burned some meadow grasses, and raking together the ashes, planted therein the acorn, from which soon sprang up a mighty oak-tree whose branches hid the sun rays and the starlight.

The oak-tree must be felled if the land was to prosper, but who could fell it? "Help me, Kape, daughter of the Ether, help me, my ancient mother, to uproot this terrible tree that shuts out the sunshine," cried Wainamoinen.

Straightway arose from the ocean a little being clad in copper,—cap, boots, gloves, and belt. He was no longer than a man's forefinger, and the blade of the hatchet at his belt was but a finger's breadth. "Art thou divine, or human?" queried Wainamoinen. "Tell me who thou art. Thou surely hast the bearing of a hero, though so small. But thou must be of the race of the pygmies, and therefore useless."

"I came here to fell the oak," replied the pygmy. "I am a god and a hero from the tribes that rule the ocean."

"Never canst thou lop the branches of this mighty tree," replied Wainamoinen.

As he spoke, the pygmy became a giant; with one step he left the ocean, and stood piercing the clouds with his head. He whetted his hatchet on the great rocks, and with three steps reached the tree; with four blows felled it. The trunk fell eastward, its tops westward, the leaves to the south, the hundred branches to the north. Full of magic power were the parts of this tree, and happy was he who possessed himself of some part of it.

Then vegetation flourished, the birds sang happily in the trees, and all was well except that barley was wanting. On the ocean strand Wainamoinen discovered the barley seed; and, advised by the birds how to plant it, was soon gratified by the sight of the growing barley. His next act was to clear the forest; but he left the slender birch for the birds to nest in, thus winning the gratitude of the silver-voiced singers.

In the land of Kalevala, Wainamoinen passed many happy years, and the fame of his wonderful songs of wit and wisdom spread even to the land of the Lapps, in the dismal north, where lived Youkahainen, a young minstrel. Against the advice of his parents, the youth, filled with jealousy, visited Kalevala, to hold a singing contest with Wainamoinen.

He proudly displayed his wisdom to the old minstrel, who laughed at it as "women's tales and children's wisdom," and when Youkahainen declared in song that he was present at the creation, Wainamoinen called him the prince of liars, and himself began to sing. As he sang, the copper-bearing mountains, the massive rocks and ledges, trembled, the hills re-echoed, and the very ocean heaved with rapture. The boaster stood speechless, seeing his sledge transformed into reed grass and willows, his beautiful steed changed to a statue, his dog to a block of stone, and he himself fast sinking in a quicksand. Then comprehending his folly, he begged his tormentor to free him. Each precious gift he offered for a ransom was refused, until he named his beautiful sister Aino. Wainamoinen, happy in the promise of Aino for a wife, freed the luckless youth from his enchantment, and sent him home.

Aino's mother was rejoiced to hear that her daughter had been promised to the renowned Wainamoinen; but when the beautiful girl learned that she was tied by her brother's folly to an old man, she wandered weeping through the fields. In vain her mother and father sought to console her; she wept for her vanished childhood, for all her happiness and hope and pleasure forever gone. To console her daughter, the mother told her of a store of beautiful ornaments that she herself had worn in girlhood; they had been given her by the daughters of the Moon and Sun,—gold, ribbons, and jewels. Beautifully arrayed in these long-concealed ornaments, Aino wandered through the fields for many days, bewailing her sad fate. On the fourth day, she laid her garments on the sea shore, and swam out to the standing rock, a little distance from the shore. No sooner had she clambered on the rainbow-colored rock than it turned and fell to the bottom of the sea, carrying with it the weeping maiden, chanting a farewell to her family. The fleet and haughty hare bore the news of her death to the household, where her unfortunate mother sat weeping, urging other mothers never to force their daughters to wed against their choice. The tears that rolled down her cheeks formed three streamlets, that, growing larger, became torrents with foaming cataracts. From the cataracts towered three pillared rocks upon which rose three hillocks, and upon each hillock sprang a birch-tree. On the summit of each tree sat a golden bird singing; and the first sang, for three moons, his song of "Love! O Love!" the second called for six moons, "Suitor! Suitor!" but the third bird sang forever his sad song of "Consolation! Consolation!"

Wainamoinen was deeply grieved when he heard of the fate of the lovely Aino, and he at once went to angle in the deep where dwelt the mermaids, the daughters of Wellamo.

After he had fished many days in vain, he caught a wondrous salmon, larger and more beautiful than he had ever before caught. But as he took out his silver knife to cut it, the fish sprang from his hand into the deep, telling him that it was Aino who had thus come to him, and whom he had now lost forever by his stupidity. Then indeed the song of the golden bird seemed sad to Wainamoinen, and he was disconsolate until his mother spoke to him from her grave: "My son, go north and seek thy wife. Take not a silly Lapp, but choose one of the daughters of Suomi."

Quickly Wainamoinen prepared for his journey, and mounted his magic steed, that galloped over the plains of Kalevala and crossed the waste of blue sea-water as though it were land.

But the envious Youkahainen was informed of the journey, and had prepared a cruel cross-bow and three poisoned arrows. In spite of the protests of his mother, he waited for the hero and shot at him three times. The third arrow struck Wainamoinen's horse, which sank to the bottom of the ocean, leaving the hapless rider struggling in the water. "Seven summers must he tread the waves," chuckled Youkahainen; "eight years ride the billows."

For six days Wainamoinen floated on the waters; then he was rescued by a huge eagle that carried him on its back to Pohyola, the dismal Sariola, and left him on a barren promontory, where he bemoaned his unhappy fate. Here he was found by Louhi, the toothless dame of Pohyola, who took him home and fed him. Then she promised to provide him with a sledge that he might journey safely home if he would forge for her the Sampo, a magical jewel that gave success to its possessor. If he could make her this, she would also give him her daughter in marriage. "I cannot forge the Sampo, but if thou wilt help me to my distant country I will send thee my brother Ilmarinen, the blacksmith, who can forge for thee the magic Sampo, and win thy beautiful daughter."

Louhi provided a sledge and horse, and as Wainamoinen seated himself she warned him, as he journeyed, not to look upward before nightfall, or some great misfortune would befall him.

The maiden of the Rainbow, beautiful daughter of Pohyola, was sitting on the rainbow weaving, and Wainamoinen, hearing the whizzing of the loom, forgot the warning, and, looking up, was filled with love for the maiden.

"Come to me," he cried.

"The birds have told me," she replied, "that a maiden's life, as compared to a married woman's, is as summer to coldest winter. Wives are as dogs enchained in kennels."

When Wainamoinen further besought her, she told him that she would consider him a hero when he had split a golden hair with edgeless knives and snared a bird's egg with an invisible snare. When he had done these things without difficulty, she demanded that he should peel the sandstone, and cut her a whipstick from the ice without making a splinter. This done, she commanded that he should build her a boat from the fragments of her distaff, and set it floating without the use of his knee, arm, hand, or foot to propel it.

While Wainamoinen was engaged in this task, Hisi, the god of evil, caused him to cut his knee with the axe. None of his charms availed to stanch the blood, so he dragged himself to his sledge and sought the nearest village. In the third cottage he found a graybeard, who caused two maids to dip up some of the flowing blood, and then commanded Wainamoinen to sing the origin of iron. The daughters of Ukko the Creator had sprinkled the mountains with black, white, and red milk,—from this was formed iron. Fire caught the iron and carried it to its furnace, and later Ilmarinen worked the unwilling metal into various articles. As he sought something to harden it, Hisi's bird, the hornet, dropped poison into the water; and the iron dipped into it, formed the hard steel, which, angry because it could not be broken, cut its brother, and vowed that it would ever cause man's blood to flow in torrents.

The old man then addressed the crimson stream flowing from the wound, and prayed to mighty Ukko to stop it.

When it ceased to flow at his prayer, he sent forth his son to gather various charmed plants, steep them, and make a magic balsam. After many attempts the son was successful; and the balsam, applied to Wainamoinen's wound, healed it immediately.

Wainamoinen returned home and sought Ilmarinen, who refused to go north to forge the Sampo. Inducing his brother to climb a lofty fir-tree to bring down the Moon and the Bear he had conjured there, the wizard caused a great storm-wind to arise and blow Ilmarinen to the woodlands of Pohyola.

There the blacksmith at once set up a forge, and after four days' work saw the Sampo rising from the furnace, its many colored lid rocking and grinding, every day, many measures of meal.

Joyfully Louhi received the magic Sampo and locked it in a secret chamber under the copper-bearing mountains. But when Ilmarinen asked for the hand of the Rainbow Maid, he was refused. "Never shall I, in my lifetime, say farewell to maiden freedom." So the blacksmith was compelled to return alone to Wainola.

While Ilmarinen was forging the Sampo and Wainamoinen was building the magic boat, Lemminkainen, or Ahti, the reckless wizard, king of the islands, was longing for a bride from Ehstland. In spite of his mother's entreaties, Lemminkainen went to Ehstland, and when he found it was impossible to gain the favor of Kylliki, the Sahri maid of beauty, he carried her off by force in his sledge. She became reconciled to him when he promised that he would never go to battle, and she in turn vowed that she would not visit the village dances. They lived happily together until Lemminkainen tarried late at the fishing one evening, and Kylliki went to the village dance. When Lemminkainen returned, his sister told him of Kylliki's broken vow; and in spite of the prayers of his mother and wife, the hero declared that he would break his promise and go to war. To the Northland he would go, and win another wife. "When my brush bleeds, then you may know that misfortune has overtaken me," he said angrily, flinging his hairbrush at the wall.

Through many dangers he passed unscathed by the aid of his magic, until he stood in the halls of Louhi and asked for her daughter, the Rainbow Maiden.

"First bring me the wild moose from the Hisi-fields and forests," said Louhi.

From Kauppi, able smith, Lemminkainen procured the wondrous snow-shoes; but Hisi, who heard the boasts of the hero, fashioned a wild moose that ran so rapidly that Lemminkainen could not overtake it, but broke his snow-shoes in the race. He besought Ukko and the mistress of the forest and her king, and at last, with their aid, the moose was captured and led home to Louhi.

"Now bridle the flaming horse of Hisi," said she.

The mighty stallion stood on the Hisi mountain, breathing fire and smoke. When the hero saw him he prayed to Ukko, "Let the hail and icy rain fall upon him." His prayer was granted; and, going forward, Lemminkainen prayed the steed to put its head into the golden head-stall, promising to treat it with all gentleness. Then he led it to the courts of Sariola.

"Now kill for me the swan that swims in Tuoni, the black death-river. One shot only canst thou have. If thou succeed, then mayst thou claim thy bride."

When Lemminkainen entered Pohyola he had slain all his opponents but one blind shepherd, whom he spared because he despised his helplessness. This object of his scorn was waiting for him, and when Lemminkainen approached the river he fell by a shot from the enemy, regretting, as he died, that he had not asked his mother's advice before attempting to reach Tuoni.

Nasshut, the shepherd, threw the hero's body into the river, where it was seized and cut in pieces by the son of Tuoni.

At home the mother and wife awaited anxiously tidings of their hero. When they saw blood trickling from the brush, the mother could wait no longer, but at once set out for the dreary Northland. After repeated threats, she wrested from Louhi the fact that her son had gone to Tuoni; from the Sun she learned his fate.

Quickly seeking Ilmarinen, the mother bade him forge for her a mighty rake. With this she raked the deep death-river, collected the pieces of the hero, bound them together with the aid of the goddess Suonetar, and making a balsam, the materials for which were brought her by the bee, she healed her hero son, comforted him, and led him back to Kalevala.

In the mean time, Wainamoinen, who was building his boat for the Rainbow Maid, found that he had forgotten three magic words with which to fasten in the ledges and complete the boat's forecastle.

After examining in vain the mouths of the wild animals, he sought the dead hero Wipunen, forced open his jaws, and accidentally fell into his mouth. Wipunen quickly swallowed him; but Wainamoinen, setting up a forge in his body, caused him such discomfort that the giant was glad to give his information, and get rid of his unwelcome visitor. Having thus learned the secrets of the ages, and among them the three magic words, Wainamoinen hastened home and finished his boat.

The boat builded, he at once set out for the Northland to woo the Rainbow Maid. The boat was bedecked with silver and gold, and the linen sails were blue, white, and scarlet. The sails were merely for ornament, however, for the boat moved over the ocean without the aid of oars or sails. Wainamoinen's departure from Kalevala was observed by Anniki, the sister of Ilmarinen, who at once told her brother. With her assistance, Ilmarinen cleansed the black from his ruddy countenance, and jumping into his sledge, was soon on the way to Sariola. The approach of the heroes was perceived by Louhi. "Daughter," said she, "the old man brings thee a boat full of treasures; take him. Do not wed the empty-handed youth."

"Thy advice is good, but I will not take it. The young man shall be my husband."

When Wainamoinen was refused in spite of his gifts, Louhi addressed herself to Ilmarinen, and set him, in turn, three tasks: to plough the serpent field of Hisi, to muzzle Tuoni's bear, and to catch the pike of Mana, in the river of Tuoni.

With the help of his sweetheart, Ilmarinen accomplished these tasks, and the wedding day was set. Old Wainamoinen, heavy hearted, journeyed homeward, and sent the edict to his people that in the future old men should not go wooing, or strive with younger men.

Great preparations were made for the wedding feast; the mighty ox of Karjala was slain, and for the first time, beer was brewed in Pohyola. Invitations were sent to all the people of Pohyola and the tribes of Kalevala, to all save Lemminkainen.

When Ilmarinen returned for his bride, he was received with honor, and the wedding feast was merry. But when the time came to take the bride away, the Rainbow Maid was unwilling, she who before had been so ready to go with him. Many times had she been told of the miseries of the wife: her husband's slave, her whole life one of service, one long endeavor to please her husband's mother and father. After her lament, Osmatar, the Bride-adviser, instructed her how to please her husband's family, and admonished Ilmarinen to guard well his Bride of Beauty. Then the two set forth together, the Rainbow Maid shedding many tears at parting with her loved ones.

The bride and groom were received with joy by Ilmarinen's family, and old Wainamoinen himself sang at the wedding feast.

But Lemminkainen was angry because he had received no invitation to the wedding, and in spite of his mother's advice, set out to make war against the Lapps. He successfully overcame all the terrors that beset him, and reached Sariola, but was so coldly received there that, enraged at such treatment, he slew his host, the landlord of Pohyola, and fled homeward to escape the hosts whom Louhi called to defend her.

His mother sent him to the isle of refuge to escape the northern hosts. In the centre of the tenth ocean it rose, the refuge of his father; there he must abide three years, and must take a vow not to fight again for sixty summers.

The three years passed speedily on the happy isle, where dwelt many maidens who admired the reckless hero, and he departed just in time to escape the swords of the jealous heroes of the isle. His ancient home was in ashes when he returned, his mother missing; but while he mourned for her, he chanced upon her, hiding from the Lapps in the forest. Again he determined to seek out his enemies and be revenged on them. Taking with him his friend Tiera he sought the north, but was met by the Frost-Fiend and compelled to return.

To the house of Ilmarinen the blacksmith, was sold by Untamoinen a slave, Kullervo. He was a giant who had done naught but evil, until in despair his master sold him to the blacksmith. Kullervo, or Kullerwoinen, was made a shepherd and sent forth with the flocks. But rage at the blacksmith's wife, who baked a stone in his bread on which he broke the magic knife of his people, caused him to transform the flocks into wolves, who tore the Rainbow Wife to pieces when she went to milk them.

Then Kullerwoinen fled from the blacksmith, and set out to find his tribe-people, but on the way unknowingly corrupted his sister, and in despair at his evil deeds, destroyed himself.

Ilmarinen was full of grief at the loss of his wife. Unhappy and restless, he forged for himself a bride of gold; but the image failed to satisfy him, and Wainamoinen, reproving him, forbade his people in the future to worship any graven image. Then the blacksmith again sought the north to win the sister of his former bride, but was met with bitter reproaches for the sorrow he had brought upon the family. Nevertheless, he seized the maiden to carry her away, but she was so angry and so unhappy that he changed her to a seagull and came home wifeless and sad.

Wainamoinen and Ilmarinen soon conceived the idea of going to the Northland to win back the Sampo. On the way they allied to themselves the wizard Lemminkainen. As they approached the whirlpool near Pohyola, their vessel stuck on the shoulders of a great pike. When neither Lemminkainen nor Ilmarinen could slay it, Wainamoinen impaled it on his fire-sword, and the three banqueted on the great fish. From its bones, Wainamoinen framed the first harp. No one could win music from it but its creator; but when he touched its strings and sang, the very trees danced about him, wild animals lay in peace at his feet, and the hearts of men were ravished. As his listeners wept at the strains, Wainamoinen's tears rolled down into the ocean. Thence the duck brought them, changed to pearls, receiving for a reward its beautiful coat. Such was the origin of sea-pearls.

When Wainamoinen had put the inhabitants of Pohyola to sleep with his magic music, the heroes found the Sampo with little difficulty, and bore it away from the copper mountain. But as they hastened home, the discordant voice of Lemminkainen, who sang for joy of their capture, caused the crane to screech, and the bird's cry roused the people of Pohyola. Louhi speedily discovered her loss, and started in pursuit of the heroes. In various ways she attacked them,—with war ships that were stopped by a reef conjured up by Wainamoinen, by a terrible storm, and by a giant eagle that perched on their boat. In their struggle with her the Sampo was broken and its fragments scattered on the ocean. Louhi left them, uttering dire threats; and Wainamoinen, gathering up what fragments of the Sampo he could find, buried them where they would bring prosperity to his people.

Now Wainamoinen longed to sing to his harp to rejoice the hearts of his people, but the magic instrument had been lost in the storm conjured by Louhi. After raking the sea for it in vain, he constructed a new harp from the birch-tree, and delighted the people with his songs.

In revenge for the theft of the Sampo, Louhi sent nine diseases upon Wainamoinen's people,—colic, pleurisy, fever, ulcer, plague, consumption, gout, sterility, and cancer, the offspring of the fell Lowyatar; but by the use of vapor baths and balsams Wainamoinen healed his people. Then Louhi sent Otso the Bear, the honey-eater, but he was slain by the hero, who made a banquet of his flesh for the people. Enraged at her failures, she stole the sun, moon, and fire, and left Kalevala in darkness. Ukko, taking pity on his people, struck lightning from his fire-sword and gave the fire-child to a virgin to be cared for. In an unguarded moment it sprang earthward, fell into the sea, and was swallowed by a fish, that, in the agonies of torment, was swallowed by another. Wainamoinen went fishing with Ilmarinen, and at last caught the gray pike,—found in it the trout, found in the trout the whiting, and in the whiting the fireball. When he attempted to seize the fireball he burned his fingers, and dropped it. Ilmarinen did likewise. Then the ball rolled rapidly away until Wainamoinen caught it in an elm-tree, and took it home to gladden his people. Still they were cheerless without the sun and moon, and Wainamoinen was obliged to go to Louhi and compel her to give up the sun and moon. When he returned there was joy in Kalevala.

In the Northland dwelt a happy maiden, Mariatta, who, eating of the magic berry, as she wandered one day in the fields, bore by it a child which she called Flower. Her parents cast her off, and as no one would take her in, she was compelled to go to the flaming steed of Hisi, in whose manger the child was born. Once when she slumbered the child vanished, and she sought for it in vain, until told by the sun that it was in Wainola, sleeping among the reeds and rushes.

The child grew in grace and beauty, but no priest would baptize him, all saying that he was a wizard. Wainamoinen, too, counselled that he be destroyed; but when the two weeks old babe lifted its head and reproached him, saying that he had committed many follies but had been spared by his people, Wainamoinen baptized him, and gave him the right to grow a hero and become a mighty ruler over Karyala.

As Wainamoinen grew feeble with the passing years, he built himself a boat of copper, and singing a plaintive song in which he said the people of Suomi would look forward to his return as a time of peace and plenty, he set forth, sailing through the dusk of evening to the fiery sunset, and anchored in the purple horizon, leaving behind him for an heritage his harp, his wondrous songs, and his wisdom sayings.



SELECTIONS FROM THE KALEVALA.

ILMARINEN'S WEDDING FEAST.

Ilmarinen, the blacksmith, visited the Northland, won the Rainbow Maid, and successfully performed the tasks set by her mother Louhi. Great preparations were made in Pohyola for the wedding, and the coming of the bridegroom was anxiously expected.

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Ancient dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fenlands, Heard the rattle of the sledges; To the northward turned her glances, Turned her vision to the sunlight, And her thoughts ran on as follow: "Who are these in bright apparel, On the banks of Pohya-waters, Are they friends or hostile armies?"

Then the hostess of the Northland Looked again and well considered, Drew much nearer to examine, Found they were not hostile armies, Found that they were friends and suitors; In the midst was Ilmarinen, Son in-law to ancient Louhi.

When the hostess of Pohyola Saw the son-in-law approaching, She addressed the words that follow:

"I had thought the winds were raging, That the piles of wood were falling, Thought the pebbles in commotion, Or perchance the ocean roaring; Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined, Found the winds were not in battle, Found the piles of wood unshaken, Found the ocean was not roaring, Nor the pebbles in commotion; Found my son-in-law was coming With his heroes and attendants, Heroes counted by the hundreds.

"Should you ask of me the question, How I recognized the bridegroom Mid the host of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you: 'As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, As the moon among the planets; Drives the groom a coal-black courser, Running like a famished black-dog, Flying like the hungry raven, Graceful as the lark at morning, Golden cuckoos, six in number, Twitter on the birchen cross-bow; There are seven blue-birds singing On the racer's hame and collar.'"

Noises hear they in the court-yard, On the highway hear the sledges. To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his body-guard of heroes; In the midst the chosen suitor, Not too far in front of others, Not too far behind his fellows. Spake the hostess of Pohyola:

"Hie ye hither, men and heroes, Haste, ye watchers, to the stables, There unhitch the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breast-plate, There undo the straps and buckles, Loosen well the shafts and traces, And conduct the suitor hither, Give my son-in-law good welcome!"

Ilmarinen turned his racer Into Louhi's yard and stables, And descended from his snow-sledge Spake the hostess of Pohyola:

"Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bridegroom's courser From the shafts adorned with silver, From the curving arch of willow, Lift the harness trimmed in copper, Tie the white-face to the manger, Treat the suitor's steed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver; Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottoms soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky color. Lead the hero's steed to water, Lead him to the Pohya-fountains, Where the living streams are flowing, Sweet as milk of human kindness, From the roots of silvery birches, Underneath the shade of aspens.

"Feed the courser of the suitor, With the sweetest corn and barley, With the summer-wheat and clover, In the caldron steeped in sweetness; Feed him at the golden manger, In the boxes lined with copper, At my manger richly furnished, In the warmest of the hurdles; Tie him with a silk-like halter, To the golden rings and staples, To the hooks of purest silver, Set in beams of birch and oak-wood; Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the grains nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish.

"Curry well the suitor's courser With the curry-comb of fish-bone, Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with silken blankets, Blankets wrought in gold and silver, Buckles forged from shining copper.

"Come, ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your auburn locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if ye can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping, Lifting not the upper cross-bar, Sinking not the oaken threshold, Moving not the oaken casings, Great the hero who must enter.

"Ilmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the son-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been lengthened; Taller by a head the suitor Than the doorways of the mansion." Quick the servants of Pohyola Tore away the upper cross-bar, That his cap might not be lifted; Made the oaken threshold lower That the hero might not stumble; Made the birch-wood portals wider, Opened full the door of welcome, Easy entrance for the suitor.

Speaks the hostess of the Northland As the bridegroom freely passes Through the doorway of her dwelling:

"Thanks are due to thee, O Ukko, That my son-in-law has entered! Let me now my halls examine; Make the bridal chambers ready, Finest linen on my tables, Softest furs upon my benches, Birchen flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order."

Then the hostess of Pohyola Visited her spacious dwelling, Did not recognize her chambers; Every room had been remodelled, Changed by force of mighty magic; All the halls were newly burnished, Hedgehog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the cross-bars bones of roebuck, Apple-wood were all the rafters, Alder-wood, the window casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, All the floors of copper-tiling, Gold-adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mattings, Every fire-place set in copper, Every hearth-stone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored sea-shells, Kalew's tree was their protection.

To the court-room came the hero, Chosen suitor from Wainola, These the words of Ilmarinen:

"Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion richly fashioned!" Spake the hostess of Pohyola:

"Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of thee unworthy, To the home of thy affianced, To this dwelling lowly fashioned, Mid the lindens and the aspens.

"Come, ye maidens that should serve me, Come, ye fellows from the village, Bring me fire upon the birch-bark, Light the fagots of the fir-tree, That I may behold the bridegroom, Chosen suitor of my daughter, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow, See the color of his eyeballs, Whether they are blue or sable, See if they are warm and faithful."

Quick the young lads from the village Brought the fire upon the birch-bark, Brought it on the tips of pine-wood; And the fire and smoke commingled Roll and roar about the hero, Blackening the suitor's visage, And the hostess speaks as follows:

"Bring the fire upon a taper, On the waxen tapers bring it!"

Then the maidens did as bidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy; Eyes were neither blue nor sable, Sparkled like the foam of waters, Like the reed-grass on the margin, Colored as the ocean-jewels, Iridescent as the rainbow.

"Come, ye fellows from the hamlets, Lead my son-in-law and hero To the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, With his back upon the blue-wall, Looking on my bounteous tables, Facing all the guests of Northland."

Then the hostess of Pohyola Served her guests in great abundance, Richest drinks and rarest viands, First of all she served the bridegroom; On his platters honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river-salmon, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Pohyola. Then the servants served the others, Filled the plates of all invited With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola:

"Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in-gathered. Ere all others, serve the bridegroom."

Thereupon the merry maidens Brought the beer in silver pitchers From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding guests assembled; And the beer, fermenting, sparkled On the beard of Ilmarinen, On the beards of many heroes.

When the guests had all partaken Of the wondrous beer of barley, Spake the drink in merry accents Through the tongues of the magicians, Through the tongue of many a hero, Through the tongue of Wainamoinen, Famed to be the sweetest singer Of the Northland bards and minstrels.

* * * * *

"Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, God of love, and truth, and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Sariola, For the happiness of Northland! May this bread and beer bring joyance, May they come in rich abundance, May they carry full contentment To the people of Pohyola, To the cabin and the mansion; May the hours we spend in singing, In the morning, in the evening, Fill our hearts with joy and gladness! Hear us in our supplications, Grant to us thy needed blessings, Send enjoyment, health, and comfort, To the people here assembled, To the host and to the hostess, To the bride and to the bridegroom, To the sons upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, To the hunters on the mountains, To the shepherds in the fenlands, That our lives may end in honor, That we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland."

Crawford's Translation, Rune XXI.



THE BIRTH OF THE HARP.

Wainamoinen, Ilmarinen, and the wizard Lemminkainen started to the Northland to win back the Sampo forged for Louhi by Ilmarinen. On the way their boat stuck on the shoulders of a great pike, which was killed by Wainamoinen. The three then landed, ordered the pike to be cooked by the maidens, and feasted until nothing remained of the fish but a heap of bones.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Looked upon the pile of fragments, On the fish-bones looked and pondered, Spake these words in meditation:

"Wondrous things might be constructed From the relics of this monster, Were they in the blacksmith's furnace, In the hands of the magician, In the hands of Ilmarinen."

Spake the blacksmith of Wainola:

"Nothing fine can be constructed From the bones and teeth of fishes By the skilful forger-artist, By the hands of the magician." These the words of Wainamoinen:

"Something wondrous might be builded From these jaws, and teeth, and fish-bones; Might a magic harp be fashioned, Could an artist be discovered That could shape them to my wishes."

But he found no fish-bone artist That could shape the harp of joyance From the relics of their feasting, From the jaw-bones of the monster, To the will of the magician. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Set himself at work designing; Quick became a fish-bone artist, Made a harp of wondrous beauty, Lasting joy and pride of Suomi. Whence the harp's enchanting arches? From the jaw-bones of the monster. Whence the necessary harp-pins? From the pike-teeth, firmly fastened. Whence the sweetly singing harp-strings? From the tail of Lempo's stallion. Thus was born the harp of magic From the mighty pike of Northland, From the relics from the feasting Of the heroes of Wainola. All the young men came to view it, All the aged with their children, Mothers with their beauteous daughters, Maidens with their golden tresses; All the people on the islands Came to view the harp of joyance, Pride and beauty of the Northland.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Let the aged try the harp-strings, Gave it to the young magicians, To the dames and to their daughters, To the maidens, silver-tinselled, To the singers of Wainola. When the young men touched the harp-strings, Then arose the notes of discord; When the aged played upon it, Dissonance their only music. Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen:

"O ye witless, worthless children, O ye senseless, useless maidens, O ye wisdom-lacking heroes, Cannot play this harp of magic, Cannot touch the notes of concord! Give to me this thing of beauty, Hither bring the harp of fish-bones, Let me try my skillful fingers." Lemminkainen touched the harp-strings, Carefully the strings adjusted, Turned the harp in all directions, Fingered all the strings in sequence, Played the instrument of wonder, But it did not speak in concord, Did not sing the notes of joyance. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen:

"There is none among these maidens, None among these youthful heroes, None among the old magicians, That can play the harp of magic, Touch the notes of joy and pleasure. Let us take the harp to Pohya, There to find a skillful player That can touch the strings in concord."

Then they sailed to Sariola, To Pohyola took the wonder, There to find the harp a master. All the heroes of Pohyola, All the boys and all the maidens, Ancient dames and bearded minstrels, Vainly touched the harp of beauty.

Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Took the harp-strings in her fingers; All the youth of Sariola, Youth of every tribe and station, Vainly touched the harp of fish-bone; Could not find the notes of joyance, Dissonance their only pleasure; Shrieked the harp-strings like the whirlwinds, All the tones were harsh and frightful.

* * * * *

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song he settles, On the mount of song he settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored, Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled:

"Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing,— To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness."

Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains; Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvellous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, O'er the plains the elk deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen.

Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen.

All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen, Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven.

In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver.

All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to hear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter.

Ahto, king of all the waters, Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered:

"Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen."

Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses.

Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song outcircled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her.

Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn to even. There was neither man nor hero, Neither ancient dame nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters, At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. Crawford's Translation, Runes XL.-XLI.



THE AENEID.

The Aeneid was written by Publius Vergilius Maro, commonly known as Vergil, who was born at Andes, near Mantua, Oct. 15, 70 B. C., and died at Brundusium, Sept. 22, 19 B.C.

He was educated at Cremona, Milan, Naples, and Rome. When the lands near Cremona and Mantua were assigned by Octavianus to his soldiers after the battle of Philippi, Vergil lost his estates; but they were afterwards restored to him through Asinius Pollio.

He became a favorite of Augustus, and spent part of his time in Rome, near his patron, Maecenas, the emperor's minister.

Vergil's first work was the Bucolics, in imitation of Theocritus. His second work, the Georgics, treats of husbandry. The Aeneid relates the adventures of Aeneas, the legendary ancestor of the Romans.

The Aeneid is in twelve books, of which the first six describe the wanderings of Aeneas, and the last six his wars in Italy. Its metre is the dactyllic hexameter.

Vergil worked for eleven years on the poem, and considered it incomplete at his death.

The Aeneid tells the story of the flight of Aeneas from burning Troy to Italy, and makes him an ancestor of the Romans. With the story of his wanderings are interwoven praises of the Caesars and the glory of Rome.

It is claimed that because Vergil was essentially a poet of rural life, he was especially fitted to be the national poet, since the Roman life was founded on the agricultural country life. He also chose a theme which particularly appealed to the patriotism of the Romans. For this reason, the poem was immediately received into popular favor, and was made a text-book of the Roman youths. It is often said of Vergil by way of reproach, that his work was an imitation of Homer, and the first six books of the Aeneid are compared to the Odyssey, the last six to the Iliad. But while Vergil may be accused of imitation of subject matter, his style is his own, and is entirely different from that of Homer. There is a tender grace in the Roman writer which the Greek does not possess. Vergil also lacks that purely pagan enjoyment of life; in its place there is a tender melancholy that suggests the passing of the golden age. This difference of treatment, this added grace and charm, which are always mentioned as peculiarly Vergil's own, united with his poetical feeling, and skill in versification, are sufficient to absolve him from the reproach of a mere imitator.

The Aeneid was greatly admired and imitated during the Middle Ages, and still retains its high place in literature.



BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE AENEID.

R. W. Brown's History of Roman Classical Literature, n. d., pp. 257-265;

John Alfred Church's Story of the Aeneid, 1886;

Domenico Comparetti's Virgil in the Middle Ages, Tr. by Benecke, 1895;

C. T. Cruttwell's Virgil (see his History of Roman Literature, n. d. pp. 252-375);

John Davis's Observations on the poems of Homer and Virgil, out of the French, 1672;

James Henry's Aeneidea: or Critical, Exegetical, and Aesthetical Remarks on the Aeneis, 1873;

James Henry's Notes of Twelve Years' Voyage of Discovery in the first six Books of the Aeneid, 1853;

J. W. Mackail's Virgil (see his Latin Literature, 1895, pp. 91-106);

H. Nettleship's The Aeneid (see his Vergil, 1880, pp. 45-74);

H. T. Peck and R. Arrowsmith's Roman Life in Latin Prose and Verse, 1894, pp. 68-70;

Leonhard Schmitz's History of Latin Literature, 1877, pp. 106-108;

W. Y. Sellar's Roman Poets of the Augustan Age, Vergil, Ed. 2, 1883;

W. S. Teuffel's Aeneis (see his History of Roman Literature, 1891, pp. 434-439);

J. S. Tunison's Master Virgil, the author of the Aeneid, as he seemed in the Middle Ages, 1888;

Robert Y. Tyrrell's Virgil (see his Latin Poetry, 1895, pp. 126-161);

A Forgotten Virtue, Macmillan, 1895, xii. 51-56, an article on the Aeneid, "the epic of piety;"

Scene of the last six books of the Aeneid, Blackwood, 1832, xxxii. 76-87;

A. A. Knight's The Year in the Aeneid, Education, 1886, vi. 612-616;

William C. Cawton's The Underworld in Homer, Virgil, and Dante, Atlantic, 1884, liv. 99-110.



STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE AENEID.

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. Conington, 1887;

The Aeneid, Tr. by C. P. Cranch, 1872;

The Aeneid, Tr. by John Dryden (1697), 1884;

The Aeneid, Tr. by William Morris, 1882;

The Aeneid, Tr. by W. S. Thornhill, 1886;

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. A. Wilstach, 1884;

The Aeneid, Tr. by J. W. Mackail, 1890.



THE STORY OF THE AENEID.

For many years the heroic Aeneas, who escaped from falling Troy to seek the shores of Italy, there to found the lofty walls of Rome, was tossed upon the sea by the wrath of cruel Juno.

The fates foretold that these future Romans would overthrow a city dearer to her than Samos,—Carthage, founded by the Tyrians, opposite Italy, and far from the Tiberine mouths. For this rich city Juno desired boundless rule,—hence her hatred of the Trojans. Moreover, she had not forgotten the judgment of Paris, her slighted charms, and the supplanting of Hebe by Ganymede.

After having tossed the unhappy hero and his men over many seas, Juno, observing their approach to Italy, hastened to Aeolia, where King Aeolus ruled over the struggling winds and tempests, chained in vast caves.

Bribed by Juno, Aeolus sent forth a tempest that scattered the ships of Aeneas, and would have destroyed them had it not been for the interposition of Neptune.

Suspecting his sister's treachery, Neptune angrily dismissed the winds, and hastened to the relief of the Trojans. Cymothoe and Triton pushed the ships from the rocks, he himself assisting with his trident. Then, driving over the rough waves in his chariot, he soothed the frenzy of the sea.

The wearied Aeneans speedily sought a harbor on the Libyan shore, a long and deep recess bordered by a dense grove. In the cliffs was a cave, with sweet waters and seats carved from the living rock,—the abode of the nymphs. Gathering here the seven ships that survived the fury of the storm, Aeneas landed, and feasted with his comrades.

The next morning Aeneas, accompanied by his friend Achates, sallied forth from the camp at dawn, to learn, if possible, something of the land on which they had been thrown. They had gone but a little way in the depths of the forest when they met Aeneas's mother, Venus, in the guise of a Spartan maid, her bow hung from her shoulders, her hair flowing to the wind.

"Hast thou seen my sister?" she inquired, "hunting the boar, wrapped in a spotted lynx hide, her quiver at her back?"

"Nay, we have seen no one," replied Aeneas. "But what shall I call thee, maiden? A goddess, a nymph? Be kind, I pray thee, and tell us among what people we have fallen, that before thy altars we may sacrifice many a victim."

"I am unworthy of such honors," Venus answered. "This land is Libya, but the town is Tyrian, founded by Dido, who fled hither from her brother Pygmalion, who had secretly murdered her husband, Sichaeus, for his gold. To Dido, sleeping, appeared the wraith of Sichaeus, pallid, his breast pierced with the impious wound, and revealed to her her brother's crime, showed where a hoard of gold was concealed, and advised her to leave the country.

"Gathering together a company of those who wished to flee from the tyrant, Dido seized the ships, loaded them with the gold, and fled to Libya, where she is now erecting the walls and towers of New Carthage. I would advise thee to hasten forward and seek our queen. If augury fail me not, I read from yonder flight of swans the return of thy missing ships and comrades."

As she turned to go, her neck shone with a rosy refulgence, ambrosial fragrance breathed from her, her robe flowed down about her feet and revealed the goddess. As she vanished, her son stretched longing hands after her. "Ah, mother, why dost thou thus trifle with me? Why may not I clasp thy loved hands and exchange true words with thee?"

Wrapped in a cloud by Venus, Aeneas and Achates mounted a hill that overlooked the city, and looked down wondering on the broad roofs and the paved streets of Carthage. The busy Tyrians worked like the bees in early summer: some moving the immense masses of stone, some founding the citadel, others laying off the sites for the law courts and sacred Senate House. "O happy ye whose walls now rise!" exclaimed Aeneas, as he and Achates mingled with the crowd, still cloud-wrapped, and entered the vast temple built to Juno. Here Aeneas's fear fell from him; for as he waited for the queen's coming, he saw pictured on the walls the fall of his own dear city, and wept as he gazed upon the white tents of Rhesus, and Hector's disfigured body.

As he wept, the beautiful Dido entered, joyously intent on her great work, and, seating herself on her throne, proceeded to give laws to the Tyrians, and assign their work to them.

Suddenly, to the amazement of Aeneas and Achates, in burst their lost comrades, Antheus, Sergestus, Gyas, Cloanthus, and other Trojans, demanding of Dido a reason for their rough reception. To whom the queen replied:—

"Let fear desert your hearts; I, too, have suffered, and know how to aid the unfortunate. And whither hath not the fame of Troy penetrated? I will aid you in leaving this coast, or give you a home with me, treating you as I treat my Tyrians. Would only that Aeneas's self stood with you!"

Then burst Aeneas forth from his cloud-wrapping, made more beautiful by Venus, the purple bloom of youth on his face, joy in his eyes. "Here am I, Trojan Aeneas, to render thanks to thee, divine Dido."

Dido, charmed with the hero, prepared a banquet for him in her splendid hall, curtained with rich drapery, and adorned with costly plate, whereon were pictured the proud deeds of her ancestors. Hither came the Trojans with gifts for Dido,—a rich robe stiff with gold embroidery, a veil embroidered with the yellow acanthus, ornaments of Helen, the sceptre of Ilione, a pearl and gold necklace, and a double crown of gems and gold.

Beside Achates tripped Cupid, for Venus, suspecting the craft of the Tyrians, had hidden Ascanius on Mount Ida, and sent her own son in his guise, to complete Aeneas's conquest of Dido.

After the feast was over, the great beakers were brought in and crowned with garlands. Dido called for the beaker used by Belus and all his descendants, and pouring a libation, drank to the happiness of the Trojan wanderers, and passed the cup around the board. Iopas, the long-haired minstrel, sang, and the night passed by in various discourse. Dido, forgetting Sichaeus, hung on the words of Aeneas, questioning him of Priam and Hector, and at last demanding the story of his wanderings.

"Thou orderest me, O queen, to renew my grief, the destruction of Troy by the Greeks, which deeds I have seen, and a part of which I have been.

"Despairing of conquering Troy, the Greeks attempted to take it by stratagem. By the art of Pallas, they framed a heaven-high horse, within which were concealed picked men for our destruction. Leaving this behind them, they sailed, ostensibly for home, in reality for Tenedos.

"When we supposed them gone we joyfully went forth to examine the deserted camp and the giant horse. As we wondered at it, and Laocooen, priest of Neptune, urged us to destroy it, a crowd of shepherds approached with a youth whom they had found hiding in the sedges. His name was Sinon. He was a Greek, but he was hated by Ulysses, and had fled to save his life. The Greeks had sailed home, he assured us, leaving the horse as a votive offering to Pallas. They had hoped that its great bulk would prevent the Trojans from taking it inside their walls, for once within the city, Troy could never be taken.

"We Trojans were credulous, and Sinon's tale was plausible. To increase our belief in it, while Laocooen was sacrificing a bull to Neptune, we saw coming over the sea from Tenedos two huge serpents, their crimson crests towering high, their breasts erect among the waves, their long folds sweeping over the foaming sea. As we fled affrighted, they seized the two sons of Laocooen, twining their coils around the wretched boys; and when their father hastened to their aid, caught him in their huge coils, staining his fillets with black blood. 'Laocooen suffered for his crime,' we said, when, the priest slain, the serpents crept to Pallas's altar, and curled themselves around the feet of the goddess. Then joyfully we made a breach in the walls, put rollers under the horse, and, with music and dancing, dragged it within the walls.

"That night as we lay sleeping after revelry and feasting, Sinon crept down, opened the horse, and freed the men, who were soon joined by the other Greeks, returned from Tenedos.

"In a dream Hector's shade appeared to me, and, weeping, bade me fly. 'Troy falls. Do thou go forth and save her household deities!' As I woke, sounds of battle penetrated to my palace halls, removed somewhat from the city, and embowered in trees; and I rushed forth, forgetful of Hector's warning. I saw the streets swimming in Trojan blood, Trojan women and children led captive, Cassandra dragged from her shrine. Enraged, I gathered a band and slew many Greeks. But when I saw the impious Pyrrhus enter the palace and slay Priam at the altar, I recognized the uselessness of my struggle, and turned to my home.

"Taking my old father Anchises on my back, and leading Iulus by the hand, I set forth, followed by my wife Creusa. But when I looked behind me at the city gates, my wife was gone. Mad with despair, I rushed back to the citadel, crying, 'Creusa! Creusa!' Our homestead was in flames, the streets filled with Greeks; but as I roamed through the town, I met her pallid shape. 'O husband, rage not against heaven's decrees! Happy days will come for thee on the banks of the Tiber. Farewell, and love with me our boy!'

"Without the gates I was joined by other fugitives; and after the departure of the Greeks we built ships from the timbers of Mount Ida, and loading these with our household gods and a few spoils from the city, we departed to seek new homes.

"In Thrace, our first stopping-place, I learned that Polydore, Priam's son, who had been entrusted to the care of the Thracian king, had been slain by him for his gold, when the fortunes of Troy fell. We hastened to leave this accursed land, and sought Delos, only to be instructed by Apollo that we must seek the home from which our forefathers had come. Anchises, who remembered the legends of our race, thought this must be Crete; so to Crete we sailed, and there laid the foundations of a city, only to be driven thence by a plague and a threatened famine.

"In a dream my household gods instructed me that Dardanus, the founder of our race, had come from Hesperia, and thither we must bend our course. Tempests drove us about the sea for three suns, until, on the fourth, we landed at the isle of the Harpies,—loathsome monsters, half woman, half bird, who foul everything they touch. When we had slain the cattle and prepared to banquet, they drove us from the tables; and when attacked by us, uttered dire threats of future famine.

"At Epirus we heard that Andromache had wed Prince Helenus, who had succeeded to the rule of Pyrrhus, two Trojans thus being united. As I landed here, anxious to prove the truth of the rumor, I met Andromache herself in a grove near the town, sacrificing at an empty tomb dedicated to Hector. Pyrrhus had made her his slave after the fall of Troy, but after he wedded Hermione, he had given her to Helenus, himself a slave. When Pyrrhus died, part of his realm fell to Helenus, and here the two had set up a little Troy.

"Helenus received us kindly, instructed us as to our route, and gave us rich gifts; and Andromache, remembering her dead Astyanax, wept over lulus as she parted with him.

"As we passed Sicily we took up a Greek, Achemenides, a companion of Ulysses, who had been left behind, and had since been hiding in deadly terror from the Cyclops. We ourselves caught sight of the monster Polyphemus, feeling his way to the shore to bathe his wounded eye.

"Instructed by Helenus, we avoided Scylla and Charybdis, and reached Sicily, where my father died. We were just leaving the island when the storm arose that brought us hither. The rest thou knowest."

The guests departed from the banquet hall; but the unhappy Dido, consumed with love, imparted her secret to her sister Anna.

"Why shouldst thou weep, sister dear? Why regret that thou hast at last forgotten Sichaeus? Contend not against love, but strive to unite Trojan and Tyrian. Winter comes on, and thou canst detain him while the sea rages and the winds are fierce and the rains icy."

Her ambitious plans for her city forgotten, Dido wandered through the streets, mad with love and unable to conceal her passion. She led AEneas among the walls and towers, made feasts for him, and begged again and again to hear the story of his wandering. At other times she fondled Ascanius, leaving her youths undrilled, and the city works abandoned.

Perceiving that Aeneas, well content, seemed to forget that his goal was Hesperia, Mercury was dispatched by Jupiter to warn him to depart from Carthage.

"Why stoppest thou here?" questioned the herald of the gods. "If thou carest not for thyself, think of Ascanius, thine heir. His must be the Italian realms, the Roman world."

The horror-stricken Aeneas stood senseless with fear. He longed to escape, but how leave the unhappy Dido? Quickly calling his comrades, he commanded them to fit out the fleet in silence, hoping to find a time when he could break the news to Dido gently.

But who can deceive a lover? Rumor bore the report to Dido, who, mad with grief, reproached Aeneas. "Perfidious one! didst thou think to escape from me? Does not our love restrain thee, and the thought that I shall surely die when thou art gone? I have sacrificed all to thee; now leave me not lonely in my empty palace."

Aeneas remained untouched. He would ever retain the kindest memories of his stay in Carthage. He had never held out the hope of wedlock to her. A higher power called him, and, bidden by Jove, he must depart, for Ascanius's sake, to Italy.

The fainting Dido was carried to her palace, whence she could watch the hurried preparations for the departure. As she watched, life became intolerable to her. Pretending to her sister that she was preparing to perform a magic spell to release her from the bonds of love, she reared a mighty pyre in her court, wreathed it with funereal garlands, and placed thereon Aeneas's couch, garments, and sword. With her hair dishevelled, she then invoked Hecate, and sprinkling Avernian water and poisons on it, and casting thereon various love charms, she called the gods to witness that she was determined to die. As the ships left the harbor, she tore her hair, one moment accusing herself because she had not torn Aeneas to pieces when in her power, at another vowing to follow him. Then, anxious to forget her grief, she mounted, the pyre, and threw herself on the sword of her faithless, lover.

Far out at sea, the Aeneans, looking back, dimly guessed the meaning of the flames that brightened the stormy skies.

Contrary winds compelled Aeneas to seek harbor in Sicily. Its king, Acestes, was his friend, and there he had buried his father Anchises. A year had elapsed since his death, and in honor of the anniversary, Aeneas instituted funeral games, in which there were trials of skill in rowing, foot-racing, archery, and boxing.

While the spectators were applauding the feats of skill, the Trojan women, at the instigation of Juno, set fire to the ships, that they might compel Aeneas to remain in Sicily. By Jupiter's aid, some of the vessels were saved, and Aeneas, acting on the advice of Nautes, allowed the women and those Trojans who so desired, to remain in Sicily, and himself marked out for them the foundations of their city.

While here Aeneas was urged by Anchises in a dream to visit the Cumaean Sibyl, that, with her assistance, he might visit Elysium and talk with him.

In the lofty temple, the Sibyl, inspired by the god, encouraged the hero. "Success will at last be thine, and Juno will be won over to thee. But great labors must thou undergo."

To visit the underworld was no easy task, she assured him. "The gates of Dis stand open night and day; small trouble it is to descend thereto, but to retrace one's steps, and regain the upper air, there lies the toil." Aeneas must first possess a golden branch to present to Proserpina, and celebrate the funeral rites of his friend, Misenus, who yet lay unburied.

While Aeneas worked in the forest, felling trees for Misenus's bier, the doves of Venus descended and aided him to find the tree, from which he plucked the gleaming branch.

Across the Styx, past the dread Cerberus, Aeneas and the Sibyl went, through the abode of babes and those who died for deeds they did not do, and into the mourning fields, where the disappointed in love were hedged in with myrtle sprays. Here Aeneas descried Dido dimly through the clouds, and wept to see her fresh wound. Many were his protestations of his faithfulness, and strong his declaration that he left her only at the command of the gods. But without raising her eyes, Dido turned coldly away to where her former husband returned her love for love. Past the chamber of torture, beyond Phlegethon, guarded by Tisiphone and Tartarus, in whose depths the wicked were punished, they went, and entered the beautiful fields of Elysium, where Aeneas found his father.

To his son, Anchises explained that the souls that visited the underworld were punished according to their deserts, and then sent into Elysium. Cleansed there of all impurities, and with the memories of the past washed from them by Lethe, they again visited the world in another form. Pointing out a crowd that passed them, he indicated to Aeneas the illustrious men who would make his race famous in Italy. First his son Silvius, born of Lavinia, his Italian wife to be; Numitor, Romulus, the founder of Rome, Caesar, and greatest of all, Augustus Caesar, who would usher in the golden age.

Comforted by the prophecies of Anchises, Aeneas sought the upper world, and collecting his companions, set sail for the mouth of the Tiber.

Latinus the king welcomed Aeneas, and received his proposals for his daughter Lavinia's hand with favor, remembering an ancient prophecy that Lavinia was to wed a foreign prince. But queen Amata, aroused by Juno, insisted that Lavinia should be espoused to Turnus, chief of the Rutulians. Stung by the fury Alecto, she stirred up the people until they demanded that Latinus declare war against Aeneas; and when he hesitated, Juno herself threw open the gates of the temple of Janus.

Leaving part of his forces in Latium with Ascanius, Aeneas, instructed in a dream by father Tiber, sailed up the river to Pallanteum, the future site of Rome, to gain the alliance of Evander, an Arcadian king unfriendly to Turnus.

Evander, who was celebrating a solemn feast to Hercules, together with his only son Pallas, and his senate, welcomed the warriors to his modest home, promised his alliance, and sent forth with Aeneas his son Pallas and four hundred knights. He also advised him to go to Argylla, whose people were stirred up against Turnus because he protected their tyrant king Mezentius.

While Aeneas was thus seeking allies, his troops in Latium had been attacked and besieged by Turnus, and were greatly in need of the hero's aid. While the hosts of Turnus were sleeping after their drunken revelry, Nisus proposed to his beloved Euryalus that they steal through the Latin line with messages to Aeneas. Their proposal was applauded by the elders, and Iulus, weeping, promised to cherish them forever for their courage.

As the youths passed among the sleeping Latins, the desire for slaughter overcame them, and they slew Rhamnes, as he lay upon his gorgeous rugs, Lamus, and many others, Euryalus taking Rhamnes's golden-studded belt and Messapus's helmet as booty. Unfortunately they had delayed too long in slaughter; as they neared the camp of Turnus, Volscens, returning with reinforcements, caught sight of the shining helmet of Euryalus. The youth, flying, became separated from Nisus, and was captured by the enemy. Nisus, who returned to rescue his friend, sent weapon after weapon from his retreat, and when he saw Euryalus about to suffer death from Volscens, rushed forth to save him, only to fall dead upon the body of his slaughtered friend.

Angry at the slaughter committed by Nisus and Euryalus, Turnus, on his return, attempted to scale the intrenchments. The fight raged fiercely around the walls and towers; but just as the victory seemed to be with Turnus, Aeneas returned with his Tuscan allies, effected a landing, and began to put the enemy to flight, slaying the tyrant Mezentius and his son.

Turnus, hearing of the danger of his friend Lausus, at the hands of Pallas, who had already wrought great slaughter, sought him out, amazing the young warrior by his great size. Pallas faced him bravely; but while his spear only grazed the shoulder of Turnus, the spear of the Rutulian crushed the folds of iron, bronze, and hides, the corselet's rings of steel, and buried itself in Pallas's breast.

Turnus took the sword-belt from Pallas's body; but because of the merit of the young warrior, yielded his body to the Arcadians to be carried to King Evander.

Enraged at the death of his friend, Aeneas fought more fiercely. Especially anxious was he to meet Turnus; but Juno, determined, if possible, to save her favorite, decoyed Turnus off the battle-field by assuming the guise of Aeneas.

After a truce, during which the armies buried their dead, and the body of Pallas was sent home to his father, the armies again came together, the Latins being reinforced by the Amazons, under the leadership of Camilla. Camilla had been reared by her father, the exile Metabus, and, early trained to warlike pursuits, had consecrated herself to Diana. Beautiful as a goddess was she, and so light of foot that she could fly over the tops of the tallest wheat without harming the ears.

Within the walls of Latium there was quarrelling between the parties, Drances, leader of the peace party, accusing Turnus of bringing on and continuing the hostilities. The approach of Aeneas brought these disputes to an abrupt conclusion, and Camilla, with Turnus, hastened to battle. Many victims fell by Camilla's hand that day, as she rode about the field, her breast bare, her hand clasping her double battle-axe, before Aruns struck her down and fled, frightened at his victory.

In Latium the unhappiness increased, and Turnus, enraged at the reproaches heaped upon him, declared that he would decide the war by single combat with Aeneas. Latinus made no secret of his regret at having been compelled to break his compact with Aeneas; but Amata, still furious, raged against Aeneas, and declared that she would die if he were made her son-in-law.

The preparations were made for the single combat, the sacrifices at the altars, the crowds assembled to witness the combat; but just as the kings were solemnizing the agreement, Turnus's sister, Juturna, a river goddess, beloved of Jupiter, renewed the hostilities that Turnus might be saved. A weapon hurled from the Latin ranks caused the indignant Trojans to rise in arms, forgetful of the treaty, and the fight raged more fiercely than before.

Juturna, fearful from Juno's words of the fate of Turnus, assumed the guise of Metiscus, his charioteer, and drove her brother over the field far from the angry Aeneas, who, weary of waiting for Turnus, turned towards Latium. The frightened people rushed hither and thither, and the queen, seeing the approaching foe, the roofs in flames, and no troops of Turnus in sight, supposed the Rutulian dead, and hanged herself.

In the mean time, Turnus, remote from the fight, reproached his sister. "Think'st thou not I recognized thee? Thy deceit is in vain. Is to die so wretched a thing? Let us go to the battle. At least, I will die not unworthy of my ancestry."

As he spoke, Saces, wounded and bleeding, rushed to him, imploring: "Turnus, have pity on us; come to our rescue! The Latins call thee, the queen is dead, the phalanxes crowd thick around the gates, while thou drivest idly here."

Turnus, amazed, confused, and shamed, saw flames consuming the towers of Latium.

"Now, sister, the fates control. Desist! It is too late, I will be shamed no more!" Leaping from his chariot, he rushed forward, demanding that war cease in order that he and Aeneas might decide the battle in single combat.

When Turnus's sword broke on the helmet of Aeneas,—the sword of his charioteer, that he had seized by mistake instead of his own Styx-hardened blade,—he turned and fled, Aeneas pursuing.

Above, in Olympus, Jupiter and Juno quarrelled, as they watched the heroes circling over the yellow sand.

"Give over thy enmity," said the omnipotent father. "Thou hast caused the treaty to be violated; even now thou hast made Juturna return the lost sword to Turnus—in vain. Grieve no more, and goad no longer these suffering men of Troy."

Then Juno yielded, stipulating only that the Trojans lay aside their ancient name, that Latium remain Latium, and the future growth Roman.

Juturna, warned by Jove's messenger, a bird of evil omen, tore her locks and beat her breast, regretting the gift of immortality conferred on her by Jove. Then wrapping her gray veil about her, she fled to her watery throne that she might not see the death of her brother. The frightened Turnus, still fleeing from Aeneas, abandoned his sword and took up instead a mighty rock, a landmark such as scarce six men could uplift.

Hurling this at Aeneas, he stood, his blood running chill, his eyes cast towards the Rutuli, the town, and the spear of Aeneas, that, shrieking through the air, doom laden, wrecked his heavy shield and pierced his thigh.

"Mercy!" he prayed. "Fate hath given thee the advantage. Think, thou duteous son, of my old father, Daunus."

As Aeneas stood, softened, and ready to grant the request, the sword-belt of Pallas caught his eye.

"Shalt thou escape, decked out with Pallas's spoils? No, not I slay thee, but Pallas! His hand immolates thee!" As he spoke he plunged his sword in Turnus's breast.

Chilly death came, and the warrior's spirit fled, groaning to the shades.



SELECTION FROM THE AENEID.

NISUS AND EURYALUS.

While Aeneas, finding the Latins hostile to him, sailed up the Tiber in search of allies, the troops he left behind under Ascanius were attacked by Turnus, and their slight fortifications besieged. They were sorely pressed, and longed to be able to inform Aeneas of their need.

Nisus was guardian of the gate, No bolder heart in war's debate, The son of Hyrtacus, whom Ide Sent, with his quiver at his side, From hunting beasts in mountain brake To follow in Aeneas' wake: With him Euryalus, fair boy; None fairer donned the arms of Troy; His tender cheek as yet unshorn And blossoming with youth new-born. Love made them one in every thought: In battle side by side they fought; And now in duty at the gate The twain in common station wait. "Can it be Heaven," said Nisus then, "That lends such warmth to hearts of men, Or passion surging past control That plays the god to each one's soul? Long time, impatient of repose, My swelling heart within me glows, And yearns its energy to fling On war, or some yet grander thing. See there the foe, with vain hope flushed! Their lights are scant, their stations hushed: Unnerved by slumber and by wine Their bravest chiefs are stretched supine. Now to my doubting thought give heed And listen where its motions lead. Our Trojan comrades, one and all, Cry loud, Aeneas to recall, And where, they say, the men to go And let him of our peril know? Now if the meed I ask they swear To give you—nay, I claim no share, Content with bare renown— Meseems, beside yon grassy heap The way I well might find and keep, To Pallanteum's town." The youth returns, while thirst of praise Infects him with a strange amaze: "Can Nisus aim at heights so great, Nor take his friend to share his fate? Shall I look on, and let you go Alone to venture 'mid the foe? Not thus my sire Opheltes, versed In war's rude toil, my childhood nursed, When Argive terror filled the air And Troy was battling with despair: Nor such the lot my youth has tried, In hardship ever at your side, Since, great Aeneas' liegeman sworn, I followed Fortune to her bourne: Here, here within this bosom burns A soul that mere existence spurns, And holds the fame you seek to reap, Though bought with life, were bought full cheap."

"Not mine the thought," brave Nisus said, "To wound you with so base a dread: So may great Jove, or whosoe'er Marks with just eyes how mortals fare, Protect me going, and restore In triumph to your arms once more. But if—for many a chance, you wis, Besets an enterprise like this— If accident or power divine The scheme to adverse end incline, Your life at least I would prolong: Death does your years a deeper wrong. Leave me a friend to tomb my clay, Rescued or ransomed, which you may; Or, e'en that boon should chance refuse, To pay the absent funeral dues. Nor let me cause so dire a smart To that devoted mother's heart, Who, sole of all the matron train, Attends her darling o'er the main, Nor cares like others to sit down An inmate of Acestes' town." He answers brief: "Your pleas are naught: Firm stands the purpose of my thought: Come, stir we: why so slow?" Then calls the guards to take their place, Moves on by Nisus, pace with pace, And to the prince they go. All other creatures wheresoe'er Were stretched in sleep, forgetting care: Troy's chosen chiefs in high debate Were pondering o'er the reeling state, What means to try, or whom to speed To show Aeneas of their need. There stand they, midway in the field, Still hold the spear, still grasp the shield: When Nisus and his comrade brave With eager tones admittance crave; The matter high; though time be lost, The occasion well were worth the cost, Iulus hails the impatient pair, Bids Nisus what they wish declare. Then spoke the youth: "Chiefs I lend your ears, Nor judge our proffer by our years. The Rutules, sunk in wine and sleep, Have ceased their former watch to keep: A stealthy passage have we spied Where on the sea the gate opes wide: The line of fires is scant and broke, And thick and murky rolls the smoke. Give leave to seek, in these dark hours, Aeneas at Evander's towers, Soon will you see us here again Decked with the spoils of slaughtered men. Nor strange the road: ourselves have seen The city, hid by valleys green, Just dimly dawning, and explored In hunting all the river-board." Out spoke Aletes, old and gray: "Ye gods, who still are Ilium's stay, No, no, ye mean not to destroy Down to the ground the race of Troy, When such the spirit of her youth, And such the might of patriot truth." Then, as the tears roll down his face, He clasps them both in strict embrace: "Brave warriors! what rewards so great, For worth like yours to compensate? From Heaven and from your own true heart Expect the largest, fairest part: The rest, and at no distant day, The good Aeneas shall repay, Nor he, the royal youth, forget Through all his life the mighty debt." "Nay, hear me too," Ascanius cried, "Whose life is with my father's tied: O Nisus! by the home-god powers We jointly reverence, yours and ours, The god of ancient Capys' line, And Vesta's venerable shrine, By these dread sanctions I appeal To you, the masters of my weal; Oh, bring me back my sire again! Restore him, and I feel no pain. Two massy goblets will I give; Rich sculptures on the silver live; The plunder of my sire, What time he took Arisba's hold; Two chargers, talents twain of gold, A bowl beside of antique mould By Dido brought from Tyre. Then, too, if ours the lot to reign O'er Italy by conquest ta'en, And each man's spoil assign,— Saw ye how Turnus rode yestreen, His horse and arms of golden sheen? That horse, that shield and glowing crest I separate, Nisus, from the rest And count already thine. Twelve female slaves, at your desire, Twelve captives with their arms entire, My sire shall give you, and the plain That forms Latinus' own domain. But you, dear youth, of worth divine, Whose blooming years are nearer mine, Here to my heart I take, and choose My comrade for whate'er ensues. No glory will I e'er pursue, Unmotived by the thought of you: Let peace or war my state befall, Thought, word, and deed, you share them all." The youth replied: "No after day This hour's fair promise shall betray, Be fate but kind. Yet let me claim One favor, more than all you name: A mother in the camp is mine, Derived from Priam's ancient line: No home in Sicily or Troy Has kept her from her darling boy. She knows not, she, the paths I tread; I leave her now, no farewell said; By night and this your hand I swear, A parent's tears I could not bear. Vouchsafe your pity, and engage To solace her unchilded age: And I shall meet whate'er betide By such assurance fortified." With sympathy and tender grief All melt in tears, Iulus chief, As filial love in other shown Recalled the semblance of his own: And, "Tell your doubting heart," he cries, "All blessings wait your high emprise: I take your mother for my own, Creusa, save in name alone, Nor lightly deem the affection due To her who bore a child like you. Come what come may, I plight my troth By this my head, my father's oath, The bounty to yourself decreed Should favoring gods your journey speed, The same shall in your line endure, To parent and to kin made sure." He spoke, and weeping still, untied A gilded falchion from his side, Lycaon's work, the man of Crete, With sheath of ivory complete: Brave Mnestheus gives for Nisus' wear A lion's hide with shaggy hair; Aletes, old in danger grown, His helmet takes, and gives his own. Then to the gates, as forth they fare, The band of chiefs with many a prayer The gallant twain attends: Iulus, manlier than his years, Oft whispering, for his father's ears Full many a message sends: But be it message, be it prayer, Alike 'tis lost, dispersed in air.