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fixing the Python,-for Laertiades stretched along his ancestral floor the whole serpent brood.

The opening of the Iliad is very simple-and so is the opening of the Odyssey-and both openings areyou will agree with us in thinking -sublime. In the one you are brought in a moment into the midst of heaven-sent death threatening the annihilation of a whole host; and, in pacifying Apollo, Agamemnon incenses Achilles, whose wrath lowers calamity almost as fatal as the visitation of the Plague. Men's minds are troubled-there is debate of doom in Heaven-nation is enraged against nation-and each trusts to its auxiliar gods. In the other there is no din below-the earth is silentand you hear not the sea. Corn grows where Troy-Town stood and you feel that Achilles is dust. All the chiefs who fought there and fell not-as Sotheby solemnly says

"At home once more

Dwell free from battle and the ocean
roar"-

and there is an almost melan-
choly peace. There is mysterious
mention of shipwreck on account of
sin-and one guiltless and great Sur-
vivor is spoken of and then named-
who is to take the place in our ima-
ginations of all the other heroes living
or dead-affectingly named-for he
has been and is to be a Sufferer
"All but Ulysses!" And shall the
Celestial Synod care for that One
Man! Aye, Minerva says to Jove,

"With bosom anguish-rent I view Ulysses, hapless chief! who from his friends

Remote, affliction hath long time en

dured

In yonder woodland isle, the central boss
Of ocean. That retreat a Goddess holds,
Daughter of sapient Atlas, who the
abyss

Knows to its bottom, and the pillars high
Himself upbears which separate Earth
from Heaven.

[blocks in formation]

Death covets.

pian Jove,

At last relent? Hath not Ulysses oft
With victim's slain amid Achaia's fleet

Thee gratified, while yet at Troy he
fought?

How, therefore, hath he thus incensed
Thee, Jove?"

At once we love the Man of whom the Muse is to sing-longing for his home-his wife-and his son-and pitied at last by Jove, at the intercession of Minerva, because of his piety. That she should fly to Ithaca, and that Hermes should wing his half of Ulysses-seems demanded of way to the Isle of Secrecy-on bethe justice of heaven. And simple as all this is-we said it was sublime -for our sympathies are already awakened for

"A good man struggling with the storms of fate."

Ulysses longs for Ithaca - but knows not what may have passed, or may be passing there-it Penelope and Telemachus be alive or dead. All we are told is, that year after year he has been lamenting for his native Isle-sighing for a sight of its ascending smoke, ere he dies-unforgetful of Ithaca even in Calypso's arms.

How finely Sotheby has given Minerva's "alighting," and the sudden shewing of the scene-the first sight of which reveals to us all the lawless life of the Suitors, and the evils to which the kingless Island has been so long a prey! We are at once in the heart of it all-and the thought comes across us in the midst of the revelry, "if Ulysses were here!"

"Then on her feet her golden sandals laced,
With bright ambrosial wings divinely graced,
Wings that o'er earth and sea the Goddess bear
And challenge in their speed the viewless air-

Then grasp'd her brass-edged lance, of matchless strength,
Vast, massive, ponderous, whose far-shadowing length,

When the mail'd Goddess in her fury burns,

Rank after rank heroic chiefs o'erturns.

Then downward flew from steep Olympus' height,
And on Ulysses' island deign'd alight,
And at the threshold of his portal staid
Beneath the vestibule's protecting shade :
Held in her grasp the spear, and took her stand
Like Mentes, leader of the Taphian band:
There found the suitors festively array'd,
Who, gay, at dice before the palace play'd,
Their seats on hides of many a numerous herd,
Slain at the dictates of their haughty word:
Heralds, and minist'ring menials stood around,
Some who with temper'd wine their goblets crown'd,
With many a porous spunge some cleansed the board,
And with carved meat their proffer'd chargers stored.
Her first the young Telemachus perceived,
Who 'mid the wooers sat, and inly grieved,
Bright picturing in his mind, how, home again,
His sire would put to flight the wassail train,
Resume his honours, and ancestral right,
And, musing thus, the Goddess caught his sight.
Forward he sprung, in wrath, that nigh their feast
A stranger stood, an uninvited guest:

Then clasp'd her hand, received the brazen spear,
And pour'd his welcome in her gladden'd ear:

"Hail! stranger-welcome-now the banquet share,
Then, feasted, wherefore here-thy wish declare.'

"He spake and at the word, the blue eyed Maid
Where the prince led the way not loth obey'd.
Now, 'neath his dome, within the channel'd height
Of a vast column, towering on the sight,

He fix'd the lance, where, ranged in order, stood
Ulysses' war-spears, like an iron wood :
Then, on a stately seat the Goddess placed,
With linen spread, and with a foot-stool graced,
And near it drew his own resplendent throne,
At distance from the suitors placed alone,
Lest the contemptuous rioters molest,
And vex with noise and insolence the guest,
Nor yield him peaceful leisure to enquire,
And hold free commune of his long-lost sire.
From a gold ewer, a maid, their hands to lave,
Pour'd in a silver bowl the cleansing wave,
And a bright table brought, where, largely spread,
The sage dispenseress heap'd the food and bread.
The sewer with flesh, all kinds, the plates supplied,
And golden goblets placed each guest beside,
Which oft with wine the busy herald crown'd;
Then, rushing in, the suitors gather'd round,
And on their separate seats and thrones of state,
Where heralds wash'd their hands, in order sate:
The attendant maids in baskets piled their bread,
On the carved dainties as the feasters fed;
And youths oft crown'd their goblets o'er and o'er,
Till thirst and hunger, satiate, sought no more :
Then other joys inflamed their keen desire,
The song and dance, that charm the festive choir.
The herald gave to the reluctant hand
Of Phemius, leader of the minstrel band,
A silver lyre. By force the bard obey'd,
And, preluding the song, the measure play'd."

Telemachus is no favourite with many critics. But we hope you admire and love the Princely Boy-for

he was assuredly a great favourite with Homer. So well did Homer know his worth, that he is at no great

pains to describe his character. He puts him, however, into some situations that serve to shew what is in him--and he behaves, we think, like heir-apparent to the throne. Here he allows the dicers to shake their elbows undisturbed-in their pastimes perhaps playing for the Queen. But he is picturing in his mind another kind of game-in which his father will play the Lion, and he the Lion's Whelp. Mentes, the leader of the Taphian Band, though no vulgar stranger, is disregarded by the Suitors, heralds, and menials-but how courteous is the Prince! "Manners maketh the man," and Telemachus, we feel, will be a hero. He takes not his guest into some nook or corner, to question him of his Sire-but places him on a stately seat, with a footstool, "and near it drew his own resplendent throne." Let all the Suitors behold them two in conversenor dare to intrude upon their privacy-apart but open-and confidential during the measure preluding the Poet-Laureate's song. Minerva must have been pleased with such graceful and dignified reception -and how wisely does she insinuate into his heart, by half-truth and halffable, hopes even of his sire's return! True that Telemachus speaks like one that will not be comforted; but his looks belie his words, for we see his face brightening as he listens to the stranger's counsel. Who does not see that he believes his father will return, as Minerva, after foretelling that return, says,

"But this I urge-now truly this declare, Art thou, for such thou seem'st, Ulysses' heir?

Thy features such, thy eyes so beaming bright,

Such as the chief oft towered before my sight,

Ere with their bravest heroes, Argos' boast,

The Warrior moor'd his fleet on Phrygia's coast."

Pallas was not a goddess addicted to the complimentary-and she loved Ulysses too well to be easily satisfied with his son. But she was satisfied with his beaming eyes-nor at all dissatisfied with his answer about his mother, though it has given serious offence in certain quarters, not in the contemplation of Telemachus. The Prince said, "my mother as

sures

me that I am the son of Ulysses-but I know it not." In this, says Pope, "there seems something very shocking,"-but as Minerva approved of it-and said cheeringly, "heaven shall one day grace thee, not nameless, nor of a nameless race, sprung from Penelope," there can be no doubt that it was the answer usually returned to such a question, in that simple age, a sort of apophthegm, that conveyed no imputation on any mother's fidelity to her husband, but, on the contrary, entire reliance on every mother's truth. That Telemachus in this conversation expresses no tenderness for his mother, has been foolishly said to shew a want of due filial affection. But he knew she was pretty well, up-stairs-while he feared his father was dead or in misery-and that was the thought that wrung his heart. It would have been exceeding silly to begin puling about Penelope to a person who was not much troubling his head about her

but who had paid her, nevertheless, a high and just compliment. There can be no doubt that he loved and honoured her-but he was now in his twentieth year-and at that age sons are shy of seeming before strangers too fond of their mothers-nay even before their mothers themselves-especially when surrounded by suitors. But hear him on his father.

"Once I had hope while here my sire remained,

That wealth and virtue had our house sustained;

But heaven, devising ill, not this designed,

And left his fate obscurest, 'mid mankind; Nor could bis death so sharply have impressed

The sting of sorrow in my filial breast, If, with his brave compeers, in Phrygia slain,

Or, 'mid his friends from Troy returned again.

Then all the Greeks had raised his fu

neral mound,

And by his father's fame the son renowned.

But him the Harpies from the light of day Unknown, unseen, unheard, have swept away."

The noble boy listens with delight to the recital of his Father's

prowess, and the eagerness with which he embraces the advice of Mentes to sail to Pylos, and travel thence to Lacedemon, to enquire if Nestor or Menelaus can give him any tidings of his lot, gives assurance not only of a confiding and an affectionate, but of an adventurous and heroic spirit. He weeps to emulate Orestes, who had so nobly avenged his murdered Sire-and on the stranger suddenly vanishing, in awe and wonder he feels that his guest was a god, while heroic fire is more strongly kindled in his heart. Is not this a picture-in a few bold bright strokes-of the characteristic virtues of youth? What is wanting here that should have been seen in the son of Ulysses?

But where is Penelope? Guess. Walking with her maids of honour on the beach, eyeing the sea for a sail, or blindly listening to the idle dash of waves? No-guess again. Sitting among the rocks, in some small secret glen, where twenty years ago she used to take an evening-walk with Ulysses? No. Wandering sad and slow in the woods once wont

to echo to that hunter's horn, while
she, fair as Diana,

"A silvan huntress by his side,
Pursued the flying deer?"

Not now.

In her chamber weaving that famous web? That artifice has been detected, and the shuttle is still. Sunk in stupor there-or aimlessly employing her hands on embroidery in the listlessness of a long despair? Not far off the truth -yet hardly are you Homer. She is in her chamber-but not in stupor nor despair-her senses are all wideawake-her ear has caught the measure wild of the aged harper-into her soul sinks the strain that sings of the return of the chiefs on the downfall of Troy! That mournful inspiration is more than she can bear-the music is but an insupportable memory of her husbanddirge for the dead. She fears not the face of the Suitors in their feasting-and appears before us in all the tenderness, the affection, and the dignity of a wife, a mother, and a queen.

"The Prince the wooers sought, who, seated, hung In silent rapture as the minstrel sung,

Sung the chiefs' sad return, when to and fro

By Pallas' will, they sail'd from Troy's o'erthrow.
While thus he sung, Icarius' daughter heard,

Lone in her upper room, his chanted word:

Down stepp'd, and where she moved, attendant came
Two faithful damsels, on their royal dame.
Onward she went, and nigh the revel throng,
Now hush'd to silence by the minstrel's song,
Beneath her lofty palace porch reclined,
Hid her fair brow the fine-wove veil behind,
And, as on either side a maiden stood,
Wept, and the bard address'd in mournful mood:
"Bard, thy sweet touch can temper to the lyre
All deeds of men or gods that bards inspire.
Sing thou of these, and so enchant the ear,
That e'en these feasters may in silence hear.
But cease that strain which bids my sorrow flow,
Which searches every spring that feeds my woe,
And racks keen memory for that godlike chief

Whose fame through Greece but echoes back my grief.'
"My mother! why displeased?' the Prince rejoin'd,
'Leave to the bard free mastery of his mind.

'Tis not the minstrel, 'tis the will of Jove

That breathes the inspiration from above

Then blame not Phemius, whose recording lay

Mourns their sad fate who steer'd from Troy their way.
More grateful far the song which all admire
When novelty attunes the awaken'd lyre.
Brace thou thy mind to hear: for not alone
Ulysses strays to Ithaca unknown,

-a

But many a Grecian strews the Trojan plain,
And many a chief ne'er hails his hearth again.
But thou return, thy household cares resume,
Look to thy maids, the spindle, and the loom :
To men, as fit, discourse with men resign,
And-where I rule-that office chiefly mine.'
"Penelope, astonish'd, back return'd,
Nor his wise counsel negligently spurn'd,
Went with her maids, her loved Ulysses wept,
Till the tired mourner, soothed by Pallas, slept."

Music · poetry — love — grief — comfort-repose of passion-and to the afflicted heaven-sent sleep not unvisited-let us hope-by soothing dreams! The song sung to the harp did of itself still the souls of the Suitors-for though fit for murders, stratagems, and plots-they were high-born men-and had they fought at Ilium, not a few of them would have been heroes. A lawless and despotic life had not wholly quenched their hereditary fire-and the Ithacenses were by nature a noble race. Laertes had been a warrior in his youth-in his prime of manhood a king. But old age had subdued the regal spirit-and where and what is he now? In the palace, 'tis affectingly said,

"he no more resides, But in his fields afar his misery hides, With one who serves his board, an aged dame,

While sore fatigue comes o'er his toilworn frame,

When, from slow creeping through his vineyard rows,

The old man seeks his dwelling's still repose.'

His wife, too, had died of "love and longings infinite," and the suitors had long had their sway. Dulichium, Samos, and Zacinthus sent their princes-accomplished men many of them-nor unworthy altogether of a widow's love. Fierce as fire, and as bright, is Antinous-and Eurymachus, with passion not less strong but more controllable, is a chief that might prevail on one less tender and true than Penelope to change the garments of grief for the saffron robe of joy. The devourers of that widow's house were not dancing bears, but leaping leopards-they knew how to fawn-and hoped to "hold her with their glittering eyes" till she became a prey. Descending in stately sorrow the flight of steps

leading down to the great hall, in hushed admiration they beheld the Queen. No interruption is attempted of her pathetic address to the Bard -no insult, while she is present, to her Son. Their bad nature is rebuked and abashed by the Matron still beautiful in her fidelity to her godlike Lord-their better nature feels how "awful goodness is," "Virtue in her own shape how lovely,"-conjugal, maternal, and filial love have their hour of triumphand on the cheek of old Phemius bending over his silent harp, may be seen the heart-sprung tear.

And is there any harshness-as has been often said-in the behaviour of Telemachus? None. His soul was elate. He had sought the Suitors, the moment after having held converse with a Divinity—and his Hope hushed, impatiently, but not unkindly-his mother's fears. Now he felt himself a man-commissioned by heaven for a holy quest. He would fain that the Bard had prolonged his Lay for his inspiration too was from the will of Jove. Ulysses is not dead-he is but a wanderer-and that harp shall ring through all its chords congratulation on the King's return. His looks and his tones reconciled his mother's heart to all his words

-

astonished, she obeyed the child whom till that hour she had commanded-and if her high heart was satisfied, who, after the lapse of three thousand years, shall be offended with her noble progeny for the first expansion of his pride in the consciousness of being about to enter on a destiny that ere another moon had waned was to be gloriously fulfilled in a shower of blood!

See and hear him among the Suitors now-passive no more-but flashing far-sighted scorn. Their outrages break out again on the disappearance of Penelope-but he beards them all. " Banquet in peace - cease your

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