The perfection which the Greeks attained in literature and art is one of the most striking features in the history of the people. Their intellectual activity and their keen appreciation of the beautiful constantly gave birth to new forms of creative genius. There was an uninterrupted progress in the development of the Grecian mind from the earliest dawn of the history of the people to the downfall of their political independence, and each succeeding age saw the production of some of those master works of genius which have been the models and admiration of all subsequent time. The poets were the popular writers of ancient Greece; prose writers appear no earlier than the sixth century before the Christian era, at which time the first literary prose essay was produced, for which three contemporary authors claim the honor. The Greeks had arrived at a high degree of civilization before they can be said to have possessed a history of their own. Nations far behind them in intellectual development have infinitely excelled them in this respect. The imagination seems to have been entirely dazzled and fascinated with the glories of the heroic ages, and to have taken but little interest in the events which were daily passing around them. Poetry constitutes the chief part of early Greek literature. We give specimens of both Greek poetry and prose. We will not attempt to give specimens of all, but only such as are considered, by common consent, the best.
HOMER. Seven cities have contested for the honor of the birth-place of Homer. It is now generally agreed that he was born about 950 B.C., in the City of Melesigenes. It is not a little strange that nothing should be known with certainty of the parentage or of the birth-place, or even of the era of the greatest poet of antiquity, of him who, next to Milton, ranks as the greatest epic poet of the world. In two respects, all the accounts concerning him agree—that he had traveled much, and that he was afflicted with blindness. From the first circumstance, it has been inferred that he was either rich or enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy; but this will not appear necessary when it is considered that, in his time, journeys were usually performed on foot, and that he probably traveled, with a view to his support, as an itinerant musician or reciter. From most of the traditions respecting him, it appears that he was poor, and it is to be feared that necessity, rather than the mere desire of gratifying curiosity, prompted his wanderings. All that has been advanced respecting the occasion of his blindness is mere conjecture. Certain it is, that this misfortune arose from accident or disease, and not from the operation of nature at his birth; for the character of his compositions seems rather to suppose him all eye, than destitute of sight; and if they were even framed during his blindness, they form a glorious proof of the vivid power of the imagination more than supplying the want of the bodily organs, and not merely throwing a variety of its own tints over the objects of nature, but presenting them to the mind in a clearer light than could be shed over them by one whose powers of immediate vision were perfectly free from blemish. Of the incidents in the life of Homer, almost as little is known as of his parentage and birth-place. However, the general account is that he was for many years a school-master in Smyrna; that, being visited by one Mentes, the commander of a Leucadian ship, he was induced by him to leave his occupation and travel; that, in company with this captain, he visited the various countries around the shores of the Mediterranean, and at last was left at Ithaca, in consequence of a weakness in his eyes. While in this island, he was entertained by a man of fortune named Mentor, who narrated to him the stories upon which afterwards the Odyssey was founded. On the return of Mentes, he accompanied him to Colophon, where he became totally blind. He then returned to Smyrna, and afterwards removed to Cyme (called also Cuma), in Æolis, where he received great applause in the recitations of his poems, but no pecuniary reward; the people alleging that they could not maintain all the Homeroi, or blind men, and hence he obtained the name of Homer. Thence he went about from place to place, acquiring much wealth by his recitations, and died at the Island of Ios, one of the Cyclades, where he was buried. The works attributed to Homer consist of the two epic poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey, of twenty-four books each, the Batrachomyomachia, or "Battle of the Frogs and Mice," a humorous, mock-heroic poem, and somewhat of a parody on the Iliad; the Margites, a satirical, personal satire, and about thirty Hymns. All of these but the two great epics are now, however, considered as spurious. But it was left to modern skepticism (which seems to think that to doubt shows a higher order of intellect than to believe on evidence) to maintain the bold position that the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" were a collection of separate lays by different authors, arranged and put together for the first time during the tyranny and by the order of Pisistratus, at Athens, about 550 B.C. The chief supporters of this theory are the celebrated German scholars, Wolf and Heyne, who flourished about the year 1800. Those who may desire to go into the subject fully will read Wolf's "Prolegomena," and the strictures of his great opponent, G.W. Nitzsch; but a succinct account of the argument may be found in Browne's "Classical Literature," and in the "History of Greek Literature," by Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd. Even Wolf himself candidly declares that when he reads the "Iliad" he finds such unity of design, such harmony of coloring, and such consistency of character, that he is ready to give up his theories, and to be angry with himself for doubting the common faith in the personality of Homer. Professor Felton, in his excellent edition of the "Iliad," thus remarks in the preface: "For my part, I prefer to consider it, as we have received it from ancient editors, as one poem, the work of one author, and that author Homer—the first and greatest of minstrels. As I understand the 'Iliad,' there is a unity of plan, a harmony of parts, a consistency among the different situations of the same character, which mark it as the production of one mind; but of a mind as versatile as the forms of nature, the aspects of life, and the combinations of powers, propensities and passions in man are various." In these views, the literary world now very generally concurs. "The hypothesis to which the antagonists of Homer's personality must resort implies something more wonderful than the theory which they impugn. They profess to cherish the deepest veneration for the genius displayed in the poems. They agree, also, in the antiquity usually assigned to them; and they make this genius and this antiquity the arguments to prove that one man could not have composed them. They suppose, then, that in a barbarous age, instead of one being marvelously gifted, there were many; a mighty race of bards, such as the world has never since seen—a number of miracles instead of one. All experience is against this opinion. In various periods of the world great men have arisen, under very different circumstances, to astonish and delight it; but that the intuitive power should be so strangely diffused, at any one period, among a great number, who should leave no successors behind them, is unworthy of credit. And we are requested to believe this to have occurred in an age which those who maintain the theory regard as unfavorable to the poetic art! The common theory, independent of other proofs, is prima facie the most probable. Since the early existence of the works can not be doubted, it is easier to believe in one than in twenty Homers."—Talfourd.
OPENING ARGUMENT OF THE ILIAD.
(By Homer.) Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess sing!
That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain;
Whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore;
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove.
Such was the sov'reign doom, and such the will of Jove.
Pope.
MINERVA ARMING HERSELF FOR BATTLE.
(By Homer.) Minerva wrapt her in the robe that curiously she wove
With glorious colors, as she sate on th' azure floor of Jove;
And wore the arms that he puts on, bent to the tearful field.
About her broad-spread shoulders hung his huge and horrid shield,
Fring'd round with ever-fighting snakes; though it was drawn to life
The miseries and deaths of fight; in it frown'd bloody Strife;
In it shin'd sacred Fortitude; in it fell Pursuit flew;
[708] In it the monster Gorgon's head, in which held out to view
Were all the dire ostents of Jove; on her big head she plac'd
His four-plum'd glittering casque of gold, so admirably vast,
It would an hundred garrisons of soldiers comprehend.
Then to her shining chariot her vigorous feet ascend;
And in her violent hand she takes his grave, huge, solid lance,
With which the conquests of her wrath she useth to advance,
And overturn whole fields of men; to show she was the seed
Of him that thunders. Then heaven's queen, to urge her horses' speed,
Takes up the scourge, and forth they fly; the ample gates of heaven
Rung, and flew open of themselves; the charge whereof is given,
With all Olympus and the sky, to the distinguish'd Hours;
That clear or hide it all in clouds, or pour it down in showers.
This way their scourge-obeying horse made haste, and soon they won
The top of all the topful heavens, where aged Saturn's son
Sate severed from the other gods.
Chapman's translation, v.
PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.
(By Homer.) Hector now pass'd, with sad presaging heart,
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part;
At home he sought her, but he sought in vain:
She, with one maid of all her menial train,
Had thence retired; and with her second joy,
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy:
Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height,
Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight;
There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.
Hector this heard, return'd without delay;
Swift through the town he trod his former way,
Through streets of palaces and walks of state,
And met the mourner at the ScÆan gate.
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir.
[709] The nurse stood near, in whose embraces press'd,
[710] His only hope hung smiling at her breast;
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.
Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign'd
To tender passions all his mighty mind:
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bosom labor'd with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.
"Too darling prince! ah, whither dost thou run?
Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son!
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, a helpless orphan he!
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtues sacrifice.
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain;
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain!
Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!
So shall my days in one sad tenor run,
And end with sorrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapp'd our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire!
By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell,
In one sad day beheld the gates of hell.
My mother lived to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands.
Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:
O, prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy
Where yon wild fig-trees join the walls of Troy;
Thou from this tower defend the important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,
[711] That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain.
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven.
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."
The chief replied: "That post shall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground,
Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul impels me to the embattled plains;
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories and my own.
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!)
The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;
I see the trembling, weeping, captive led!
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes of which so large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!'
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,
Embitters all thy woes by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Press'd with a load of monumental clay!
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep,
[712] Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."
Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,
Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.
With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,
And Hector hasted to relieve his child;
The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,
And placed the gleaming helmet on the ground.
Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air,
Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer:—
"O, thou whose glory fills the ethereal throne!
And all ye deathless powers, protect my son!
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown;
Against his country's foes the war to wage,
And rise the Hector of the future age!
So when, triumphant from successful toils
Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,
And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame;'
While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy,
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."
He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms,
Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe he laid,
Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd.
The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear.
She mingled with the smile a tender tear.
The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd,
And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:—
"Andromache, my soul's far better part,
Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom,
Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.
Fix'd is the term to all the race of earth;
And such the hard condition of our birth,
No force can then resist, no flight can save,
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.
[713] No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home,
There guide the spindle, and direct the loom:
Me glory summons to the martial scene,
The field of combat is the sphere for men;
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim,
The first in danger, as the first in fame."
Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes
His towery helmet black with shading plumes.
His princess parts, with a prophetic sigh,
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,
That stream'd at every look; then, moving slow,
Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.
There, while her tears deplored the god-like man,
Through all her train the soft infection ran.
The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed,
And mourn the living Hector as the dead.
Pope, Iliad, vi.
THE RACE OF MAN.
(By Homer.) Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies;
They fall successive, and successive rise:
So generations in their course decay;
So flourish these when those are past away.
Pope, Iliad, vi.
COUNCIL OF THE GODS.
(By Homer.) Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn,
Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn;
When Jove convened the senate of the skies,
Where high Olympus' cloudly tops arise.
The Sire of Gods his awful silence broke,
[714] The heavens attentive trembled as he spoke:—
"Celestial states, immortal gods, give ear!
Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear;
The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move;
Thou, Fate, fulfill it; and ye, Powers, approve!
What god but enters yon forbidden field,
Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield,
Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven,
Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven:
Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown,
Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan,
With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors,
And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors;
As deep beneath the infernal center hurl'd,
As from that center to the ethereal world.
Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes,
And know the Almighty is the god of gods.
League all your forces, then, ye powers above,
Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove:
Let down our golden everlasting chain,
Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main;
Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth,
To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth:
Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand,
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land;
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,
And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!
For such I reign, unbounded and above;
And such are men and gods, compared to Jove."
Pope, Iliad, viii.
NIGHT-SCENE.
(By Homer.) The troops exulting sat in order round,
And beaming fires illumined all the ground.
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
[715] When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays:
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.
Pope, Iliad, viii.
HATEFULNESS OF WAR.
(By Homer.) Cursed is the man, and void of law and right,
Unworthy property, unworthy light,
Unfit for public rule, or private care;
That wretch, that monster, who delights in war:
Whose lust is murder, and whose horrid joy
To tear his country, and his kind destroy!
Pope, Iliad, ix.
FALSEHOOD.
(By Homer.) Who dares think one thing, and another tell,
My heart detests him as the gates of hell.
Pope, Iliad, ix.
SHOWERS OF ARROWS.
(By Homer.) As the feathery snows
Fall frequent on some wintry day, when Jove
Hath risen to shed them on the race of man,
And show his arrowy stores; he lulls the wind
Then shakes them down continual, covering thick
Mountain tops, promontories, flowery meads,
And cultured valleys rich, and ports and shores
Along the margined deep; but there the wave
Their further progress stays; while all besides
Lies whelm'd beneath Jove's fast-descending shower;
So thick, from side to side, by Trojans hurled
Against the Greeks, and by the Greeks returned,
The stony volleys flew.
Cowper, Iliad, xii.
PRIAM BEGGING THE BODY OF HECTOR.
(By Homer.) "Think, O Achilles, semblance of the gods,
On thine own father, full of days like me.
And trembling on the gloomy verge of life.
Some neighbor chief, it may be, even now
Oppresses him, and there is none at hand,
No friend to succor him in his distress.
Yet, doubtless, hearing that Achilles lives,
He still rejoices, hoping day by day,
That one day he shall see the face again
Of his own son, from distant Troy returned.
But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons,
So late the flowers of Ilium, are all slain.
When Greece came hither, I had fifty sons;
But fiery Mars hath thinn'd them. One I had,
One, more than all my sons, the strength of Troy,
Whom, standing for his country, thou hast slain—
[717] Hector. His body to redeem I come
Into Achaia's fleet, bringing myself,
Ransom inestimable to thy tent.
Rev'rence the gods, Achilles! recollect
Thy father; for his sake compassion show
To me, more pitiable still, who draw
Home to my lips (humiliation yet
Unseen on earth) his hand who slew my son!"
So saying, he waken'd in his soul regret
Of his own sire; softly he placed his hand
On Priam's hand, and pushed him gently away,
Remembrance melted both. Rolling before
Achilles' feet, Priam his son deplored,
Wide-slaughtering Hector, and Achilles wept
By turns his father, and by turns his friend
Patroclus: sounds of sorrow fill'd the tent.
Cowper, Iliad, xxiv.
HELEN'S LAMENTATION OVER HECTOR.
(By Homer.) Grief fell on all around;
Then Helen thus breathed forth her plaintive sound:—
"Hector, to Helen's soul more lov'd than all
Whom I in Ilion's walls dare brother call,
Since Paris here to Troy his consort led,
Who in the grave had found a happier bed.
'Tis now, since here I came, the twentieth year,
Since left my land, and all I once held dear:
But never from that hour has Helen heard
From thee a harsh reproach or painful word;
But if thy kindred blam'd me, if unkind
The queen e'er glanc'd at Helen's fickle mind—
(For Priam, still benevolently mild,
Look'd on me as a father views his child)—
Thy gentle speech, thy gentleness of soul,
Would by thine own, their harsher minds control.
[718] Hence, with a heart by torturing misery rent,
Thee and my hapless self I thus lament;
For no kind eye in Troy on Helen rests,
But who beholds me shudders and detests."
Sotheby, Iliad, xxi.
We will here give a few pages of the history of the Trojan war, giving some of the characters, subjects, etc., referred to in the preceding poems in a prose story.
PARIS. There was sorrow, instead of gladness, in the halls of Priam, because a son was born unto him, and because the lady Hecuba had dreamed a dream, from which the seers knew that the child should bring ruin on the Ilion land. So his mother looked with cold, unloving eyes on the babe as he lay weak and helpless in his cradle, and Priam bade them take the child and leave him on rugged Ida, for the fountain of his love was closed against him. For five days the dew fell on the babe by night, and the sun shone fiercely on him by day, as he lay on the desolate hill-side, and the shepherd who placed him there to sleep the sleep of death looked upon the child and said, "He sleeps as babes may slumber on silken couches; the gods will it not that he should die." So he took him to his home, and the child grew up with ruddy cheek and nimble feet, brave and hardy, so that none might be matched with him for strength and beauty. The fierce wolves came not near the flocks while Paris kept guard near the fold, the robber lurked not near the homestead when Paris sat by the hearth. So all sang of his strength and his great deeds, and they called him Alexandros, the helper of men.Many years he tended the flocks on woody Ida, but Priam, his father, dwelt in Ilion, and thought not to see his face again, and he said within himself, "Surely my child is long since dead, and no feast has been given to the gods that Paris may dwell in peace in the dark kingdom of Hades." Then he charged his servants to fetch him a bull from the herd, which might be given to the man who should conquer in the games, and they chose out one which Paris loved above all others that he drove out to pasture. So he followed the servants of Priam in grief and anger, and he stood forth and strove with his brethren in the games, and in all of them Paris was the conqueror. Then one of his brothers was moved with wrath, and lifted up his sword against him, but Paris fled to the altar of Zeus, and the voice of Cassandra, his sister, was heard saying, "O blind of eye and heart, see ye not that this is Paris, whom ye sent to sleep the sleep of death on woody Ida?" But Paris would not dwell in the sacred Ilion, for he loved not those who sought to slay him while he was yet a helpless child, and again he tended the flocks on the wide plains and up the rough hillsides. Strong he was of limb and stout of heart, and his face shone with a marvelous beauty, so that they who saw it thought him fair as the bright heroes. There, as he wandered in the woody dells of Ida, he saw and wooed the beautiful Œnone, the child of the river-god, Kebren. Many a time he sat with the maiden by the side of the stream, and the sound of their voices was mingled with the soft murmur of the waters. He talked to her of love, and Œnone looked up with a wondrous joy into his beautiful face, when the morning dew glistened white upon the grass and when the evening star looked out upon the pale sky. So was Paris wedded to Œnone, and the heart of the maiden was full of happiness, for none was braver or more gentle—none so stout of heart, so lithe of limb, so tender and loving as Paris. Thus passed the days away in a swift dream of joy, for Œnone thought not of the change that was coming. There was feasting and mirth among the gods and men, for the brave Peleus had won Thetis, the maiden of the sea, for his bride; and she rose from the depths of her coral caves to go to his home in Phthia. The banquet was spread in his ancient hall, and the goblets sparkled with the dark wine, for all the gods had come down from Olympus to share the feast in the house of Peleus. Only Eris was not bidden, for she was the child of War and Hatred, and they feared to see her face in the hours of laughter and mirth; but her evil heart rested not till she found a way to avenge herself for the wrong which they had done to her. The gods were listening to the song of Phoebus Apollo as he made sweet music on the strings of his harp, when a golden apple was cast upon the table before them. They knew not whence it came, only they saw that it was to be a gift for the fairest in that great throng, for so was it written on the apple. Then the joy of the feast was gone, and the music of the song ceased, for there was a strife which should have the golden prize; and Here, the Queen, said, "The gods themselves do obeisance to me when I enter the halls of Olympus, and men sing of the glory of my majesty; therefore must the gift be mine." But Athene answered, and said, "Knowledge and goodness are better things than power; mine is the worthier title." Then the fair Aphrodite lifted her white arm, and a smile of triumph passed over her face as she said, "I am the child of love and beauty, and the stars danced in the heaven for joy as I sprang from the sea foam; I dread not the contest, for to me alone must the golden gift be given." So the strife waxed hot in the banquet hall, till Zeus spake with a loud voice, and said, "It needs not to strive now. Amid the pine forest of Ida dwells Paris, the fairest of the sons of men; let him be judge, and the apple shall be hers to whom he shall give it." Then Hermes rose and led them quickly over land and sea, to go to the rough hillside where Paris wooed and won Œnone. Presently the messenger of Zeus stood before Paris, and said, "Fairest of the sons of men, there is strife among the undying gods, for Here and Aphrodite and Athene seek each to have the golden apple which must be given to her who is most fair. Judge thou, therefore, between them when they come, and give peace again to the halls of Zeus." In a dream of joy and love Œnone sate by the river-side, and she looked on her own fair face, which was shown to her in a still calm pool where the power of the stream came not, and she said to herself, "The gods are kind, for they have given to me a better gift than that of beauty, for the love of Paris sheds for me a wondrous beauty over the heaven above and the broad earth beneath." Then came Paris, and said, "See, Œnone, dearest child of the bright waters, Zeus hath called me to be judge in a weighty matter. Hither are coming Here, the Queen, and Aphrodite and Athene, seeking each the golden apple which must be given to her alone who is the fairest. Yet go not away, Œnone; the broad vine leaves have covered our summer bower; there tarry and listen to the judgment, where none may see thee." So Paris sat in judgment, and Here spake to him, and said, "I know I am the fairest, for none other has beauty and majesty like mine. Hearken, then, to me, and I will give thee power to do great deeds among the sons of men, and a name which the minstrels shall sing of among those who shall be born in long time to come." But Athene answered, "Heed not her words, O Paris. Thy hand is strong and thy heart is pure, and the men among whom thou dwellest honor thee even now because thou hast done them good. There are better things than power and high renown; and if thou wilt hearken to me, I will give thee wisdom and strength; and pure love shall be thine, and the memory of happy days when thou drawest near to the dark land of Hades." Then Paris thought that he heard the voice of Œnone, and it seemed to whisper to him, "Wisdom and right are better than power, give it to Athene." But Aphrodite gazed upon him with laughing eyes, as she came up closer to his side. Her dark curls fell waving over his shoulder, and he felt the breath from her rosy lips, as she laid her hand on his arm and whispered softly in his ear, "I talk not to thee of my beauty, for it may be thou seest that I am very fair, but hearken to me, and I will give thee for thy wife the fairest of all the daughters of men." But Paris answered, "I need not thy gift, O child of the bright sea foam, for fairer wife than Œnone no mortal man may hope to have. Yet art thou the fairest of all the daughters of the undying gods, and the gift of the fairest is thine." So he placed the golden apple in the palm of her snow-white hand, and the touch of her slender fingers thrilled through the heart of Paris as she parted from him with smiling lip and laughing eye. But Here, the Queen, and Athene, the virgin child of Zeus, went away displeased, and evermore their wrath lay heavy on the city and land of Ilion. Then went Paris to Œnone, and he twined his arms around her and said, "Didst thou see the dark countenance of the lady Here when I gave to the fairest the gift which the fairest alone may have? Yet what care I for the wrath of Here and Athene? One smile from the lips of Aphrodite is better than their favor for a whole life long." But Œnone answered sadly, "I would that thou mayest speak truly, Paris; yet in my eyes the lady Athene is fairer far, and Aphrodite is ever false as fair." Then Paris clasped her closer in his arms and kissed her pale cheek, and said nothing. LIBRARY OF HERCULANEUM.ToList But the fierce wrath of Eris was not ended yet. Far away in the western land, there was sore famine in the kingdom of the mighty Menelaus, the people died by the wayside, and the warriors had no strength to go forth to the battle or the huntsmen to the chase. Many times they sought to know the will of the gods, but they heard only dark words for answers, till Phoebus Apollo said that the famine should never cease from the land until they brought from Ilion the bones of the children of Prometheus, whom Zeus bound on the desolate crags of Caucasus. So Menelaus, the King, departed from his home and went to the city of Priam. There he saw the beautiful Paris, and took him to the Spartan land, for he said that Paris should return home rich and wealthy. So Paris believed his words, and sailed with him over the wide sea. Long time he abode in Sparta, and day by day he saw the lady Helen in the halls of Menelaus. At the first he thought within himself, "I would that Œnone were here to see the wife of Menelaus, for surely she is fairer than aught else on the earth." But soon he thought less and less of Œnone, who was sorrowing for his long sojourn in the strange land, as she wandered amid the pine forests of woody Ida. Quickly sped the days for Paris, for his heart was filled with a strange love, and the will of Eris was being accomplished within him. He thought not of Œnone and her lonely wanderings on heathy Ida; he cared not for the kindly deeds of Menelaus; and so it came to pass that, when Menelaus was far away, Paris spoke words of evil love to Helen and beguiled her to leave her home. Stealthily they fled away, and sailed over the sea till they came to the Ilion land; and Helen dwelt with Paris in the house of his father, Priam. But Œnone mourned for the love which she had lost, and her tears fell into the gentle stream of Kebren as she sat on its grassy banks. "Ah me," she said, "my love hath been stung by Aphrodite. O Paris, Paris! hast thou forgotten all thy words? Here thine arms were clasped around me, and here, as thy lips were pressed to mine, thou didst say that the wide earth had for thee no living thing so fair as Œnone. Sure am I that Helen hath brought to thee only a false joy; for her heart is not thine as the heart of a maiden when it is given to her first love; and sure am I, too, that Helen is not a fairer wife than I, for my heart is all thine, and the beauty of woman is marred when she yields herself to a lawless love. But the cloud is gathering round thee; and I am sprung from the race of the gods, and mine eyes are opened to behold the things that willingly I would not see. I see the waters black with ships, and the hosts of the Achaians gathered round the walls of Ilion. I see the moons roll round, while thy people strive in vain against the wrath of Here and the might of the son of Peleus; and far away I see the flames that shall burn the sacred Ilion. I see thy father smitten down in his own hall, and the spear that shall drink thy life-blood. Ah me! for the doom that is coming, and for the pleasant days when we loved and wandered among the dells of Ida." So Paris dwelt with Helen in the house of Priam; but men said, "This is no more the brave Alexandros," for he lay at ease on silken couches, and his spear and shield hung idle on the wall. For him the wine sparkled in the goblet while the sun rose high in the heavens, and he cared only to listen to the voice of Helen, or the minstrels who sang of the love and the bowers of laughter-loving Aphrodite. And Helen sat by his side in sullen mood, for she thought of the former days and of the evil which she had done to the good King Menelaus. Then there came into her heart a deep hatred for Paris, and she loathed him for his false words and his fond looks, as he lay quaffing the wine and taking his rest by day and by night upon the silken couches. But throughout the streets of Ilion there was hurrying and shouting of armed men, and terror and cries of women and children; for the hosts of the Achaians were come to take vengeance for the wrongs of Menelaus. Yet Paris heeded not the prayers of his brethren, that he should send back Helen; so she tarried by his side in his gilded chambers, and he went not forth to the battle, till all men reviled him for his evil love, because he had forsaken the fair Œnone. So for Paris fell the mighty Hector; for him died the brave Sarpedon; and the women of Ilion mourned for their husbands who were smitten down by the Achaian warriors. Fiercer and fiercer grew the strife, for Here and Athene fought against the men of Troy, and no help came from the laughter-loving Aphrodite. Many times the years went round, while yet the Achaians strove to take the city of Priam, till at last for very shame Paris took from the wall his spear and shield, and went forth to the battle, but the strength of his heart and of his arm was gone, and he trembled at the fierce war-cries, as a child trembles at the roaring of the storm. Then before the walls of Ilion there was fiercer strife, and the bodies of the slain lay in heaps upon the battle plain. Faint and weary, the people of Priam were shut up within the walls, until the Achaians burst into the gates and gave the city to sword and flame. Then the cry of men and women went up to the high heaven, and the blood ran in streams upon the ground. With a mighty blaze rose up the flames of the burning city, and the dream of Paris was ended. Fast he fled from the wrath of Menelaus, and he cared not to look back on the Argive Helen or the slaughter of his kinsfolk and his people. But the arrow of Philoctetes came hissing through the air, and the barb was fixed in the side of Paris. Hastily he drew it from the wound, but the weapons of Herakles failed not to do their work, and the poison sped through his burning veins. Onwards he hastened to the pine forests of Ida, but his limbs trembled beneath him, and he sank down as he drew nigh to the grassy bank where he had tended his flocks in the former days. "Ah, Œnone," he said, "the evil dream is over, and thy voice comes back to mine ear, soft and loving as when I wooed and won thee among the dells of Ida. Thou hearest me not, Œnone, or else I know that, forgiving all the wrong, thou wouldst hasten to help me." And even as he spoke Œnone stood before him, fair and beautiful as in the days that were past. The glory as of the pure evening time was shed upon her face, and her eye glistened with the light of an undying love. Then she laid her hand upon him and said, gently, "Dost thou know me, Paris? I am the same Œnone whom thou didst woo in the dells of woody Ida. My grief hath not changed me, but thou art not the same, O Paris, for thy love hath wandered far away, and thou hast yielded thyself long to an evil dream." But Paris said, "I have wronged thee, Œnone, fairest and sweetest, and what may atone for the wrong? The fire burns in my veins, my head reels, and mine eye is dim; look but upon me once, that thinking on our ancient love, I may fall asleep and die." Then Œnone knelt by the side of Paris, and saw the wound which the arrow of Philoctetes had made; but soon she knew that neither gods nor men could stay the poison with which Herakles had steeped his mighty weapons. There she knelt, but Paris spoke not more. The coldness of death passed over him as Œnone looked down upon his face and thought of the days when they lived and loved amid the dells of Ida. Long time she knelt by his side, until the stars looked forth in the sky. Then Œnone said, "O Eris, well hast thou worked thy will, and well hath Aphrodite done thy bidding. O Paris, we have loved and suffered, but I never did thee wrong, and now I follow thee to the dark land of Hades." Presently the flame shot up to heaven from the funeral pile of Paris, and Œnone lay down to rest on the fiery couch by his side.
ACHILLES. Nine years the Achaians had fought against Ilion to avenge the wrongs and woes of Helen, and still the war went on, and only the words of Kalchas, which he spoke long ago in Aulis, cheered them with the hope that the day of vengeance was near at hand. For strife had arisen between the King, Agamemnon, and the mighty son of Peleus, and it seemed to the men of Argos that all their toil must be for naught. In fierce anger Achilles vowed a vow that he would go forth no more to the battle, and he sat in sullen silence within his tent, or wandered gloomily along the sea-shore. With fresh courage the hosts of the Trojans poured out from their walls when they knew that Achilles fought no more on the side of the Achaians, and the chieftains sought in vain for his help when the battle went against them. Then the face of the war was changed, for the men of Ilion came forth from their city, and shut up the Achaians within their camp, and fought fiercely to take the ships. Many a chief and warrior was smitten down, and still Achilles sat within his tent, nursing his great wrath, and reviling all who came before him with gifts and prayers. But dearer than all others to the child of the sea-nymph, Thetis, was Patroclus, the son of Menoetius, and the heart of Achilles was touched with pity when he saw the tears stream down his face, and he said, "Dear friend, tell me thy grief, and hide nothing from me. Hast thou evil tidings from our home at Phthia, or weepest thou for the troubles which vex us here?" Then Patroclus spoke out boldly, and said, "Be not angry at my words, Achilles. The strength of the Argives is wasted away, and the mightiest of their chieftains lie wounded or dead around their ships. They call thee the child of Peleus and of Thetis, but men will say that thou art sprung from the rugged rocks and the barren sea, if thou seest thy people undone and liftest not an arm to help them." Then Achilles answered, "My friend, the vow is on me, and I can not go, but put thou on my armor and go forth to the battle. Only take heed to my words, and go not in my chariot against the City of Ilion. Drive our enemies from the ships, and let them fight in the plain, and then do thou come back to my tent." Then the hearts of the Achaians were cheered, for next to Achilles there was not in all the host a warrior more brave and mighty than Patroclus. At his word the Myrmidons started up from their long rest, and hastily snatched their arms to follow him to the battle. Presently Patroclus came forth. The glistening helmet of Achilles was on his head, and his armor was girt around his body. Only he bore not his mighty spear, for no mortal man might wield that spear in battle but Achilles. Before the tent stood the chariot, and harnessed to it were the horses, Xanthos and Balios, who grow not old nor die. So Patroclus departed for the fight, and Achilles went into his tent, and as he poured out the dark wine from a golden goblet, he prayed to Zeus, and said, "O thou that dwellest far away in Dodona, where the Selloi do thy bidding and proclaim thy will, give strength and victory to Patroclus, my friend. Let him drive the men of Ilion from the ships and come back safe to me after the battle." But Zeus heard the prayer in part only, for the doom was that Achilles should see Patroclus alive no more. Then the hosts of the Trojans trembled as Patroclus drew nigh on the chariot of Achilles, and none dared to go forth against him. Onward sped the undying horses, and wherever they went the ground was red with the blood of the Trojans who were smitten down by his spear. Then Sarpedon, the great chief of the Lykians, spake to Glaucus, and said, "O friend, I must go forth and do battle with Patroclus. The people fall beneath his sword, and it is not fit that the chieftains should be backward in the strife." But the doom of Sarpedon was sealed, and presently his body lay lifeless on the ground, while the men of Argos and of Ilion fought for his glittering arms. Then the doom came on Patroclus also, for Phoebus Apollo fought against him in the battle, and in the dust was rolled the helmet which no enemy had touched when it rested on the head of Achilles. Before him flashed the spear of Hector, as he said, "The hour of thy death is come, Patroclus, and the aid of Achilles can not reach thee now." But Patroclus said only, "It is thy time for boasting now; wait yet a little while, and the sword of Achilles shall drink thy life-blood." So Patroclus died, and there was a fierce fight over his body, and many fell on both sides, until there was a great heap of dead around it. But away from the fight, the horses Xanthos and Balios wept for their charioteer, and they would not stir with the chariot, but stood fixed firm as pillars on the ground, till Zeus looked down in pity on them, and said, "Was it for this that I gave you to Peleus, the chieftain of Phthia—horses who can not grow old or die, to a mortal man, the most wretched thing that crawls upon the earth? But fear not; no enemy shall lay hands on the chariot of Achilles, or on the immortal horses which bear it. Your limbs shall be filled with new strength, and ye shall fly like birds across the battle-field till ye come to the tent of your master." Then the horses wept no more, but swift as eagles they bore Automedon through the fight, while Hector and his people strove fiercely to seize them. At last the battle was over, and, while the Achaians bore the body of Patroclus to the ships, Antilochus, the son of Nestor, went to the tent of Achilles, and said, "Thy friend is slain, and Hector has his armor." Then the dark cloud of woe fell on the soul of Achilles. In a fierce grief he threw earth with both hands into the air, and rent his clothes, and lay down weeping in the dust. Far away in her coral caves beneath the sea Thetis heard the deep groans of her child, and, like a white mist, she rose from the waters and went to comfort him; and she said, "Why weepest thou, my son? When Agamemnon did thee wrong, thou didst pray that the Achaians might sorely need thy aid in the battle, and thy wish has been accomplished. So may it be again." But Achilles answered, "Of what profit is it to me, my mother, that my prayer has been heard, since Patroclus, my friend, is slain, and Hector has my armor? One thing only remains to me now. I will slay Hector and avenge the slaughter of Patroclus." Then the tears ran down the cheeks of Thetis as she said, "Then is thine own doom accomplished, for when thou slayest Hector, thou hast not many days to live," "So then let it be," said Achilles; "the mighty Herakles tasted of death; therefore let me die also, so only Hector dies before me." Then Thetis sought no more to turn him from his purpose, but she went to the house of Hephaistos to get armor for her child in place of that which Hector had taken from Patroclus. And Achilles vowed a vow that twelve sons of the Trojans should be slain at the grave of his friend, and that Hector should die before the funeral rites were done. Then Agamemnon sent him gifts, and spake kindly words, so that the strife between them might end, and Achilles now go forth to fight for the Achaians. So, in the armor which Hephaistos had wrought at the prayer of Thetis, he mounted his chariot, and bade his horses bring him back safe from the battle-field. Then the horse Xanthos bowed his head, and the long tresses of his mane flowed down to the earth as he made answer, "We will in very truth save thee, O mighty Achilles; but thy doom is near at hand, and the fault rests not with us now, or when we left Patroclus dead on the battle-field, for Phoebus Apollo slew him and gave the glory and the arms to Hector." And Achilles said, "Why speak to me of evil omens? I know that I shall see my father and my mother again no more; but if I must die in a strange land, I will first take my fill of vengeance." Then the war-cry of Achilles was heard again, and a mighty life was poured into the hearts of the Achaians, as they seized their arms at the sound. Thick as withering leaves in autumn fell the Trojans beneath his unerring spear. Chief after chief was smitten down, until their hosts fell in terror within the walls of Ilion. Only Hector awaited his coming, but the shadow of death was stealing over him, for Phoebus Apollo had forsaken the great champion of Troy because Zeus so willed it. So in the strife the strength of Hector failed, and he sank down on the earth. The foot of Achilles rested on his breast, and the spear's point was on his neck, while Hector said, "Slay me if thou wilt, but give back my body to my people. Let not the beasts of the field devour it, and rich gifts shall be thine from my father and my mother for this kindly deed." But the eyes of Achilles flashed with a deadly hatred, as he answered, "Were Priam to give me thy weight in gold, it should not save thy carcass from the birds and dogs." And Hector said, "I thought not to persuade thee, for thy heart is made of iron, but see that thou pay not the penalty for thy deed on the day when Paris and Phoebus Apollo shall slay thee at the ScÆan gates of Ilion." Then the life-blood of Hector reddened the ground as Achilles said, "Die, wretch! My fate I will meet in the hour when it may please the undying gods to send it." But not yet was the vengeance of Achilles accomplished. At his feet lay Hector dead, but the rage in his heart was fierce as ever, and he tied the body to his chariot and dragged it furiously, till none who looked on it could say, "This was the brave and noble Hector." But things more fearful still came afterwards, for the funeral rites were done to Patroclus, and twelve sons of the Trojans were slain in the mighty sacrifice. Still the body of Hector lay on the ground, and the men of Ilion sought in vain to redeem it from Achilles. But Phoebus Apollo came down to guard it, and he spread over it his golden shield to keep away all unseemly things. At last the King, Priam, mounted his chariot, for he said, "Surely he will not scorn the prayer of a father when he begs the body of his son." Then Zeus sent Hermes to guide the old man to the tent of Achilles, so that none others of the Achaians might see him. Then he stood before the man who had slain his son, and he kissed his hands, and said, "Hear my prayer, Achilles. Thy father is an old man like me, but he hopes one day to see thee come back with great glory from Ilion. My sons are dead, and none had braver sons in Troy than I; and Hector, the flower and pride of all, has been smitten by thy spear. Fear the gods, Achilles, and pity me for the remembrance of thy father, for none has ever dared like me to kiss the hand of the man who has slain his son." So Priam wept for his dear child, Hector, and the tears flowed down the cheeks of Achilles as he thought of his father, Peleus, and his friend, Patroclus, and the cry of their mourning went up together. So the body of Hector was borne back to Ilion, and a great sacrifice was done to the gods beneath the earth, that Hector might be welcomed in the kingdom of Hades and Persephone. But the time drew nigh that the doom of Achilles must be accomplished, and the spear of Phoebus Apollo pierced his heart as they fought near the ScÆan gates of Ilion. In the dust lay the body of Achilles, while the Achaians fought the whole day around it, till a mighty storm burst forth from the heaven. Then they carried it away to the ships, and placed it on a couch, and washed it in pure water. And once more from her coral caves beneath the sea rose the silver-footed Thetis, and the cry of the nymphs who followed her filled the air, so that the Achaians who heard it trembled, and would have fled to the ships, but Nestor, the wise chief of the Pylians, said, "Flee not, ye Argives, for those come to mourn for the dead Achilles." So Thetis stood weeping by the body of her child, and the nymphs wrapped it in shining robes. Many days and nights they wept and watched around it, until at last they raised a great pile of wood on the sea-shore, and the flame went up to heaven. Then they gathered up the ashes, and placed them, with the ashes of Patroclus, in a golden urn which Hephaistos wrought and gave to Dionysus, and over it they raised a great cairn on the shore of the Sea of Helle, that men might see it afar off as they sailed on the broad waters.
THE VENGEANCE OF ODYSSEUS. A fair breeze filled the sail of the PhÆakian ship in which Odysseus lay asleep as in the dreamless slumber of the dead. The wild music of the waves rose on the air as the bark sped on its glistening pathway, but their murmur reached not the ear of the wanderer, for the spell of Athene was upon him, and all his cares and griefs were for a little while forgotten. The dawn light was stealing across the eastern sky when the good ship rode into the haven of the sea-god, Phorkys, and rested without anchor or cable beneath the rocks which keep off the breath of the harsh winds. At the head of the little bay a broad-leaved olive tree spread its branches in front of a cave where the sea nymphs wove their beautiful purple robes. Gently the sailors raised Odysseus in their arms; gently they bore him from the ship, and placed him on the land with the gifts which Alkinous and Arete and Naosikaa had given to him when he set off to go to Ithaka. So the PhÆakians went away, and Odysseus rested once more in his own land. But when he awoke from his sleep, he knew not where he was, for Athene had spread a mist on land and sea. The haven, the rocks, the trees, the pathways wore a strange look in the dim and gloomy light; but while Odysseus yet pondered where he should stow away the gifts lest thieves should find them, there stood before him a glorious form, and he heard a voice, which said, "Dost thou not know me, Odysseus? I am Pallas Athene, who have stood by thy side to guard thee in all thy wanderings and deliver thee from all thy enemies. And now that thou standest again on thine own land of Ithaka, I have come to thee once more, to bid thee make ready for the great vengeance, and to bear with patience all that may befall thee until the hour be come." But Odysseus could scarcely believe that he was in Ithaka, even though it was Athene who spake to him, until she scattered the mist and showed him the fair haven with its broad-spreading olive trees, and the home of the sea nymphs, and the old hill of Neritos with its wooded sides. Then they placed the gifts of the PhÆakians in the cave hard by the stream of living waters which flowed through it to the sea, and Athene touched him with a staff, and all the beauty of his form was gone. His face became seamed with wrinkles, his flashing eyes grew dim, and the golden locks vanished from his shoulders. His glistening raiment turned to noisome rags, as Athene put a beggar's wallet on his shoulder and placed a walking staff in his hand, and showed him the path which led to the house of the swineherd Eumaius. So Odysseus went his way, but when he entered the court-yard of Eumaius in his tattered raiment, the dogs flew at him with loud barkings, until the swineherd drove them away, and led the stranger into his dwelling, where he placed a shaggy goat-skin for him to lie on. "Thou hast welcomed me kindly," said Odysseus, "the gods grant thee in return thy heart's desire." Then Eumaius answered sadly, "My friend, I may not despise a stranger though he be even poorer and meaner than myself, for it is Zeus who sends to us the poor man and the beggar. Little indeed have I to give, for so it is with bondmen when the young chiefs lord it in the land. But he is far away who loved me well and gave me all my substance. I would that the whole kindred of Helen had been uprooted from the earth, for it was for her sake that my master went to fight with the Trojans at Ilion." Then Eumaius placed meat and wine before him. "It is but a homely meal," he said, "and a poor draught, but the chiefs who throng about my master's wife eat all the fat of the land. A brave life they have of it, for rich were the treasures which my master left in his house when he went to take vengeance for the wrongs of Helen." "Tell me thy master's name, friend," said the stranger. "If he was indeed so rich and great, I may perhaps be able to tell you something about him, for I have been a wanderer in many lands." "Why, what would be the use?" answered the swineherd. "Many a vagabond comes here with trumped-up tales to my master's wife, who listens to them greedily, hoping against hope. No, he must long ago have died; but we love Odysseus still, and we call him our friend, though he is very far away." "Nay, but thou art wrong this time," said the stranger, "for I do know Odysseus, and I swear to thee that the sun shall not finish his journey through the heavens before thy lord returns." But Eumaius shook his head. "I have nothing to give you for your news. Sure I am that Odysseus will not come back. Say no more about him, for my heart is pained when any make me call to mind the friend whom I have lost. But what is your name, friend, and whence do you come?" Then Odysseus was afraid to reveal himself, so he told him a long story how he had come from Crete, and been made a slave in Egypt, how after many years Phoinix had led him to the purple land, how Pheidon, the chief of the Thesprotians, had showed him the treasures of Odysseus, and how at last he had fallen into the hands of robbers, who had clothed him in beggarly rags and left him on the shore of Ithaka. But still Eumaius would not believe. "I can not trust your tale, my friend, when you tell me that Odysseus has sojourned in the Thesprotian land. I have had enough of such news since an Æolian came and told me that he had seen him in Crete with Idomeneus, mending the ships which had been hurt by a storm, and that he would come again to his home before that summer was ended. Many a year has passed since, and if I welcome you still, it is not for your false tidings about my master." "Well," said Odysseus, "I will make a covenant with you. If he returns this year, you shall clothe me in sound garments and send me home to Doulichion, if he does not, bid thy men hurl me from the cliffs, that beggars may learn not to tell lies." "Nay, how can I do that," said Eumaius, "when you have eaten bread in my house? Would Zeus ever hear my prayer again? Tell me no more false tales, and let us talk together as friends." Meanwhile Telemachus was far away in Sparta, whither he had gone to seek his father, Odysseus, if haply he might find him; and one night as he lay sleepless on his couch, Athene stood before him and warned him to hasten home. "The suitors are eating up thy substance, and they lie in wait that they may slay thee before the ship reaches Ithaka; but the gods who guard thee will deliver thee from them, and when thou comest to the land, go straightway to the house of Eumaius." Then in the morning Telemachus bade farewell to Menelaus, and the fair-haired Helen placed in his hands a beautiful robe which her own fingers had wrought. "Take it," she said, "as a memorial of Helen, and give it to thy bride when thy marriage day has come." So they set off from Sparta, and came to Pylos, and there, as Telemachus offered sacrifice, the wise seer Theoklymenus stood by his side, and asked him of his name and race, and when he knew that he was the son of Odysseus he besought Telemachus to take him with him to the ship, for he had slain a man in Argos and he was flying from the avenger of blood. So Theoklymenus, the seer, came with Telemachus to Ithaka. Then again Odysseus made trial of the friendship of Eumaius, and when the meal was over, he said, "To-morrow, early in the morning, I must go to the house of Odysseus. Therefore, let some one guide me thither. It may be that Penelope will listen to my tidings, and that the suitors will give alms to the old man. For I can serve well, my friends, and none can light a fire and heap on wood, or hand a winecup, more deftly than myself." But Eumaius was angry, and said sharply, "Why not tarry here? You annoy neither me nor my friends, and when Odysseus comes home, be sure he will give you coat and cloak and all else that you may need." And the beggar said, "God reward thee, good friend, for succoring the stranger," and he asked him if the father and mother of Odysseus were yet alive. Then Eumaius told him how his mother had pined away and died after Odysseus went to Ilion, and how Laertes lingered on in a wretched and squalid old age. But the ship of Telemachus had now reached the land, and he sent some of his men to tell Penelope that her son was come back, while he himself went to the house of Eumaius. Glad indeed was the swineherd to see him, for he had not thought to look upon his face again. And Telemachus said, "Is my mother yet in her home, or has she wedded another, and is the bridal couch of Odysseus covered with the webs of spiders?" "Nay, she is still in her home," said Eumaius; "but night and day she sheds bitter tears in her grievous sorrow." Then Telemachus spied the beggar; and when he learned his story from Eumaius, he was troubled. "What can we do with him? Shall I give him a cloak and a sword and send him away? I am afraid to take him to my father's house, for the suitors may flout and jeer him." Then the beggar put in his word: "Truly these suitors meet us at every turn. How comes it all about? Do you yield to them of your own free will, or do the people hate you, or have you a quarrel with your kinsfolk? If these withered arms of mine had but the strength of their youth, soon should some of these suitors smart for their misdeeds; and if their numbers were too great for me to deal with, better so to die than see them thus devour the land." "Nay, friend, your guesses are wrong," said Telemachus. "The people do not hate me, and I have no feud with my kindred; but these suitors have swarmed in upon us like bees from all the country round about." Presently Eumaius rose up to go with tidings to Penelope, and when he was gone a glorious form stood before the door, but the eyes only of Odysseus saw her, and he knew that it was Pallas Athene. "The time is come," she said; "show thyself to Telemachus and make ready with him for the great vengeance." Then Athene passed her golden staff over his body, and straightway his tattered raiment became a white and glistening robe. Once more the hue of youth came back to his cheek and the golden locks flowed down over his shoulders, so that Telemachus marveled, and said, "Who art thou, stranger, that thou lookest like one of the bright gods? But now thy garment was torn, and thy hands shook with age." "Nay, I am no god," answered the man of many toils and sorrows, "I am thy father." Then Odysseus kissed his son, and the tears ran down his cheek, but Telemachus would not believe. "Men change not thus," he said, "from age to youth, from squalor and weakness to strength and splendor." "It is the work of Athene," said the stranger, "who can make all things fresh and fair, and if I be not Odysseus, none other will ever come to Ithaka." Then Telemachus put his arms around his father and wept, and the cry of their weeping went up together, and Odysseus said, "The time for vengeance draws nigh. How many are these suitors?" "They may be told by scores," said Telemachus, "and what are two against so many?" "They are enough," answered Odysseus, "if only Zeus and Athene be on their side." Then Telemachus went to the house of Odysseus, where the suitors were greatly cast down because their messengers had not been able to kill him. And Penelope came forth from her chamber, beautiful as Artemis and Aphrodite, and she kissed her son, who told her how he had journeyed to Sparta, seeking in vain for his father. But Theoklymenus, the seer, put in a word, and said, "Odysseus is now in Ithaka, and is making ready for the day of the great vengeance." Presently Eumaius went back to his house, and there he found the beggar, for Odysseus had laid aside his glistening robe and the glory of youth had faded away again from his face. So they went to the city together, and sat by the beautiful fountain, whither the people came to draw water, and Melanthius, the goatherd, as he drove the flock for the suitors, spied them out and reviled them. "Thieves love thieves, they say; where hast thou found this vagabond, friend swineherd?" and he pushed Odysseus with his heel. Then Odysseus was wroth, and would have slain him, but he restrained himself, and Eumaius prayed aloud to the nymphs that they would bring his master home. And Melanthius said, "Pray on, as thou wilt, but Telemachus shall soon lie low, for Odysseus shall see Ithaka no more." Then he drove the goats onwards to the house of Odysseus, and Eumaius and the beggar followed him, and as they communed by the way, the swineherd bade him go first into the house, lest any finding him without might jeer or hurt him. But the beggar would not. "Many a hard buffet have I had by land and by sea," he said, "and I am not soon cast down." Soon they stood before the door, and a dog worn with age strove to rise and welcome him, but his strength was gone, and Odysseus wept when he saw his hound, Argos, in such evil plight. Then, turning to Eumaius, he said, "The hound is comely in shape. Was he swift and strong in his youth?" "Never anything escaped him in the chase; but there are none to care for him now." It mattered not, for the twenty long years had come to an end, and when Argos had once more seen his master, he sank down upon the straw and died. Then Odysseus passed into his house, and he stood a beggar in his own hall, and asked an alms from Antinous. "Give," said he, "for thou lookest like a King, and I will spread abroad thy name through the wide earth. For I, too, was rich once, and had a glorious home, and often I succored the wanderer; but Zeus took away all my wealth, and drove me forth to Cyprus and to Egypt." But Antinous thrust him aside. "What pest is this?" he said. "Stand off, old man, or thou shalt go again to an Egypt and a Cyprus which shall not be much to thy liking." Then Antinous struck him on the back; but Odysseus stood firm as a rock, and he shook his head for the vengeance that was coming. But the others were angry, and said, "Thou hast done an evil deed, if indeed there be a god in heaven; nay, often in the guise of strangers the gods themselves go through the earth, watching the evil and the good." When the tidings were brought to Penelope, she said to Eumaius, "Go call me this stranger hither, for he may have something to tell me of Odysseus." But the beggar would not go then. "Tell her," he said, "that I know her husband well, and that I have shared his troubles; but I can not talk with her before the sun goes down. At eventide she shall see me." Then, as Odysseus sate in the hall, there came up to him the beggar Arnaius, whom the suitors called Iros because he was their messenger, and he said, "Get up, old man, and go, for the chiefs have bidden me to cast thee out; yet I would rather see thee depart of thy own will." But Odysseus said, "Nay, friend, there is room enough here for both of us. You are a beggar like me, and let us pray the gods to help us; but lay not thine hand upon me, lest I be angry and smite thee; for if I do, thou wilt not, I take it, care to come again to the house of Odysseus, the son of Laertes." But Iros looked scornfully at him, and said, "Hear how the vagabond talks, just like an old furnace woman. Come now, and gird up thyself, and let us see which is the stronger." Then Antinous, who had heard them quarreling, smiled pleasantly and called to the other suitors: "See here, the stranger and Iros are challenging each other. Let us bring them together and look on." But Iros shrank back in fear as the beggar arose, and only one feeble blow had he given, when Odysseus dashed him to the ground. Then all the suitors held up their hands and almost died with laughter, as the stranger dragged Iros from the hall, and said, "Meddle not more with other men's matters, lest a worse thing befall thee." Then Odysseus gathered up his tattered garment and went and sat down again upon the threshold, while the suitors praised him with loud cheers for his exploit, and Amphinomus held out to him a goblet of rosy wine: "Drink, stranger, and mayest thou have good luck in time to come, for now thy lot is hard and gloomy enough." The kindly words stirred the beggar's heart, and he said, "Hear my counsel, Amphinomus, and trust me who have borne many griefs and sorrows and wandered in many lands since Zeus drove me from my home. Depart from these evil men who are wasting another's substance and heed not the woes that are coming, when Odysseus shall once more stand in his father's house." But Amphinomus would not hear, for so had Athene doomed that he should fall on the day of the great vengeance. So, laughing at the beggar as he sat quietly on the threshold, the suitors feasted at the banquet table of Odysseus, till the stars looked forth in the sky. But when they were gone away to sleep, Odysseus bade Telemachus gather up their arms and place them in the inner chamber. And they carried in the spears and shields and helmets, while Athene went before with a golden lamp in her hand to light the way. And Telemachus said, "Surely some one of the blessed gods must be here, my father, for walls, beams and pillars all gleam as though they were full of eyes of blazing fire." But Odysseus bade him be silent and sleep, and Telemachus went his way, and Odysseus tarried to take counsel with Athene for the work of the coming vengeance. Then, as he sat alone in the hall, Penelope came forth from her chamber, to hear what the stranger might tell her of Odysseus. But before she spake, Melantho reviled him as her father, Melanthius, had reviled him by the fountain, and Odysseus said, "Dost thou scorn me because my garments are torn and my face is seamed with age and sorrow? Well, I, too, have been young and strong. See, then, that the change come not on thee when Odysseus returns to his home." Then Penelope asked him straightly, "Who art thou, stranger, and whence hast thou come?" And the beggar said, "Ask me not, for I have had grievous troubles, and the thought of all my woes will force the tears into my eyes, so that ye may think I am mad with misery." But Penelope urged him: "Listen to me, old man. My beauty faded away when Odysseus left me to go to Ilion, and my life has been full of woe since the suitors came thronging round me, because my husband, as they said, lived no more upon the earth. So I prayed them to let me weave a shroud for Laertes, and every night I undid the web which I had woven in the day time. Thus three years passed away, but in the fourth the suitors found out my trick, and I know not how to avoid longer the marriage which I hate. Wherefore tell me who thou art, for thou didst not spring forth a full-grown man from a tree or a stone." Then Odysseus recounted to her the tale which he had told to the swineherd, Eumaius, and the eyes of Penelope were filled with tears as the stranger spoke of the exploits of Odysseus. "Good friend," she said, "thy kindly words fall soothingly on my ear. Here shalt thou sojourn, and I will give thee a robe which I had meant for him who will come back to me no more." But Odysseus would not take it, and he strove to comfort her, till at the last he swore to her that before the year's end her husband should stand before her. And now, at the bidding of Penelope, his old nurse, Eurykleia, came with water to wash his feet, and looking hard at him she said, "Many a stranger has come to this house, but never one so like in form and voice to my child, Odysseus," and the stranger answered, smiling, "Most folk who have seen us both have marked the likeness." So she knelt down to wash his feet, but Odysseus turned himself as much as he could from the fire, for he feared that she might see the mark of the wound which the boar's tusk had made long ago when he went to Parnassus. But he strove in vain. For presently she saw the scar, and she let go his feet, and the water was spilt upon the ground, as she cried out, "It is Odysseus, and I knew him not until I saw the print of the deadly wound which Autolykus healed by his wondrous power." Then Odysseus bade her be silent, for Athene had dulled the ear of Penelope that she might not hear, and he would not that any should know that the chieftain had come back to his home. So all were gone, and Odysseus alone remained in the hall through the still hours of night. But when the morning came, the suitors again feasted at the banquet board, and many a time they reviled the beggar and Telemachus, until Penelope brought forth the bow which Iphitus, the son of Eurytus, had given to Odysseus. Then she stood before the chiefs and said, "Whoever of you can bend this bow, that man shall be my husband, and with him I will leave the home which I have loved, and which I shall still see in my dreams." But when Antinous saw it, his heart failed him, for he knew that none had ever bent the bow save Odysseus only, and he warned the suitors that it would sorely tax their strength. Then Telemachus would have made trial of the bow, but his father suffered him not. So Leiodes took it in his hand, and tried in vain to stretch it, till at last he threw it down in a rage, and said, "Penelope must find some other husband; for I am not the man." But Antinous reviled him for his faintheartedness, and made Melanthius bring fat to anoint the bow and make it supple; yet even thus they strove in vain to stretch it. Then Odysseus went out into the courtyard, whither the cowherd and the swineherd had gone before him, and he said to them, "Friends, are ye minded to aid Odysseus if he should suddenly come to his home, or will ye take part with the men who devour his substance?" And they sware both of them that they would fight for their master to the death. Then Odysseus said, "I am that man, who after grievous woes has come back in the twentieth year to his own land; and if ye doubt, see here is the scar of the wound where the boar's tusk pierced my flesh, when I went to Parnassus in the days of my youth." When they saw the scar, they threw their arms round Odysseus, and they kissed him on his head and his shoulders and wept, until he said, "Stay, friends, lest any see us and tell the suitors in the house. And now hearken to me. These men will not let me take the bow; so do thou, Eumaius, place it in my hands, and let Philoitius bar the gates of the court-yard." But within the hall Eurymachus groaned with vexation because he could not stretch the bow; and he said, "It is not that I care for Penelope, for there are many Achaian women as fair as she; but that we are all so weak in comparison of Odysseus." Then the beggar besought them that he, too, might try, and see whether the strength of his youth still remained to him, or whether his long wanderings had taken away the force of his arm. But Antinous said, "Old man, wine hath done thee harm; still it is well to drink yet more than to strive with men who are thy betters." Then said Penelope, "What dost thou fear, Antinous? Vex not thyself with the thought that the beggar will lead me away as his bride, even if he should be able to stretch the bow of Odysseus." "Nay, lady," he answered, "it is not that; but I dread lest the Achaians should say, 'The suitors could not stretch the bow, but there came a wandering beggar, who did what they strove to do in vain.'" Then the swineherd took up the bow, but the suitors bade him lay it down again, until at last Telemachus told Eumaius to bear it to Odysseus; and as the swineherd placed it in the beggar's hands, Eurykleia shut the doors of the hall and made them fast with the tackling of a ship. Then, as Odysseus raised the bow, the thunder pealed in the heaven, and his heart rejoiced because Zeus had given him a sign of his great victory. Presently the arrow sped from the string, and Antinous lay dead upon the floor. Then the others spake in great wrath, and said, "The vultures shall tear thy flesh this day, because thou hast slain the greatest chief in Ithaka." But they knew not, as they spake thus, that the day of the great vengeance was come; and the voice of Odysseus was heard above the uproar, as he said, "Wretches, did ye fancy that I should never stand again in my own hall? Ye have wasted my substance, ye have sought to steal my wife from me, ye have feared neither gods nor men, and this is the day of your doom." The cheeks of the suitors turned ghastly pale through fear; but Eurymachus alone took courage and told Odysseus that Antinous only had done the mischief, because he wished to slay Telemachus and become King in Ithaka in the stead of Odysseus. "Spare, then, the rest, for they are thy people, and we will pay thee a large ransom." But Odysseus looked sternly at him, and said, "Not this house full of silver and gold shall stay my hand in the day of my great vengeance." Then Eurymachus drew his sword and bade his comrades fight bravely for their lives; but again the clang of the bow was heard, and Eurymachus was stretched lifeless on the earth. So they fell, one after the other, until the floor of the hall was slippery with blood. But presently the arrows in the quiver of Odysseus were all spent, and laying his bow against the wall, he raised a great shield on his shoulder and placed a helmet on his head, and took two spears in his hand. Then Agelaus called to Melanthius, "Go up to the stair-door and shout to the people, that they may break into the hall and save us." But Melanthius said, "It can not be, for it is near the gate of the hall, and one man may guard it against a hundred. But I will bring you arms, for I know that Odysseus and his son have stowed them away in the inner chamber." Hastily he ran thither and brought forth shields and spears and helmets, and the heart of Odysseus failed him for fear as he saw the suitors donning their armor and brandishing the lances. "Who has done this?" he asked, and Telemachus answered, "It is my fault, my father. I left the door ajar, but Eumaius shall go and see whether some of the women have given this help to the suitors, or whether, as I think, it be Melanthius." So Eumaius and the cowherd placed themselves on one side of the chamber door, and when Melanthius came forth with more arms for the chieftains, they caught him, and binding him with stout cords they hoisted him up to the beams and left him dangling in the air. "Keep guard there, Melanthius, all night long in thy airy hammock, and when the golden Morning comes back from the stream of Ocean you will not fail to see her." But in the hall the troop of suitors stood facing Odysseus and Telemachus in deadly rage, and presently Athene stood before them in the likeness of Mentor. Then all besought her help, and the suitors threatened her, and said, "Be not led astray, Mentor, by the words of Odysseus, for if you side with him, we will leave you neither house nor lands, wife nor children, when we have taken vengeance for the evil deeds of the son of Laertes." But the wrath of Athene was kindled more fiercely, and she said, "Where is thy strength, Odysseus? Many a year the Trojans fell beneath the stroke of thy sword, and by thy wisdom it was that the Achaians stormed the walls of breezy Ilion. And now dost thou stand trembling in thine own hall?" Then the form of Mentor vanished, and they saw a swallow fly away above the roof-tree. In great fear the suitors took council together, and six of them stood forth and hurled their spears at Odysseus and Telemachus. But all missed their mark except Amphimedon and Ktesippus, and these wounded Telemachus on the wrist and Eumaius on the shoulder. But once again Athene came, and this time she held aloft her awful Ægis before the eyes of the suitors, and the hearts of all fainted for fear, so that they huddled together like cattle which have heard the lion's roar, and like cattle were they slain, and the floor of the hall was floated with blood.So was the slaughter ended, and the house of Odysseus was hushed in a stillness more fearful than the din of battle, for the work of the great vengeance was accomplished. But Penelope lay on her couch in a sweet slumber which Athene had sent to soothe her grief, and she heard not the footsteps of Eurykleia as she hastened joyously into the chamber. "Rise up, dear child, rise up. Thy heart's desire is come. Odysseus stands once more in his own home, the suitors are dead, and none are left to vex thee." But Penelope could not believe for joy and fear, even when Eurykleia told her of the mark of the boar's bite which Autolykus and his sons had healed. "Let us go, dear nurse," she said, "and see the bodies of the chieftains and the man who has slain them." So she went down into the hall, and sate down opposite to Odysseus, but she spake no word, and Odysseus also sat silent. And Telemachus said to his mother, "Hast thou no welcome for my father who has borne so many griefs since Zeus took him from his home twenty long years ago?" And Penelope said, "My child, I can not speak, for my heart is as a stone within me; yet if it be indeed Odysseus, there are secret signs by which we shall know each other." But when she bade Eurykleia make ready the couch which lay outside the bridal chamber, Odysseus asked, hastily, "Who has moved the couch which I wrought with my own hands, when I made the chamber round the olive tree which stood in the courtyard? Scarcely could a mortal man move it, for it was heavy with gold and ivory and silver, and on it I spread a bull's hide gleaming with a purple dye." Then Penelope wept for joy, as she sprang into his arms; for now she knew that it was indeed Odysseus who had come back in the twentieth year. Long time they wept in each other's arms; but the keen-eyed Athene kept back the bright and glistening horses of the morning, that the day might not return too soon.Then the fair Eurynome anointed Odysseus, and clothed him in a royal robe; and Athene brought back all his ancient beauty as when he went forth in his youth to Ilion. So they sat together in the light of the blazing torches, and Penelope heard from Odysseus the story of his griefs and wanderings, and she told him of her own sorrows, while he was far away in Ilion avenging the wrongs and woes of Helen. But for all his deep joy and his calm peace, Odysseus knew that here was not the place of his rest. "The time must come," he said, "when I must go to the land where there is no sea; but the seer who told me of the things that are to be, said that my last hour should be full of light, and that I should leave my people happy." And Penelope said, "Yet we may rejoice, my husband, that the hateful chiefs are gone who darkened thy house and devoured thy substance, and that once again I hold thee in my arms. Twenty years has Zeus grudged me this deep happiness; but never has my heart swerved from thee, nor could aught stay thee from coming again to gladden my heart as in the morning of our life and joy."
SOLON.
(636 B.C.) REMEMBRANCE AFTER DEATH.
TRUE HAPPINESS.
(By Solon.) The man that boasts of golden stores,
Of grain, that loads his groaning floors,
Of fields with freshening herbage green,
Where bounding steeds and herds are seen,
I call not happier than the swain,
Whose limbs are sound, whose food is plain,
Whose joys a blooming wife endears,
Whose hours a smiling offspring cheers.
SOPHOCLES. Sophocles was born at Athens B.C. 495. His father, though a poor mechanic, had the discrimination as well as generosity to bestow an excellent education upon his son, whose great powers began early to unfold themselves, and to attract the notice of the first citizens of Athens. Before he had attained his twenty-fifth year he carried off the prize in a dramatic contest against his senior, Æschylus, and his subsequent career corresponded to this splendid beginning. He is said to have composed one hundred and twenty tragedies, to have gained the first prize twenty-four times, and on other occasions to have ranked second in the list of competing poets. So excellent was his conduct, so majestic his wisdom, so exquisite his poetical capacities, so rare his skill in all the fine arts, and so uninterrupted his prosperity, that the Greeks regarded him as the peculiar favorite of heaven. He lived in the first city of Greece, and throughout her best times, commanding an admiration and love amounting to reverence. He died in extreme old age, without disease and without suffering, and was mourned with such a sincerity and depth of grief as were manifested at the death of no other citizen of Athens.
HERODOTUS. Scarcely more is known of the celebrated historian, Herodotus, than of the illustrious poet, Homer. He was born in Asia Minor about 484 B.C. After being well educated he commenced that course of patient and observant travel which was to render his name illustrious as a philosophic tourist and historian. The shores of the Hellespont, Scythia, and the Euxine Sea; the Isles of the ÆgÆan; Syria, Egypt, Palestine, Colchis, the northern parts of Africa, Ecbatana, and even Babylon were the objects of his unwearied research. On his return from his travels, after about twenty years, he settled for some time at Samos, where he wrote the nine books of his travels in those countries. The charm of Herodotus' writings consists in the earnestness of a man who describes countries as an eye-witness, and events as one accustomed to participate in them. The life, the raciness, the vigor of an adventurer and a wanderer, glow in every page. He has none of the defining disquisitions that are born of the closet. He paints history, rather than descants on it; he throws the colorings of a mind, unconsciously poetic, over all he describes. Now a soldier—now a priest—now a patriot—he is always a poet, if rarely a philosopher. He narrates like a witness, unlike Thucydides, who sums up like a judge. No writer ever made so beautiful an application of superstitions to truths. His very credulities have a philosophy of their own; and modern historians have acted unwisely in disdaining the occasional repetition even of his fables. For if his truths record the events—his fables paint the manners and the opinions of the time; and the last fill up the history, of which events are only the skeleton. To account for his frequent use of dialogue, and his dramatic effects of narrative, we must remember the tribunal to which the work of Herodotus was subjected. Every author, unconsciously to himself, consults the tastes of those he addresses. No small coteries of scholars, no scrupulous and critical inquirers, made the ordeal Herodotus underwent. His chronicles were not dissertations to be coldly pondered over, and skeptically conned; they were read aloud at solemn festivals to listening thousands: they were to arrest the curiosity—to amuse the impatience—to stir the wonder of a lively and motley crowd. Thus the historian imbibed naturally the spirit of the tale-teller, as he was driven to embellish his history with the romantic legend—the awful superstition—the gossipy anecdote—which yet characterize the stories of the popular and oral fictionist in the bazaars of the Mussulman, or on the sea-sands of Sicily. Still it has been rightly said, that a judicious reader is not easily led astray by Herodotus in important particulars. His descriptions of localities, of manners and of customs, are singularly correct; and travelers can yet trace the vestiges of his fidelity. Few enlightened tourists are there who can visit Egypt, Greece, and the regions of the East, without being struck by the accuracy, with the industry, with the patience of Herodotus. To record all the facts substantiated by travelers, illustrated by artists, and amplified by learned research, would be almost impossible; so abundant, so rich, has this golden mine been found, that the more its native treasures are explored, the more valuable do they appear. The oasis of Siwah, visited by Browne, Hornemann, Edmonstone, and Minutuoli; the engravings of the latter, demonstrating the co-identity of the god Ammon and the god of Thebes; the Egyptian mode of weaving, confirmed by the drawings of Wilkinson and Minutuoli; the fountain of the sun, visited by Belzoni; one of the stelÆ or pillars of Sesostris, seen by Herodotus in Syria, and recognized on the road to Beyrout with the hieroglyphic of Remeses still legible; the kneading of dough, drawn from a sculpture in Thebes, by Wilkinson; the dress of the lower classes, by the same author; the prodigies of Egyptian architecture at Edfou; Caillaud's discovery of Meroe in the depths of Æthiopia; these, and a host of brilliant evidences, center their once divergent rays in one flood of light upon the temple of genius reared by Herodotus, and display the goddess of Truth enshrined within. The following are the main subjects of his nine books, which were named after the nine muses:— Book I. Clio.—Transfer of the Lydian Kingdom from Gyges to Croesus—minority of Cyrus—his overthrow of the Lydian power—rising greatness of Athens and LacedÆmon. Book II. Euterpe.—Dissertation on Egypt—Egyptian customs, and the regal succession of that Empire. Book III. Thalia.—Achievements of Cambyses—his total subjugation of Egypt—election of Darius Hystaspes to the Persian throne, then vacant by the assassination of Smerdis, the impostor. Book IV. Melpomene.—Full narrative of the calamitous expeditions of the Persians against the Scythians in the reign of Darius Hystaspes. Book V. Terpsichore.—The political progress of LacedÆmon, Athens and Corinth—view of their relative resources during the time of Darius—expulsion of Hippias from Athens. Book VI. Erate.—Origin of the Kings of LacedÆmon—causes of Darius' hostility to Greece—first Persian invasion of Hellas—battle of Marathon. Book VII. Polyhymnia.—Preparations and grand expedition of Xerxes into Greece—battle at ThermopylÆ.Book VIII. Urania.—Further progress of the Persian arms—Athens captured and burned—defeat of the Persians at the sea-fight of Salamis. Book IX. Calliope.—Defeat of the Persians at PlatÆa—defeat at the promontory of Mycale, and their complete retreat within their own territories.
THE CROCODILE.
(By Herodotus.) The following are the peculiarities of the crocodile: During the winter months they eat nothing; they are four-footed, and live indifferently on land or in the water. The female lays and hatches her eggs ashore, passing the greater portion of the day on dry land, but at night retiring to the river, the water of which is warmer than the night-air and the dew. Of all known animals this is the one which from the smallest size grows to be the greatest, for the egg of the crocodile is but little bigger than that of the goose, and the young crocodile is in proportion to the egg, yet when it is full grown, the animal measures frequently seventeen cubits, and even more. It has the eyes of a pig, teeth large and tusk-like, of a size proportioned to its frame; unlike any other animal, it is without a tongue; it can not move its under-jaw, and in this respect, too, it is singular, being the only animal in the world which moves the upper-jaw but not the under. It has strong claws and a scaly skin, impenetrable upon the back. In the water it is blind, but on land it is very keen of sight. As it lives chiefly in the river, it has the inside of its mouth constantly covered with leeches, hence it happens that, while all the other birds and beasts avoid it, with the trochilus it lives at peace, since it owes much to that bird, for the crocodile, when he leaves the water and comes out upon the land, is in the habit of lying with his mouth wide open, facing the western breeze; at such times the trochilus goes into his mouth and devours the leeches. This benefits the crocodile, who is pleased, and takes care not to hurt the trochilus. The crocodile is esteemed sacred by some of the Egyptians, by others he is treated as an enemy. Those who live near Thebes, and those who dwell around Lake Moeris, regard them with especial veneration. In each of these places they keep one crocodile in particular, who is taught to be tame and tractable. They adorn his ears with ear-rings of molten stone or gold, and put bracelets on his fore-paws, giving him daily a set portion of bread, with a certain number of victims; and, after having thus treated him with the greatest possible attention while alive, they embalm him when he dies and bury him in a sacred repository. The people of Elephantine, on the other hand, are so far from considering these animals as sacred that they even eat their flesh. The modes of catching the crocodile are many and various. I shall only describe the one which seems to me most worthy of mention. They bait a hook with a chine of pork and let the meat be carried out into the middle of the stream, while the hunter upon the bank holds a living pig, which he belabors. The crocodile hears its cries and, making for the sound, encounters the pork, which he instantly swallows down. The men on the shore haul, and when they have got him to land, the first thing the hunter does is to plaster his eyes with mud. This once accomplished, the animal is dispatched with ease, otherwise he gives great trouble.
ARTABANUS DISSUADES XERXES.
(By Herodotus.) The other Persians were silent, for all feared to raise their voice against the plan proposed to them. But Artabanus, the son of Hystaspes, and uncle of Xerxes, trusting to his relationship, was bold to speak: "O King," he said, "it is impossible, if no more than one opinion is uttered, to make choice of the best; a man is forced then to follow whatever advice may have been given him, but if opposite speeches are delivered, then choice can be exercised. In like manner pure gold is not recognized by itself, but when we test it along with baser ore, we perceive which is the better. I counseled thy father, Darius, who was my own brother, not to attack the Scyths, a race of people who had no town in their own land. He thought, however, to subdue those wandering tribes, and would not listen to me, but marched an army against them, and ere he returned home lost many of his bravest warriors. Thou art about, O King, to attack a people far superior to the Scyths, a people distinguished above others both by land and sea. 'Tis fit, therefore, that I should tell thee what danger thou incurrest hereby. Thou sayest that thou wilt bridge the Hellespont, and lead thy troops through Europe against Greece. "Now, suppose some disaster befall thee by land or sea, or by both. It may be even so, for the men are reputed valiant. Indeed one may measure their prowess from what they have already done; for when Datis and Artaphernes led their huge army against Attica, the Athenians singly defeated them. But grant they are not successful on both elements. Still, if they man their ships, and, defeating us by sea, sail to the Hellespont, and there destroy our bridge—that, sire, were a fearful hazard. And here 'tis not by my own mother wit alone that I conjecture what will happen, but I remember how narrowly we escaped disaster once, when thy father, after throwing bridges over the Thracian Bosphorus and the Ister, marched against the Scythians, and they tried every sort of prayer to induce the Ionians, who had charge of the bridge over the Ister, to break the passage. On that day, if HistiÆus, the King of Miletus, had sided with the other princes, and not set himself to oppose their views, the empire of the Persians would have come to naught. Surely a dreadful thing is this even to hear said, that the King's fortunes depended wholly on one man. "Think, then, no more of incurring so great a danger when no need presses, but follow the advice I tender. Break up this meeting, and when thou hast well considered the matter with thyself, and settled what thou wilt do, declare to us thy resolve. I know not of aught in the world that so profits a man as taking good counsel with himself; for even if things fall out against one's hopes, still one has counseled well, though fortune has made the counsel of no effect: whereas, if a man counsels ill and luck follows, he has gotten a windfall, but his counsel is none the less silly. Seest thou how God with His lightning smites alway the bigger animals, and will not suffer them to wax insolent, while those of lesser bulk chafe Him not? How likewise His bolts fall ever on the highest houses and the tallest trees? So plainly does He love to bring down everything that exalts itself. Thus oft-times a mighty host is discomfitted by a few men, when God in His jealousy sends fear or storm from heaven, and they perish in a way unworthy of them. For God allows no one to have high thoughts but Himself. Again, hurry always brings about disasters, from which huge sufferings are wont to arise; but in delay lie many advantages, not apparent (it may be) at first sight, but such as in the course of time are seen of all. Such, then, is my counsel to thee, O King. "And thou, Mardonius, son of Gobryas, forbear to speak foolishly concerning the Greeks, who are men that ought not to be lightly esteemed by us. For while thou revilest the Greeks, thou dost encourage the King to lead his own troops against them; and this, as it seems to me, is what thou art specially striving to accomplish. Heaven send thou succeed not to thy wish! For slander is of all evils the most terrible. In it two men do wrong, and one man has wrong done to him. The slanderer does wrong, forasmuch as he abuses a man behind his back; and the hearer, forasmuch as he believes what he has not searched into thoroughly. The man slandered in his absence suffers wrong at the hands of both; for one brings against him a false charge, and the other thinks him an evil-doer. If, however, it must needs be that we go to war with this people, at least allow the King to abide at home in Persia. Then let thee and me both stake our children on the issue, and do thou choose out thy men, and taking with thee whatever number of troops thou likest, lead forth our armies to battle. If things go well for the King, as thou sayest they will, let me and my children be put to death; but if they fall out as I prophesy, let thy children suffer, and thou, too, if thou shalt come back alive. But shouldst thou refuse this wager, and still resolve to march an army against Greece, sure I am that some of those whom thou leavest behind thee will one day receive the sad tidings that Mardonius has brought a great disaster upon the Persian people, and lies a prey to dogs and birds somewhere in the land of the Athenians, or else in that of the LacedÆmonians; unless, indeed, thou shalt have perished sooner by the way, experiencing in thy own person the might of those men on whom thou wouldst fain induce the King to make war."
SOCRATES. Socrates was born at Athens about the middle or latter part of April, 469 B.C. He commanded more admiration and reverence than any other individual of ancient or modern times. By his ability and purity he emerged from a barbaric sophistry into the purest form of religion that was ever invented by man, it was nearer like that of Christ than was ever reached by mortal before. The object of his entire philosophy was the attainment of correct ideas concerning moral and religious obligations. Although Socrates was the son of a sculptor of limited means, he was educated according to the manner of the times. Music and poetry and gymnastic exercises formed the principal part of the education of an Athenian youth, and in these Socrates was instructed. Through the influence of Crito, a wealthy Athenian who subsequently became an intimate friend and disciple of our philosopher, he was induced to rise into a higher sphere. He then began the study of physics, mathematics, astronomy, natural philosophy, etc. Socrates, however, was unable to obtain any satisfactory knowledge from the philosophers and teachers of his time. Dissatisfied with the pretended wisdom of the Cosmologists and Sophists he entirely abandoned all speculative subjects and devoted his entire attention to human affairs, and his earnestness as a social reformer brought upon him increasing odium from the "Conservatives" of the day, as well as from that still larger class whose feelings of malice and revenge towards those who expose their follies and their vices, their wicked private customs and public institutions, can never be appeased but with the death of their victim. Accordingly, prejudice, unpopularity and hate finally prevailed, and two charges were brought against him, one of not believing in the national deities and the other of corrupting the youth. That he did not believe in the idols that most of his contemporaries worshiped, is true; but that he corrupted the youth was as absurd as false, for all his teachings tended ever to purify them, and lead them in the paths of virtue and truth. He defended himself, and his defense is a perfect whole, neither more nor less than what it ought to have been. Proudly conscious of his innocence, he sought not to move the pity of his judges, for he cared not for acquittal, and "exhibited that union of humility and high-mindedness which is observable in none, perhaps, with the exception of St. Paul." His speech availed not, and he was condemned to drink the hemlock. He continued in prison thirty days before the sentence was executed, and to this interval we are indebted for that sublime conversation on the immortality of the soul which Plato has embodied in his PhÆdo. At length the fatal day arrived, when he had reached his full three score years and ten. Refusing all means of escape to which his friends continually and importunely urged him, he took the poisoned cup from the hands of the boy who brought it to him in his prison-chamber, drank it off calmly amid the tears and sobs of surrounding friends, walked about till the draught had begun to take effect upon his system, and then laid himself down upon his bed, and soon breathed his last. Such was the life and such the death of this great man. It has been felt as the greatest of all human examples, not only by his own countrymen, but by the whole civilized world.
SOCRATES AND ARISTODEMUS.
(By Socrates.) We will now relate the manner in which Socrates discoursed with Aristodemus, surnamed the Little, concerning the Deity. For, observing that he neither prayed nor sacrificed to the gods nor yet consulted any oracle, but, on the contrary, ridiculed and laughed at those who did, he said to him: "Tell me, Aristodemus, is there any man whom you admire on account of his merit?" Aristodemus having answered, "Many."—"Name some of them, I pray you." "I admire," said Aristodemus, "Homer for his epic poetry, Melanippides for his dithyrambics, Sophocles for tragedy, Polycletes for statuary, and Xeuxis for painting." "But which seems to you most worthy of admiration, Aristodemus—the artist who forms images void of motion and intelligence, or one who hath the skill to produce animals that are endued, not only with activity, but understanding." "The latter, there can be no doubt," replied Aristodemus, "provided the production was not the effect of chance, but of wisdom and contrivance." "But since there are many things, some of which we can easily see the use of, while we can not say of others to what purpose they were produced, which of these, Aristodemus, do you suppose the work of wisdom?" "It should seem the most reasonable to affirm it of those whose fitness and utility is so evidently apparent." "But it is evidently apparent, that He, who at the beginning made man, endued him with senses because they were good for him; eyes, wherewith to behold whatever was visible; and ears, to hear whatever was to be heard. For say, Aristodemus, to what purpose should odors be prepared, if the sense of smelling had been denied? Or why the distinctions of bitter and sweet, of savory and unsavory, unless a palate had been likewise given, conveniently placed, to arbitrate between them, and declare the difference? Is not that Providence, Aristodemus, in a most eminent manner conspicuous, which, because the eye of man is so delicate in its contexture, hath therefore prepared eyelids like doors, whereby to secure it; which extend of themselves whenever it is needful, and again close when sleep approaches? Are not these eyelids provided, as it were, with a fence on the edge of them, to keep off the wind and guard the eye? Even the eyebrow itself is not without office, but, as a penthouse, is prepared to turn off the sweat, which, falling from the forehead, might enter and annoy that no less tender than astonishing part of us! Is it not to be admired that the ears should take in sounds of every sort, and yet are not too much filled by them? That the fore-teeth of the animal should be formed in such a manner as evidently best suited for the cutting of its food, and those on the side for grinding it in pieces? That the mouth, through which this food is conveyed, should be placed so near the nose and the eyes, as to prevent the passing, unnoticed, whatever is unfit for nourishment; while Nature, on the contrary, hath set at a distance, and concealed from the senses, all that might disgust them? And canst thou still doubt, Aristodemus! whether a disposition of parts like this should be the work of chance, or of wisdom and contrivance?" "I have no longer any doubt," replied Aristodemus; "and, indeed, the more I consider it, the more evident it appears to me, that man must be the masterpiece of some great Artificer, carrying along with it infinite marks of love and favor of Him who hath thus formed it." "And what thinkest thou, Aristodemus, of that desire in the individual which leads to the continuance of the species? Of that tenderness and affection in the female towards her young, so necessary for its preservation? Of that unremitted love of life, and dread of dissolution, which take such strong possession of us from the moment we begin to be?" "I think of them," answered Aristodemus, "as so many regular operations of the same great and wise Artist, deliberately determining to preserve what He hath once made.""But, farther (unless thou desirest to ask me questions), seeing, Aristodemus, thou thyself art conscious of reason and intelligence, supposest thou there is no intelligence elsewhere? Thou knowest thy body to be a small part of that wide-extended earth which thou everywhere beholdest; the moisture contained in it, thou also knowest to be a small portion of that mighty mass of waters whereof seas themselves are but a part, while the rest of the elements contribute, out of their abundance, to thy formation. It is the soul, then, alone, that intellectual part of us, which is come to thee by some lucky chance, from I know not where. If so be, there is indeed no intelligence elsewhere; and we must be forced to confess, that this stupendous universe, with all the various bodies contained therein—equally amazing, whether we consider their magnitude or number, whatever their use, whatever their order—all have been produced, not by intelligence, but chance!" "It is with difficulty that I can suppose otherwise," returned Aristodemus, "for I behold none of those gods, whom you speak of as making and governing all things, whereas I see the artists when at their work here among us." "Neither yet seest thou thy soul, Aristodemus, which, however, most assuredly governs thy body: although it may well seem, by thy manner of talking, that it is chance, and not reason, which governs thee." "I do not despise the gods," said Aristodemus; "on the contrary, I conceive so highly of their excellence, as to suppose they stand in no need of either me or of my services." "Thou mistakest the matter, Aristodemus; the greater magnificence they have shown in their care of thee, so much the more honor and service thou owest them." "Be assured," said Aristodemus, "if I once could be persuaded the gods took care of man, I should want no monitor to remind me of my duty.""And canst thou doubt, Aristodemus, if the gods take care of man? Hath not the glorious privilege of walking upright been alone bestowed on him, whereby he may, with the better advantage, survey what is around him, contemplate, with more ease, those splendid objects which are above, and avoid the numerous ills and inconveniences which would otherwise befall him? Other animals, indeed, they have provided with feet, by which they may remove from one place to another; but to man they have also given hands, with which he can form many things for his use, and make himself happier than creatures of any other kind. A tongue hath been bestowed on every other animal, but what animal, except man, hath the power of forming words with it, whereby to explain his thoughts, and make them intelligible to others? And to show that the gods have had regard to his very pleasures, they have not limited them, like those of other animals, to times and seasons, but man is left to indulge in them whenever not hurtful to him. "But it is not with respect to the body alone that the gods have shown themselves thus bountiful to man! Their most excellent gift is that soul they have infused into him, which so far surpasses what is elsewhere to be found. For, by what animal, except man, is even the existence of those gods discovered, who have produced, and still uphold, in such regular order, this beautiful and stupendous frame of the universe? What other species of creatures are to be found that can serve, that can adore them? What other animal is able, like man, to provide against the assaults of heat and cold, of thirst and hunger? That can lay up remedies for the time of sickness and improve the strength nature hath given by a well-proportioned exercise? That can receive, like him, information and instruction, or so happily keep in memory what he hath seen, and heard, and learnt? These things being so, who seeth not that man is, as it were, a god in the midst of this visible creation; so far doth he surpass, whether in the endowments of soul or body, all animals whatsoever that have been produced therein! For, if the body of the ox had been joined to the mind of man, the acuteness of the latter would have stood him in small stead, while unable to execute the well-designed plan; nor would the human form have been of more use to the brute, so long as it remained destitute of understanding! But in thee, Aristodemus, hath been joined to a wonderful soul, a body no less wonderful, and sayest thou, after this, 'the gods take no thought for me!' What wouldst thou, then, more to convince thee of their care?" "I would they should send, and inform me," said Aristodemus, "what things I ought or ought not to do in like manner as thou sayest they frequently do to thee." "And what then, Aristodemus! Supposest thou, that when the gods give out some oracle to all the Athenians, they mean it not for thee? If, by their prodigies, they declare aloud to all Greece—to all mankind—the things which shall befall them, are they dumb to thee alone? And art thou the only person whom they have placed beyond their care? Believest thou they would have wrought into the mind of man a persuasion of their being able to make him happy or miserable, if so be they had no such power? or would not even man himself, long ere this, have seen through the gross delusion? How is it, Aristodemus, thou rememberest, or remarkest not, that the kingdoms and commonwealths most renowned as well for their wisdom as antiquity, are those whose piety and devotion hath been the most observable? And why thinkest thou that the providence of God may not easily extend itself throughout the whole universe? As, therefore, among men, we make best trial of the affection and gratitude of our neighbor, by showing him kindness, and discover his wisdom, by consulting him in our distress; do thou, in like manner, behave towards the gods, and, if thou wouldst experience what their wisdom, and what their love, render thyself deserving the communication of some of those divine secrets which may not be perpetrated by man, and are imparted to those alone who consult, who adore, who obey the Deity. Then shalt thou, my Aristodemus, understand there is a Being whose eye pierceth throughout all nature, and whose ear is open to every sound; extended to all places; extending through all time, and whose bounty and care can know no other bounds than those fixed by his own creation!" By this discourse, and others of the like nature, Socrates taught his friends that they were not only to forbear whatever was impious, unjust, or unbecoming before men; but even, when alone, they ought to have a regard to their actions; since the gods have their eyes continually upon us, and none of our designs can be concealed from them.
EURIPIDES. Euripides flourished about 450 B.C.; was born 480 B.C. He spent his youth in the highest mental and physical training. He was a native of Athens, and enjoyed the most glorious days of her annals, being brought in direct connection with Æschylus and Sophocles, and in his older days was a pupil of Socrates. In comparing Euripides and the other two masters in Grecian tragedy, it may be said that he ranks first in tragic representation and effect; Sophocles first in dramatic symmetry and ornament; Æschylus first in poetic vigor and grandeur. Æschylus was the most sublime; Sophocles the most beautiful; Euripides the most pathetic. The first displays the lofty intellect; the second exercises the cultivated taste; the third indulges the feeling heart. Each, as it were, shows a fine piece of sculpture. In Æschylus, it is a naked hero, with all the strength, boldness, and dignity of olden time. In Sophocles and Euripides, it may be perhaps the same hero; but with the former, he has put on the flowing robes, the elegant address, and the soft urbanity of a polished age; with the latter, he is yielding to some melancholy emotion, ever heedless of his posture or gait, and casting his unvalued drapery negligently about him. They have been compared by an illustration from another art: "The sublime and daring Æschylus resembles some strong and impregnable castle situated on a rock, whose martial grandeur awes the beholder—its battlements defended by heroes, and its gates proudly hung with trophies." Sophocles appears with splendid dignity, like some imperial palace of richest architecture; the symmetry of the parts and the chaste magnificence of the whole delight the eye and command the approbation of the judgment. The pathetic and moral Euripides has the solemnity of a Gothic temple, whose storied windows admit a dim religious light, enough to show its high embowed roof, and the monuments of the dead which rise in every part, impressing our minds with pity and terror as emblems of the uncertain and short duration of human greatness, and with an awful sense of our own mortality.
ARISTOPHANES. Very little is known about the life of Aristophanes. He was born about 444 B.C., and devoted himself to comic poetry. He wrote fifty-four plays, of which eleven are extant. The comedies of Aristophanes are universally regarded as the standard of Attic writing in its greatest purity. His genius was vast, versatile, and original, and his knowledge of human nature surpassed by Homer and Shakspeare alone. The noble tone of morals, the elevated taste, the sound political wisdom, the boldness and acuteness of the satire, the grand object, which is seen throughout, of correcting the follies of the day, and improving the condition of his country—all these are features in Aristophanes, which, however disguised, as they intentionally are, by coarseness and buffoonery, entitle him to the highest respect from every reader of antiquity. He condescended, indeed, to play the part of jester to the Athenian tyrant. But his jests were the vehicles for telling to them the soundest truths. They were never without a far higher aim than to raise a momentary laugh. He was no farce writer, but a deep philosophical politician; grieved and ashamed at the condition of his country, and through the stage, the favorite amusement of Athenians, aiding to carry on the one great common work, which Plato proposed in his dialogues, and in which all the better and nobler spirits of the time seem to have concurred as by a confederacy—the reformation of an atrocious democracy. There is as much system in the comedies of Aristophanes as in the dialogues of Plato. Every part of a vitiated public mind is exposed in its turn. Its demagogues in the Knights, its courts of justice in the Wasps, its foreign policy in the Acharnians, its tyranny over the allies in the Birds, the state of female society in the Sysistrate and the EcclesiazusÆ, and its corrupt poetical taste in the Frogs. No one play is without its definite object; and the state of national education, as the greatest cause of all, is laid open in the Clouds. Whatever light is thrown, by that admirable play, upon the character of Socrates, and the position which he occupies in the Platonic Dialogues—a point, it may be remarked, on which the greatest mistakes are daily made—it is chiefly valuable as exhibiting, in a short but very complete analysis, and by a number of fine Rembrandt-like strokes, not any of which must be overlooked, all the features of that frightful school of sophistry, which at that time was engaged systematically in corrupting the Athenian youth, and against which the whole battery of Plato was pointedly directed.
PLATO. Plato was born in the year 429 B.C., and died when he was eighty-two years old, on his birthday. He was a pupil of Socrates, the first and purest of moral philosophers. By the rare union of a brilliant imagination with a fondness for severe mathematical studies and profound metaphysical investigations; by extensive foreign travel; by familiar intercourse with the most enlightened men of his time, particularly Socrates, whose instructive conversations he attended for eight years, as well as by the correspondence which he maintained with the Pythagoreans of Magna GrÆcia, this great philosopher came to surpass all others in the vastness and profoundness of his views, and in the correctness and eloquence with which he expressed them; while his pure moral character entitled him to take his place by the side of Socrates. Socrates once said, "For what higher reward could a teacher ask than to have such pupils as Xenophon and Plato?" The object of Plato was evidently the noble one of placing before man a high intellectual, and consequently, by implication, a high moral standard as the end and object of his aspirations; to encourage his efforts after the true, the pure, the beautiful, and the virtuous, knowing that the character would be purified in the endeavor, and that the consciousness of the progress made, step by step, would be of itself a reward. The object of science was, as he taught, the true, the eternal, the immutable, that which is; in one alone could these attributes be found united—that is God. Man's duty, then, according to the Platonic system is to know God and His attributes, and to aim at being under the practical influence of this knowledge. This the Christian is taught, but much more simply and plainly, to know God, and Jesus Christ whom He hath sent, and to propose to himself a perfect standard, to be perfect even as his Father in heaven is perfect, and to look forward, by that help which Plato had no warrant to look for, to attain the perfect measure of the fulness of Christ. Although Plato believed and taught that man ought to strive after and devote himself to the contemplation of the One, the Eternal, the Infinite, he was humbly conscious that no one could attain to the perfection of such knowledge; that it is too wonderful and excellent for human powers. Man's incapacity for apprehending this knowledge he attributed to the soul, during his present state of existence, being cramped and confined by its earthly tabernacle. Plato defined virtue to be the imitation of God, or the free effort of man to attain to a resemblance to his original, or, in other terms, a unison and harmony of all our principles and actions according to reason, whence results the highest degree of happiness. Evil is opposed to this harmony as a disease of the soul. Virtue is one, indeed, but compounded of four elements—wisdom, courage, temperance, and justice. In his practical philosophy he blended a rigid principle of moral obligation with a spirit of gentleness and humanity; and education he described as a liberal cultivation and moral discipline of the mind. Politics he defined to be the application, on a great scale, of the laws of morality; for a society, being composed of individuals, is under similar moral obligations, and the end of politics to be liberty and concord. Beauty he considered to be the sensible representation of moral and physical perfection; consequently it is one with truth and goodness, and inspires love, which leads to virtue. Would that many so-called Christian legislators and Christian people would go to this "heathen" philosopher and learn of him—learn that to do right is always and ever the highest safety, the highest expediency, the highest "conservatism," the highest good!How beautifully Akenside expresses this:— "Thus was beauty sent from heaven,
The lovely ministress of truth and good,
In this dark world: for truth and good are one,
And beauty dwells in them, and they in her,
With like participation. Wherefore, then,
O sons of earth! would ye dissolve the tie?
O wherefore, with a rash, impetuous aim,
Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand
Of lavish fancy paints each flattering scene
Where beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire
Where is the sanction of eternal truth,
Or where the seal of undeceitful good,
To save your search from folly! wanting these,
Lo! beauty withers in your void embrace,
And with the glittering of an idiot's toy
Did fancy mock your vows."
THE PERFECT BEAUTY.
(By Plato.) "He who aspires to love rightly, ought from his earliest youth to seek an intercourse with beautiful forms, and first to make a single form the object of his love, and therein to generate intellectual excellencies. He ought, then, to consider that beauty in whatever form it resides is the brother of that beauty which subsists in another form; and if he ought to pursue that which is beautiful in form, it would be absurd to imagine that beauty is not one and the same thing in all forms, and would therefore remit much of his ardent preference towards one, through his perception of the multitude of claims upon his love. In addition, he would consider the beauty which is in souls more excellent than that which is in form. So that one endowed with an admirable soul, even though the flower of the form were withered, would suffice him as the object of his love and care, and the companion with whom he might seek and produce such conclusions as tend to the improvement of youth; so that it might be led to observe the beauty and the conformity which there is in the observation of its duties and the laws, and to esteem little the mere beauty of the outward form. He would then conduct his pupil to science, so that he might look upon the loveliness of wisdom; and that contemplating thus the universal beauty, no longer would he unworthily and meanly enslave himself to the attractions of one form in love, nor one subject of discipline or science, but would turn towards the wide ocean of intellectual beauty, and from the sight of the lovely and majestic forms which it contains, would abundantly bring forth his conceptions in philosophy; until, strengthened and confirmed, he should at length steadily contemplate one science which is the science of this universal beauty. "Attempt, I entreat you, to mark what I say with as keen an observation as you can. He who has been disciplined to this point in love, by contemplating beautiful objects gradually, and in their order, now arriving at the end of all that concerns love, on a sudden beholds a beauty wonderful in its nature. This is it, O Socrates, for the sake of which all the former labors were endured. It is eternal, unproduced, indestructible; neither subject to increase nor decay; not, like other things, partly beautiful and partly deformed; not at one time beautiful and at another time not; not beautiful in relation to one thing and deformed in relation to another; not here beautiful and there deformed; not beautiful in the estimation of one person and deformed in that of another; nor can this supreme beauty be figured to the imagination like a beautiful face, or beautiful hands, or any portion of the body, nor like any discourse, nor any science. Nor does it subsist in any other that lives or is, either in earth, or in heaven, or in any other place; but it is eternally uniform and consistent, and monoeidic with itself. All other things are beautiful through a participation of it, with this condition, that although they are subject to production and decay, it never becomes more or less, or endures any change. When any one, ascending from a correct system of love, begins to contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the consummation of his labor. For such as discipline themselves upon this system, or are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these transitory objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself, proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of two, and from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; and from beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and from institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation of many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than the doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and contemplation of which at length they repose. "Such a life as this, my dear Socrates," exclaimed the stranger Prophetess, "spent in the contemplation of the beautiful, is the life for men to live; which, if you chance ever to experience, you will esteem far beyond gold and rich garments, and even those lovely persons whom you and many others now gaze on with astonishment, and are prepared neither to eat nor drink so that you may behold and live forever with these objects of your love! What, then, shall we imagine to be the aspect of the supreme beauty itself, simple, pure, uncontaminated with the intermixture of human flesh and colors, and all other idle and unreal shapes attendant on mortality; the divine, the original, the supreme, the monoeidic beautiful itself? What must be the life of him who dwells with and gazes on that which it becomes us all to seek? Think you not that to him alone is accorded the prerogative of bringing forth, not images and shadows of virtue, for he is in contact not with a shadow but with reality; with virtue itself, in the production and nourishment of which he becomes dear to the gods, and if such a privilege is conceded to any human being, himself immortal?"—From the Banquet, translated by the poet Shelley.
THE LAST HOURS OF SOCRATES.
(By Plato.) "When the dead arrive at the place to which their demon leads them severally, first of all they are judged, as well those who have lived well and piously, as those who have not. And those who appear to have passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to Acheron, and embarking in the vessels they have, on these arrive at the lake, and there dwell, and when they are purified, and have suffered punishment for the iniquities they may have committed, they are set free, and each receives the reward of his good deeds, according to his deserts; but those who appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of their offences, either from having committed many and great sacrileges, or many unjust and lawless murders, or other similar crimes, these a suitable destiny hurls into Tartarus, whence they never come forth. But those who appear to have been guilty of curable, yet great offences, such as those who through anger have committed any violence against father or mother, and have lived the remainder of their life in a state of penitence, or they who have become homicides in a similar manner, these must fall into Tartarus, but after they have fallen, and have been there for a year, the wave casts them forth, the homicides into Cocytus, but the parricides and matricides into Pyriphlegethon; but when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian lake, there they cry out to and invoke, some those whom they slew, others those whom they injured, and invoking them, they entreat and implore them to suffer them to go out into the lake, and to receive them, and if they persuade them, they go out, and are freed from their sufferings, but if not, they are borne back to Tartarus, and thence again into the rivers, and they do not cease from suffering this until they have persuaded those whom they have injured; for this sentence was imposed upon them by the judges. But those who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these are they, who, being freed and set at large from these regions in the earth, as from prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and dwell on the upper parts of the earth. And among these, they who have sufficiently purified themselves by philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe, nor at present is there sufficient time for the purpose."But for the sake of these things which we have described, we should use every endeavor, Simmias, so as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life; for the reward is noble, and the hope great. "To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are exactly as I have described them, does not become a man of sense; that however either this, or something of the kind, takes place with respect to our souls and their habitations—since our soul is certainly immortal—this appears to me most fitting to be believed, and worthy the hazard for one who trusts in its reality; for the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure ourselves with such things, as with enchantments; for which reason I have prolonged my story to such a length. On account of these things, then, a man ought to be confident about his soul, who during this life has disregarded all the pleasures and ornaments of the body as foreign from his nature, and who, having thought that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied himself to the acquirement of knowledge, and who having adorned his soul not with a foreign but its own proper ornament, temperance, justice, fortitude, freedom, and truth, thus waits for his passage to Hades, as one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall summon him. You then," he continued, "Simmias and Cebes, and the rest, will each of you depart at some future time; but now destiny summons me, as a tragic writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake myself to the bath; for it appears to me to be better to drink the poison after I have bathed myself, and not to trouble the women with washing my dead body." When he had thus spoken, Crito said, "So be it, Socrates; but what commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your children, or any other matter, in attending to which we can most oblige you?" "What I always say, Crito," he replied, "nothing new; that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige both me and mine and yourselves, whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; but if you neglect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the footprints of what has been now and formerly said, even though you should promise much at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all." "We will endeavor then so to do," he said; "but how shall we bury you?" "Just as you please," he said, "if only you can catch me, and I do not escape from you." And at the same time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said, "I can not persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of the discourse; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye, then, my sureties to Crito," he said, "in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges; for he undertook that I should remain; but do you be sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my body either burned or buried, may not be afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried. For be well assured," he said, "most excellent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpable as to the thing itself, but likewise occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage, then, and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws." When he had said this, he rose, and went into a chamber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but he directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, conversing among ourselves about what had been said, and considering it again, and sometimes speaking about our calamity, how severe it would be to us, sincerely thinking that, like those who are deprived of a father, we should pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he had bathed, and his children were brought to him, for he had two little sons and one grown up, and the women belonging to his family were come, having conversed with them in the presence of Crito, and giving them such injunctions as he wished, he directed the women and children to go away, and then returned to us. And it was now near sunset; for he spent a considerable time within. But when he came from bathing he sat down, and did not speak much afterwards. Then the officer of the Eleven came in, and, standing near him, said, "Socrates, I shall not have to find that fault with you that I do with others, that they are angry with me, and curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them drink the poison. But you, on all other occasions during the time you have been here, I have found to be the most noble, meek, and excellent man of all that ever came into this place; and, therefore, I am now well convinced that you will not be angry with me, for you know who are to blame, but with them. Now, then, for you know what I came to announce to you, farewell, and endeavor to bear what is inevitable as easily as possible." And at the same time, bursting into tears he turned away and withdrew. And Socrates, looking after him, said, "And thou, too, farewell; we will do as you direct." At the same time turning to us, he said, "How courteous this man is; during the whole time I have been here he has visited me, and conversed with me sometimes, and proved the worthiest of men; and now how generously he weeps for me. But come, Crito, let us obey him, and let some one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded, but if not, let the man pound it."Then Crito said, "But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still on the mountains, and has not yet set. Besides, I know that others have drank the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and have supped and drank freely. Do not hasten, then, for there is yet time." Upon this Socrates replied, "These men whom you mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for they think they shall gain by so doing, and I, too, with good reason shall not do so; for I think I shall gain nothing by drinking a little later, except to become ridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing of it when none any longer remains. Go, then," he said, "obey, and do not resist." Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the boy having gone out, and stayed for some time, came, bringing with him the man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded in a cup. And Socrates, on seeing the man, said, "Well, my good friend, as you are skilled in these matters, what must I do?" "Nothing else," he replied, "than, when you have drank it, walk about until there is a heaviness in your legs, then lie down: thus it will do its purpose." And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates. And he having received it very cheerfully, neither trembling, nor changing at all in color or countenance, but, as he was wont, looking steadfastly at the man, said, "What say you of this potion, with respect to making a libation to any one, is it lawful or not?" "We only pound so much, Socrates," he said, "as we think sufficient to drink." "I understand you," he said, "but it is certainly both lawful and right to pray to the gods that my departure hence thither may be happy; which therefore I pray, and so may it be." And as he said this he drank it off readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with difficulty able to restrain ourselves from weeping; but when we saw him drinking, and having finished the draught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of myself the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself, for I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, in being deprived of such a friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not restrain his tears, had risen up. But Apollodorus even before this had not ceased weeping, and then bursting into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he pierced the heart of every one present, except Socrates himself. But he said, "What are you doing, my admirable friends? I indeed for this reason chiefly, sent away the women, that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up." When we heard this we were ashamed, and restrained our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy, laid down on his back; for the man so directed him. And at the same time he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short interval examined his feet and legs; and then having pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it; he said that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs; and thus going higher, he showed us that he was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said that when the poison reached his heart he should then depart. But now the parts around the lower belly were almost cold; when, uncovering himself, for he had been covered over, he said, and they were his last words, "Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it." "It shall be done," said Crito, "but consider whether you have any thing else to say." To this question he gave no reply, but shortly after he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed, and Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes.This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have known, and, moreover, the most wise and just.
DEMOSTHENES. Demosthenes was born 382 B.C. and died 322 B.C., at the age of sixty. His father died when he was but seven years old and left his son a large estate, which was squandered by his guardians. Demosthenes, most happily, was forced to depend upon the resources of his own intellect, and determined to devote his life to oratory. He chose IsÆus for his master, and though having a weakly constitution, and an impediment in his speech, yet by steady, persevering effort, and daily practice, he brought himself to address without embarrassment, and with complete success, the assembled multitudes of the Athenian people. His first attempts at oratory were made to vindicate his own claims, and recover the property which his guardians had appropriated to themselves. In this he proved entirely successful. After this, he displayed his ability as an orator on several public occasions, and succeeded by the power of his eloquence in preventing the Athenians from engaging in a war with Persia. But most of the oratorical efforts of Demosthenes were directed to rouse the Athenians from indolence, and to arm them against the insidious designs and ambitious schemes of Philip, who, in the year 358 B.C., began the attack upon the northern maritime allies of Athens. In modern times, Lord Chatham's speech on American affairs, delivered in the House of Lords, November 18, 1877; Edmund Burke's, on the "Nabob of Arcot's Debts," delivered in the House of Commons, February 28, 1785; Fisher Ames', on the "British Treaty," delivered in our House of Representatives, April 28, 1796; Daniel Webster's, on the "Public Lands," delivered in the United States Senate, 1830, and Charles Sumner's, on the infamous "Fugitive Slave Bill," delivered in the Senate in 1852, will, for effective, brilliant, and logical eloquence, rank side by side with the masterly efforts of Demosthenes.
PHILIP AND THE ATHENIANS.
(Oration of Demosthenes.)
KING PHILIP (of Macedon).ToList If any one of you, Athenians, think that Philip is hard to struggle with, considering both the magnitude of the power already to his hand and the fact that all the strong places are lost to our state—he thinks rightly enough. But let him take this into account: that we ourselves, Athenians, once held Pydna, and PotidÆa, and Methone, and all that country—as it were in our own home-circle; and many of the states now under his sway were beginning to be self-ruled and free, and preferred to hold friendly relations with us rather than with him. Now, then, if Philip had harbored at that time the idea that it was hard to struggle with the Athenians when they had such strongholds in his country, while he was destitute of allies—he would have effected none of those things which he has accomplished, nor would he have ever acquired so great power. But he at least knew this well enough, Athenians—that all these strongholds are prizes of war open to each contestant, and that naturally the possessions of the absent fall to those who are on the spot, and the opportunities of the careless are seized by those willing to work and to risk. It has been so in his case, for, possessed by such sentiments, he has thoroughly subdued and now holds all places; some, as one might hold them in his grasp by custom of war; others, by having made them allies and friends. No wonder; for all are ready to give their heartfelt adherence to those whom they see prepared and ready to do what necessity demands. In like manner, if you, also, Athenians, are now ready to adopt the same principle (since, alas! you were not before), and each one of you, throwing away all dissimulation, is ready to show himself useful to the state, as far as its necessity and his power extend; if each is ready to do—the rich to contribute, those of serviceable age to take the field; in a word, if you choose to be your own masters, and each individual ceases to do nothing, hoping that his neighbor will do all for him—you will both regain your possessions (with heaven's permission) and recover your opportunities recklessly squandered; you will take vengeance on HIM. Do not suppose his present happy fortune immutable—immortal, like a god's; on the other hand, some hate him, others fear him, Athenians, and envy him, and that, too, in the number of those who seem on intimate terms with him; for all those passions that rage in other men, we may assume to be hidden in the bosoms of those also that surround him. Now, however, all these passions have crouched before him, having no escape on account of your laziness and indifference, which, I repeat, you ought immediately to abandon. For you see the state of things, Athenians, to what a pitch of arrogance he has come—this man who gives you no choice to act or to remain quiet, but brags about and talks words of overwhelming insolence, as they tell us. He is not such a character as to rest with the possessions which he has conquered, but is always compassing something else, and at every point hedging us, dallying and supine, in narrower and narrower circles. When, then, Athenians, when will you do what you ought? As soon as something happens? As soon, great Jove! as necessity compels you? Why, what does necessity compel you to think now of your deeds? In my opinion, the most urgent necessity to freemen is the disgrace attendant upon their public policy. Or do you prefer—tell me, do you prefer to wander about here and there, asking in the market-place, "What news? what news?" What can be newer than that a Macedonian should crush Athenians in war and lord it over all Greece? "Is Philip dead?" "No, by Jove, but he's sick." What difference is it to you? what difference? For if anything should happen to him, you would quickly raise up another Philip, if you manage your public affairs as you now do. For not so much to his own strength as to your laziness does he owe his present aggrandizement. Yet even if anything should happen to him, and fortune begin to favor us (for she has always cared for us more kindly than we for ourselves); you know that by being nearer to them you could assert your power over all these disordered possessions, and could dictate what terms you might choose; but as you now act, if some chance should give you Amphipolis, you could not take it, so lacking are you in your preparations and zeal.
MEASURES TO RESIST PHILIP.
(Oration of Demosthenes.) Let any one now come forward and tell me by whose contrivance but ours Philip has grown strong. Well, sir, this looks bad, but things at home are better. What proof can be adduced? The parapets that are whitewashed? The roads that are repaired? fountains and fooleries? Look at the men of whose statesmanship these are the fruits. They have risen from beggary to opulence, or from obscurity to honor; some have made their private houses more splendid than the public buildings, and in proportion as the state has declined, their fortunes have been exalted. What has produced these results? How is it that all went prosperously then, and now goes wrong? Because anciently the people, having the courage to be soldiers, controlled the statesmen, and disposed of all emoluments; any of the rest was happy to receive from the people his share of honor, office, or advantage. Now, contrariwise, the statesmen dispose of emoluments; through them everything is done; you, the people, enervated, stripped of treasure and allies, are become as underlings and hangers-on, happy if these persons dole you out show-money or send you paltry beeves; and, the unmanliest part of all, you are grateful for receiving your own. They, cooping you in the city, lead you to your pleasures, and make you tame and submissive to their hands. It is impossible, I say, to have a high and noble spirit, while you are engaged in petty and mean employments; whatever be the pursuits of men, their characters must be similar. By Ceres, I should not wonder if I, for mentioning these things, suffered more from your resentment than the men who have brought them to pass. For even liberty of speech you allow not on all subjects; I marvel indeed you have allowed it here. Would you but even now, renouncing these practices, perform military service and act worthily of yourselves; would you employ these domestic superfluities as a means to gain advantage abroad; perhaps, Athenians, perhaps you might gain some solid and important advantage, and be rid of these perquisites, which are like the diet ordered by physicians for the sick. As that neither imparts strength, nor suffers the patient to die, so your allowances are not enough to be of substantial benefit, nor yet permit you to reject them and turn to something else. Thus do they increase the general apathy. What? I shall be asked, mean you stipendiary service? Yes, and forthwith the same arrangement for all, Athenians, that each, taking his dividend from the public, may be what the state requires. Is peace to be had? You are better at home, under no compulsion to act dishonorably from indigence. Is there such an emergency as the present? Better to be a soldier, as you ought, in your country's cause, maintained by those very allowances. Is any one of you beyond the military age? What he now irregularly takes without doing service, let him take by just regulation, superintending and transacting needful business. Thus, without derogating from or adding to our political system, only removing some irregularity, I bring it into order, establishing a uniform rule for receiving money, for serving in war, for sitting on juries, for doing what each, according to his age, can do, and what occasion requires. I never advise we should give to idlers the wages of the diligent, or sit at leisure, passive and helpless, to hear that such a one's mercenaries are victorious, as we now do. Not that I blame any one who does you a service; I only call upon you, Athenians, to perform upon your own account those duties for which you honor strangers, and not to surrender that post of dignity which, won through many glorious dangers, your ancestors have bequeathed. I have said nearly all that I think necessary. I trust you will adopt that course which is best for the country and yourselves.
FORMER ATHENIANS DESCRIBED.
(By Demosthenes.) I ask you, Athenians, to see how it was in the time of your ancestors; for by domestic (not foreign) examples you may learn your lesson of duty. Themistocles who commanded in the sea-fight at Salamis, and Miltiades who led at Marathon, and many others, who performed services unlike the generals of the present day—assuredly they were not set up in brass nor overvalued by our forefathers, who honored them, but only as persons on a level with themselves. Your forefathers, O my countrymen, surrendered not their part to any of those glories. There is no man who will attribute the victory of Salamis to Themistocles, but to the Athenians; nor the battle of Marathon to Miltiades, but to the republic. But now people say that Timotheus took Corcyra, and Iphicrates cut off the Spartan division, and Chabrias won the naval victory at Naxos; for you seem to resign the merit of these actions, by the extravagance of the honors which you have bestowed on their account upon each of the commanders. So wisely did the Athenians of that day confer political rewards; so improperly do you. But how the rewards of foreigners? To Menon the Pharsalian, who gave twelve talents in money for the war at Eion by Amphipolis, and assisted them with two hundred horsemen of his own retainers, the Athenians then voted not the freedom of their city, but only granted immunity from imposts. And in earlier times to Perdiccas, who reigned in Macedonia during the invasion of the Barbarian—when he had destroyed the Persians who retreated from PlatÆa after their defeat, and completed the disaster of the King—they voted not the freedom of their city, but only granted immunity from imposts; doubtless esteeming their country to be of high value, honor, and dignity, surpassing all possible obligation. But now, ye men of Athens, ye adopt the vilest of mankind, menials and the sons of menials, to be your citizens, receiving a price as for any other salable commodity. And you have fallen into such a practice, not because your natures are inferior to your ancestors, but because they were in a condition to think highly of themselves, while from you, men of Athens, this power is taken away. It can never be, methinks, that your spirit is generous and noble, while you are engaged in petty and mean employments; no more than you can be abject and mean-spirited, while your actions are honorable and glorious. Whatever be the pursuits of men their sentiments must necessarily be similar. Mark what a summary view may be taken of the deeds performed by your ancestors and by you. Possibly from such comparison you may rise superior to yourselves. They for a period of five and forty years took the lead of the Greeks by general consent, and carried up more than ten thousand talents into the citadel; and many glorious trophies they erected for victories by land and sea, wherein even yet we take a pride. And remember, they erected these, not merely that we may survey them with admiration, but, also, that we may emulate the virtues of the dedicators. Such was their conduct; but for ours—fallen as we have on a solitude manifest to you all—look if it bears any resemblance. Have not more than fifteen hundred talents been lavished ineffectually on the distressed people of Greece? Have not all private fortunes, the revenues of the state, the contributions from our allies, been squandered? Have not the allies, whom we gained in the war, been lost recently in the peace? But forsooth, in these respects only was it better anciently than now, in other respects worse. Very far from that! Let us examine what instances you please. The edifices which they left, the ornaments of the city in temples, harbors, and the like, were so magnificent and beautiful, that room is not left for any succeeding generation to surpass them; yonder gateway, the Parthenon, docks, porticos, and others structures, which they adorned the city withal and bequeathed to us. The private houses of the men in power were so modest and in accordance with the name of the constitution, that if any one knows the style of house which Themistocles occupied, or Cimon, or Aristides, or Miltiades, and the illustrious of that day, he perceives it to be no grander than that of the neighbors. But now, ye men of Athens—as regards public measures—our government is content to furnish roads, fountains, whitewashing, and trumpery; not that I blame the authors of these works; far otherwise; I blame you, if you suppose that such measures are all you have to execute. As regards individual conduct—your men in office have (some of them) made their private houses, not only more ostentatious than the multitude, but more splendid than the public buildings; others are farming land which they have purchased of such an extent as once they never hoped for in a dream. The cause of this difference is, that formerly the people were lords and masters of all; any individual citizen was glad to receive from them his share of honor, office, or profit. Now, on the contrary, these persons are the disposers of emoluments; everything is done by their agency; the people are treated as underlings and dependents, and you are happy to take what these men allow you for your portion.
ORATION ON THE CROWN.
(By Demosthenes.) Let me begin, men of Athens, by imploring, of all the Heavenly Powers, that the same kindly sentiments which I have, throughout my public life, cherished towards this country and each one of you, may now by you be shown towards me in the present contest! In two respects my adversary plainly has the advantage of me. First, we have not the same interests at stake; it is by no means the same thing for me to forfeit your esteem, and for Æschines, an unprovoked volunteer, to fail in his impeachment. My other disadvantage is, the natural proneness of men to lend a pleased attention to invective and accusation, but to give little heed to him whose theme is his own vindication. To my adversary, therefore, falls the part which ministers to your gratification, while to me there is only left that which, I may almost say, is distasteful to all. And yet, if I do not speak of myself and my own conduct, I shall appear defenseless against his charges, and without proof that my honors were well earned. This, therefore, I must do; but it shall be with moderation. And bear in mind that the blame of my dwelling on personal topics must justly rest upon him who has instituted this personal impeachment. At least, my judges, you will admit that this question concerns me as much as Ctesiphon, and justifies on my part an equal anxiety. To be stripped of any possession, and more especially by an enemy, is grievous to bear, but to be robbed of your confidence and esteem—of all possessions the most precious—is indeed intolerable. Such, then, being my stake in this cause, I conjure you all to give ear to my defense against these charges, with that impartiality which the laws enjoin—those laws first given by Solon, and which he fixed, not only by engraving them on brazen tables, but by the sanction of the oaths you take when sitting in judgment; because he perceived that, the accuser being armed with the advantage of speaking first, the accused can have no chance of resisting his charges, unless you, his judges, keeping the oath sworn before Heaven, shall receive with favor the defense which comes last, and, lending an equal ear to both parties, shall thus make up your minds upon the whole of the case.
CICERO. Cicero, taken all in all, for his eloquence, for his learning, for his true patriotism, for the profound and ennobling views he has left us in his critical, oratorical and philosophical writings, as well as for his purity in all the domestic relations of life, in the midst of almost universal profligacy, stands forth upon the page of history as one of the very brightest names the ancients have left us. He was probably distinguished most as an orator, in which character he is most generally known, though as a general scholar and statesman he was almost without a peer. He was born on the third of January, 106 B.C. His father was a member of the Equestrian order, and lived in easy circumstances near Arpinum, but afterwards removed to Rome for the purpose of educating his sons, Marcus and Quintus. The very best teachers were procured for them. Almost immediately after his schooling he was promoted, and rose from one station of honor and distinction to another. It may be doubted whether any individual ever rose to power by more virtuous and truly honorable conduct, and the integrity of his public life was only equaled by the purity of his private morals. But as his history is taught to our school boys and his orations read in their original language, we will not lengthen our remarks. The following are his works. They are numerous and diversified, but may be arranged under five separate heads: 1. Philosophical Works. 2. Speeches. 3. Correspondence. 4. Poems. 5. Historical and Miscellaneous Works. The following are the most important: First, his Philosophical Works, 1. De Inventione Rhetorica, "On the Rhetorical Art;" intended to exhibit, in a compendious form, all that are most valuable in the works of the Grecian rhetoricians. 2. De Partitione Oratorio Dialogus, "A Dialogue on the several Divisions of Rhetoric," a sort of catechism of rhetoric. 3. De Oratore, "On the True Orator," a systematic work on the art of oratory. This is one of his most brilliant efforts, and so accurately finished in its minute parts, that it may be regarded as a masterpiece of skill in all that relates to the graces of style and composition. 4. Brutus: de claris Oratoribus. This is in the form of a dialogue, and contains a complete critical history of Roman eloquence. 5. Orator, "The Orator," addressed to Marcus Brutus, giving his views as to what constitutes a perfect orator. 6. De Republica, "On the Republic," in six books, designed to show the best form of government and the duty of the citizen; but a considerable portion of this is lost. 7. De Officiis; a treatise on moral obligations, viewed not so much with reference to a metaphysical investigation of the basis on which they rest, as to the practical business of the world, and the intercourse of social and political life. This is one of his most precious legacies. 8. De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum, "On the Ends of Good and Evil," a series of dialogues dedicated to M. Brutus, in which the opinions of the Grecian schools, especially of the Epicureans, the Stoics, and the Peripatetics, on the Supreme Good, the Summum Bonum, that is, the finis, "the end."
INVECTIVE AGAINST CATILINE.
(By Cicero.) How long, O Catiline, wilt thou abuse our patience? How long shalt thou baffle justice in thy mad career? To what extreme wilt thou carry thy audacity? Art thou nothing daunted by the nightly watch, posted to secure the Palatium? Nothing, by the city guards! Nothing, by the rally of all good citizens? Nothing, by the assembling of the senate in this fortified place? Nothing, by the averted looks of all here present? Seest thou not that all thy plots are exposed?—that thy wretched conspiracy is laid bare to every man's knowledge, here in the senate?—that we are well aware of thy proceedings of last night; of the night before; the place, of meeting, the company convoked, the measures concerted? Alas, the times! Alas, the public morals! The senate understands all this. The Consul sees it. Yet the traitor lives! Lives? Ay, truly, and confronts us here in council; takes part in our deliberations; and, with his measuring eye, marks out each man of us for slaughter! And we, all this while, strenuous that we are, think we have amply discharged our duty to the state, if we but shun this madman's sword and fury! Long since, O Catiline, ought the Consul to have ordered thee to execution, and brought upon thy own head the ruin thou hast been meditating against others! There was that virtue once in Rome, that a wicked citizen was held more execrable than the deadliest foe. We have a law still, Catiline, for thee. Think not that we are powerless because forbearing. We have a decree—though it rests among our archives like a sword in its scabbard—a decree by which thy life would be made to pay the forfeit of thy crimes. And, should I order thee to be instantly seized and put to death, I make just doubt whether all good men would not think it done rather too late, than any man too cruelly. But, for good reasons, I will yet defer the blow, long since deserved. Then will I doom thee, when no man is found so lost, so wicked, nay, so like thyself, but shall confess that it was justly dealt. While there is one man that dares defend thee, live! But thou shalt live so beset, so surrounded, so scrutinized, by the vigilant guards that I have placed around thee, that thou shalt not stir a foot against the Republic without my knowledge. There shall be eyes to detect thy slightest movement, and ears to catch thy wariest whisper, of which thou shalt not dream. The darkness of night shall not cover thy treason—the walls of privacy shall not stifle its voice. Baffled on all sides, thy most secret counsels clear as noon-day, what canst thou now have in view? Proceed, plot, conspire, as thou wilt; there is nothing you can contrive, nothing you can propose, nothing you can attempt which I shall not know, hear, and promptly understand. Thou shalt soon be made aware that I am even more active in providing for the preservation of the state than thou in plotting its destruction!—First Oration.
EXPULSION OF CATILINE FROM ROME.
(By Cicero.) At length, Romans, we are rid of Catiline! We have driven him forth, drunk with fury, breathing mischief, threatening to revisit us with fire and sword. He is gone; he is fled; he has escaped; he has broken away. No longer, within the very walls of the city, shall he plot her ruin. We have forced him from secret plots into open rebellion. The bad citizen is now the avowed traitor. His flight is the confession of his treason! Would that his attendants had not been so few! Be speedy, ye companions of his dissolute pleasures; be speedy, and you may overtake him before night, on the Aurelian road. Let him not languish, deprived of your society. Haste to join the congenial crew that compose his army; his army, I say—for who doubts that the army under Manlius expect Catiline for their leader? And such an army! Outcasts from honor, and fugitives from debt; gamblers and felons; miscreants, whose dreams are of rapine, murder, and conflagration! Against these gallant troops of your adversary, prepare, O Romans, your garrisons and armies; and first to that maimed and battered gladiator oppose your consuls and generals; next, against that miserable, outcast horde, lead forth the strength and flower of all Italy! On the one side, chastity contends; on the other wantonness; here purity, there pollution; here integrity, there treachery; here piety, there profaneness; here constancy, there rage; here honesty, there baseness; here continence, there lust; in short, equity, temperance, fortitude, prudence, struggle with iniquity, luxury, cowardice, rashness; every virtue with every vice; and, lastly, the contest lies between well-grounded hope and absolute despair. In such a conflict, were even human aid to fail, would not the immortal gods empower such conspicuous virtue to triumph over such complicated vice?—Second Oration.
THE TYRANT PRÆTOR DENOUNCED.
(By Cicero.) An opinion has long prevailed, fathers, that, in public prosecutions, men of wealth, however clearly convicted, are always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, so detrimental to the state, is now in your power to refute. A man is on trial before you who is rich, and who hopes his riches will compass his acquittal, but whose life and actions are sufficient condemnation in the eyes of all candid men. I speak of Caius Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal or of a prosecutor, but through the failure of the ministers of justice to do their duty. Passing over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does the quÆstorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene of villainies? The public treasure squandered, a Consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people trampled on! But his praÆtorship in Sicily has crowned his career of wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his infamy. His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all right. His extortions from the industrious poor have been beyond computation. Our most faithful allies have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. Men the most worthy have been condemned and banished without a hearing, while the most atrocious criminals have, with money, purchased exemption from the punishment due to their guilt. I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against these charges? Art thou not the tyrant prÆtor, who, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, dared to put to an infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and innocent citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus? And what was his offense? He had declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against your brutal persecutions! For this, when about to embark for home, he was seized, brought before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In vain did he exclaim: "I am a Roman citizen! I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who will attest my innocence!" Deaf to all remonstrance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be inflicted! While the sacred words, "I am a Roman citizen," were on his lips—words which, in the remotest regions, are a passport to protection—you ordered him to death, to a death upon the cross! O liberty! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred—now trampled on! Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate—a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people—in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infamous death, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying spectators, the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of this country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man escape? Fathers, it must not be! It must not be, unless you would undermine the very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, and call down anarchy, massacre and ruin on the commonwealth.—Oration against Verres.
ADVANTAGES OF AGE.
(By Cicero.) Indeed, old age is so far from being necessarily a state of languor and inactivity, that it generally continues to exert itself in that sort of occupation which was the favorite object of its pursuit in more vigorous years. I will add, that instances might be produced of men who, in this period of life, have successfully applied themselves even to the acquisition of some art of science to which they were before entirely strangers. Thus Solon in one of his poems, written when he was advanced in years, glories that "he learned something every day he lived." And old as I myself am, it is but lately that I acquired a knowledge of the Greek language; to which I applied with the more zeal and diligence, as I had long entertained an earnest desire of becoming acquainted with the writings and characters of those excellent men, to whose examples I have occasionally appealed in the course of our present conversation. Thus, Socrates, too, in his old age, learned to play upon the lyre, an art which the ancients did not deem unworthy of their application. If I have not followed the philosopher's example in this instance (which, indeed, I very much regret), I have spared, however, no pains to make myself master of the Greek language and learning. Inestimable, too, are the advantages of old age, if we contemplate it in another point of view; if we consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition; from the angry and contentious passions; from every inordinate and irrational desire; in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look for happiness in our own bosoms. If to these moral benefits naturally resulting from length of days be added that sweet food of the mind which is gathered in the fields of science, I know not any season of life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a virtuous old age.
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
(By Cicero.) And now, among the different sentiments of the philosophers concerning the consequences of our final dissolution, may I not venture to declare my own? and the rather, as the nearer death advances towards me, the more clearly I seem to discern its real nature. I am well convinced, then, that my dear departed friends, your two illustrious fathers, are so far from having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with propriety be called life. The soul, during her confinement within this prison of the body, is doomed by fate to undergo a severe penance; for her native seat is in heaven, and it is with reluctance that she is forced down from those celestial mansions into these lower regions, where all is foreign and repugnant to her divine nature. But the gods, I am persuaded, have thus widely disseminated immortal spirits, and clothed them with human bodies, that there might be a race of intelligent creatures, not only to have dominion over this, our earth, but to contemplate the host of heaven, and imitate in their moral conduct the same beautiful order and uniformity so conspicuous in those splendid orbs. This opinion I am induced to embrace, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of reason, but in just deference, also, to the authority of the noblest and most distinguished philosophers. And I am further confirmed in my belief of the soul's immortality by the discourse which Socrates—whom the oracle of Apollo pronounced to be the wisest of men—held upon this subject just before his death. In a word, when I consider the faculties with which the human mind is endued; its amazing celerity; its wonderful power in recollecting past events, and sagacity in discerning future; together with its numberless discoveries in the several arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active, comprehensive principle can not possibly be of a mortal nature. And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy from its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving it from any foreign or external impulse, it necessarily follows (as it is absurd to suppose the soul would desert itself) that this activity must continue forever. But farther; as the soul is evidently a simple, uncompounded substance, without any dissimilar parts or heterogeneous mixture, it can not, therefore, be divided; consequently, it can not perish. I might add, that the facility and expedition with which youth are taught to acquire numberless very difficult arts, is a strong presumption that the soul possessed a considerable portion of knowledge before it entered into the human form, and that what seems to be received from instruction is, in fact, no other than a reminiscence or recollection of its former ideas. This, at least, is the opinion of Plato.
JULIUS CAESAR. Julius CÆsar was born on the 12th of July, 100 B.C. As to his intellectual character, CÆsar was gifted by nature with the most varied talents, and was distinguished by an extraordinary genius, and by attainments in very diversified pursuits. He was, at one and the same time, a general, a statesman, a lawgiver, a jurist, an orator, a poet, an historian, a philologer, a mathematician, and an architect. He seemed equally fitted to excel in all, and has given proofs that he would surpass most men in any subject to which he should devote the energies of his great mind; and Middleton says he was the only man in Rome capable of rivaling Cicero as an orator. During his whole busy life he found time for literary pursuits, and always took pleasure in the society and conversation of men of learning. CÆsar wrote many works on different subjects, but they are now all lost but his "Commentaries." These relate the history of the first seven years of the Gallic War in seven books, and the Civil War down to the commencement of the Alexandrine in three books. The purity of his Latin, and the clearness and beauty of his style have rendered his "Commentaries" a most popular and desirable text book for students of the Latin language. A most important change was introduced by him in the reformation of the calendar, which was not only of vast importance to his country and to the civilized world, but its benefits have extended to the present day. What consummate folly, then, to say nothing of the wickedness, was displayed by the conspirators who put him to death; for instead of the wise, the noble, the magnanimous, they exalted to supreme power one of the basest men in all Rome—Augustus, who, as one of the second Triumvirate, consented to the murder of his intimate and noble friend, Cicero.
THE GERMANS.
(By Julius CÆsar.) The Germans differ much from these usages, for they have neither Druids to preside over sacred offices, nor do they pay great regard to sacrifices. They rank in the number of the gods those alone whom they behold, and by whose instrumentality they are obviously benefited, namely, the sun, fire, and the moon; they have not heard of the other deities even by report. Their whole life is occupied in hunting and in the pursuits of the military art; from childhood they devote themselves to fatigue and hardships. Those who have remained chaste for the longest time receive the greatest commendation among their people; they think that by this the growth is promoted, by this the physical powers are increased and the sinews are strengthened. They do not pay much attention to agriculture, and a large portion of their food consists in milk, cheese, and flesh; nor has any one a fixed quantity of land or his own individual limits; but the magistrates and the leading men each year apportion to the tribes and families, who have united together, as much land as, and in the place which, they think proper, and the year after compel them to remove elsewhere. For this enactment they advance many reasons—lest seduced by long-continued custom, they may exchange their ardor in the waging of war for agriculture; lest they may be anxious to acquire extensive estates, and the more powerful drive the weaker from their possessions; lest they construct their houses with too great a desire to avoid cold and heat; lest the desire of wealth spring up, from which cause divisions and discords arise; and that they may keep the common people in a contented state of mind, when each sees his own means placed on an equality with those of the most powerful. It is the greatest glory to the several states to have as wide deserts as possible around them, their frontiers having been laid waste. They consider this the real evidence of their prowess, that their neighbors shall be driven out of their lands and abandon them, and that no one dare settle near them; at the same time they think that they shall be on that account the more secure, because they have removed the apprehension of a sudden incursion. When a state either repels war waged against it, or wages it against another, magistrates are chosen to preside over that war with such authority that they have power of life and death. In peace there is no common magistrate, but the chiefs of provinces and cantons administer justice and determine controversies among their own people. Robberies which are committed beyond the boundaries of each state bear no infamy, and they avow that these are committed for the purpose of disciplining their youth and of preventing sloth. And when any of their chiefs has said in an assembly "that he will be their leader, let those who are willing to follow give in their names," they who approve of both the enterprise and the man arise and promise their assistance and are applauded by the people; such of them as have not followed him are accounted in the number of deserters and traitors, and confidence in all matters is afterwards refused them. To injure guests they regard as impious; they defend from wrong those who have come to them for any purpose whatever, and esteem them inviolable; to them the houses of all are open and maintenance is freely supplied.
BATTLE OF PHARSALIA.
(By Julius CÆsar.) There was so much space left between the two lines as sufficed for the onset of the hostile armies; but Pompey had ordered his soldiers to await CÆsar's attack, and not to advance from their position, or suffer their line to be put into disorder. And he is said to have done this by the advice of Caius Triarius, that the impetuosity of the charge of CÆsar's soldiers might be checked, and their line broken, and that Pompey's troops, remaining in their ranks, might attack them while in disorder; and he thought that the javelins would fall with less force if the soldiers were kept in their ground, than if they met them in their course; at the same time he trusted that CÆsar's soldiers, after running over double the usual ground, would become weary and exhausted by the fatigue. But to me Pompey seems to have acted without sufficient reason; for there is a certain impetuosity of spirit and an alacrity implanted by nature in the hearts of all men, which is inflamed by a desire to meet the foe. This a general should endeavor not to repress, but to increase; nor was it a vain institution of our ancestors that the trumpets should sound on all sides, and a general shout be raised; by which they imagined that the enemy were struck with terror, and their own army inspired with courage. But our men, when the signal was given, rushed forward with their javelins ready to be launched, but perceiving that Pompey's men did not run to meet their charge, having acquired experience by custom, and being practiced in former battles, they of their own accord repressed their speed, and halted almost midway, that they might not come up with the enemy when their strength was exhausted, and after a short respite they again renewed their course, and threw their javelins, and instantly drew their swords, as CÆsar had ordered them. Nor did Pompey's men fail in this crisis, for they received our javelins, stood our charge, and maintained their ranks; and having launched their javelins, had recourse to their swords. At the same time Pompey's horse, according to their orders, rushed out at once from his left wing, and his whole host of archers poured after them. Our cavalry did not withstand their charge, but gave ground a little, upon which Pompey's horse pressed them more vigorously, and began to file off in troops, and flank our army. When CÆsar perceived this, he gave the signal to his fourth line, which he had formed of the six cohorts. They instantly rushed forward and charged Pompey's horse with such fury that not a man of them stood; but all wheeling about, not only quitted their post, but galloped forward to seek a refuge in the highest mountains. By their retreat the archers and slingers, being left destitute and defenseless, were all cut to pieces. The cohorts, pursuing their success, wheeled about upon Pompey's left wing, whilst his infantry still continued to make battle, and attacked them in the rear. At the same time CÆsar ordered his third line to advance, which till then had not been engaged, but had kept their post. Thus, new and fresh troops having come to the assistance of the fatigued, and others having made an attack on their rear, Pompey's men were not able to maintain their ground, but all fled, nor was CÆsar deceived in his opinion that the victory, as he had declared in his speech to his soldiers, must have its beginning from those six cohorts, which he had placed as a fourth line to oppose the horse. For by them the cavalry were routed; by them the archers and slingers were cut to pieces; by them the left wing of Pompey's army was surrounded, and obliged to be the first to flee. But when Pompey saw his cavalry routed, and that part of his army on which he reposed his greatest hopes thrown into confusion, despairing of the rest, he quitted the field, and retreated straightway on horseback to his camp, and calling to the centurions, whom he had placed to guard the prÆtorian gate, with a loud voice, that the soldiers might hear: "Secure the camp," says he; "defend it with diligence, if any danger should threaten it; I will visit the other gates, and encourage the guards of the camp." Having thus said, he retired into his tent in utter despair, yet anxiously waiting the issue. CÆsar having forced the Pompeians to flee into their entrenchment, and thinking that he ought not to allow them any respite to recover from their fright, exhorted his soldiers to take advantage of fortune's kindness, and to attack the camp. Though they were fatigued by the intense heat, for the battle had continued till mid-day, yet, being prepared to undergo any labor, they cheerfully obeyed his command. The camp was bravely defended by the cohorts which had been left to guard it, but with much more spirit by the Thracians and foreign auxiliaries. For the soldiers who had fled for refuge to it from the field of battle, affrighted and exhausted by fatigue, having thrown away their arms and military standards, had their thoughts more engaged on their further escape than on the defense of the camp. Nor could the troops who were posted on the battlements long withstand the immense number of our darts, but fainting under their wounds, quitted the place, and under the conduct of their centurions and tribunes, fled, without stopping, to the high mountains which joined the camp. In Pompey's camp you might see arbors in which tables were laid; a large quantity of plate set out; the floors of the tents covered with fresh sods; the tents of Lucius Lentulus and others shaded with ivy; and many other things which were proofs of excessive luxury, and a confidence of victory; so that it might readily be inferred, that they had no apprehensions of the issue of the day, as they indulged themselves in unnecessary pleasures, and yet upbraided with luxury CÆsar's army, distressed and suffering troops, who had always been in want of common necessaries. Pompey, as soon as our men had forced the trenches, mounting his horse, and stripping off his general's habit, went hastily out of the back gate of the camp, and galloped with all speed to Larissa. Nor did he stop there, but with the same dispatch, collecting a few of his flying troops, and halting neither day nor night, he arrived at the sea-side, attended by only thirty horses, and went on board a victualing barque, often complaining, as we have been told, that he had been so deceived in his expectation, that he was almost persuaded that he had been betrayed by those from whom he had expected victory, as they began the flight.
VIRGIL. Virgil was born October 15, 70 B.C., and died 19 B.C. His father was an opulent farmer, and gave his son a liberal Greek and Latin education. His principal works were the Georgica and the Æneid. The Georgica (Georgics), or "Agricultural Poems," is a didactic poem in four books, dedicated to MÆcenas. In the first book he treats of the cultivation of the soil; in the second, of fruit trees; in the third, of horses and other cattle, and in the fourth, of bees. It gives us the most finished specimen of the Latin hexameter which we have. It is acknowledged by scholars to stand at the head of all Virgil's works, and is certainly the most elaborate and extraordinary instance of power in embellishing a most barren subject which human genius has ever afforded. The commonest precepts of farming are delivered with an elegance which could scarcely be attained by a poet who should endeavor to clothe in verse the sublimest maxims of philosophy. At what time Virgil projected the Æneid is uncertain, but from a very early age he appears to have had a strong desire of composing an epic poem which would be an enduring monument of his fame. And he has succeeded, for this poem is ranked as one of the great epics of the world. It is divided into twelve books, and originates from an old Roman tradition that Æneas and his company of Trojans settled in Italy, and founded the Roman nation.
PRAISE OF RURAL LIFE.
(By Virgil.)
EMPLOYMENTS OF THE BEE.
(By Virgil.) If all things with great we may compare,
Such are the bees, and such their busy care:
Studious of honey, each in his degree,
The youthful swain, the grave, experienced bee;
That in the field; this in affairs of state,
Employed at home, abides within the gate,
To fortify the combs, to build the wall,
To prop the ruins, lest the fabric fall:
[813] But late at night, with weary pinions come
The laboring youth, and heavy laden home.
Plains, meads, and orchards, all the day he plies,
The gleans of yellow thyme distend his thighs:
[814] He spoils the saffron flowers, he sips the blues
Of violets, wilding blooms, and willow dews.
Their toil is common, common is their sleep;
They shake their wings when morn begins to peep;
Rush through the city gates without delay,
Nor ends their work but with declining day:
Then, having spent the last remains of light,
They give their bodies due repose at night;
When hollow murmurs of their evening bells
Dismiss the sleepy swains, and toll them to their cells.
Georgics IV. Dryden.
PUNISHMENTS IN HELL.
(By Virgil.) Now to the left, Æneas darts his eyes,
Where lofty walls with tripple ramparts rise.
There rolls swift Phlegethon, with thund'ring sound,
His broken rocks, and whirls his surges round.
On mighty columns rais'd, sublime are hung
The massy gates, impenetrably strong.
In vain would men, in vain would gods essay,
To hew the beams of adamant away.
Here rose an iron tow'r; before the gate,
By night and day, a wakeful fury sate,
The pale Tisiphone; a robe she wore,
With all the pomp of horror, dy'd in gore.
Here the loud scourge and louder voice of pain,
The crashing fetter, and the ratt'ling chain.
Strike the great hero with the frightful sound,
The hoarse, rough, mingled din, that thunders round:
Oh! whence that peal of groans? what pains are those?
What crimes could merit such stupendous woes?
Thus she—brave guardian of the Trojan state,
None that are pure must pass that dreadful gate.
When plac'd by Hecat o'er Avernus' woods,
[815] I learnt the secrets of those dire abodes,
With all the tortures of the vengeful gods.
Here Rhadamanthus holds his awful reign,
Hears and condemns the trembling impious train.
Those hidden crimes the wretch till death supprest,
With mingled joy and horror in his breast,
The stern dread judge commands him to display,
And lays the guilty secrets bare to-day;
Her lash Tisiphone that moment shakes;
The ghost she scourges with a thousand snakes;
Then to her aid, with many a thund'ring yell,
Calls her dire sisters from the gulfs of hell.
Near by the mighty Tityus I beheld,
Earth's mighty giant son, stretch'd o'er the infernal field;
He cover'd nine large acres as he lay,
While with fierce screams a vulture tore away
His liver for her food, and scoop'd the smoking prey;
Plunged deep her bloody beak, nor plung'd in vain,
For still the fruitful fibres spring again,
Swell, and renew th' enormous monster's pain,
She dwells forever in his roomy breast,
Nor gives the roaring fiend a moment's rest;
But still th' immortal prey supplies th' immortal feast.
Need I the Lapiths' horrid pains relate,
Ixion's torments, or Perithous' fate?
On high a tottering rocky fragment spreads,
Projects in air, and trembles o'er their heads.
Stretch'd on the couch, they see with longing eyes
In regal pomp successive banquets rise,
While lucid columns, glorious to behold,
Support th' imperial canopies of gold.
The queen of furies, a tremendous guest,
Sits by their side, and guards the tempting feast,
Which if they touch, her dreadful torch she rears,
Flames in their eyes, and thunders in their ears
They that on earth had low pursuits in view,
Their brethren hated, or their parents slew,
And, still more numerous, those who swelled their store,
But ne'er reliev'd their kindred or the poor;
[816] Or in a cause unrighteous fought and bled;
Or perish'd in the foul adulterous bed;
Or broke the ties of faith with base deceit;
Imprison'd deep their destin'd torments wait.
But what their torments, seek not thou to know,
Or the dire sentence of their endless wo.
Some roll a stone, rebounding down the hill,
Some hang suspended on the whirling wheel;
There Theseus groans in pain that ne'er expire,
Chain'd down forever in a chair of fire.
There Phlegyas feels unutterable wo,
And roars incessant thro' the shades below;
Be just, ye mortals! by these torments aw'd,
These dreadful torments, not to scorn a god.
This wretch his country to a tyrant sold,
And barter'd glorious liberty for gold.
Laws for a bribe he past, but past in vain,
For those same laws a bribe repeal'd again.
To some enormous crimes they all aspir'd;
All feel the torments that those crimes requir'd!
Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,
A voice of brass, and adamantine lungs,
Not half the mighty scene could I disclose,
Repeat their crimes, or count their dreadful woes!
Æneid VI. Pitt.
HORACE. Horace was born 65 B.C. and died 8 B.C. His father gave him a good education. About the age of seventeen he lost his father, and afterwards his property was confiscated. He had to write for bread—Paupertas impulit audax ut versus facerem—and in so doing gained much reputation, and sufficient means to purchase the place of scribe in the QuÆstor's office. He now made his acquaintance with Virgil and Varius, and by them was introduced to that munificent patron of scholars, MÆcenas, who gave to our poet a place next to his heart, while he, in return, is never weary of acknowledging how much he owes to his illustrious friend. The following happy remarks on the Roman Satirists are by Professor Sanborn, formerly Professor of Latin in Dartmouth College, and now in the University of St. Louis: "The principal Roman Satirists were Horace, Juvenal and Persius. Horace is merry; Persius serious; Juvenal indignant. Thus, wit, philosophy and lofty scorn mark their respective pages. The satire of Horace was playful and good natured. His arrows were always dipped in oil. He was a fine specimen of an accomplished gentleman. His sentiments were evidently modified by his associates. He was an Epicurean and a stoic by turns. He commended and ridiculed both sects. He practiced economy and praised liberality. He lived temperate, and sang the praises of festivity. He was the favorite of the court and paid for its patronage in compliments and panegyrics, unsurpassed in delicacy of sentiment and beauty of expression. Horace is every man's companion. He has a word of advice and admonition for all. His criticisms constitute most approved canons of the rhetorician; his sage reflections adorn the page of the moralist; his humor and wit give point and force to the satirist, and his graver maxims are not despised by the Christian philosopher. Juvenal is fierce and denunciatory. His characteristics are energy, force, and indignation; his weapons are irony, wit and sarcasm; he is a decided character, and you must yield and submit, or resist. His denunciations of vice are startling. He hated the Greeks, the aristocracy and woman with intense hatred. No author has written with such terrible bitterness of the sex. Unlike other satirists, he never relents. His arrow is ever on the string, and whatever wears the guise of woman is his game. The most celebrated of the modern imitators of Horace and Juvenal are Swift and Pope." The Odes, Satires and Epistles are his chief productions.
TO LICINIUS.
(By Horace.) Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse Fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Embittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with an wholesome fear,
And hopes, in spite of pain;
If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast?
[819] The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky;
The god that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses, too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy strength be seen;
But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.
Cowper.
TO PYRRHA.
(By Horace.) What youth, O Pyrrha! blooming fair,
With rose-twined wreath and perfumed hair,
Woos thee beneath yon grotto's shade,
Urgent in prayer and amorous glance?
For whom dost thou thy tresses braid,
Simple in thine elegance?
Alas! full soon shall he deplore
Thy broken faith, thy altered mien:
Like one astonished at the roar
Of breakers on a leeward shore,
Whom gentle airs and skies serene
Had tempted on the treacherous deep,
So he thy perfidy shall weep
Who now enjoys thee fair and kind,
But dreams not of the shifting wind.
Thrice wretched they, deluded and betrayed,
Who trust thy glittering smile and Siren tongue!
I have escaped the shipwreck, and have hung
In Neptune's fane my dripping vest displayed
[820] With votive tablet on his altar laid,
Thanking the sea-god for his timely aid.
Lord Ravensworth.
SENECA. Seneca was born 7 B.C. and died 65 A.D. His writings were of a philosophical nature. His character was much doubted. His great misfortune was to have known Nero, who ordered him to be put to death, to which he merely replied that he who had murdered his brother and his mother could not be expected to spare his teacher. He had been absent from Rome some time, and when he returned to visit his mother in the country, he was spied, and Nero sent a squad of armed men to the house to ask him to choose the manner of his death. His fame rests on his numerous writings, which, with all their faults, have great merits. His principal works, which are of a philosophical character, are essays "On Anger," "On Consolation," "On Providence," "On Tranquillity of Mind," "On the Firmness of the Wise Man," "On Clemency," "On the Brevity of Human Life," "On a Happy Life," etc., together with "Epistles of Lucilius," one hundred and twenty-four in number. Besides these, there are extant ten tragedies attributed to him, entitled, Hercules Furens, Thyestes, Thebais or PhoenissÆ, Hippolytus or PhÆdra, Œdipus, Troades or Hecuba, Medea, Agamemnon, Hercules ŒtÆus and Octavia. These were never intended for the stage, but were designed for reading or recitation, after the Roman fashion. They contain many striking passages, and have some merits as poems.
HAPPINESS FOUNDED ON WISDOM.
(By Seneca.) Taking it for granted that human happiness is founded upon wisdom and virtue, we shall treat of these two points in order as they lie, and first of wisdom; not in the latitude of its various operations, but only as it has a regard to good life and the happiness of mankind. Wisdom is a right understanding; a faculty of discerning good from evil; what is to be chosen, and what rejected; a judgment grounded upon the value of things, and not the common opinion of them; an equality of force and strength of resolution. It sets a watch over our words and deeds, it takes us up with the contemplation of the works of nature, and makes us invincible by either good or evil fortune. It is large and spacious, and requires a great deal of room to work in; it ransacks heaven and earth; it has for its object things past and to come, transitory and eternal. It examines all the circumstances of time; "what it is, when it began, and how long it will continue;" and so for the mind; "whence it came; what it is; when it begins; how long it lasts; whether or no it passes from one form to another, or serves only one, and wanders when it leaves us; where it abides in the state of separation, and what the action of it; what use it makes of its liberty; whether or no it retains the memory of things past, and comes to the knowledge of itself." It is the habit of a perfect mind and the perfection of humanity, raised as high as nature can carry it. It differs from philosophy, as avarice and money; the one desires, and the other is desired; the one is the effect and the reward of the other. To be wise is the use of wisdom, as seeing is the use of eyes and well-speaking the use of eloquence. He that is perfectly wise is perfectly happy; nay, the very beginning of wisdom makes life easy to us. Neither is it enough to know this, unless we print it in our minds by daily meditation, and so bring a good will to a good habit. And we must practice what we preach, for philosophy is not a subject for popular ostentation, nor does it rest in words, but in things. It is not an entertainment taken up for delight, or to give a taste to leisure, but it fashions the mind, governs our actions, tells us what we are to do, and what not. It sits at the helm, and guides us through all hazards; nay, we can not be safe without it, for every hour gives us occasion to make use of it. It informs us in all the duties of life, piety to our parents, faith to our friends, charity to the miserable, judgment in counsel; it gives us peace, by fearing nothing, and riches, by coveting nothing. There is no condition of life that excludes a wise man from discharging his duty. If his fortune be good, he tempers it; if bad, he masters it; if he has an estate, he will exercise his virtue in plenty, if none, in poverty; if he can not do it in his country, he will do it in banishment; if he has no command, he will do the office of a common soldier. Some people have the skill of reclaiming the fiercest of beasts: they will make a lion embrace his keeper, a tiger kiss him, and an elephant kneel to him. This is the case of a wise man in the extremest difficulties; let them be never so terrible in themselves, when they come to him once, they are perfectly tame. They that ascribe the invention of tillage, architecture, navigation, etc., to wise men, may perchance be in the right, that they were invented by wise men; but they were not invented by wise men, as wise men; for wisdom does not teach our fingers, but our minds: fiddling and dancing, arms and fortifications, were the works of luxury and discord; but wisdom instructs us in the way of nature, and in the arts of unity and concord; not in the instruments, but in the government of life; nor to make us live only, but to live happily. She teaches us what things are good, what evil, and what only appear so; and to distinguish betwixt true greatness and tumor. She clears our minds of dross and vanity; she raises up our thoughts to heaven, and carries them down to hell; she discourses on the nature of the soul, the powers and faculties of it; the first principles of things; the order of providence: she exalts us from things corporeal to things incorporeal; and retrieves the truth of all: she searches nature, gives laws to life; and tells us, "that it is not enough to know God unless we obey Him." She looks upon all accidents as acts of providence; sets a true value upon things; delivers us from false opinions, and condemns all pleasures that are attended with repentance. She allows nothing to be good that will not be so forever; no man to be happy but he that needs no other happiness than what he has within himself; no man to be great or powerful, that is not master of himself;—and this is the felicity of human life; a felicity that can neither be corrupted nor extinguished.
AGAINST RASH JUDGMENT.
(By Seneca.)
It is good for every man to fortify himself on his weak side; and if he loves his peace, he must not be inquisitive and harken to tale-bearers; for the man that is over-curious to hear and see everything, multiplies troubles to himself; for a man does not feel what he does not know. He that is listening after private discourse, and what people say of him, shall never be at peace. How many things that are innocent in themselves, are made injurious yet by misconstruction? Wherefore some things we are to pause upon, others to laugh at, and others again to pardon. Or if we can not avoid the sense of indignities, let us, however, shun the open profession of it; which may be easily done, as appears by many examples of those who have suppressed their anger, under the awe of a greater fear. It is a good caution not to believe anything until you are very certain of it; for many probable things prove false, and a short time will make evidence of the undoubted truth. We are prone to believe many things which we are unwilling to hear, and so we conclude, and take up a prejudice before we can judge. Never condemn a friend unheard; or without letting him know his accuser, or his crime. It is a common thing to say, "Do not tell that you had it from me; for if you do, I will deny it; and never tell you anything again." By which means friends are set together by the ears, and the informer slips his neck out of the collar. Admit no stories, upon these terms; for it is an unjust thing to believe in private, and be angry openly. He that delivers himself up to guess and conjecture, runs a great hazard; for there can be no suspicion without some probable grounds; so that without much candor and simplicity, and making the best of everything, there is no living in society with mankind. Some things that offend us we have by report; others we see or hear. In the first case, let us not be too credulous; some people frame stories that may deceive us; others only tell us what they hear, and are deceived themselves; some make it their sport to do ill offices; others do them only to receive thanks; there are some that would part the dearest friends in the world; others love to do mischief, and stand off aloof to see what comes of it. If it be a small matter, I would have witnesses; but if it be a greater, I would have it upon oath, and allow time to the accused, and counsel, too, and hear it over and over again.
THE EQUALITY OF MAN.
(By Seneca.) It is not well done to be still murmuring against nature and fortune, as if it were their unkindness that makes you inconsiderable, when it is only by your own weakness that you make yourself so; for it is virtue, not pedigree, that renders a man either valuable or happy. Philosophy does not either reject or choose any man for his quality. Socrates was no patrician, Cleanthes but an under-gardener; neither did Plato dignify philosophy by his birth, but by his goodness. All these worthy men are our progenitors, if we will but do ourselves the honor to become their disciples. The original of all mankind was the same, and it is only a clear conscience that makes any man noble, for that derives even from heaven itself. It is the saying of a great man, that if we could trace our descents we should find all slaves to come from princes and all princes from slaves. But fortune has turned all things topsy-turvy, in a long story of revolutions. It is most certain that our beginning had nothing before it, and our ancestors were some of them splendid, others sordid, as it happened. We have lost the memorials of our extraction; and, in truth, it matters not whence we come, but whither we go. Nor is it any more to our honor the glory of our predecessors, than it is to their shame the wickedness of their posterity. We are all of us composed of the same elements; why should we, then, value ourselves upon our nobility of blood, as if we were not all of us equal, if we could but recover our evidence? But when we can carry it no farther, the herald provides us some hero to supply the place of an illustrious original, and there is the rise of arms and families. For a man to spend his life in pursuit of a title, that serves only when he dies, to furnish out an epitaph, is below a wise man's business.
ALL THINGS ORDERED BY GOD.
(By Seneca.) Every man knows without telling, that this wonderful fabric of the universe is not without a Governor, and that a constant order can not be the work of chance, for the parts would then fall foul one upon another. The motions of the stars, and their influences, are acted by the command of an eternal decree. It is by the dictate of an Almighty Power, that the heavy body of the earth hangs in balance. Whence come the revolutions of the seasons and the flux of the rivers? the wonderful virtue of the smallest seeds? as an oak to arise from an acorn. To say nothing of those things that seem to be most irregular and uncertain; as clouds, rain, thunder, the eruptions of fire out of mountains, earthquakes, and those tumultuary motions in the lower region of the air, which have their ordinate causes, and so have those things, too, which appear to us more admirable because less frequent; as scalding fountains and new islands started out of the sea; or what shall we say of the ebbing and flowing out of the ocean, the constant times and measures of the tides, according to the changes of the moon that influences most bodies; but this needs not, for it is not that we doubt of providence, but complain of it. And it were a good office to reconcile mankind to the gods, who are undoubtedly best to the best. It is against nature that good should hurt good. A good man is not only the friend of God, but the very image, the disciple, and the imitator of Him, and a true child of his heavenly Father. He is true to himself, and acts with constancy and resolution.
PLUTARCH. Plutarch was born A.D. 90, in ChÆronea, a city of Boeotia. To him we are indebted for so many of the lives of the philosophers, poets, orators and generals of antiquity. No book has been more generally sought after or read with greater avidity than "Plutarch's Lives." However ancient, either Greek or Latin, none has received such a universal popularity. But the character of Plutarch himself, not less than his method of writing biography, explains his universal popularity, and gives its special charm and value to his book. He was a man of large and generous nature, of strong feeling, of refined tastes, of quick perceptions. His mind had been cultivated in the acquisition of the best learning of his times, and was disciplined by the study of books as well as of men. He deserves the title of philosopher; but his philosophy was of a practical rather than a speculative character—though he was versed in the wisest doctrines of the great masters of ancient thought, and in some of his moral works shows himself their not unworthy follower. Above all, he was a man of cheerful and genial temper. A lover of justice and of liberty, his sympathies are always on the side of what is right, noble and honorable. He was educated at Delphi and improved himself by the advantages of foreign travel. On his return he was employed by his country on an embassy to Rome, where he opened a school for youth, employing all his leisure time at that capital of the world and chief seat of erudition in acquiring those vast stores of learning which he afterwards read for the delight and instruction of mankind. "It must be borne in mind," he says, "that my design is not to write histories, but lives. And the most glorious exploits do not always furnish us with the clearest discoveries of virtue or vice in men; sometimes a matter of less moment, an expression or a jest, informs us better of their characters and inclinations than the most famous sieges, the greatest armaments, or the bloodiest battles whatsoever. Therefore, as portrait-painters are more exact in the lines and features of the face, in which the character is seen, than in the other parts of the body, so I must be allowed to give my more particular attention to the marks and indications of the souls of men; and, while I endeavor by these to portray their lives, may be free to leave more weighty matters and great battles to be treated by others."
THE HORRIBLE PROSCRIPTIONS OF SYLLA.
(By Plutarch.) Sylla being thus wholly bent upon slaughter, and filling the city with executions without number or limit, many wholly uninterested persons falling a sacrifice to private enmity, through his permission and indulgence to his friends, Caius Metellus, one of the younger men, made bold in the senate to ask him what end there was of these evils, and at what point he might be expected to stop? "We do not ask you," said he, "to pardon any whom you have resolved to destroy, but to free from doubt those whom you are pleased to save." Sylla answering, that he knew not as yet whom to spare, "Why, then," said he, "tell us whom you will punish." This Sylla said he would do. These last words, some authors say, were spoken not by Metellus, but by Afidus, one of Sylla's fawning companions. Immediately upon this, without communicating with any of the magistrates, Sylla proscribed eighty persons, and notwithstanding the general indignation, after one day's respite he posted two hundred and twenty more, and on the third, again, as many. In an address to the people on this occasion, he told them he had put up as many names as he could think of; those that had escaped his memory he would publish at a future time. He issued an edict likewise, making death the punishment of humanity, proscribing any who should dare to receive and cherish a proscribed person, without exception to brother, son, or parents. And to him who should slay any one proscribed person, he ordained two talents reward, even were it a slave who had killed his master, or a son his father. And what was thought most unjust of all, he caused the attainder to pass upon their sons, and son's sons, and made open sale of all their property. Nor did the proscription prevail only at Rome, but throughout all the cities of Italy the effusion of blood was such, that neither sanctuary of the gods, nor hearth of hospitality, nor ancestral home escaped. Men were butchered in the embraces of their wives, children in the arms of their mothers. Those who perished through public animosity, or private enmity, were nothing in comparison of the numbers of those who suffered for their riches. Even the murderers began to say, that "his fine house killed this man, a garden that, a third, his hot baths." Quintus Aurelius, a quiet, peaceable man, and one who thought all his part in the common calamity consisted in condoling with the misfortunes of others, coming into the forum to read the list, and finding himself among the proscribed, cried out, "Woe is me, my Alban farm has informed against me." He had not gone far, before he was dispatched by a ruffian, sent on that errand.
DEMOSTHENES AND CICERO COMPARED.
(By Plutarch.) Omitting an exact comparison of the respective faculties in speaking of Demosthenes and Cicero, yet this much seems fit to be said; that Demosthenes, to make himself a master in rhetoric, applied all the faculties he had, natural or acquired, wholly that way; that he far surpassed in force and strength of eloquence all his cotemporaries in political and judicial speaking, in grandeur and majesty all the panegyrical orators, and in accuracy and science all the logicians and rhetoricans of his day; that Cicero was highly educated, and by his diligent study became a most accomplished general scholar in all these branches, having left behind him numerous philosophical treatises of his own on Academic principles; as, indeed, even in his written speeches, both political and judicial, we see him continually trying to show his learning by the way. And one may discover the different temper of each of them in their speeches. For Demosthenes' oratory was without all embellishment and jesting, wholly composed for real effect and seriousness; not smelling of the lamp, as Pytheas scoffingly said, but of the temperance, thoughtfulness, austerity, and grave earnestness of his temper. Whereas Cicero's love for mockery often ran him into scurrility; and in his love of laughing away serious arguments in judicial cases by jests and facetious remarks, with a view to the advantage of his clients, he paid too little regard to what was decent. Indeed, Cicero was by natural temper very much disposed to mirth and pleasantry, and always appeared with a smiling and serene countenance. But Demosthenes had constant care and thoughtfulness in his look, and a serious anxiety, which he seldom, if ever, set aside, and, therefore, was accounted by his enemies, as he himself confessed, morose and ill-mannered. Also, it is very evident, out of their several writings, that Demosthenes never touched upon his own praises but decently and without offense when there was need of it, and for some weightier end; but, upon other occasions, modestly and sparingly. But Cicero's immeasurable boasting of himself in his orations argues him guilty of an uncontrollable appetite for distinction, his cry being evermore that arms should give place to the gown, and the soldier's laurel to the tongue. And at last we find him extolling not only his deeds and actions, but his orations, also, as well those that were only spoken, as those that were published. * * The power of persuading and governing the people did, indeed, equally belong to both, so that those who had armies and camps at command stood in need of their assistance. But what are thought and commonly said most to demonstrate and try the tempers of men, namely, authority and place, by moving every passion, and discovering every frailty, these are things which Demosthenes never received; nor was he ever in a position to give such proof of himself, having never obtained any eminent office, nor led any of those armies into the field against Philip which he raised by his eloquence. Cicero, on the other hand, was sent quÆstor into Sicily, and proconsul into Cilicia and Cappadocia, at a time when avarice was at the height, and the commanders and governors who were employed abroad, as though they thought it a mean thing to steal, set themselves to seize by open force; so that it seemed no heinous matter to take bribes, but he that did it most moderately was in good esteem. And yet he, at this time, gave the most abundant proofs alike of his contempt of riches and of his humanity and good nature. And at Rome, when he was created consul in name, but indeed received sovereign and dictatorial authority against Catiline and his conspirators, he attested the truth of Plato's prediction, that then the miseries of states would be at an end, when by a happy fortune supreme power, wisdom and justice should be united in one. * * Finally, Cicero's death excites our pity; for an old man to be miserably carried up and down by his servants, flying and hiding himself from that death which was, in the course of nature, so near at hand, and yet at last to be murdered. Demosthenes, though he seemed at first a little to supplicate, yet, by his preparing and keeping the poison by him, demands our admiration; and still more admirable was his using it. When the temple of the god no longer afforded him a sanctuary, he took refuge, as it were, at a mightier altar, freeing himself from arms and soldiers, and laughing to scorn the cruelty of Antipater. [This seems to have been Plutarch's views of suicide, and, in fact, the spirit of the age in which he lived. From the standpoint of the philosophy of our day, suicide manifests nothing but a weakness and very generally insanity.] page decoration 2
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