No More Learning

MARLOW: Yes, my dear. At the ladies' club up in town they call me
their Agreeable Rattle. Do you ever work, child?

KATE: Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the house but
bears witness to that.

MARLOW: You must show me your embroidery.

[_As he seizes her hand_, HARDCASTLE _enters. Exit_ MARLOW.
KATE _persuades her father to give her an hour to clear_
MARLOW'S _character_.


ACT IV

SCENE. --_As before_. HASTINGS _has passed over the jewels to_ MARLOW'S
_care. The unconscious_ MARLOW _has told him that the servant
by his order has placed them in charge of the landlady. Enter_
HARDCASTLE, _solus_.

HARDCASTLE: My house is turned topsy-turvy. His servants are drunk
already. For his father's sake, I'll be calm. (_Enter_ MARLOW. ) Mr.
Marlow, sir, the conduct of your servants is insufferable. Their manner
of drinking is setting a very bad example.

MARLOW: I protest, my good friend, that's no fault of mine. They had
my positive orders to drink as much as they could.

HARDCASTLE: Zounds, I shall go distracted! I'll stand it no longer!
I desire that you and your drunken pack shall leave my house directly.

MARLOW: Leave your house? I never heard such cursed impudence. Bring
me my bill.

HARDCASTLE: Nor I, confound me if ever I did!

MARLOW: My bill, I say.

HARDCASTLE: Young man, young man, from your father's letter I
expected a well-bred, modest visitor, not a coxcomb and a bully. But he
will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it. [_Exit. _

MARLOW: How's this? Surely I have not mistaken the house? Everything
looks like an inn. The barmaid, too. (_Enter_ KATE. ) A word with you,
child. Who are you?

KATE: A poor relation, sir, who looks after the guests.

MARLOW: That is, you're the barmaid of this inn.

KATE: Inn? Oh, la! What brought that into your head? Old Mr.
Hardcastle's house an inn!

MARLOW: Mr. Hardcastle's house? Mr. Hardcastle's? So all's out. I
shall be laughed at over the whole town. To mistake this house of all
others--and my father's old friend. What must he think of me! And may I
be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the barmaid. I mistook--but
it's all over. This house I no more show my face in. By heaven,
she weeps! But the difference of our birth, fortune, education--an
honorable connection would be impossible, and I would never harbour a
thought of any other. Farewell. [_Exit_.

KATE: He shall not go, if I have power to detain him. I will
undeceive my father, and he shall laugh him out of his resolution.
[_Exit_.

The second couple are about to take flight without the jewels, by
Tony's help, when he receives a note from Hastings, which--not knowing
its source--he hands to his mother to decipher. She resolves to carry
Miss Neville off forthwith, to place her in charge of her old Aunt
Pedigree, in the coach prepared for the elopement. Tony being ordered
to attend them on horseback, hits on an expedient which he does not
reveal, but contents himself with bidding Hastings meet him two hours
hence in the garden. The party start on their journey.


ACT V

SCENE I. --SIR CHARLES MARLOW _has arrived, and the two elders have been
making merry over the blunder; both are now eager for the
marriage. But they are mystified by_ MARLOW'S _assertion that
he is indifferent to_ MISS HARDCASTLE, _and his assertion is
corroborated by what_ HARDCASTLE _saw_.


SCENE II. --_The back of the garden. Enter_ TONY, _booted and spurred,
meeting_ HASTINGS.

TONY: Ecod, five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such
bad driving.

HASTINGS: But where are your fellow-passengers? Where have you left
the ladies?

TONY: Why, where I found 'em! Led 'em astray, man. There's not a pond
or a slough within five miles of the place but they can tell the taste
of; and finished with the horsepond at the back of the garden. Mother's
confoundedly frightened, and thinks herself forty miles off. So now, if
your own horses be ready, you can whip off with my cousin, and no one
to budge an inch after you.

HASTINGS: My dear friend, how can I be grateful.

[_Exit_.

TONY: Here she comes--got up from the pond.

[_Enter_ MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE: Oh, Tony, I'm killed--shook--battered to death!
That last jolt has done for me. Whereabouts are we?

TONY: Crackskull Common by my guess, forty miles from home. Don't be
afraid. Is that a man galloping behind us? Don't be afraid.

MRS. HARDCASTLE: Oh, there's a man coming! We are undone!

TONY (_aside_): Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky! Hide yourself,
and keep close; if I cough it will mean danger.

[_Enter_ HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE: I am sure I heard voices. What, Tony? Are you back
already? (TONY _laughs_. )

MRS. HARDCASTLE (_running forward_): Oh, lud; he'll murder my poor
boy! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage on me. Take my money, take
my life, good Mr. Highwayman, but spare my child.

HARDCASTLE: Sure, Dorothy, you have lost your wits? This is one of
your tricks, you graceless rogue. Don't you remember me, and the
mulberry-tree, and the horsepond?

MRS. HARDCASTLE: I shall remember it as long as I live. And this is
your doing--you----

TONY: Ecod, mother, all the parish says you've spoilt me, so you may
take the fruits on't. [_Exeunt_.

Miss Neville thinks better of the elopement, and resolves to appeal
to Mr. Hardcastle's influence with his wife. This improved plan is
carried to a successful issue, with great satisfaction to Tony Lumpkin.


SCENE III. --_The hall_. SIR CHARLES MARLOW _and_ HARDCASTLE _witness,
from concealment, the formal proposal of_ MARLOW _to make
the supposed "poor relation" his wife. They break in_.

SIR CHARLES: Charles, Charles, how thou hast deceived me! Is this
your indifference?

HARDCASTLE: Your cold contempt? Your formal interview? What have you
to say?

MARLOW: That I'm all amazement. What does it mean?

HARDCASTLE: It means that you say and unsay things at pleasure; that
you can address a lady in private and deny it in public; that you have
one story for us and another for my daughter.

MARLOW: Daughter? This lady your daughter? Oh, the devil! Oh--!

KATE: In which of your characters may we address you? The faltering
gentleman who looks on the ground and hates hypocrisy, or the bold,
forward Agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club?

MARLOW: Zounds, this is worse than death! I must be gone.

HARDCASTLE: But you shall not! I see it was all a mistake. She'll
forgive you; we'll all forgive you. Courage, man! And if she makes as
good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent
your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor
of this parish about us; the mistakes of the night shall be crowned
with a merry morning.


FOOTNOTES:

[D] The Life of Goldsmith, by John Forster, may be found in
Volume IX of the WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS (see also Vol. IV, p. 275).
"The Mistakes of a Night, or She Stoops to Conquer," appeared at Covent
Garden, in March, 1773. So convinced was George Colman that the public
would endure nothing but sentiment, that he could hardly be induced to
accept the play, and was extremely nervous about its success, almost
until the fall of the curtain on the first night. Nevertheless, its
success was immediate and decisive, and it became established as a
stock piece. The play loses nothing by the suppression of sentimental
passages between Hastings and Miss Neville, without which Colman
would certainly have declined it altogether. Apart from the main
argument--the wooing of Kate Hardcastle--the plot turns on the points
that Tony Lumpkin is the son of Mrs. Hardcastle by her first marriage,
and that Constance Neville is her niece and ward, not her husband's.




HEINRICH HEINE[E]




Atta Troll

_A Summer Night's Dream_


I

In the valley lies attractive Cauterets. The shining houses
Gay with balconies, and on them
Stand fair ladies loudly laughing.

Laughing as they look beneath them
On the brightly swarming market,
Where are dancing bear and she-bear
To the droning of the bagpipes.

Atta Troll and his good lady,
Whom the people call black Mumma,
Are the dancers; the Biscayans
Shout aloud in admiration.

Atta Troll, who once paraded
Like a mighty lord of deserts,
Free upon the mountain summit,
Dances in the vale to rabble!

Both the music and the laughter
Quickly cease, and shrieking loudly,
From the market fly the people,
And the ladies they are fainting.

Yes, the slavish chain that bound him
Suddenly hath rent asunder
Atta Troll. And, wildly springing,
Up the rocks he nimbly clambers.

In the empty market standing,
All alone are left black Mumma
And the keeper. Wild with fury
On the ground his hat he dashes.

On the wretched poor black Mumma
Falls this much-enraged one's fury
Doubly down at last; he beats her,
Then he calls her Queen Christina.


II

In the vale of Ronceval
Not far off from Roland's cleft,
And by savage fir-trees hidden,
Lies the cave of Atta Troll.

In the bosom of his family,
There he rests from all his hardships.
Tender meeting! All his young ones
Found he in the well-loved cavern:

Well-licked, lady-like young bears,
Blonde their hair, like parson's daughters;
Brown the boys, the youngest only
With the single ear is black.

Gladly now relates the old one
What he's in the world experienced,
Of the overwhelming plaudits
Reaped by his great skill in dancing.

Overcome by self-laudation,
Now he calls on deeds to witness
That he is no wretched boaster,
That he's really great at dancing.


III

In the caverns with his offspring,
Sick at heart, upon his back lies
Atta Troll; in meditation
Licks his paws, and, licking, growls:

"Mumma, Mumma, pearl of blackness,
Whom I fished from out life's ocean,
Is it thus that in life's ocean
I am forced again to lose thee!

"Might I only once more sniffle
That sweet odour, the peculiar,
Of my black, my darling Mumma,
Fragrant as the scent of roses!

"But, alas! my Mumma pineth
In the fetters of those rascals,
Who, the name of Men assuming,
Call themselves Creation's lords.

"Mankind, are ye any better
Than we others, just because ye
Boiled and baked devour your victuals?
In a raw state we eat ours.

"Children," grumbles Atta Troll,
"Children, we must seize the future!
If each bear but thought as I do,
We should soon subdue the tyrants.

"Let the boar but form alliance
With the horse, the elephant
Coil his trunk with love fraternal
Round the valiant bullock's horn;

"Bear and wolf of every colour,
Goat and monkey; even hares, too,
Let them work awhile together,
And the victory cannot fail us.

"Equal rights for all God's creatures,
Be our fundamental maxim;
Absolutely no distinction
In belief, or skin, or smell.

"Strict equality! Ev'ry jackass
Competent for highest office;
On the other hand, the lion
Trotting with the corn to grind. "


IV

Many an honest, virtuous burgher
Lives on earth in evil odour,
Whilst your princely people reek of
Lavender and ambergris.

Therefore do not make wry faces,
Gentle reader, if the cave of
Atta Troll should not remind you
Of the spices of Arabia.

Tarry with me in the steamy
Confines in the dismal odour,
Where the hero to his youngest
Speaks as if from out a cloud:

"Ever shun men's ways of thinking!
Not a creature that is decent
Can be found among these creatures.
Even Germans, once much better,

"In primeval times our cousins,
These alike are now degen'rate:
Traitors to their creed and godless,
Now they preach e'en atheism!

"Only be no atheist,
Like a non-bear who respects not
His great Maker--Yes, a Maker
Hath this universe created.

"Yonder in the starred pavilion,
On the golden throne of power,
World-controlling and majestic,
Sits a giant Polar bear.

"At his feet are sitting gentle
Sainted bears, who in their life-time
Uncomplaining suffered; in their
Paws the palm of martyrdom.

"Shall I ever, drunk with heaven,
Yonder in the starred pavilion,
With the Glory, with the palm-branch,
Dance before the throne of God? "


V

Figures twain, morose and baleful,
And on all-fours slowly creeping,
Break themselves a gloomy passage
Through the underwood at midnight.

That is Atta Troll, the father,
And his son, young Master One-Ear.
"This old stone"--growls Atta Troll--
"Is the altar, where the Druids

"In the days of superstition
Human sacrifices butchered.
Oh, the overwhelming horror!
Shedding blood to honour God!

"Now indeed far more enlightened
Are these men--they only murder
Now from selfishness and grasping.
Each one plunders for himself!

"Nature never yet created
Owners, no--for void of pockets,
Not a pocket in our fur coats,
We were born, the whole of us.

"Only man, that smooth-skinned being,
Could in borrowed wool, so artful,
Dress himself, or could, so artful,
Thus provide himself with pockets.

"Be the mortal foe of all such
Fierce oppressors, reconcileless,
To the end of thy existence--
Swear it, swear it here, my son! "

And the youngest swore as once did
Hannibal. The moon illumined
With her yellow light the Blood-stone,
And the pair of misanthropes.


VI

I was early one fine morning
With Lascaro setting forward
On the bear-hunt. And at mid-day
We arrived at Pont-d'Espagne.

Evening shades were dark'ning round us
When we reached the wretched hostel,
Where the Ollea-Podrida
Steamed up from the dirty soup-dish.

Corresponding to the kitchen
Was the bed. It swarmed with insects,
Just as if it had been peppered! --
Bugs are man's most mortal foe.

What a raving with these poets,
E'en the tame ones! Why, they never
Cease to sing and say, that Nature
Is the Maker's mighty temple.

Well, so be it, charming people!
But confess that in this temple
All the stairs are slightly awkward.
Miserably bad the stairs!

Close beside me strides Lascaro,
Pale and long, just like a taper;
Never speaking, never smiling,
He, the dead son of a witch.

Yes, 'tis said, he is a dead one,
Long defunct, although his mother,
Old Uraka, by enchantments
Keeps him living to appearance.

In the little fishing cottage,
On the Lac-de-Gobe we met with
Shelter and some trout for dinner;
And they tasted quite delicious.

If the stuff I drank was really
Wine, at this same Lac-de-Gobe,
I know not. I think in Brunswick
They would simply call it swipes.


VII

From the sunny golden background
Smile the violet mountain peaks,
On the ridge there clings a village,
Like a boldly ventured birds'-nest.

Having climbed there, 'twas apparent
That the old ones wing had taken,
And behind were tarrying only
All the young brood, not yet fledged.

Nearly all that day I lingered
With the children, and we chatted
Quite familiar. They were curious
Who I was, what I was doing?

"Germany, dear friends"--so said I--
"Is the land where I was born;
Bears live there in any number,
And I took to hunting bears.

"There I drew the skin for many
Over very bearish ears;
And between them I was sometimes
Roughly by their bear claws handled.

"But with merely unlicked blockheads
Every day to be contending
In my well-loved home, at last I
Found to be too much for me.

"So at last have journeyed hither,
Seeking out some better sport;
I intend to try my prowess
On the mighty Atta Troll. "


VIII

Like a narrow street the valley,
And its name is Spectre Hollow;
Rugged crags rise up abruptly
Either side of giddy heights.

On a dizzy, steep projection,
Peeping downwards, like a watch-tower,
Stands Uraka's daring cottage;
Thither I Lascaro followed.

With his mother he took counsel,
Using secret signs as language,
How might Atta Troll be tempted,
How he might be put to death.

For right well had we his traces
Followed up. And now no longer
Dare escape be thought of. Numbered
Are thy days, O Atta Troll!

What Uraka as her lawful
Business followed, that was honest;
For she dealt in mountain simples
And she also sold stuffed birds.

Full of all these natural wonders
Was the hut. The smell was dreadful
Of the henbane, cuckoo-flowers,
Dandelion and deadmen's fingers.

Vultures, too, a large collection,
Carefully arranged on all sides,
With the wings at full extended
And the most enormous beaks.

Was't the odour of the foolish
Plants which stupefied my senses?
Strange sensations crept about me
At the sight of all these birds.


IX

Argonauts without a ship,
Who on foot the mountain traverse,
And instead of golden fleeces
Only look to win a bear-skin

Ah, we are but sorry devils!
Heroes of a modern pattern,
And there's not a classic poet
Would in song immortalise us!

And for all that we have suffered
Mighty hardships! What a shower
Overtook us on the summit,
And no tree and no _fiacre_!

Tired to death, and out of humour,
Like two well-drenched poodles, once more,
Very late at night, we clambered
To the witch's hut above.

Shivering, and with teeth a-chatter,
Near the hearth I stood awhile;
Then, as though the warmth o'ercame me,
Sank at last upon the straw.

How the roaring of the chimney
Terrified me. Like the moaning
Of poor, wretched, dried-up souls--
Quite familiar seemed the voices.

Sleep completely overcame me
In the end, and then in place of
Waking phantasm, rose before me
Quite a wholesome, firm-set dream.

And I dreamed the little cottage
Suddenly became a ballroom.
Carried up aloft on pillars
And by chandeliers illumined.

Then invisible musicians
Struck up from "Robert le Diable"
That ungodly dance of nuns;
I was walking all alone there.

But at last the portals open
Of themselves, and then come marching,
Measured footsteps, slow and solemn,
Most extraordinary guests.

Nothing now but bears and spectres,
Walking upright, every he-bear
On the arm a ghost conducted,
Muffled in a long white shroud.

Sometimes in the dance's bustle,
Tore a bear the burial garment
Off the head of his companion;
Lo! a death's-head came to view.

But at last sounds forth a joyous
Crashing of the horns and cymbals;
And the kettle-drums they thunder,
And there came the galopade.

This I did not dream the end of--
For a most ill-mannered bruin
Trod upon my favourite corn,
So that, shrieking out, I woke.


X

In the cavern, with his offspring,
Atta Troll lies, and he slumbers
With the snoring of the righteous;
But at last he wakes up yawning.

"Children! "--sighs he, whilst are trickling
Tears from those large eyes unbidden--
"Children! Finished is my earthly
Pilgrimage, and we must part.

"Just at mid-day whilst I slumbered
Came a dream, which has its meaning.
Then my spirit sweetly tasted
Omens of my coming death.

"On the world and fate reflecting,
Yawning I had fallen asleep,
When I dreamed that I was lying
Underneath a lofty tree.

"From the tree's o'erspreading branches
Dribbled down transparent honey.
Joyous blinking, up above me
Seven little bears I noticed.

"Tender, graceful little creatures,
Rosy coloured were their fur coats,
As they clambered; from their shoulders
Just like silk two wings were sprouting.

"And with soft and supernatural
Flute-like voices they were singing!
While thus singing, icy coldness
Crept throughout my skin, and flame-like

"From my skin my soul departed;
Soared in brightness up to heaven. "
Thus in tender words and falt'ring
Grunted Atta Troll. His ears then

Pricked themselves and strangely worked,
And from his repose he started,
Trembling, and with rapture bellowing,
"Children, do ye hear those sounds?

"Is it not the voice melodious
Of your mother? Oh, I know it,
'Tis the growling of my Mumma!
Mumma! Yes, my own black Mumma! "

Atta Troll, whilst these words utt'ring,
Like a madman headlong bounded
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah! he rushed upon his doom!

In the vale of Ronceval,
On the very spot where whilom
Charlemagne's peerless nephew
Gasped away his fleeting spirit,

There fell also Atta Troll,
Fell through treason, like the other,
Whom the traitor, knighthood's Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.


XI

Four gigantic men in triumph
Brought along the slaughtered Bear.
Upright sat he in an armchair,
Like a patient at the hot-wells.

That same day soon after skinning
Atta Troll, they up to auction
Put the skin. For just a hundred
Francs a furrier purchased it.

Elegantly then he trimmed it,
And he edged it round with scarlet,
And again he sold it quickly
Just for double what it cost.

So, at last, third hand possessed it--
Julietta, and at Paris
It reposes in her chamber,
Serving as a bed-side carpet.

What of Mumma? Ah, the Mumma
Is a poor weak woman! Frailty
Is her name! Alas, the women
Are as so much porcelain frail.

When the hand of Fate had parted
Mumma from her noble husband,
Neither did she die of sorrow,
Nor succumb to melancholy.

And at last a fixed appointment,
And for life a safe provision,
Far away she found at Paris
In the famed Jardin des Plantes.

Sunday last as I was walking
In the gardens with Julietta,
By the railing round the bear-pit--
Gracious Heavens! What saw we there!

'Twas a powerful desert bear
From Siberia, snow-white coated,
Playing there an over-tender,
Amorous game with some black she-bear.

And, by Jupiter! 'twas Mumma!
'Twas the wife of Atta Troll!
I remember her distinctly
By the moist eye's tender glances.


XII

Where in heaven, Master Louis,
Have you all this crazy nonsense
Scraped together? Such the question
Of the Cardinal of Este,

After having read the poem
Of Rolando's frenzied doings,
Which Ariosto with submission
To his Eminence dedicated.

Yes, Varnhagen, worthy friend,
Yes, I see the same words nearly
On thy lips this moment hanging
With the same sarcastic smile.

"Sounds this not like youthful visions,
Which I once dreamt with Chamisso
And Brentano and Fouque,
On those deep-blue moonlight evenings? "

Yes, my friend, it is the echo
Of those long-forgotten dream-days;
Only that a modern trilling
Mingles with the ancient cadence.

Other seasons, other songsters!
Other songsters, other ditties!
What a cackling, as of geese, which
Once preserved the Capitol!

Other seasons, other songsters!
Other songsters, other ditties!
I might take a pleasure also
In them had I other ears!


FOOTNOTES:

[E] Heinrich Heine was born on December 13, 1797, at
Dusseldorf, the son of Jewish parents. After quitting school he was
sent to Frankfort to the banking establishment of an uncle, but a
commercial career failed to appeal to him, and in 1819 he entered the
University of Bonn, with a view of studying for law. His thoughts,
however, were given to poetry; and 1822 saw the publication of his
first volume of poems. Up to this time he was largely dependent upon
the generosity of his uncle. Thus, in order to fulfil his obligations,
he entered the University of Gottingen, where he obtained his degree of
law, having previously qualified himself for practice by renouncing the
Jewish faith for Christianity. A voluminous prose-writer, a wonderful
satirist, and an ardent politician, Heine's present-day fame rests
largely on his poetry, and especially the wonderful lyrical pieces.
"Atta Troll" (1846), which has been described as the "Swan-song of
Romanticism," was written in the hey-day of his activities, and
admirably conveys something of the temper and genius of its many-sided
author. Heine died on February 17. 1856.




HOMER[F]




The Iliad


_I. --Of the Wrath of Achilles; and of Hector_

Achilles' baneful wrath resound, O goddess, that impos'd
Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loos'd.
From breasts heroic; sent them far to that invisible cave
That no light comforts; and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave;
To all which Jove's will gave effect; from whom strife first begun
Betwixt Atrides, king of men, and Thetis' god-like son.

To appease Phoebus, Agamemnon restored the captive daughter of the
sun-god's priest, allotted to him for spoil; but took Briseis from
Achilles to replace her. Achilles vowed to render no more aid to the
Greeks, telling his mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, what had befallen,
calling on Jove to aid his vengeance.

So Peleus' son, swift-foot Achilles, at his swift ship sate,
Burning in wrath, nor ever came to councils of estate
That make men honour'd, never trod the fierce embattled field,
But kept close, and his lov'd heart pined, what fight and cries
could yield,
Thirsting at all parts to the host.

To satisfy Thetis, Jupiter sent a false dream to Agamemnon, the king
of men, persuading him that Troy should now fall to his attack.
Beguiled by the dream, Agamemnon set forth in battle array the whole
Greek host, save that Achilles and his followers were absent. And the
whole host of Troy came forth to meet them. Then Menelaus challenged
Paris to single combat; for the twain were the cause of the war,
seeing that Paris had stolen away Helen, the wife of Menelaus. Truce
was struck while the combat should take place. Paris hurled his
javelin, but did not pierce his foe's shield; Menelaus, having called
on Jove,

Shook and threw his lance; which struck through Paris' shield,
And with the strength he gave to it, it made the curets yield,
His coat of mail, his breast; yet he prevented sable death.
This taint he followed with his sword, drawn from a silver sheath,
Which lifting high, he struck his helm full where the plume did stand,
On which it piecemeal brake, and fell from his unhappy hand . . .
"Lo, now my lance hath missed his end, my sword in shivers flew,
And he 'scapes all. " With this again he rushed upon his guest,
And caught him by the horse-hair plume that dangled on his crest,
With thought to drag him to the Greeks; which he had surely done,
And so, besides the victory, had wondrous glory won.
But Cyprian Venus brake the string; and so the victor's palm
Was, for so full a man at arms, only an empty helm.
That then he swung about his head, and cast among his friends,
Who scrambled and took it up with shouts. Again then he intends
To force the life-blood of his foe, and ran on him amain,
With shaken jav'lin; when the queen that lovers love, again
Attended and now ravish'd him from that encounter quite,
With ease, and wondrous suddenly; for she, a goddess, might.
She hid him in a cloud of gold, and never made him known
Till in his chamber fresh and sweet she gently set him down.

Thereupon the truce was treacherously broken by Pandarus, who, incited
by Minerva, wounded Menelaus with an arrow; and the armies closed with
each other. Great deeds were done by Diomedes on the Greek side. But
Hector had gone back to Troy to rouse Paris; on the walls his wife
Andromache saw him.

She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart and hand,
Her son borne in his nurse's arms; when, like a heavenly sign
Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine.
Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet smiled upon his joy.
Andromache cried out, mix'd hands, and to the strength of Troy
Thus wept forth her affection: "O noblest in desire!
Thy mind inflamed with other's good will set thyself on fire.
Nor pitiest thou my son, nor wife, that must thy widow be
If now thou issue; all the field will only run on thee. "
"Nay," answered he; "but in this fire must Hector's trial shine;
Here must his country, father, friends, be made in him divine.
Yet such a stormy day shall come (in mind and soul I know),
When sacred Troy shall shed her towers for tears of overthrow;
When Priam, all his birth and power, shall in those tears be drown'd.
But neither Troy's posterity so much my soul doth wound,
Priam nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brother's woes,
(Who, though so many, and so good must all be food for foes),
As thy sad state; when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence,
These free days clouded, and a night of captive violence
Loading thy temples, out of which thine eyes must never see,
But spin the Greek wives webs of task, and their fetch-water be. "
This said, he reached to take his son; who of his arms afraid,
And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid,
Nodded so horribly, he cling'd back to his nurse and cried.
Laughter affected his great sire, who doff'd and laid aside
His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about its light;
Then took and kiss'd his loving son. "Afflict me not, dear wife,
With these vain griefs. He doth not live that can disjoin my life
And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate whose wings can fly?
Noble, ignoble, fate controls. Once born, the best must die. "


II. --_Of the Battle by the Ships_

After this, Hector fought with Ajax, and neither had the better. And
after that the Greeks set a rampart and a ditch about their ships.
Also, Agamemnon would have bidden the Greeks depart altogether, but
Diomedes withstood him. And in the fighting that followed, Agamemnon
showed himself the best man among the Greeks, seeing that neither
Achilles nor Diomedes joined the fray; and the Trojans had the better,
driving the Greeks back to the rampart, and bursting through, so that
they were like to have burnt the Greek ships where they lay, led on by
Hector. To and fro swayed the tide of battle; for while Jove slept,
Neptune and Juno gave force and courage to the Greeks, and the Trojans
were borne back; Hector being sore hurt with a stone cast by Ajax. But
Jove, awaking, restored Hector's strength, sending Apollo to him. Then
Apollo and Hector led

The Trojan forces. The Greeks stood. A fervent clamour spread
The air on both sides as they joined. Out flew the shafts and darts,
Some falling short, but other some found butts in breasts and hearts.
As long as Phoebus held but out his horrid shield, so long
The darts flew raging either way, and death grew both ways strong.
But when the Greeks had seen his face, and who it was that shook
The bristled targe, known by his voice, then all their strength forsook
Their nerves and minds. And then look how a goodly herd of neat,
Or wealthy flock of sheep, being close, and dreadless at their meat,
In some black midnight, suddenly, and not a keeper near,
A brace of horrid bears rush in, and then fly here and there.
The poor affrighted flocks or herds, so every way dispersed
The heartless Grecians, so the Sun their headlong chase reversed
To headlong flight, and that day rais'd with all grace Hector's head.
. . . When Hector saw his sister's son lie slaughtered in the sand,
He called to all his friends, and prayed they would not in that strait
Forsake his nephew, but maintain about his corse the fight,
And save it from the spoil of Greece.

The archery of Teucer, brother of Ajax, was dealing destruction among
the Trojans, when Jove broke the bow-string; and thereafter the god
stirred

With such addition of his spirit the spirit Hector bore
To burn the fleet, that of itself was hot enough before.
But now he fared like Mars himself, so brandishing his lance
As through the deep shades of a wood a raging fire should glance,
Held up to all eyes by a hill; about his lips a foam
Stood, as when th' ocean is enraged; his eyes were overcome
With fervour, and resembled flames, set off by his dark brows,
And from his temples his bright helm abhorred lightnings throws.
He, girt in fire borne for the fleet, still rushed at every troop,
And fell upon it like a wave, high raised, that then doth stoop
Out from the clouds, grows as it stoops with storms, then down doth
come And cuff a ship, when all her sides are hid in brackish foam,
Strong gales still raging in her sails, her sailors' minds dismay'd,
Death being but little from their lives; so Jovelike Hector fray'd
And plied the Greeks, who knew not what would chance, for all their
guards. And as the baneful king of beasts, leapt in to oxen herds Fed
in the meadows of a fen exceeding great, the beasts In number infinite,
'mongst whom (their herdsmen wanting breasts To fight with lions for
the price of a black ox's life) He here and there jumps first and last,
in his bloodthirsty strife; Chased and assaulted, and at length down in
the midst goes one, And all the rest 'sperst through the fen; so now
all Greece was gone.

On the Grecian side Ajax

Stalked here and there, and in his hand a huge great bead-hook held,
Twelve cubits long, and full of iron. And then again there grew
A bitter conflict at the fleet. You would have said none drew
A weary breath, nor ever did, they laid so freshly on.

It seemed that even Ajax would be overborne. But Patroclus, the loved
friend of Achilles, saw this destruction coming upon the Greeks, and
he earnestly besought Achilles, if he would not be moved to sally
forth to the rescue himself, to suffer him to go out against the
Trojans, bearing the arms of Achilles and leading his Myrmidons into
the fray. Which leave Achilles granted him.


FOOTNOTES:

[F] Of the personality of Homer, the maker of the "Iliad" and
the "Odyssey," those great epic poems which were the common heritage
of all Greeks, we have no knowledge. Tradition pictures him as blind
and old. Seven cities claimed to be his birthplace. Probably he lived
in the ninth century B. C. , since the particular stages of social life
which he portrays probably belong to that era. Beyond this, all is
conjecture. The poems were not written down till a later date, when
their authorship was already a matter of tradition; and when what
we may call the canon of the text of the epics was laid down in the
sixth century B. C. , it may be readily supposed that they were not in
the exact form which the master-poet himself had given them. Hence
the ingenuity of the modern commentator has endeavoured to resolve
Homer into an indefinite number of ballad-mongers, whose ballads were
edited into their existing unity.