Read Ebook: Homer's Odyssey A Commentary by Snider Denton Jaques

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to line 328, where Nestor ends his story of the Returns and suggests the journey to Menelaus for another phase thereof: "the sun set and darkness came on." The second portion embraces the rest of the Book. Again we must note that the fundamental Homeric division into the Upper and Lower Worlds is what divides the Book, thus giving to the same its organic principle.

The religious setting of Nestor's world has been noticed already. Into it Telemachus comes, out of a realm of violence; it must indicate some cure for the ills of Ithaca. But he is now to show himself a man. Pallas orders him to put aside his youthful modesty, and boldly make the inquiry concerning his father. And here the Goddess utters a remark which the student may well ponder: "Some things thou wilt think of in thine own mind, but a God will suggest others." Again the Homeric dualism--the human and the divine--and also their harmony; the two elements must come together in every high thought or action. The double relation of the individual--to himself and to the God--is necessary for all worthy speech; his own activity and that of the deity run together in true discourse as well as in true action. So the whole poem is made up of man's self-determined energy and the interference of the Gods; yet both are to be seen as ultimately one in the deed.

The new-comers are asked to pray, and we hear the famous utterance, which is characteristic of Nestor's world, "All men have need of the Gods." This is said by one of his sons. Pallas makes the prayer, a happy one, which brings forth a feeling of harmony between the strangers and all the People. The sympathy is complete, and Telemachus can proceed to ask concerning his father, after he has told who he himself is, and whence he has come. In response, Nestor begins to tell the fateful story of the Returns after the fall of Troy. In his narrative we behold the starting-point of the calamities, the difference between Agamemnon and Menelaus, followed by a series of separations in succession. "Zeus planned for them a sad Return," which, however, was their own fault, "for all were neither wise nor just." It is clear that the Greek unity is utterly broken, a spiritual disruption sets in after the capture of the city. It is, indeed, the new problem, this Return to peace and institutional order after ten years' training to violence. Such is the penalty of all war, however just and necessary; after it is over, the fighting cannot stop at once, and so the victors divide into two camps and continue the fight. Nestor gives the picture of these repeated divisions; once, twice, thrice the breach occurs; first he separates from Agamemnon, the second time from Ulysses, the third time from Menelaus. He will go directly home, and thus he has to leave the others behind; the scission is not in him as in them; he can be restored, in fact he restores himself. He has the instinctive pre-Trojan character still, being an old man; but Ulysses has lost that, and so separates from Nestor, though never before had they differed "in the Council of the Chiefs or in the Assembly of the People." But Ulysses has to return by a far different road, and now each of the two wise men takes his own way, though both have to return.

Aged Nestor manifestly does not belong to the new epoch, he seems to have no sense of the deep spiritual struggle involved. He instinctively went home, shunning the conflict; the others could not. In the Iliad the relation between the two wise men, Nestor and Ulysses, is subtly yet clearly drawn; the one--the younger man--has creative intelligence, the other--the older man--has appreciative intelligence. In the Odyssey, the relation is plainly evolved out of that described in the Iliad; the one is the boundless striver, the other rests in the established order of things.

Nestor, therefore, cannot tell much about Ulysses, who lies quite out of his horizon, at least in the Odyssey. He can only give hope that the man of wisdom will yet return. This Telemachus doubts, dropping into one of his low human moods, even in the presence of Pallas, who rebukes him sharply. It is, indeed, the great lesson; he must have faith in the reality of the Gods, this is the basis of all his future progress, the chief attainment of wisdom. The young man must not fall away into denial, he must be taught that there is a divine order in the world. Old Homer, too, had his notions about religion in education, and the Goddess herself is here introduced giving a lesson.

Nestor, though unable himself to give much information about the Return, can point to the second grand Returner, Menelaus, who has lately come from a distant land, and may have something to say. In fact Menelaus was the last to separate from Nestor, Ulysses had separated long before.

One other story Nestor tells with great sympathy, that of Agamemnon, who represents a still different form of the Return. The great leader of the Greeks can master the Trojan difficulty, can even get back to home and country, but these are ultimately lost to him by his faithless spouse. Still, after the father's death, the son Orestes restores Family and State. Therein Telemachus sees an image of himself, the son, who is to slay his mother's suitors; he sees, too, the possible fate of his father. Ulysses has essentially the same problem as Agamemnon, though he has not the faithless wife in addition; Telemachus beholds his duty in the deed of Orestes, according to Greek consciousness. We shall see hereafter how Ulysses takes due precaution not to be slain in his own land, as Agamemnon was. In disguise he will go to his own palace and carefully note the situation in advance, and then strike the blow of deliverance.

Several times Homer repeats in the Odyssey the tragic story of Agamemnon, the great Leader of the Greeks at Troy. An awe-inspiring tale of destiny; out of it AEschylus will develop his great tragedy, the Oresteia. Indeed the epos develops into tragedy with the full mythical unfolding of this story. AEschylus will deepen the motives into internal collisions; he will show the right and the wrong in Agamemnon, and even in Clytemnestra. Orestes, however beneficent his deed in avenging his father, will not escape the counterstroke; AEschylus will send after him the Furies for the guilt of having murdered his mother. Thus the double nature of the deed, its reward and its penalty, unfolds out of Homer into AEschylus, and creates the Greek drama as we know it at present.

Nestor has now told what lay in the immediate circle of his experience: the Return direct through Hellas. Again he mentions the last separation; it was that of himself from Menelaus, when the latter was swept beyond the limit of Hellas into Egypt, from which he has now returned. What next? Evidently the young man must be sent to him at Sparta in order to share in this larger circle of experience, extending to the Orient. So Greece points to the East in many ways; Nestor, the purely Hellenic soul, knows of that wider knowledge, though it be not his, and he knows that it should be possessed.

In this Book as elsewhere in the Odyssey the grand background is the Trojan war. The incidents of the Iliad are hardly alluded to, but are certainly taken for granted; the Post-Iliad is the field of interest, for in it the Returns take place. Thus the two great poems of Homer join together and show themselves as complements of each other.

Now comes the separation which marks the second portion of the Book. Pallas, in the guise of Mentor, coincides with Nestor in advising Telemachus to pay a visit to Menelaus, and then she departs, "sailing off like a sea-eagle," whereat great astonishment from all present. That is, she reveals herself; all recognize the Goddess, and probably that is the reason why she can no longer stay. She has become internal. Telemachus is now conscious, as she disappears, and he has his own wisdom; he has seen Pallas, and so he must go without her to Sparta. Hardly does he need her longer, being started upon the path of wisdom to know wisdom. At the court of Nestor, with its deeply religious atmosphere, she can appear; but she declines to go with him in person to Menelaus, though she advises the journey. All of which, to the sympathetic reader, has its significance. Still Pallas has by no means vanished out of the career of Telemachus; she at present, however, leaves him to himself, as she often does.

Nestor, too, responds to the marvelous incident in true accord with his character; he invokes her with prayer and institutes a grand sacrifice, which is now described in a good deal of detail. Just as the Book opens with a sacrifice to a deity, so it closes with one--the two form the setting of the whole description. Thus the recognition of the Gods is everywhere set forth in Nestor's world; he is the man of faith, of primitive, immediate faith, which has never felt the doubt.

It is well that Telemachus meets with such a man at the start, and gets a breath out of such an atmosphere. He has seen the ills of Ithaca from his boyhood; he may well question at times the superintendence of the Gods. His own experience of life would lead him to doubt the existence of a Divine Order. Even here in Pylos he challenges the supremacy of the Olympians. When Nestor intimates that his father will yet return and punish the Suitors, with the help of Pallas, or that he himself may possibly do so with the aid of the same Goddess, Telemachus replies: "Never will that come to pass, I think, though I hope for it; no, not even if the Gods should so will." Assuredly a young skeptic he shows himself, probably in a fit of despondency; sharp is the reproof of the Goddess: "O Telemachus, what kind of talk is that? Easily can a God, if he wills it, save a man even at a distance." Thus she, a Goddess, asserts the supremacy of the Gods, even though they cannot avert death. But the youth persists at present: "let us talk no more of this; my father never will return." But when Nestor has told the story of AEgisthus punished by the son Orestes, the impression is strong that there is a divine justice which overtakes the guilty man at last; such is the old man's lesson to the juvenile doubter. The lesson is imparted in the form of a tale, but it has its meaning, and Telemachus cannot help putting himself into the place of Orestes.

Thus Telemachus has witnessed and heard a good deal during his stay with Nestor. He has seen a religious world, a realm of faith in the Gods, which certainly has left its strong impression; he has been inspired by the example of his father, whose worth has been set forth, and whose place in the great Trojan movement has been indicated, by the aged Hero. Still further, Telemachus has been brought to share in the idea of the Return, the present underlying idea of the whole Greek consciousness; thus he must be led to believe in it and to work for it, applying it to his own case and his own land. Largely, from a negative, despairing state of mind due to his Ithacan environment, he has been led into glimpses of a positive believing one; this has sprung from his schooling with Nestor, who may be called his first schoolmaster, from whom he is now to pass to his second.

The reader must judge whether the preceding view be too introspective for Homer, who is usually declared to be the unconscious poet, quite unaware of his purpose or process. No one can carefully read the Third Book without feeling its religious purport; an atmosphere it has peculiar to itself in relation to the other Books of the Telemachiad. To be sure, we can read it as an adventure, a mere diverting story, without further meaning than the attempt to entertain vacant heads seeking to kill time. But really it is the record of the spirit's experience, and must so be interpreted. Again the question comes up: what is it to know Homer? His geography, his incidents, his grammar, his entire outer world have their right and must be studied--but let us proceed to the next Book.

The transition from Book Third to Book Fourth involves a very significant change of environment. In Sparta, to which Telemachus now passes, there is occurring no public sacrifice to the Gods, but a domestic festal occasion gives the tone; he moves out of a religious into a secular atmosphere. Pylos allows the simple state of faith, the world unfallen; Sparta has in it the deep scission of the soul, which, however, is at present healed after many wanderings and struggles. Nestor, as we have seen, is quite without inner conflict; Menelaus and Helen represent a long, long training in the school of error, tribulation, misfortune. Pylos is the peace before the fall, Sparta is the peace after the fall, yet with many reminiscences of the latter. This Fourth Book reaches out beyond Greece, beyond the Trojan War, it goes beyond the Hellenic limit in Space and Time, it sweeps backward into Egypt and the Orient. It is a marvelous Book, calling for our best study and reflection; certainly it is one of the greatest compositions of the human mind. Its fundamental note is restoration after the grand lapse; witness Helen, and Menelaus too; the Third Book has no restoration, because it has no alienation.

The account of the various Returns from Troy is continued. In the preceding Book we had those given by Nestor, specially his own, which was without conflict. He is the man of age and wisdom, he does not fall out with the Gods, he does not try to transcend the prescribed limits, he is old and conservative. The Returns which he speaks of beside his own, are confined to the Greek world; that was the range of his vision.

But now in the Fourth Book we are to hear of the second great Return, in which two Greeks participate, Menelaus and Helen. This Return is by way of the East, through Egypt, which is the land of ancient wisdom for the Greek man, and for us too. It is the land of the past to the Hellenic mind, whither the person who aspires to know the antecedents of himself and his culture must travel; or, he must learn of those who have been there, if he cannot go himself. Egyptian lore, which had a great influence upon the early Greek world in its formative period, must have some reflection in this primitive Greek book of education. So Telemachus, to complete his discipline, must reach beyond Greece into the Orient, he must get far back of Troy, which was merely an orientalizing Hellenic city; he must learn of Egypt. Thus he transcends the national limit, and begins to obtain an universal culture.

But the moment we go beyond the Greek world with its clear plastic outlines, the artistic form changes; the Hellenic sunshine is tinged with Oriental shadows; we pass from the unveiled Zeus to the veiled Isis. Homer himself gets colored with touches of Oriental mystery. The Egyptian part of this Fourth Book, therefore, will show a transformation of style as well as of thought, and changeful Proteus will become a true image of the Poet. The work will manifest a symbolic tendency; it will have an aroma of the wisdom of the East, taught in forms of the parable, the apologue, with hints of allegory. The world, thrown outside of that transparent Greek life, becomes a Fairy Tale, which is here taken up and incorporated into a great poem. We shall be compelled to look thoroughly into these strange shapes of Egypt, and, if possible, reach down to their meaning, for meaning they must have, or be meaningless. We shall find that this Fourth Book stands in the front rank of Homeric poetry for depth and suggestiveness, if not for epical lucidity.

What did not Telemachus see and hear at Sparta? That was, indeed, an education. He saw the two great returned ones, the woman and the man. Helen he saw, who had passed through her long alienation and was now restored to home and country after the Trojan discipline. In her, the most beautiful woman, the human cycle was complete--the fall, the repentance, the restoration. Then the eager youth saw Menelaus, and heard his story of the Return; he is the man who seeks the treasures of the East, and brings them to Hellas in the Hellenic way. He finds them, too, after much suffering, never losing them again in the tempests of his voyage, for does he not spread them out before us in his talk? Both the man and the woman, after the greatest human trials, have reached serenity--an institutional and an intellectual harmony. The young man sees it and feels it and takes it away in his head and heart.

The present Book falls easily into two distinct portions. The first is the visit of Telemachus to Sparta and what he experiences there. Sparta is at peace and in order; the youth to a degree beholds in it the ideal land to which he must help transform his own disordered country. The second portion of the Book goes back to Ithaca . Here we are suddenly plunged again into the wrongful deeds of the suitors, done to the House of Ulysses. They are plotting the death of Telemachus, the bearing of whose new career has dawned upon them. Ithaca is truly the realm of discord in contrast to the harmony of Sparta and the House of Menelaus, which has also had sore trials. Hence Sparta may be considered a prophecy of the redemption of Ithaca.

Following out these structural suggestions, we designate the organism of the Book in this manner:--

The first portion of the Book, as above given, is by all means the greatest in conception and in execution as well as the longest. As already indicated there are three kinds of writing in it, yet fused together into unity, which makes it a most varied, yet profoundly suggestive piece of Art. The simple idyllic, domestic strain of ordinary real life we hear at the start in the reception and recognition of Telemachus at Sparta; the scene lies in the sunshine of a serene existence, yet after mighty tempests. Thence we pass into the heroic world of Troy out of Greece and the Present, and listen to an epical story of heroism told by Menelaus and Helen, of the Hero Ulysses; finally we are brought to Egypt, and hear a prophecy concerning the same Hero, who is now the subject of the Fairy Tale. In other words, in this portion of the Fourth Book we observe a change of scene to three localities--Greece, Troy, Egypt, which correspond to Present, Past, and Future, and which attune the soul respectively to Sorrow, Reminiscence, Prophecy. In accord with this variety of place and circumstance is the variety of literary form already noted: the ordinary Descriptive Tale of the Present, the Heroic Story of the Past, and the Fairy Tale imaging what is distant in space and time.

Nor must we pass by that astonishing utterance of Menelaus to his servant who proposed to turn away the guests: "Thou prattlest silly things like a child, verily have we come hither partaking of the hospitable fare of other men." Therefore we ought to give that which we have received. One likes to note these touches of humanity in the old heathen Greek; he too knew and applied the Golden Rule. The wisdom of life here peers forth in the much-traveled Menelaus; suffering has taught him to consider others; sorrow he has experienced, but it has brought its best reward--compassion. This sorrow at once breaks forth in response to the admiration of Telemachus for the outward splendor of his palace and possessions.

The Spartan king takes a short retrospect of life as it has been allotted him; the sighs well out between his words as he tells his story. Eight years he wandered after the taking of Troy; for he passed across the sea, to Egypt, even to AEthiopia and Lybia, which he portrays as a wonderland of golden plenty. But while he was gone, "gathering much wealth," his brother Agamemnon was slain; "therefore, small joy I have bearing rule over these possessions." But chiefly he laments the loss of one man, on account of whom "sleep and food become hateful to me when I think upon him." That man is Ulysses, who has suffered more than any other Greek. Thus a strong deep stream of sympathy breaks forth from the heart of Menelaus, and the son, hearing his father's name, holds up the purple mantle before his eyes, shedding the tear. A strong unconscious bond of feeling at once unites both.

How can we fail to notice the clear indication of purpose in these passages! The Poet brings Menelaus, as the culmination of his story, to strike the chord which stirs most profoundly the soul of Telemachus. The son is there to inquire concerning his father; without revealing himself he learns much about the character and significance of his parent. The same artistic forethought is shown, when, at this sad moment, Helen enters, the primal source of all these calamities, in a glorious manifestation of her beauty. Telemachus sees or may see, embodied in her the very essence of Greek spirit, that which had to be restored to Hellas from Asia, if Hellas was to exist. The Poet likens her to a Goddess, and places her in surroundings which are to set off her divine appearance. In her case, too, we notice the distant background: Egyptian presents she has, as well as Menelaus, "a golden distaff and a silver basket bound in gold." Mementos from far-off wonderland are woven into the speech and character of the famous pair.

Now for a true female trait. Helen at once recognizes the young stranger as the son of Ulysses, wherein she stands in contrast to her husband Menelaus, who, in spite of his thinking about his friend just at that moment, had failed to see before him the son of that friend. But no sooner had the woman laid eyes upon Telemachus than she personally identified him. When the wife had spoken the words of immediate insight and instinct, the wise husband sees the truth and gives his reasons. When the fact has been told him, he can easily prove it.

Supremely beautiful is this appearance of Helen in the Odyssey; she is the completion of what we saw and knew of her in the Iliad. Now she is restored to home and country, after her long alienation; still she has lurking moments of self-reproach on account of her former deeds. Though she has repented and has been received back, she cannot forget, ought not to forget the past altogether. The conduct of the husband is most noble in these scenes; he has forgiven her fully, never upbraiding, never even alluding to her fatal act, excepting in one passage possibly, in which there is a gentle palliation of her behavior: "Thou camest to the place, moved by some divinity who wished to give glory to the Trojans." The husband will not blame her, she acted under the stimulus of a God. The fallen woman restored is the divinest of all pictures; we wonder again at the far-reaching humanity of the old bard; to-day she would hardly be taken back and forgiven by the world as completely as she is in the pages of Homer. She is indeed a new Helen, standing forth in the purest radiance within the shining palace of Menelaus. Long shall the world continue to gaze at her there.

Telemachus is to see and to hear Helen; that is, indeed, one of his supreme experiences. But it is not here a matter of superficial staring at a beautiful woman; all that Helen is, the total cycle of her spirit's history, is to enter his heart and become a vital portion of his discipline. It is probable that the youth does not realize every thing that Helen means and is; still he beholds her, and that in itself is an education. Helen is not merely a figure of voluptuous beauty, which captivates the senses; she bears in her the experience of complete humanity; she has erred, she has transformed her error, she has been restored to that ethical order which she had violated. All of which the young man is to see written in her face, and to feel in her words and conduct, though he may not consciously formulate it in his thought. This is the true beauty of Helen, not simply the outer sensuous form, though she possesses that too. She could not be the ideal of the Greek world, if she were merely an Oriental enchantress; indeed it is just the function of the Greeks to rescue her from such a condition, which was that of Helen in Troy.

Already the heart of Menelaus is full at the thought of his friend Ulysses, and he warms toward the latter's son now present. He again utters words of sympathetic sorrow. All are touched; all have lost some dear relative at Troy; it is a moment of overpowering emotion. The four people weep in common; it is but an outburst; they rally from their sorrow, Menelaus commands: "Let us cease from mourning and think of the feast."

It is at this point that Helen again interposes. Her experience of life has been the deepest, saddest, most complete of all, she has mastered her conflicts, inner and outer, and reached the haven of serenity; she can point out the way of consolation. In fact it is her supreme function to show to others what she has gone through, and thereby save them, in part at least, the arduous way. For is not the career of every true hero or heroine vicarious to a certain degree? Assuredly, if they mean any thing to the sons and daughters of men. Helen can bring the relief, and does so in the present instance.

She fetches forth that famous drug, the grand antidote for grief and passion, and all life's ills, the true solacer in life's journey. It had been given her by an Egyptian woman, Polydamna, whom she had met in her wanderings, and it had evidently helped to cure her lacerated soul. Again Egypt lies in the background, as it does everywhere in this Book, the veritable wonderland, from which many miraculous blessings are sent. Moreover it is the land of potent drugs, "some beneficial and some baneful;" its physicians too, are celebrated as excelling all men. Still more curious is the fact that women possess the secret of medicine as well as men, and Polydamna may be set down as the first female doctor--she who gave the wonderful drug to Helen. Surely there is nothing new under the sun.

This marvelous drug, often called Nepenthe from one of its attributes, has naturally aroused much curiosity among the many-minded readers of Homer down the ages. Some have held that it was an herb, which they have pointed out in the valley of the Nile. Others hold it to be opium literally, though it does not here put to sleep or silence the company. On the other hand allegory has tried its hand at the word. Certain ancients including Plutarch found in it an emblem hinting the charm of pleasing narrative. As Helen at once passes to story-telling about Ulysses at Troy, changing from sad reminiscences of the dead to stirring deeds of living men, we may suppose that this has something to do with her Nepenthe, which changes the mind from inward to outward, from emotion to action. The magic charm seems to work potently when she begins to talk. Through her, the artist as well as the ideal, we make the transition into the Heroic Tale of the olden time, of which she gives a specimen.

Menelaus has also his myth of Ulysses at Troy, which he now proceeds to tell. It brings before us the Wooden Horse, really the thought of Ulysses, though wrought by Epeios, by which the hostile city was at last captured. Here the Odyssey supplies a connecting link between itself and the Iliad, as the latter poem closes before the time of the Wooden Horse. Ulysses is now seen to be the Hero again, he is the man who suppresses emotion, especially domestic emotion in himself and others for the great end of the war. It suggests also the difficulty of Ulysses; he had so long suppressed his domestic instincts, and done without the life of the family, that he will have great trouble in overcoming the alienation--whereof the Odyssey is the record. In this story of Menelaus, Helen has her part too; she came to the Wooden Horse, "imitating in voice the wives of all the Greek leaders," who were deeply moved, yet restrained themselves except one, Anticlus, "over whose mouth Ulysses clapped his powerful hands, and saved the Greeks." Truly a strong image of the suppression of feeling in himself and in others.

But why did Helen do thus? Was it a hostile act on her part? Menelaus hints that it was at least very dangerous to the Greeks, though he delicately lays the blame of it on some God, "who must have inspired thee." She was testing the Greeks whom she supposed to be inside the horse. Will they answer the call of their wives? Do they still retain their affection for their families? Above all, does Menelaus love me still? Such was her test, in which we witness another of her many gifts. At any rate, she is not yet free, she is still married in Troy, though the hour of her release be near.

With these two stories, the note changes; the sad turn of the talk is transformed into a quiet earnest joy, the sorrows of the present vanish in the glorious memories of the past. The moment Troy is introduced, the narrative becomes an Heroic Tale, a sort of Iliad, with its feats of arms. Thus we hear the story of Ulysses while at Troy, giving two instances of his craft and his daring. Next we are to hear of him after his Trojan experience, this now theme will give the new poem, the Odyssey, which, however, is seen to interlink at many points with the Iliad.

But this is sufficient, night has come on, Telemachus has heard and beheld enough for one day. Helen disappears from the scene, she has contributed her share, her own selfhood, to the experience of the young man. Telemachus has seen Helen, and thus attained one supreme purpose of Greek education. Never can that face, beautiful still, yet stamped with all the vicissitudes of human destiny, pass out of his mind; never can that life of hers with its grand transformation pass out of his soul. The reader, too, has at this point to bid good-bye to Homer's Helen, the most lasting creation of a woman that has yet appeared upon our planet. A power she has, too, of continuous re-embodiment; every poet seeks to call her up afresh, that is, if he be a poet. It may be said that each age has some incarnation of Helen; the Greek myth for two thousand years, Medieval legend, even Teutonic folk-lore have caught up her spirit and incorporated it in new forms. The last great singer of the ages has in our own time, evoked her ghost once more in the shining palace of Menelaus at Sparta. Farewell, Helen, for this time, but we shall meet thee again; yesterday thou didst show thyself in a new book under a new garb, to-morrow thou art certain to appear in another. Thine is the power to re-create thyself in the soul of man with every epoch and in every country. Great is that discipline of Telemachus, which we still to-day have to seek: he has seen Helen.

The story is inspired by the desire of Telemachus to know about his father. As that father is not present the question arises, Where is he? Menelaus will undertake to answer the question by a tale which shadows forth the Distant and the Future--a prophetic tale, which casts its glance through the veil of Time and Space.

A mythical figure appears, Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea, who is to foretell to the inquiring mortal what may be needful for his safety. Not an Olympian God is Proteus, yet a supernatural shape standing between man and deity and mediating the two, the human and the divine. For it is Proteus who sends Menelaus back to the Gods whom he has neglected and offended.

The Fairy Tale which we are now to consider, is not to be looked upon as an allegory; it is a story with incident, movement, character, all in their own right, and not for the sake of something else. But we must not, on this account, imagine that it has no thought; in fact, the Fairy Tale is just the way in which primitive peoples think. It has thought, often the profoundest thought, which darts through it, not steadily, but fitfully in flashes at the important links, like electric sparks. This thought we are to catch and hold, and not rest satisfied with the mere outer form of the story.

Persons we can always find who are strongly prepossessed against seeing any meaning in the Fairy Tale, or in the Mythus. Modern usage of these literary forms, doubtless, justifies such an opinion. Still we must remember that Homer was not playing, but thinking with his Fairy Tale; he had no technical terms, and almost no abstract language for expressing thought; the day of philosophic reflection had not yet dawned upon Greece. Homer has a great and deep thought to utter, but his utterance is and must be mythical. His problem, too, he has, and it is spiritual; the Mythus is his statement, honest, earnest, final. No, he was not playing at story-telling, though it must have given him pleasure; nor was his object merely to delight somebody, though he certainly has delighted many by his song. He was the true Poet, upholding his own worth and that of his vocation; he was loyal to the Muse whose word he must sing whether it find listeners or not. Homer built his legendary structure to live in, not to play in; with all his sportiveness, he is a deeply earnest man; if his Zeus sometimes takes on a comic mask, it is because Providence is a humorist. Homer, when he mythologizes, is thinking, thinking as profoundly as the philosopher, and both are seeking to utter to men the same fundamental thought. The reader is to think after the poet, if not in the immediate mythical form, then in the mediate, reflective way.

The present Tale seeks to give an answer to the two main questions of Telemachus: Where is my father now? And, Will he return home? To answer the one question requires a knowledge of what is distant in Space; to answer the other question requires a knowledge of what is distant in Time. Can we not see that herein is an attempt to rise out of that twofold prison of the spirit, Space and Time, into what is true in all places and times? In other words, Menelaus unfolds in a mythical form, the Universal to his young pupil, and we may now see in what manner he gives the lesson.

He leaps at once into the middle of his theme; he was in Egypt and detained there by the Gods, "though longing to return home." Such is the great initial fact, he did not do his duty to the Gods. Without their aid or without their adequate recognition, he seeks to come home. This indicates the spiritual difficulty; he is indifferent to or a disbeliever in the Divine. The Gods are the upholders of the world-order, they are the law and the spirit of the reality. Clearly Menelaus could not or did not fit himself into the providential system. Neglect of the Gods--that detains him, must detain him. The result is, he and his companions are wasting away on an island, without any chance of return.

The question of the hour is, How shall I get out of the difficulty? Only in one way: Acknowledge the Gods, put yourself into harmony with their order, then the outer world and the inner man will be one, and must bring about the deed, which is the return. We are now to witness the process whereby this reconciliation between man and the Gods takes place--surely the supreme matter in life. It is told in the form of the Fairy Tale or Marvelous Legend, which shifts and changes; we, however, must cling to the essence else it will escape us, Proteus himself we must hold fast, and not be misled by his many appearances.

Menelaus begins to feel sorrow, which is a penitent condition antecedent to all help. Moreover he wanders alone, he has gone apart from his companions; behold, the Goddess steps out of the air and speaks. She reproaches him with folly, and turns him to the deity who can assist him. Who is this Goddess?

It is Eidothea, the Goddess of Appearance, yet the daughter of Proteus, the old First One, to whom she directs Menelaus, as the only means of salvation. Mark how she designates Proteus: "he is the true, the immortal; without error, without death; he knows the depths of all the sea"--the great sea of Time and Space, which envelops the poor mortal. But he must be snared and held--surely not an easy task it is to catch him.

The etymology of the names of these two deities indicates their meaning and relation. The grand dualism of the world is clearly suggested: Appearance and Substance, the Transitory and the Eternal, that which seems and that which is. Menelaus had gone astray, he had neglected the Gods, he had followed Appearance, Delusion, Negation; the result could only be death. But even Appearance points to something beyond itself, something true and eternal. So Eidothea suggests Proteus, who is her parent; that is, she is the manifestation of his being. She is the many, he is the one underneath and in the many; she is change, he is the permanent in all change. He may well be designated as her father, whose transformations she knows and declares. These transformations are called his tricks or stratagems, the shapes he puts on in the world of Appearance; they are indeed Eidothea herself along with her voice telling what is higher than herself.

When this one first principle is clearly revealed, then all is revealed; the future becomes transparent, and the distant becomes near. But you must hold fast to the one true Proteus; he will turn to fire--hold fast; he will become running water--hold fast; he will change to tree, beast, reptile--hold fast. Then he will show himself in his right shape, and will speak the fact. Hold fast; the One is under all, and is a God, who will lift the veil of Space and Time from the visage of Truth. But unquestionably the man in his desperate struggle must never forget the injunction. Hold fast to old Proteus.

We must note, too, that the poet has shown Menelaus as prepared to receive this divine revelation; the Greek wanderer has been brought to contrition by manifold sufferings. "I surely must have sinned against the Immortals," is his penitent outcry. Thus he is ready for the new truth, and the voice of the Goddess speaks, when he is internally in condition to hear it. The divine word is not forced upon him; he must do his share even toward creating the same within himself. Now, along the shore of the sea, "he prays the Gods fervently," ere he goes to his task. Egyptian Proteus he seeks to catch and to hold, for it is Proteus who is to point out to him the way of reconciliation with Zeus and the Olympian Gods.

Stress is strongly laid by the poet upon the fact that Proteus is of Egypt. Evidently, in the mind of Homer, the thought of this Fourth Book connects with the land of the Nile. What hint lies in that? The highest wisdom of Egypt, indeed, of the Orient, is just this grand distinction between Appearance and Substance, the Transitory and the Eternal, the Many and the One. What Egypt gave to Hellas is here suggested, nay, said directly. In fact, the first great step in wisdom, is still to make the above distinction, which in many ways has been handed down to us from the East.

But the Greeks united the two sides--that which appears and that which is, or the world of sense, and the world of spirit--and thereby produced art, the plastic forms of Gods and Men. Hellas brought forth to the sunlight Beauty, which Egypt never could. Even here Egyptian Proteus leads Menelaus to the Greek Gods, and becomes himself a kind of antecedent Hellenic deity. Egypt means to Greek Menelaus two things: first, it is a land of error, of alienation, of darkness; secondly, it has its light, its wisdom, which, when he finds, points him homeward to Hellas, to his own Gods.

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