Authors of Greece

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When he reappeared, endued with grace which Athena gave him, he
marvelled at the untoward heart which the gods had given his wife and
bade his nurse lay him his bed. Penelope caught up his words quickly;
the bed was to be laid outside the chamber which he himself had made.
The words filled Odysseus with dismay:

"Who hath put my bed elsewhere? It would be a hard task for any man
however cunning, except a god set it in some other place. Of men
none could easily shift it, for there is a wonder in that cunningly
made bed whereat I laboured and none else. Within the courtyard was
growing the trunk of an olive; round it I built my bed-chamber with
thick stones and roofed it well, placing in it doors that shut tight.
Then I cut away the olive branches, smoothed the trunk, made a
bedpost, and bored all with a gimlet. From that foundation I smoothed
my bed, tricking it out with gold and silver and ivory and stretching
from its frame thongs of cow-hide dyed red. Such is the wonder I tell
of, yet I know not, Lady, whether the bed is yet fixed there, or
whether another hath moved it, cutting the foundation of olive from
underneath."

On hearing the details of their secret Penelope ran to him casting her
arms about him and begging him to forgive her unbelief, for many a
pretender had come, making her ever more and more suspicious. Thus
reunited the two spent the night in recounting the agonies of their
separation; Odysseus mentioned the strange prophecy of Teiresias,
deciding to seek out his father on the morrow.

A vivid description tells how the souls of the suitors were conducted
to the realm of the dead, the old comrades of Odysseus before Troy
recognising in the vengeance all the marks of his handiwork. Odysseus
found his father in a wretched old age hoeing his garden, clad in
soiled garments with a goat-skin hat on his head which but increased
his sorrow. At the sight Odysseus was moved to tears of compassion.
Yet even then he could not refrain from his wiles, for he told how he
had indeed seen Odysseus though five years before. In despair the old
man took the dust in his hands and cast it about his head in mighty
grief.

"Then Odysseus' spirit was moved and the stinging throb smote his
nostrils. Clinging to his father he kissed him and told him he was
indeed his son, returned after twenty years."

For a moment the old man doubted, but believed when Odysseus showed
the scar and told him the number and names of the trees they had
planted together in their orchard.

Meanwhile news of the death of the wooers had run through the city.
The father of Antinous raised a tumult and led a body of armed men to
demand satisfaction. The threatening uproar was stopped by the
intervention of Athena who thus completed the restoration of her
favourite as she had begun it.

* * * * *

It is strange that this poem, which is such a favourite with modern
readers, should have made a less deep impression on the Greeks. To
them, Homer is nearly always the _Iliad_, possibly because Achilles
was semi-divine, whereas Odysseus was a mere mortal. But the latter is
for that very reason of more importance to us, we feel him to be more
akin to our own life. Further, the type of character which Odysseus
stands for is really far nobler than the fervid and somewhat incalculable
nature of the son of Thetis. Odysseus is patient endurance, common sense,
self-restraint, coolness, resource and strength; he is indeed a manifold
personality, far more complex than anything attempted previously in Greek
literature and therefore far more modern in his appeal. It is only after
reading the _Odyssey_ that we begin to understand why Diomedes chose
Odysseus as his companion in the famous Dolon adventure in Noman's land.
Achilles would have been the wrong man for this or any other situation
which demanded first and last a cool head.

The romantic elements which are so necessary a part of all Epic are
much more convincing in the _Odyssey_; the actions and adventures are
indeed beyond experience, but they are treated in such a masterly
style that they are made inevitable; it would be difficult to improve
on any of the little details which force us to believe the whole
story. Added to them is another genuine romantic feature, the sense of
wandering in strange new lands untrodden before of man's foot; the
beings who move in these lands are gracious, barbarous, magical,
monstrous, superhuman, dreamy, or prophetic by turns; they are all
different and all fascinating. The reader is further introduced to the
life of the dead as well as of the living and the memory of his visit
is one which he will retain for ever. Not many stories of adventure
can impress themselves indelibly as does the _Odyssey_.

To English readers the poem has a special value, for it deals with the
sea and its wonders. The native land of its hero is not very unlike
our own, "full of mist and rain", yet able to make us love it far more
than a Calypso's isle with an offer of immortality to any who will
exchange his real love of home for an unnatural haven of peace. A
splendid hero, a good love-story, admirable narrative, romance and
excitement, together with a breath of the sea which gives plenty of
space and pure air have made the _Odyssey_ the companion of many a
veteran reader in whom the Greek spirit cannot die.

* * * * *

Of the impression which Homer has made upon the mind of Europe it
would be difficult to give an estimate. The Greeks themselves early
came to regard his text with a sort of veneration; it was learned by
heart and quoted to spellbound audiences in the cities and at the
great national meetings at Olympia. Every Greek boy was expected to
know some portion at least by heart; Plato evidently loved Homer and
when he was obliged to point out that the system of morality which he
stood for was antiquated and needed revision, apologised for the
criticism he could not avoid. It is sometimes said that Homer was the
Bible of the Greeks; while this statement is probably inaccurate--for
no theological system was built on him nor did he claim any divine
revelation--yet it is certain that authors of all ages searched the
text for all kinds of purposes, antiquarian, ethical, social, as well
as religious. This careful study of Homer culminated in the learned
and accurate work of the great Alexandrian school of Zenodotus and
Aristarchus.

In Roman times Homer never failed to inspire lesser writers; Ennius is
said to have translated the _Odyssey_, while Virgil's _Aeneid_ is
clearly a child of the Greek Homeric tradition. In the Middle Ages the
Trojan legend was one of the four great cycles which were treated over
and over again in the Chansons. Even drama was glad to borrow the
great characters of the _Iliad_, as Shakespeare did in _Troilus and
Cressida_. In England a number of famous translations has witnessed to
the undying appeal of the first of the Greek masters. Chapman
published his _Iliad_ in 1611, his _Odyssey_ in 1616; Pope's version
appeared between 1715 and 1726; Cowper issued his translation in 1791.
In the next century the Earl Derby retranslated the _Iliad_, while an
excellent prose version of the _Odyssey_ by Butcher and Lang was
followed by a prose version of the _Iliad_ by Lang Myers and Leaf. At
a time when Europe had succeeded in persuading itself that the whole
story of a siege of Troy was an obvious myth, a series of startling
discoveries on the site of Troy and on the mainland of Greece proved
how lamentably shallow is some of the cleverest and most destructive
Higher Criticism.

The marvellous rapidity and vigour of these two poems will save them
from death; the splendid qualities of direct narration, constructive
skill, dignity and poetical power will always make Homer a name to
love. Those who know no Greek and therefore fear that they may lose
some of the directness of the Homeric appeal might recall the famous
sonnet written by Keats who had had no opportunity to learn the great
language. His words are no doubt familiar enough; that they have
become inseparable from Homer must be our apology for inserting them
here.

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and Kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken,
Or like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

TRANSLATIONS. As INDICATED IN THE TEXT OF THE ESSAY.

The whole of the Homeric tradition is affected by the recent
discoveries made in Crete. The civilisation there unearthed raises
questions of great interest; the problems it suggests are certain to
modify current ideas of Homeric study.

See _Discoveries in Crete_, by R. Burrows (Murray, 1907).

A very good account of the early age of European literature is in _The
Heroic Age_, by Chadwick (Cambridge, 1912).

The best interpretation of Greek poetry is Symonds' _Greek Poets_, 2
vols. (Smith Elder).

Jebb's _Homer_ is the best introduction to the many difficulties
presented by the poems.

Flaxman's engravings for the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ are of the highest
order.

AESCHYLUS

Towards the end of the sixth century before Christ, one of the most
momentous advances in literature was made by the genius of Aeschylus.
European drama was created and a means of utterance was given to the
rapidly growing democratic spirit of Greece. Before Aeschylus wrote,
rude public exhibitions had been given of the life and adventures of
Dionysus, the god of wine. Choruses had sung odes to the deity and
variety was obtained by a series of short dialogues between one of the
Chorus and the remainder. Aeschylus added a second actor to converse
with the first; he thus started a movement which eventually ousted the
Chorus from its place of importance, for the interest now began to
concentrate on the two actors; it was their performance which gave
drama its name. In time more characters were added; the Chorus became
less necessary and in the long run was felt to be a hindrance to the
movement of the story. This process is plainly visible in the extant
works of the Attic tragedians.

Aeschylus was born at Eleusis in 525; before the end of the century he
was writing tragedies. In 490 he fought in the great battle of
Marathon and took part in the victory of Salamis in 480. This
experience of the struggle for freedom against Persian despotism added
a vigour and a self-reliance to his writing which is characteristic of
a growing national spirit. He is said to have visited Sicily in 468
and again in 458, various motives being given for his leaving Athens.
His death at Gela in 456 is said to have been due to an eagle, which
dropped a tortoise upon his head which he mistook for a stone. He has
left to the world seven plays in which the rapid development of drama
is conspicuous.

One of the earliest of his plays is the _Suppliants_, little read
owing to the uncertainty of the text and the meagreness of the
dramatic interest. The plot is simple enough. Danaus, sprung from Io
of Argos, flees from Egypt with his fifty daughters who avoid wedlock
with the fifty sons of Aegyptus. He sails to Argos and lays suppliant
boughs on the altars of the gods, imploring protection. The King of
Argos after consultation with his people decides to admit the
fugitives and to secure them from Aegyptus' violence. A herald from
the latter threatens to take the Danaids back with him, but the King
intervenes and saves them. There is little in this play but long
choral odes; yet one or two Aeschylean features are evident. The King
dreads offending the god of suppliants

"lest he should make him to haunt his house, a dread visitor who
quits not sinners even in the world to come."

The Egyptian herald reverences no gods of Greece "who reared him not
nor brought him to old age". The Chorus declare that "what is fated
will come to pass, for Zeus' mighty boundless will cannot be
thwarted". Here we have the three leading ideas in the system of
Aeschylus--the doctrine of the inherited curse, of human pride and
impiety, and the might of Destiny.

The _Persians_ is unique as being the only surviving historical play
in Greek literature. It is a poem rather than a drama, as there is
little truly dramatic action. The piece is a succession of very vivid
sketches of the incidents in the great struggle which freed Europe
from the threat of Eastern despotism. A Chorus of Persian elders is
waiting for news of the advance of the great array which Xerxes led
against Greece in 480. They tell how Persia extended her sway over
Asia. Yet they are uneasy, for

"what mortal can avoid the crafty deception of Heaven? In seeming
kindness it entices men into a trap whence they cannot escape."

The Queen-mother Atossa enters, resplendent with jewels; she too is
anxious, for in a dream she had seen Xerxes yoke two women together
who were at feud, one clad in Persian garb, the other in Greek. The
former was obedient to the yoke, but the latter tore the car to pieces
and broke the curb. The Chorus advises her to propitiate the gods with
sacrifice, and to pray to Darius her dead husband to send his son
prosperity. At that moment a herald enters with the news of the Greek
victory at Salamis. Xerxes, beguiled by some fiend or evil spirit,
drew up his fleet at night to intercept the Greeks, supposed to be
preparing for flight. But at early dawn they sailed out to attack,
singing mightily

"Ye sons of Greece, onward! Free your country, your children and
wives, the shrines of your fathers' gods, and your ancestral tombs.
Now must ye fight for all."

Winning a glorious victory, they landed on the little island
(Psyttaleia) where the choicest Persian troops had been placed to cut
off the retreat of the Greek navy, and slew them all. Later, they
drove back the Persians by land; through Boeotia, Thessaly and
Macedonia the broken host retreated, finally recrossing to Asia over
the Hellespont.

On hearing the news Atossa disappears and the Persian Chorus sing a
dirge. The Queen returns without her finery, attired as a suppliant;
she bids the Chorus call up Darius, while she offers libations to the
dead. The ghost of the great Empire-builder rises before the
astonished spectators, enquiring what trouble has overtaken his land.
His release from Death is not easy, "for the gods of the lower world
are readier to take men's spirits than to let them go". On learning
that his son has been totally defeated, he delivers his judgment. The
oracles had long ago prophesied this disaster; it was hurried on by
Xerxes' rashness, for when a man is himself hurrying on to ruin Heaven
abets him. He had listened to evil counsellors, who bade him rival his
father's glory by making wider conquests. The ruin of Persia is not
yet complete, for when insolence is fully ripe it bears a crop of ruin
and reaps a harvest of tears. This evil came upon Xerxes through the
sacrilegious demolition of altars and temples. Zeus punishes
overweening pride, and his correcting hand is heavy. Darius counsels
Atossa to comfort their son and to prevent him from attacking Greece
again; he further advises the Chorus to take life's pleasures while
they can, for after death there is no profit in wealth. A distinctly
grotesque touch is added by the appearance of Xerxes himself, broken
and defeated, filling the scene with lamentations for lost friends and
departed glory, unable to answer the Chorus when they demand the
whereabouts of some of the most famous Persian warriors.

The play is valuable as the result of a personal experience of the
poet. As a piece of literature it is important, for it is a poetic
description of the first armed conflict between East and West. It
directly inspired Shelley when he wrote his _Hellas_ at a time when
Greece was rousing herself from many centuries of Eastern oppression.
As a historical drama it is of great value, for it is substantially
accurate in its main facts, though Aeschylus has been compelled to
take some liberties with time and human motives in order to satisfy
dramatic needs. From Herodotus it seems probable that Darius himself
hankered after the subjugation of Greece, while Xerxes at the outset
was inclined to leave her in peace.

One or two characteristic features are worth note. The genius of
Aeschylus was very bold; it was a daring thing to bring up a ghost
from the dead, for the supernatural appeal does not succeed except
when it is treated with proper insight; yet even Aeschylus' genius has
not quite succeeded in filling his canvas, the last scenes being
distinctly poor in comparison with the splendour of the main theme. On
the other hand a notable advance in dramatic power has been made. The
main actors are becoming human; their wills are beginning to operate.
Tragedy is based on a conflict of some sort; here the wilful spirit of
youth is portrayed as defying the forces of justice and righteousness;
it is insolence which brings Xerxes to ruin. The substantial creed of
Aeschylus is contained in Darius' speech; as the poet progresses in
dramatic cunning we shall find that he constantly finds his sources of
tragic inspiration in the acts of the sinners who defy the will of the
gods.

_The Seven against Thebes_ was performed in 472. It was one of a
trilogy, a series of three plays dealing with the misfortunes of
Oedipus' race. After the death of Oedipus his sons Polyneices and
Eteocles quarrelled for the sovereignty of Thebes. Polyneices,
expelled and banished by his younger brother, assembled an army of
chosen warriors to attack his native land. Eteocles opens the play
with a speech which encourages the citizens to defend their town. A
messenger hurries in telling how he left the besiegers casting lots to
decide which of the seven gates of Thebes each should attack. Eteocles
prays that the curse of his father may not destroy the town and leaves
to arrange the defences. In his absence the Chorus of virgins sing a
wild prayer to the gods to save them. Hearing this, the King returns
to administer a vigorous reproof; he declares that their frenzied
supplications fill the city with terrors, discouraging the fighting
men. He demands from them obedience, the mother of salvation; if at
last they are to perish, they cannot escape the inevitable. His
masterful spirit at last cows them into a better frame of mind; this
scene presents to us one of the most manly characters in Aeschylus'
work.

After a choral ode a piece of intense tragic horror follows. The
messenger tells the names of the champions who are to assault the
gates. As he names them and the boastful or impious mottoes on their
shields, the King names the Theban champions who are to quell their
pride in the fear of the gods. Five of the insolent attackers are
mentioned, then the only righteous one of the invading force,
Amphiaraus the seer; he it was who rebuked the violence of Tydeus, the
evil genius among the besiegers, and openly reviled Polyneices for
attacking his own native land. He had prophesied his own death before
the city, yet resolved to meet his fate nobly; on his shield alone was
no device, for he wished to be, not to seem, a good man. The pathos of
the impending ruin of a great character through evil associations is
heightened by the terror of what follows. Only one gate remains
without an assailant, the gate Eteocles is to defend; it is to be
attacked by the King's own brother, Polyneices. Filled with horror,
the Chorus begs him send another to that gate, for "there can be no
old age to the pollution of kindred bloodshed". Recognising that his
father's curse is working itself out, he departs to kill and be killed
by his own brother, for "when the gods send evil none can avoid it".

In an interval the Chorus reflect on their King's impending doom. His
father's curse strikes them with dread; Oedipus himself was born of a
father Laius who, though warned thrice by Apollo that if he died
without issue he would save his land, listened to the counsels of
friends and in imprudence begat his own destroyer. Their song is
interrupted by a messenger who announces that they have prospered at
six gates, but at the seventh the two brothers have slain each other.
This news inspires another song in which the joy of deliverance
gradually yields to pity for an unhappy house, cursed and blighted,
the glory of Oedipus serving but to make more acute the shame of his
latter end and the triumph of the ruin he invoked on his sons. The
agony of this scene is intensified by the entry of Ismene and
Antigone, Oedipus' daughters, the latter mourning for Polyneices, the
former for Eteocles. The climax is reached when a herald announces a
decree made by the senate and people. Eteocles, their King who
defended the land, was to be buried with all honours, but Polyneices
was to lie unburied. Calmly and with great dignity Antigone informs
the herald that if nobody else buries her brother, she will. A warning
threat fails to move her. The play closes with a double note of terror
at the doom of Polyneices and pity for the death of a brave King.

Further progress in dramatic art has been made in this play. One of
the main sources of the pathos of human life is the operation of what
seems to us to be mere blind chance. Just as the casual dropping of
Desdemona's handkerchief gave Iago his opportunity, so the casual
allotting of the seven gates brings the two brothers into conflict.
But behind it was the working of an inherited curse; yet Aeschylus is
careful to point out that the curse need never have existed at all but
for the wilfulness of Laius; he was the origin of all the mischief,
obstinately refusing to listen to a warning thrice given him by
Apollo. Another secret of dramatic excellence has been discovered by
the poet, that of contrast. Two brothers and two sisters are balanced
in pairs against one another. The weaker sister Ismene laments the
stronger brother, while the more unfortunate Polyneices is championed
by the more firmly drawn sister. Equally admirable is the contrast
between the righteous Amphiaraus and his godless companions. The
character of each of these is a masterpiece. War, horror, kindred
bloodshed, with a promise of further agonies to arise from Antigone's
resolve are the elements which Aeschylus has fused together in this
vivid play.

"There was war in Heaven" between the new gods and the old. The
_Prometheus Bound_ contains the story of the proud tyranny of Zeus,
the latest ruler of the gods. Hephaestus, the god of fire, opens a
conversation with Force and Violence who are pinning Prometheus with
chains of adamant to the rocks of Caucasus. Hephaestus performs his
task with reluctance and in pity for the victim, the deep-counselling
son of right-minded Law. Yet the command of Zeus his master is urgent,
overriding the claims of kindred blood. Force and Violence, full of
hatred, hold down the god who has stolen fire, Hephaestus' right, and
given it to men. They bid the Fire-God make the chains fast and drive
the wedge through Prometheus' body. When the work is done they leave
him with the taunt:

"Now steal the rights of the gods and give them to the creatures
of the day; what can mortals do to relieve thy agonies? The gods
wrongly call thee a far-seeing counsellor, who thyself lackest a
counsellor to save thee from thy present lot."

Abandoned of all, Prometheus breaks out into a wild appeal to earth,
air, the myriad laughter of the sea, the founts and streams to witness
his humiliation; but soon he reflects that he had foreseen his agony
and must bear it as best he can, for the might of Necessity is not to
be fought against. A sound of lightly moving pinions strikes his ears;
sympathisers have come to visit him; they are the Chorus, the
daughters of Ocean, who have heard the sound of the riveted chains and
hurried forth in their winged car Awestruck, they come to see how Zeus
is smiting down the mighty gods of old. It would be difficult to
imagine a more natural and touching motive for the entry of a Chorus.

In the dialogue that follows the tragic appeal to pity is quickly
blended with a different interest. By a superb stroke of art Aeschylus
excites the audience to an intense curiosity. Though apparently
subdued, Prometheus has the certainty of ultimate triumph over his
foe; he alone has secret knowledge of something which will one day
hurl Zeus from his throne; the time will come when the new president
of Heaven will hurry to him in anxious desire for reconciliation; when
ruin threatens him he will forsake his pride and beg Prometheus to
save him. But no words will prevail on the sufferer till he is
released from his bonds and receives ample satisfaction for his
maltreatment. The Chorus bids him tell the whole history of the
quarrel. To them he unfolds the story of Zeus' ingratitude. There was
a discord among the older gods, some wishing to depose Cronos and make
Zeus their King. Warned by his mother, Prometheus knew that only
counsel could avail in the struggle, not violence. When he failed to
persuade the Titans to use cunning, he joined Zeus who with his aid
hurled his foes down to Tartarus. Securing the sovereignty, Zeus
distributed honours to his supporters, but was anxious to wipe out the
human race and create a new stock. Prometheus resisted him, giving
mortals fire the creator of many arts and ridding them of the dread of
death. This act brought him into conflict with Zeus. He invites the
Chorus to step down from their car and hear the rest of his story. At
this point Ocean enters, one of the older gods. He offers to act as a
mediator with Zeus, but Prometheus warns him to keep out of the
conflict; he has witnessed the sorrows of Atlas, his own brother, and
of Typhos, pinned down under Etna, and desires to bring trouble upon
no other god; he must bear his agonies alone till the time of
deliverance is ripe. Ocean departing, Prometheus continues his story.
He gave men writing and knowledge of astronomy, taught them to tame
the wild beasts, invented the ship, created medicine, divination and
metallurgy. Yet for all this, his art is weaker far than Necessity,
whereof the controllers are Fate and the unforgetting Furies.
Terror-struck at his sufferings, the Chorus point out how utterly his
goodness has been wasted in helping the race of mortals who cannot
save him. He warns them that a time would come when Zeus should be no
longer King; when they ask for more knowledge, he turns them to other
thoughts, bidding them hide the secret as much as possible. Their
interest is drawn away to another of Zeus' victims, who at this moment
rushes on the scene; it is lo, cajoled and abandoned by Zeus, plagued
and tormented by the dread unsleeping gadfly sent by Zeus' consort
Hera. She relates her story to the wondering Chorus, and then
Prometheus tells her the long tale of misery and wandering that await
her as she passes from the Caucasus to Egypt, where she is promised
deliverance from her tormentor.

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