II.

We now have reached the second portion of the Book, which is the fulfillment of the prophecies of the first portion; moreover we see how the forewarnings are heeded. Ulysses and his companions enter their vessel and start once more upon the sea, leaving the island of Circe, who sends them a favorable wind. We note also that Ulysses always repeats the warning to his companions, and tells to what they are coming next; they are to share in his knowledge. Three times he does this, just before each incident, and thus prepares them, though he does not tell everything. The experience with the Bag of Winds has taught him much; his companions through ignorance of its nature opened it and the fatality followed. So he received the penalty of not sharing his knowledge with his fellows; now he avoids that mistake, for his conduct at present shows that he regards his failure to impart his information as a mistake. He was the cause of the ignorance of his companions, which was brought home to him by their deed. Now he tells them, still he will not be able to save them; the fault is theirs when they transgress, and they will receive the penalty.

1. In accord with the plan already foretold, the ship approaches the island of the Sirens, Ulysses fills the ears of his men with wax and enjoys the song, being tied firmly to the mast. It is evident that he cannot control himself from within, he wishes to be loosed, but is only fastened the more tightly by his deafened associates. Foreseeing his own weakness he guards against it, yet brings out the more strongly his lack of self-mastery. He gives up his freedom in order not to perish through enjoyment. Herein we find suggestive hints concerning the natural man; he must be governed from without, till he become self-governable. Truly this is the first stage both in the individual and in history, and Ulysses is the typical personality representing both.

The song of the Sirens is given, which we did not hear in the previous prophetic portion. We may note in it touches of flattery, of enticement, of boundless promises, even of wisdom for the wise man. Then that favorite theme, the Trojan War, they claim to know, "and all that has ever happened upon the foodful earth." Such are the gorgeous promises to the man thirsty for knowledge; but mark in their meadow the bones and decaying bodies of dead men. Evidently their sweet song, promising all, lures only to destroy. Their power, however, lasts but for the moment, while the senses are tingled; when the fit is over, Ulysses is set free and he makes no attempt to return to them. Indeed another problem is upon him; he sees "a great wave and mist," to which is added a loud sound of rushing waters. Again he exhorts his companions and tells them all that he dares about the approaching dangers.

2. Now we are to witness a practical dealing with the Double Alternative, which was theoretically set forth in the previous portion. But the first Alternative, those bi-valvular rocks called Plangctæ, which clasped the sea-faring man between their valves and crushed him to death, is wholly avoided, is not even mentioned in the present passage, though it is possibly implied in one place. At any rate the grand stress is laid upon the second Alternative, Scylla and Charybdis, between which the ship is to pass.

Here again Ulysses shows his limitation. In spite of Circe's warning, he puts on armor, takes two spears, and goes on deck, like a Homeric hero, to fight Scylla. He tries to solve his problem externally, as he did in the case of the Sirens. In vain; he could not see his foe anywhere, and his eyes grew weary, peering about at the mist-like rocks.

Not thus was Scylla to be met, a monster not of mortal mould, hardly attainable by the senses. Still she was present somehow, and made herself valid. The whirling waters roared and seethed, all were intent upon the maelstrom, Charybdis, the other side; "we looked at her, fearing destruction," and destruction came just from the direction in which they were not looking. Scylla, watched, remains invisible; unwatched, she appears and snaps up six companions; external weapons can effect nothing against her. Still Ulysses gets through, scotched somewhat; he has failed to see both sides at one and the same time; mind, intelligence alone can rise out of the particular thing of the senses, and grasp the two things in opposition. As we read the story here, it suggests the man, the life-faring man, who is so drawn to one part that he neglects the counterpart, which has equal validity and soon makes itself felt by the penalty. Not the Alternative, then, Scylla or Charybdis, but the combined Scylla and Charybdis is the word of mastery. The two kept in separation destroy, the two held in unity are conquerable. Under all difference of Nature lies the Thought's oneness, which is the true synthesis of every Scylla and Charybdis. Such is the experience of Ulysses now; the Sirens, the creatures of the senses, may be thwarted by a species of external force; but not the present monsters can be so treated. The dualism exists doubtless, and we can be caught in it, but the function of mind is to overspan it, and so transform all difference, discord, diabolism into unity, harmony, deity.

Thus Ulysses disobeys Circe's command not to attempt to fight Scylla with weapons; the reason of her injunction becomes plain. Not a sensuous thing to be slain is Scylla, in spite of her animal figure; the poet hints that she is to be encountered by mind, which must here see both sides at once and so assert its supremacy over both. To be intent upon the one and disregard the other—that is the grand human danger. Hence the thought of Scylla and Charybdis has passed into the literature of the world, nay into the proverbs of the people, to express the peril of one-sidedness, as well as the inherent dualism in all conduct. Moreover the golden mean is suggested, that principle of action so familiar in later Greek philosophy. Deeper than this golden mean, however, runs the idea here; the dialectic of existence, the twofoldness which must be made one, the higher synthesis over all analysis are dimly intimated in the marvelous tale.

3. Having escaped through the two rocks, Ulysses and his companions come to "the flawless island of the Sun," the all-seeing luminary of Heaven. It is the total light beholding the totality. Is it not manifest that we have passed out of dualism into unity, out of strife into harmony? The island is represented as pastoral, peaceful, idyllic, with its herds reposing in sunlight; certainly a decided contrast to the noise and struggle in the region of Scylla and Charybdis. Or we may give the matter a psychological turn and say: Such is the transition from the Understanding with its finitude to Reason with its universality, to the all-seeing light within. Ulysses, having transcended the limit he showed in his last experience, has gone forward to the clear sunlit realm which illumines all limitations.

But just at this point danger arises. On the island are pasturing herds of oxen and sheep sacred to the Sun, things of light consecrated to light. The temptation will be to use them for the gratification of appetite, perhaps under some strong stress. Already both Tiresias and Circe have given the warning, which Ulysses now repeats to his companions and even exacts an oath from them not to harm the holy flocks. But hunger pinches, Ulysses again goes to sleep at the wrong moment, and the oxen of the Sun are slain by his men. It is true that the test is a hard one, death by starvation is impending, and they yield, not only violating their oaths but their light. Then they defiantly repeated their deed, "for six whole days they feasted, selecting the best of the Sun's oxen." When Ulysses awoke, he chid them sternly, but did not, or could not, stop them. The result was, they perished.

Already we have touched upon the physical basis which underlies this tale. The symbolism we may consider somewhat more closely. The sin against light on the part of the companions is double: they knew better because they had been forewarned, they were not ignorant as when they opened the Bag of Winds. Secondly, they destroyed objects sacred to the grand luminary, they assailed the very source of light. Ulysses has shared in the act also, he too must take his part of the penalty. He is saved, for he forbade the wrong, yet he went to sleep at the critical moment. To be sure the companions were hungry; but that is just the test; if they had had plenty to eat, there would have been no real trial of their fidelity to principle.

The ancient poet, throwing deepest glances into the soul and into the world, beholds the supreme negative act of man, and seeks to clothe it in a symbol. Mind turns against mind, when the man does what he knows is wrong, and the destructive side is doubly re-inforced when he assails light itself, and knowledge slays knowledge. When a person who knows affirms in word and deed that his knowing is a lie, his light puts out a light, he destroys the Oxen of the Sun. What then? It is no wonder that the great luminary threatens "to go down to Hades and there shine among the dead," unless the full penalty is exacted for such a deed. In fact, he is already extinguished mentally for these men, and Zeus, voicing the world-order, can only hurry them off into darkness. Very wonderful is the thought lurking in the symbolism of the old seer: intellectual negation, skepticism, denial, culminating in the negative deed, will at last drive the Sun himself out of Heaven and send him below into the Underworld. It is highly probable, however, that the negative man will be sent down there first, as is done in the present case.

After slaying the Oxen of the Sun and repeating the offense many times, Ulysses and his companions must again meet life, and accordingly they set sail upon the sea, bound for home and country. But such men have not in them the elements of the Return. Storms arise, winds blow, the helmsman is killed by the falling mast, and the ship is struck by lightning. The destructive powers of nature seem to concentrate upon these destroyers; such is the decree of Zeus, carrying out his promise to the Sun; verily the Supreme God could not well do otherwise. Ulysses alone barely saves himself upon a fragment of the mast and keel; manifestly there is a difference between him and his companions, who disobeyed his order. The text says that "the companions feasted for six days," it would seem that he did not; still he is involved in their calamity, though not fully in their guilt. Here is, then, a distinction of importance, since upon it is based the saving of Ulysses, who is yet to have a career.

While Ulysses may not have personally participated in the guilty deed, he was not active against it, he did not apparently seem to restrain the repetitions of it, he was paralyzed in energy. It was his will which was defective, not his intellect; he did not commit the offense, but he did not stop it, and try to conciliate the wrath of the Gods by sacrifices, by what we now call repentance. Hence, while he does not perish, he is still unfinished, incomplete, with a limit to be removed. A training of the Will is to be gone through next, till it be able to do what Reason commands. A new discipline therefore is in store for the Hero after the loss of his ship and his companions.

What will this discipline be? To a degree his entire career must be worked over again from the beginning. Upon his fragment of wood he floats back to Scylla and Charybdis; he falls into the old dualism in one of its phases, for he cannot stay upon the Island of the Sun, the place of unity and rest and light. Indeed have we not just seen him in the fierce conflict between knowing and doing, which he has not been able to unify in the last adventure? So he drops back between the grinding mill-stones of two opposites; one of these opposites, the maelstrom Charybdis, is sucking him in, but he clutches the branches of a large fig-tree overhanging the whirlpool, and holds fast till his mast and keel return to the surface of the water, upon which he escapes.

One cannot help feeling that the poet in this description has a conscious meaning underneath, it is more or less allegorical. The will of Ulysses was paralyzed in the Island of the Sun, he is helplessly carried forward on the sea, till the yawning gulf of Charybdis (Despair) threatens to swallow him, when he puts forth a mighty effort of will, represented in his clinging to the branches of the fig tree, which extends Hope to him, and thus he rescues himself. Now he rows his raft "with both his hands," it is indeed time to exert anew his volition. Charybdis could not take him, on account of a saving germ in him still; she has to let him pass. Whither?

Naturally the next station rearward is that of the Sirens, and this in a general way is what Ulysses reaches in his relapse. He comes to the realm of the senses, for the fact is that this was the source of the great trouble in the Island of the Sun. The companions, pressed by appetite and the needs of the body, yielded up their conviction, their intelligence; they had not reached that strength of the spirit which prefers the death of the body to a surrender of the soul. Ulysses at last acquiesced, the problem was too great for him and so he also is cast out of the Island of the Sun back into the region of the senses. But it is a new region of the senses, not that of the Sirens, not that of Circe, both of which he has transcended by an effort of will-power; it is the realm of Calypso, the Concealer, which has been reached through the collapse of the will after the sin against light. There is unquestionably an affinity between Circe, the Sirens, and Calypso, yet there is also such a difference between them that the poet has assigned to them distinct domains, It is plain, too, that Ulysses in his present paralysis will remain long with Calypso, not at once will he recover his power after such a negation. He is hidden, as it were, in her Dark Island Ogygia after that undoing of light; he passes from the sun-world of Reason to its opposite. Calypso, therefore, is reached through the grand Relapse, not through the progressive movement, which we have seen him going through hitherto.

Still Ulysses has in him the germ of betterment, of salvation. He longs to reach home and country, to return to his institutional world; that spark of aspiration has a saving power; it will not be extinguished even in the sensuous delights of Calypso's bower.

Observations. In looking back at the Twelfth Book and thinking it over as a Whole, the reader will always feel that he has not fully sounded its depths. It has not exercised so great an influence upon mankind as the Eleventh Book, but it is probably profounder. It lures specially the thinker and the psychologist, it seems not only to set forth thought but the thought of thought. Very difficult is the poetic problem in such a case, the imaginative form really is driven to its utmost limit in order to express the content.

I. The first thing to be fully grasped and thoroughly studied is the structure of the Book. For structure is the primordial fact of any work, and especially of any great work, structure has always its own meaning and far-reaching suggestiveness, and it points directly to what the Book signifies, being its inner vital organism. In the Twelfth Book we shall ponder a little the three essential facts of its structure.

(1) There is the twofold division of the Book, while the other Books of Fableland have distinctly a threefold division. Herewith is coupled the duplication of its content; the second part repeats what is contained in the first part; or the first part tells in advance what is to be done in the second part. Thus the structure images dualism: Thought and Action, Word and Deed, Idea and Reality, Prophecy and Fulfillment. Yet it also hints the oneness in the dualism.

(2) The next point in structure is the threefold subdivision of each of the two parts. That is, now the structural principle falls back into that of the preceding Books of Fableland. Each part has its three main adventures with their respective environments and shapes, quite as each Book hitherto has had. What does this suggest to the reader—this duplication of the threefold form of the Book?

(3) Finally comes the very peculiar structure of the second adventure, which we have above called the Double Alternative. The dualism of the Book we may say, is now doubled, and transformed into the middle one of the three grand trials or exploits which the Hero has to pass through. The monster Scylla is here to be noted, with its six necks and heads, three on each side of the body, wherein again the triple is duplicated, though the body is certainly one. It was this monster which did most harm to Ulysses, snapping up six of his companions in the passage.

Such are the main points in the structure of the present Book, assuredly as great a marvel as anything recorded in the same, when it is once fully beheld. That it is intimately connected with the thought of the Book, is indeed the very form and mould thereof, is felt by every careful reader. But what is this thought? Here the difference begins, and the conflict of opinion ranges over and into fields diverse and far apart.

II. It may be said that the interpretations suggested by these three adventures—with the Sirens, with Scylla and Charybdis, and with the Oxen of the Sun—belong to two extremes; those of Nature and of Mind. Readers and commentators of different character and training will differ; one set will lean to the physical view, the other to the spiritual. It is our opinion that both views can find justification in the poem. We may first look at the physical interpretation.

All these monsters have been supposed to represent perils of navigation, especially in the Italian seas, which were frequented by the early Greek navigator. They have also been located geographically, to be sure in a variety of places. The Sirens dwelt on three dangerous rocks near the island of Capræa, according to ancient authorities; or they were found on the promontory between Pæstum and Elea, or even down at Cape Pelorum in Sicily. Why should they not be indeed everywhere! Then they have been supposed to personify the secret dangers of a calm sea, and their song is the music of splashing waters. Undoubtedly a physical substrate must be granted in the case of the Sirens, and in the Mythus generally; still they are truly everywhere, not only in the Italian Sea, but also in the sea of life, and they appear not only to the professional sailor but to every human navigator. Are literal rocks passed by putting wax into the ears of the crew and by tying the captain to the mast? Surely some other peril is suggested.

In the second adventure, the Plangctæ (the Claspers, not the Wanderers, as some translations give it), have been located at the Lipari Islands in the Sicilian Sea, where there is strong volcanic action. The well-known Symplegades of the Argonautic expedition which were placed at the entrance of the Euxine, were probably patterned after this Homeric conception, and transferred to the North-east. The two terrors, Scylla and Charybdis, lie in the straits of Messina, according to the accepted view, the former on the Italian side, the latter on the Sicilian. A town named Scilla still exists in those regions, and an eddy in the straits of Messina is still called Charilla (from Charybdis doubtless.) Etymologically Scylla means a bitch, Charybdis is allied with Chaos (from a Greek word meaning to yawn). Later legend gave to Scylla a great variety of forms, which were reproduced in art and poetry. One story represents her as having been a beautiful maiden who was loved by Glaucus, and who was turned into her present monstrous shape by Circe through jealousy, for the enchantress loved Glaucus too. The sucking-in of the waters by Charybdis, and her disgorging of them has been connected with the ebb and flow of the tides. It may also be added that the Plangctæ (in the sense of wandering or floating islands) have been supposed to refer to icebergs, some report of which may have reached the Homeric world through the Phœnician sailor, who must have passed outside of the straits of Gibraltar, into the Atlantic.

III. Such are some of the physical explanations which this Book has suggested; we may now consider it in relation to certain mental phenomena. Already we have unfolded the ethical meaning which especially lies in these shapes, and the Hero's struggle with them. But they have another and deeper suggestion; they adumbrate the nature of mind itself and the process of thinking; both in form and content the whole Book strangely points to psychology, as if the poet, having created these wonders of Fableland, were going to create his own creative act and present it in an image.

(1) The division of the Book into the two parts already alluded to in which each is what the other is, in which there are both separation and identity, calls up the fundamental fact of self-consciousness, which is often expressed in the formula Ego=Ego. Mind, Ego, separates itself into two sides, yet each side is the whole and recognizes the other side as itself. This act is the condition of knowing of every kind, which always differentiates then identifies. One step more: Circe in her prophecy gave the pure form of the idea, then came its realization, so that there is suggested the primordial distinction of the mind into Intellect and Will, or the Thought and the Deed. Thus we see in this division of the Twelfth Book the exact characteristic of subject-object, and there is still further suggested the distinction between Thinking and Willing.

(2) Passing to the threefold subdivision of each of the two parts, we observe that it also calls up psychological distinctions. Three stages of the knowing mind, Senses, Understanding, Reason, may be found here, not very definitely given, still distinctly implied. The Sirens represent the Sensuous, especially in its moral aspect; the Plangctæ with Scylla and Charybdis set forth a vivid image of the divisions and conflicts of the finite Understanding; the Oxen of the Sun point to the central light, that of Reason, which, when destroyed in any way, constitutes the chief human calamity.

Another curious psychological hint may be noted in the text of Homer. The Sirens, the first or implicit stage, are sometimes spoken of in the dual and sometimes in the plural; Homer would seem to imply that they are two in number, yet they always act and sing as one. That is, the dualism or separation is as yet implicit; but in the second stage (that of Scylla and Charybdis) it will become explicit with decided emphasis. Later legend made the Sirens three in number, and gave them names, and otherwise distinguished them; but this is not Homeric and indeed has lost the Homeric consciousness.

(3) The fact that the previous Books of Fableland have a threefold division only, while this threefold division is duplicated in the Twelfth Book, has also its psychological bearing in connection with the foregoing views. In the first case, the poet was not aware of his process, he yielded to the poetic act immediately; but in the second case, he is conscious, he knows his own process and prefigures it; he holds it up before himself in advance, just as Circe holds up before Ulysses his future career. Ulysses also must know in advance, hitherto he has simply followed instinct and chance, whithersoever they led. In like manner, the poet now shows himself knowing what he will do; his threefold organic movement, hitherto more or less implicit and unconscious, has become explicit and conscious, and can be prophesied. He himself thus is an example of the Ego which both casts before and forecasts itself, in other words is self-duplicated.

(4) Here, however, we must note a distinction. In all four Books of Fableland, Ulysses is the poet himself in a sense, he is singing his own adventures to the Court of Phæacia, he is well aware of what he has passed through and to what he has come.

He is not a Demodocus chanting heroic strains of the Trojan Past; he is Ulysses telling his own spiritual experiences after the taking of Troy. It has been already unfolded (p. 246-7) that he was in a negative, alienated condition; he had fallen out with and was separated from his Hellenic world, whereof this Fableland is the record. But he arrives at Phæacia, an harmonious institutional realm, then he becomes fully conscious of his negative condition and projects it out of himself in these Tales or Songs. So all Fableland shows this consciousness in the man; but the Twelfth Book shows him conscious not only of his negative state, but of his mental process, conscious of his consciousness, we may say; he is not only Thought, but is Thought thinking Thought, or at least imaging the same; that is, Thought has itself as its own object or content. So much we are inclined to find hinted in this duplication of the movement in the Twelfth Book.

At this point we hear the cry of dissent: You make Homer too introspective, you make him a self-introverted, self-torturing nineteenth century man, whereas he is the most unreflective, unconscious of poets. Very natural is such a protest, my good reader; this sort of thing may be carried too far, and become fantastic. Still it is a great mistake to think that Homer never takes a glance at his own mind and its workings. He must have looked within in order to see his world; where else was it to be found in any such completeness? He has built it, and he must have taken some interest in the architect and in his processes. Homer himself is a greater wonder than any wonder he has created, and he probably knew it.

It is by no means the purpose to affirm in the preceding remarks that Homer intended to make an allegorical psychology. He simply had a mind, and the essence of mind is to be able to look at mind. So Homer saw himself and his own process, and set it forth in an imaginative form. Very similar is the plan of Shakespeare in the Tempest. Prospero is the poet, not only as poet, but the poet making his drama in the drama. There is also a significant duplication both of structure and character: Prospero is at one time magician, that is, poet, and commands the elements and the spirits, especially Ariel; at another time he assumes his ordinary relations as parent and as king, and is as limited as other mortals. Shakespeare made many dramas, then he saw himself making dramas, then he put into a drama himself making dramas. That is, he in the end (Tempest is usually held to be the last of Shakespeare's plays) took up his own poetic process into a poem, and thus completed the arch of his great career.

So much for the psychological aspect of these Books of Fableland. It must be stated again that abstract terms, so necessary for an exact science of mind, had not been elaborated to any extent in Homer's day. Reflective language is a later product of Greek spirit. Still the philosopher is anticipated and prophesied in the poet, and it certainly cannot be amiss to trace vague premonitions and promises of the coming Plato and Aristotle in the old poet. Homer has in him the germ of the whole Greek world, and for that matter, much of the modern world also; the best commentary upon him is the 2500 years since his time.

IV. The slaying of the Oxen of the Sun has also its searching suggestiveness, and is found in one form or other in the World's greatest Books. Mind destroying mind may be shown as light extinguishing its own luminary; some such hint lies in the symbolism both of the act and its punishment. It is indeed the culminating point of negation—spirit denying spirit. This is the real sin against the Holy Spirit, unpardonable because repentance, all possibility of pardon is denied by the doer of the deed. As I understand him, this is the essence of the sin of Dante against Beatrice, with which she reproaches him in the last part of the Purgatorio. Suggestions of the same kind of guilt may be found in the characters of Shakespeare's Hamlet and Banquo, in whose cases the violation brings on a tragic fate; indeed every true tragedy has some touches of the light-denying or light-defying deed and its penalty. Above all rises in this respect the Faust of Goethe, the theme of which is explicitly intelligence denying intelligence, whereby the human mind becomes utterly negative, begets the Devil, and enters into compact with him for a life of indulgence. While such a state lasts, repentance is impossible.

Some such intimation ancient Homer must have had, and shadowed it forth in this strange symbolic deed. Ulysses having disregarded all he had learned by his long and bitter experience, leaving unheeded the warnings and prophecies of the Supersensible and the Sensible World (Tiresias and Circe), drops back into the sphere of Calypso, and has to serve the senses seven years till will and aspiration lift him again. Such a servitude was not uncommon in Greek legend, Hercules is the very embodiment thereof; even a God, Apollo, Light itself, has to serve Admetus, a mortal, in expiation of undivine guilt.

An important element of structure is to be noted at this point: the poem bifurcates and the reader has to move in two directions. If he wishes to follow the development of Ulysses, (which is indispensable) he must return with the latter to Calypso's Island and trace him through his three grand experiences—Oyggia, Phæacia, and Fableland. But if the reader wishes to continue in the action of the poem, he must now pass out of Fableland to Ithaca in the company of the Hero. (For this double movement of the Ulyssiad, see pp. 121-8.)

But before Fableland is left behind, its full sweep may be called up once more: from the Upperworld of Earth (Ninth and Tenth Books, both belong together in a general survey), which shows the negation of Greek ethical life and its conflicts, we pass to the Underworld of Hades, which on the one hand is the negation of all Greek sensible existence, and on the other hand is the revelation of the supersensible (soul, idea, world-justice); thence we come back to the Upperworld in which the idea, obtained beyond, is seen struggling with the reality in various negative phases—Ulysses, knowing in advance, is shown in his attempt to realize his knowledge in the deed. Such then, is this grand threefold sweep of Fableland.

One more retrospect: let us glance back at the whole Twelve Books, this first half of the Odyssey, composed of the Telemachiad and the Ulyssiad. Both are parts of one whole; father and son acquire each his special discipline for the coming deed. Both are brought to a recognition of the Divine Order, the son mainly through tradition, the father mainly through experience. Both reach beyond the sensible into the supersensible or ideal realm; Telemachus hears the story of Proteus, which teaches the essence in all appearance; Ulysses descends to Hades and there communes with pure mind without its terrestrial incumbrance, in the case of Tiresias and others. Such is the internal preparation; now they are to do the deed. The idea they possess, the next is to make it real.

Accordingly the action of the poem, with Ulysses as its center, moves next to Ithaca, the realm in which the idea is to be realized: wherewith we enter upon a new grand division of the poem.

(The reader who wishes to study the parallelism between this Twelfth Book and Prospero can consult the author's Commentary on Shakespeare, where it treats of the Tempest. In fact, the entire play, which is also a kind of Fairy Tale, has many correspondences with Homer's Fableland.)

ITHAKEIAD.

Such is the designation which we have concluded to give to the last twelve Books of the Odyssey, inasmuch as a name is needed for this portion corresponding to the Telemachiad and the Ulyssiad. The scene is laid wholly in Ithaca, the characters of the poem are all brought together, and the main conflict takes place. It is the country which is to be cleansed of violence and guilt; that Divine Order which father and son have learned about, each in his own way, they must now make real in the world, especially in their own land. Manifestly Ithaca represents the realm of wrong, of hostility to the social system of man; the Suitors defy Law, Family, State, Gods.

But Ulysses, before he can reform his country, has had to reform himself. When he attacked the Ciconians, he was as negative to institutional order as the Suitors themselves; he was not the man to destroy them at that time, he was too like them to undo their work. Hence the long discipline in Fableland, which has been fully explained in the preceding comments; hence too he had to see Phæacia, the ideal institutional life realized in Family and State, as well as in Industry and the Fine Arts. Let the reader note that he passes, not from Fableland, but from Phæacia, to Ithaca; having that Phæacian Idea in his soul, he can transform his own country. Thus he will truly save his companions, namely, the people, whom before he lost in Fableland.

Telemachus also in his training has seen much and brought back an ideal with him. He has heard the wise man Nestor and witnessed the religious life of Hellas in its highest manifestation. Pylos, Nestor's kingdom, is almost a Greek theocracy; the Gods appear visible at the feasts and hold communion with the people. Likewise at Sparta Telemachus saw a realm of peace and concord, in striking contrast with his own Ithaca; but chiefly he heard the Marvelous Tale of Proteus, after which he was eager to return home at once. Thus he too has had his experience of a social order, as well as his ideal instruction. Previous to his journey he had shown a tendency to despair, and to a denial of the Gods on account of the disorders of the Suitors in his house. Unquestionably he comes back to Ithaca with renewed courage and aspiration, and with an ideal in his soul, which makes him a meet companion for his father.

The third character is the swineherd Eumæus who is the great addition in this portion of the Odyssey. He too has had his discipline, which is to be recounted here; he has been stolen as a child and sold into slavery; still the most terrible calamities to himself and his master and to the House of Ulysses, have not shaken his fealty to the Gods. Thus in common with Telemachus and Ulysses he has faith in the Divine Order, and can cooperate with them in realizing the same in Ithaca. Very different has been his discipline from that of the other two, both of whom became negative and had to be sent away from home for training, but Eumæus has remained in his hut and never swerved in his fidelity to his sovereigns above and below, though he does not understand the providential reason for so much wrong and suffering.

To these three men we are to add the woman, Penelope, who has her part, perhaps the most difficult in this difficult business. She cannot resort to violence, she must use her feminine weapon, tact, with a degree of skill which makes her an example for all time. Indeed not a few of her sex declare that she has overdone the matter, and that her acts are morally questionable. But there can be no doubt that it is the part of tact to find fault with tact, and that woman will always decry woman's skill in artifice, without refraining from its employment altogether; indeed just that is a part of the artifice.

For this and similar reasons the moral bearings of this portion of the Odyssey have always aroused discussion. In general, the question comes up: What constitutes a lie? Is the disguise of Ulysses justifiable? Is the subtlety of Penelope morally reprehensible? The old dispute as to conduct rises in full intensity: Does the end justify the means? Two parties are sure to appear with views just opposite; the one excuses, the other condemns, often with no little asperity. The Odyssey has been denounced even as an immoral Book and both its hero and heroine have been subjected to a burning ordeal of literary damnation.

The poet has, however, his wrongful set, the Suitors, about whose character there is no disagreement. They are the negation of that Divine Order which is to be restored by those who believe in it—the three men who come together at the hut of the swineherd, and who have been trained by the time and circumstances just to this end. Ulysses has had to pass through his negative period and overcome the same within; now he is prepared to meet the Suitors and to destroy them without the negative recoil which came upon him after destroying the city of Troy. He can do a necessary deed of violence without becoming violent and destructive himself; he will not now re-enact the Ciconian affair.

Let us look into the inner movement of the matter here indicated. The slaughter of the Suitors by Ulysses was undoubtedly a negative act, yet the Suitors also were negative in conduct, wholly so; thus violence is met and undone by violence, or negation negates negation. What is the outcome? Manifestly a double result is possible: if a negative cancels a negative, there may remain still negation, or there may be a positive result. Ulysses has passed through the first of these stages by his discipline already recorded, after which he is master of the negative; the destruction of the Suitors will not now make him destructive, as did the destruction of Troy. It will be seen, therefore, that the poem has a positive outcome; after some trouble, Ulysses will renovate the country, will restore Family and State, in fine the whole Order which had been upset by the Suitors.

With the transition from Fableland occurs a marked change in the style of the poem. In the previous portions we have already noted the Marvelous Tale of Fairyland, the Heroic Tale of Troy, the Idyllic Epopee of the Present, the latter especially in Phæacia. But in these last twelve Books we read a story of actual social life, a story which almost strikes into the domain of the modern Novel. Still fabulous adventures will be interwoven—now more in the form of the novelette—with Phœnician and Egyptian backgrounds. Also a tone of humanity, even of sentiment, makes itself felt in various places. A new situation brings with it a new style, yet Homeric still. Hereafter these points will be more fully noticed.

We have already indicated the fact (p. 19) that Pallas starts to organize the Odyssey in Book First. Two portions she designates, the Telemachiad and the Ulyssiad, which really belong together, showing the spiritual palingenesis, or internal renovation of son and father ere they proceed to the renovation of their country. Such in general are the first twelve Books, showing the two masters of destiny, the two positive men with their idea; the second twelve Books show them realizing their idea, and doing the great deed for which they have been prepared.

This second half of the Odyssey falls into two divisions. The first is located at the hut of the swineherd and brings the three men together, whose general character has been already indicated; they have been trained by life to a living realization of the Divine Order. This division consists of four Books (XIII-XVI). The second division transfers the scene from country to town, from hut to palace. Ulysses in disguise will witness personally the full course of the wrong of the suitors, against his property, his family, his state, and against the Gods. Then he becomes the minister of the world-justice which he has already seen in Hades. Finally he harmonizes the distracted institutional life of his country and the poem ends. This second division embraces the last eight Books, and has its own special stages in its movement.

Survey of Books Thirteenth to Sixteenth. In this portion we are to witness the leading transition of the poem, that of Ulysses and Telemachus to Ithaca, the transition from the long and elaborate preparation for the act to the act itself, which is the supreme one of man, that of asserting and realizing the Divine Order. In these four Books is the gathering of the chosen forces into one spot and into one purpose—which forces have been hitherto separately developed; here it is that we behold the practical preliminary movement for destroying the Suitors. Hence arises the feeling which most readers express on a sympathetic perusal, that these four Books of the Ithakeiad, which is the name already given to the present division of the Odyssey, have enough in common to cause them to be grouped together in an organic survey of the poem. They have, first of all, unity of locality—the hut of the swineherd—to which, round which, and from which their incidents move. To be sure there is a glance at the enemy, the Suitors, who are at a different point; but even this glance serves to emphasize the setting common to these four Books, which is the abode of Eumæus. Very humble it is, but it stands in every way as the contrast to the palace.

This unity of place naturally suggests unity of action as to what is going on in that place. All the forces in opposition to the Suitors are secretly gathering there and organizing. It is the center of attraction which is drawing out of the universe every atom of congenial energy for punishing the transgressors. It has brought Ulysses from Phæacia, Telemachus from Sparta, and possesses already the faithful Eumæus in its own right. This is the fortress, and these are the three men who make the attacking army. They are now getting themselves together. All three have passed through a grand discipline just for the present end, which is to be the great deed of deliverance.

Moreover the place has a character of its own, a peculiar atmosphere in sympathy with its purpose. Its strength we feel, its adamantine fidelity to the House of Ulysses. It is a secluded spot in contrast to the palace; its occupant is a slave in contrast to the kings who are suitors; his business is to be the companion of swine in contrast to the regal entertainment at court. The highest and the humblest of the social order are here placed side by side; with what result? The unswerving rock of loyalty is the hut and the heart of the swineherd; upon it as the foundation the shattered institutional world of Ithaca is to be rebuilt. The lowest class of society is, after all, the basis of the edifice; if it remain sound, then the superstructure can be erected again after the fiery purification. But if it be utterly rotten, what then? Such, however, is not the case in Ithaca, as long as there exists a man like the swineherd. From his rock, then, and, still more, from his spirit, is to issue the energy which is to transform that perverted land of Ithaca.

Still, here too Ulysses is the pivot, the central character; the hero both in thought and action, for whom Eumæus furnishes a spatial and spiritual environment. The hut of the swineherd is but a phase, one landing-place in the career of Ulysses. An idyllic spot and forever beautiful; who but Homer has ever gotten so much poetry out of a pig-sty? We witness the transfiguration of what is the very lowest of human existence into what is the very highest, veritably the Godlike on earth.

Ulysses, however, has to remain in disguise even to his most faithful servant; not out of distrust we must think, but out of prudence. Knowing his master, the swineherd would be a different person in the presence of the Suitors; he has an open, sincere, transparent heart, and he would probably let the secret be seen which lay therein. The gift of disguise he possesses not, as Ulysses has clearly observed in his conversation; in this respect he is the contrast to the Hero himself. But Telemachus will get the secret, for he has craft, is the true son of his father; has he not just shown the paternal trait in cunningly thwarting the Suitors who are lying in wait for him, by the help of Pallas, of course?

In these four Books, accordingly, we behold one stage of the great preparation for the deed which is the culmination of the poem. Not now the disciplinary, but the practical preparation it is, when one is ready and resolved internally, and is seeking the method and means. Both Ulysses and Telemachus have had their training; now it must pass into action.

We behold, first, Ulysses making the transition from Phæacia to Ithaca, and thence to the fortress of loyalty, from which the movement is to be made. Secondly we see all the instruments getting together, and being prepared for the work, particularly the three heroes of the attack. Finally we observe Ulysses inquiring and learning all about the situation in Ithaca; he obtains everything that information at second hand can give. But hearsay is not enough; he must see at first hand. Thus we pass to the palace, and out of the first series of four Books, which we are next to consider separately.

BOOK THIRTEENTH.

In general, we have in this Book the grand transition from Phæacia to Ithaca, in both of its phases, physical and spiritual. The sea is crossed from land to land in a ship; the idyllic realm is left behind, and the real world with its terrible problem is encountered. Phæacia was quite without conflict. Ithaca is just in the condition of conflict and discord. Phæacia, moreover, was a land of looking back at the past, of reminiscence and retrospection; Ithaca is the land of looking directly into the face of the future, with the deed to follow at once; it is the field for action and not contemplation. Not only spatially, but also in thought we must regard this transition.

Ulysses has both these worlds in him; he is the man of thought and the man of action. Hitherto in his career the stress has been upon the former; henceforth it is to be upon the latter. In this Book, which is the overture marking the change in the key-note of the poem, we have three distinct facts brought out prominently and through them we can grasp the general structure. There is, first, the departure of Ulysses from Phæacia and arrival at Ithaca; secondly, when this is finished, there is the glance backward, on the part of the poet, to the miraculous voyage and to Phæacia itself, in which glance Neptune plays an important part; thirdly, there is the glance forward, which occupies most of the Book, taking in Ithaca and the future, in which glance Pallas, the Goddess of foresight, gives the chief direction, and Ulysses is her mortal counterpart. This is, accordingly, to a large extent a Book of divine suggestion; two deities appear, the Upper World plays into the Lower World, yet in very different manners. The God of the Sea seems to be an obstructionist, a reactionary, with look turned behind, an old divinity of Nature; while Pallas always has her look turned forward, and is furthering the great deed of purification, is wholly a divinity of Spirit. These three phases of the Book we shall note more fully.

I. We have a glimpse of the court at Phæacia; Ulysses has ended the long account of his experience, the time of action has arrived. The formal yet hearty farewell is described; the gifts of the host are given, and the guest is sent on his way. Nor must we forget the bard Demodocus, still singing at the banquet, but the theme of his song is not now mentioned; evidently it was some tale of Troy, as before, and this stage of song has been far transcended by Ulysses. Very eager the Hero was to start; "often he turned his head toward the all-shining Sun" to see how far away the hour still remained. He wishes to listen to no more lays of the Past, sweet though they be, nor does he desire to tell any tales himself.

Moreover we hear the great longing of his heart: "May I, returning, find at home my blameless wife!" In like manner he wishes domestic joy to the king, as this whole Phæacian world partakes more of the Family than of the State. Of course, he cannot leave without going to the heart and center of the Family, namely, Arete, wife, mother, and even judge of the people. So we hear from the lips of Ulysses a final salutation to her in her threefold character, "Within thy household rejoice in thy children, thy people and thy husband the king." She looks to the domestic part on the ship for Ulysses; she sends servants bearing bread, wine and garments for the passage. Nausicaa we feel to be present in the last interview, but not a word from her or from the departing guest to her; self-suppression is indeed the law for both, for is not Penelope the grand end of this voyage?

The ship of the Phæacians in which the passage is made is a miraculous one, and yet prophetic; it is gifted with thought and flies more fleet than a falcon, swiftest of birds. Again the mythical account prefigures the reality, and this little marvelous story of the sea hints, yes, calls for the speed of modern navigation. It is not a matter to be understood; Ulysses, the wise man, knows nothing about it, he is sunk in sleep while making the passage. But the wise man is to come to knowledge hereafter.

He has arrived in Ithaca, and entered a safe port; he, still deep in slumber, is laid on the shore with all his goods and gifts, when the mariners turn back. At this point we have an interesting description of the surroundings, wherein we may observe the poet's employment of nature as a setting for the returned Ulysses. There is the secure haven shutting off the winds and waves of the sea; at the end of the haven stands the olive tree, product of culture, and hinting the civilized world, which Ulysses now enters; it was a tree sacred to Pallas in later Greek legend, and, doubtless, in Homer's time also. Next came the cave of the Nymphs called Naiads, with its curious shapes of stone, the work of the Nymphs to the old Greek eye, but named stalagmites and stalactites in modern speech. Two are the entrances, one for Gods and one for men; both human and divine visitors come thither, it is indeed a point of meeting for the two influences, which is its essential suggestion. Ulysses, lying with his goods beneath the olive tree and near the cave, is under divine protection, which here Nature herself is made to declare. This scenery is not introduced for its own sake, but for the divinity in it, whereof another example is to follow in the case of Neptune.

There have been repeated attempts to identify the locality described by the poet with the present geography of Ithaca. Travelers have imagined that they have found the haven and cave, notably this was the case with Sir William Gell; but the more common view now is that they were mistaken. Homer from his knowledge of Greece, which has everywhere harbors, caves and olive-trees, constructed an ideal landscape for his own purpose, quite as every poet does. He may or may not have seen Ithaca; in either case, the poetic result is the same.

II. The physical transition from Phæacia to Ithaca is accomplished; while Ulysses is asleep, the poet casts a glance backward at the marvelous ship and at the marvelous land which has just been left behind. Both are henceforth to be forever closed to the real world and its intercourse; the realm of fable is shut off from Ithaca, and from the rest of this poem.

The matter is presented in the form of a conflict between the Phæacians and Neptune, between the sea-faring people and the sea; clearly it is one of the many struggles between Man and Nature which the Greek Mythus is always portraying, because these struggles were the ever-present fact in Greek life. The God has been circumvented by the speed of the navigators; Ulysses without suffering, without a storm, has reached Ithaca. "No more honor for me from mortals or Gods," cries Neptune, "if I can be thus defied?" He makes his appeal to the Highest God, and we hear the decision: "Turn the ship to a stone and hide the city with a mountain." The first is accomplished in view of the Phæacians; the second is possibly prevented by their speedy sacrifices to Neptune, and the new decree of the ruler, which forbids their giving further escort over the sea to strangers. At any rate Phæacia is shut off from the world, and has not been heard of since; there have been no more transitions thence since that of Ulysses. The marvelous ship and the marvelous city vanish forever by a divine act, even by the will of Zeus. Yet, on the other hand, they eternally remain, crystallized in these verses of Homer, more lasting than the rock of Neptune.

Why this interference from above? Wherein is the escort by the Phæacians a violation of the divine order as voiced by the Supreme God? Note that Ulysses has escaped, which is the will of Zeus; note, too, that the Phæacians are punished for helping him escape, which is also the will of Zeus. The sailors bring the wanderer to his home without trouble, but they are smitten by the God while returning.

For the primal suggestion of the legend, may we not say that the sea, that enormous force of Nature with many reserved energies in its vast bosom, though bestrid and subdued by a ship, at times breaks loose and destroys, in spite of skillful navigation and perfect machinery? Still to-day the sea has a residue of the uncontrollable, and probably will have for some ages to come. Neptune has not ceased from his wrath against the man of thought, who tries to straddle and ride him, and Zeus still supports at times the Sea-god's appeal for honor, when his prerogative is violated. Yet not always by any means, for Zeus belongs to the true Olympians, deities of intelligence, who once put down the old Gods of Nature.

Still Nature has its right, nay, its law with the penalty. The poet looks upon the sea as a great deity demanding sacrifice and honor. Furthermore, for every conquest made over it, there is the counterstroke, the resistance, which is the vengeance of the God. Thus says Zeus: "If any man, trusting in his own strength, refuses to give unto thee honor, always vengeance is thine afterwards."

We have already noticed the creed of the poet to be that every action has its penalty; the deed, even the good deed, is the fruit of a conflict and puts down something which has its might, aye its right, which is soon to make itself felt in counteraction. Es rächt sich alles auf Erden, sings our last world-poet in full harmony with his eldest brother.

It is not surprising that Alcinous at this point remembers an "ancient God-spoken oracle," which had uttered in advance the wrath of Neptune and the present penalty. In like manner, Polyphemus, in his crisis, remembered a similar oracle. It is indeed the deep suggestion of Nature which the sages have heard in all times. The poet takes his thought and works it into a mythical shape, in which, however, we are to see not merely the story but the insight into the world order.

Ulysses now leaves the sea, after having been chiefly in a struggle with it for years, ever since he sailed from Troy. It was the element in his way, the environment always hostile to him; Neptune was the deity who was angry and made him suffer. Still the God of the sea could not prevent his Return, such was the will of Zeus. Thus we cast a glance back at the Phæacians who vanish, and at Neptune who also vanishes.

The poem henceforth quits the sea, after marking the fate of the sea-faring people of Phæacia. That great mysterious body of water, with its uncertainties of wind and wave, with its hidden rocks and magic islands, is now to drop out of the horizen of the Odyssey. It is the great sea-poem of the Greeks, yes of the world; the sea is the setting of its adventurous, marvelous, illimitable portion. It comes out the sea, with its realm of wonders; henceforth it is a land poem in the clear finite world. Ulysses the Hero must turn his face away from the briny element; not without significance is that command given him that he must go till he find a people who take an oar for a winnowing-fan ere he can reach peace. So the fairy-ship ceased to run, but the steam-ship has taken its place in these Ithacan waters. Still the poetic atmosphere of the Odyssey, in spite of steam, hovers over the islands of western Greece to-day; the traveler in the harbor of Corfu, will look up at the city from the deck of his vessel and call back the image of Phæacia, and if he listens to the speech of the Greek sailors, he will find words still in use which were employed by old Homer, possibly were heard by the poet in this very harbor.

III. Next comes the most important and longest portion of the Book, turning the glance forward to Ithaca and the future, also to the great deed of the poem. A new deity appears when Neptune vanishes, not a hostile power of Nature but a helpful spirit of Intelligence—it is the Goddess of Wisdom, Pallas. This divine transition from the one God to the other is the real inner fact, while the physical transition is but the outer setting and suggestion.

Accordingly, the theme now is the man and the deity, Ulysses and Pallas in their interrelation. We are to have a complete account of the human unfolding into a vision of the divine. The movement is from a complete separation of the twain, to mutual recognition, and then to co-operation. Pallas has had little to do with Ulysses during his great sea-journey, and since he left Troy. That long wandering on the water was without her, lay not at all in her domain, which is that of clear self-conscious Intelligence. That misty Fableland is the realm of other divinities, though she appeared in Phæacia.

The question, therefore, is at present: How shall this man come into the knowledge of the Goddess? How shall he know the truth of the reality about him in his new situation, how understand this world of wisdom? The sides are two: the man and the deity, and they must become one in spirit. The supreme thing, therefore, is that Ulysses hear the voice of Pallas, and develop into unity with her; indeed that may be held to be the supreme thing in Religion and Philosophy: to hear the voice of God. Even in the business of daily life the first object is to find out the word of Pallas.

Such is the dualism in the world, which must be harmonized; but in the individual also there is another dualism which has to be harmonized. Ulysses is mortal, finite, given over to doubt, passion, caprice, is the unwise man, subjective; but he is also the wise man, has an infinite nature which is just the mastery of all his weakness; he has always the possibility of wisdom, and will come to it by a little discipline. He will rise out of his subjective self into the objective God. This is just the process which the poet is now going to portray; the Hero overwhelmed in his new situation and with his new problem, is to ascend into communion with Pallas, is to behold wisdom in person and hear her voice, and then is to advance to the deed. This process we may look at in four different stages, as they unfold on the lines laid down by the poet.

1. First we have quite a full picture of Ulysses before he reaches the recognition of the Divine, and of his gradual climbing-up to that point. At the start he is asleep, is not even conscious of the external world about him, he has indeed entered a new realm, yet old. As long as the Phæacian spell is upon him, he can do nought but slumber. Then he wakes, he sees but does not recognize his own country. He doubts, he blames the Phæacians wrongfully, in his distrust of them he counts over his treasures. He is now the unwise, capricious man; he has no perception of Pallas; not only the land is in disguise to him, he is in disguise to himself, to his better self.

Yet the poet is careful to mark the providential purpose just in this disguise. The Goddess threw a mist over things, that he might not know them, or make himself known till all was in readiness for the destruction of the Suitors, till she had told him what he had to do. Still it is his own act or state that he cannot at first hear the voice of the Goddess.

The next step is that he recognizes the country, it is described to him and named by Pallas. But she is in disguise now; she has appeared, but not in her true form; she is not yet wisdom, but simply identifies the land, telling him: "This is Ithaca." Thus he recognizes the external landscape, but not the Goddess, who is as yet but a simple shepherd describing things.

Now what will he do? He also will disguise himself to the shepherd, because he does not recognize who it is. He makes up a fable to account for his presence and for his goods. Both are now in disguise, the man and deity, to each other. They are doing the same thing, they are one, with that thin veil of concealment between them.

Then comes the mutual recognition. She tears away the veil, laughs at his artifice, and calls out her own designation: Pallas Athena. She had previously named Ithaca, which brings the recognition of the outer world; now she names herself, which brings the recognition of the divine world. Thus Ulysses has rapidly passed from sleep through a series of non-cognizant states, till he beholds the Goddess.

2. Both the deity and mortal have now reached the stage of mutual recognition, and thrown off their mutual disguise, which was a false relation, though it often exists. Does not the man at times conceal himself to the God, by self-deception, self-excuse, by lying to his higher nature? In such case is not the God also hidden, in fact compelled to assume a mask? Thus the poet brings before us the wonderful interplay between the human and divine, till they fully recognize each other.

At once Pallas changes, she assumes a new form, the outward plastic shape corresponding to her Godhood in the Greek conception, that of "a woman beautiful and stately." Nor must we forget that Ulysses has also changed, the two transformations run parallel, in the spirit of the man and in the form of the Goddess. This unity of character also is stated by Pallas; "both of us are skilled in wiles; thou art the best of mortals in counsel and in words; I am famed among the Gods for wisdom and cunning." Hence her argument runs, let us throw off disguise to each other, for we have a great work before us.

It is also to be noted by the reader that each, the man and the Goddess, ascribes to the other the credit of skill and forethought, specially the credit of coming to Ithaca in disguise to discover the true situation. Says Pallas: "Another man would have rushed to see wife and children in his house, but thou wilt first test thy wife." Here the Goddess gives the thought to the man. Says Ulysses: "Surely I would have perished in my own palace, like Agamemnon, if thou, O Goddess, hadst not told me everything aright." Here the man gives the thought to the Goddess. This is not a contradiction, both are correct, and the insight is to see that both are one, and saying the same thing at bottom. The deity must be in the man, as well as in the world; and the man must hear the deity speaking the truth of the world ere he attain unto wisdom.

Even the mist which hung over the landscape at first, has now completely vanished; Ulysses recognizes all the local details—the haven, the olive-tree, the grot of the Nymphs, and the mountain; all the Ithacan objects of Nature come back fully. But chiefly he recognizes the Goddess, whereupon both can pass to the great matter in hand—the deed.

3. This deed has been often mentioned before—the purification of Ithaca, chiefly by the slaughter of the Suitors, "the shameless set, who usurp thy house and woo thy wife." Sitting on the roots of the sacred olive, the two, the man and the deity, plan destruction to the guilty. Verily those double elements, the human and the divine, must co-operate if the great action be performed. The eternal principle of right, the moral order of the world, must unite with the free agency of the individual in bringing about the regeneration of the land. Thus after their complete recognition and harmony, which takes place out of separation, Ulysses and Pallas look forward to the impending deed, which is their unity realized and standing forth as a fact in the world.

4. Finally we have the manner of doing the deed, the plan is laid before us. Pallas tells Ulysses that he must again assume his disguise, both in the hut of the swineherd and in the palace at Ithaca. She does not propose to do his work for him; on the contrary it must be his own spontaneous energy. In fact, Pallas is in him making this suggestion, yet outside of him, too, speaking the voice of the situation.

The scheme shows the structure of these four Books (XIII-XVI), organized of course by Pallas. Ulysses is to go to the swineherd who is loyal, and will give shelter. Telemachus is to be brought to the same place by Pallas, not externally, as we shall see, but through the free act of Telemachus himself. Thus the three chosen men are gathered together in their unsuspected fortress. Two things we must note in regard to these movements: they are wholly voluntary on part of the persons making them, yet they belong in the Divine Order, and thus are the work of the deity. Free-Will and Providence do not trammel each other, but harmoniously co-operate to the same end. So carefully and completely is this thought elaborated that we may consider it fundamental in the creed of the poet.

In such manner the weak, finite Ulysses is brought into communion with the immortal Goddess. Yet he, the poor frail mortal, drops for a moment even here. When Pallas speaks of Telemachus having gone to Sparta, to learn about his father, Ulysses petulantly asks: "Why did not you, who know all things, tell that to him" without the peril of such a journey? The answer of Pallas is clear; I sent him in order that he might be a man among men, and have the good fame of his action. Telemachus, too, must be a free man; that is the education of Pallas. The Goddess will help him only when he helps himself. Divinity is not to sap human volition, but to enforce it; she would unmake Telemachus, if she allowed him to stay at home and do nothing, tied to his mother's apron strings.

And here we cannot help noting an observation on Homer's poetry. It must be in the reader ere he can see it in the book. Unless he be ready for its spirit, it will not appear, certainly it will not speak. There must be a rise into the vision of Homeric poetry on the part of the reader, as there is a rise into the vision of the Goddess on the part of Ulysses. The two sides, the human and the divine, or the Terrestrial and the Olympian, must meet and commune; thus the reader, too, in perusing Homer, must become heroic and behold the Gods.