.^/.. 
 
 .-f 
 
 
 .-jt. 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 FROM THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 munvQ W. Sage 
 
 1891 
 
 ^ ^^■^■7^g^' ;^ : -U/T^/.c':.. 
 
 ^ 6896-1 
 
OUNUBRARY-CIRCULAT'C.. 
 IDATE DUE 
 
 -PP^-r-^fW-H, 
 
 .«)^ 
 
 
 
 -' 
 
 * o 
 
 
 ^^6 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 '"■^^^ 
 
 36 AP si-f» 
 
 
 
 ■^ 
 
 
 
 
 &j3j:^»4 
 
 ^^^Ifm 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 -'^'cW^ 
 
 lawwfiSRi^^y'iS'^C* 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CATLORD 
 
 
 
 PRINTEOINU.a.A. 
 
 _ Cornell University Library 
 
 PA 4037.S79 ' 
 
 Homer & the Iliad: 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026671887 
 

HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
%■ ■■*:. 
 
HOMER ^ THE ILIAD 
 
 . AN ESSAY TO DETERMINE THE SCOPE 
 AND CHARACTER OF THE 
 ORIGINAL POEM 
 
 BY 
 
 F. MELIAN STAWELL 
 
 NEWNHAM COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE 
 
 ILLtJSTRATED 
 
 LONDON: J. M. DENT &> CO. 
 
 29 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. 
 1909 
 
"i" 
 
 ^Fh, 
 
 
 %»— 
 
 ^// rights reserved. 
 
 'CL 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson &> Co. 
 At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ) 
 
 CHAF. 
 
 I. INTRODUCTION 
 
 II. THE OPENING OF THE TALE 
 
 III. THE CHAkACTER OF ACHILLES 
 
 IV. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. . 
 V. THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS (BOOKS XI.-XV, 
 
 VI. THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 
 VII. THE DEATH OF HECTOR 
 VIII. THE CLOSING SCENES . 
 IX. THE STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ILIAD XXIII 
 AND XXIV. 
 " X. THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 
 XI. THE ODYESSY 
 XII. THE WANDERINGS 
 
 XIII. THE HOUSE OF DEATH 
 
 XIV. THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS . 
 XV. THE ARMOUR 
 
 XVI. HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 
 
 APPENDICES — 
 
 A. CONSPECTUS OF THE ORIGINAL ILIAD 
 
 B (l). ODYSSEAN LINES FROM ILIAD I. AND 
 
 XXIV. . * 
 
 B (2). ODYSSEAN WORDS FROM ILIAD XXlI. 
 AND XXIV. 
 
 C. ILIAD AND ODYSSEY : GRAMMAR, &C. 
 
 D. ON ODYSSEY XI. 235-327 (THE HEROINES) 
 
 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 I I 
 21 
 31 
 
 44 
 60 
 
 71 
 82 
 
 93 
 105 
 121 
 
 140 
 
 ^53 
 168 
 190 
 213 
 
 23s 
 238 
 
 247 
 
 251 
 327 
 
 329 
 
HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The fierceness and confusion of the controversy over the 
 Iliad has become proverbial. Yet, if we could approach 
 the poem without prejudice and take it as freshly as we can 
 take a modern work of art, every one, I think, would be 
 surprised, not that the controversy has been so bitter and 
 so long, but that until the close of the eighteenth century 
 there was so little controversy at all. For, as the Iliad 
 comes to us, it offers the strangest mixture of unity and 
 inconsistency, of system and dislocation. The main outline 
 of the epic, just as it stands, is at once simple and profound, 
 clear and subtle. Familiar as it is, we shall do well for 
 our purpose to recall it here. At the outset we are shown 
 the two great armies, Greek and Trojan, — both winning our 
 sympathy, — the one fighting for honour and justice, the other 
 for home and country. We are shown Helen, the fair 
 woman who is at once the cause of the war and its prize ; 
 we are shown the two kings, Priam in his noble endurance, 
 Agamemnon in his restless activity ; we are shown the two 
 champions, Achilles and Hector, both lovable and attrac- 
 tive to us, sworn enemies to one another. 
 
 The tale opens ominously with the fateful quarrel 
 between Achilles and Agamemnon. Passionate by nature, 
 Achilles' refuses to fight for the man who has insulted him ; 
 he withdraws from the battle with all his men, hoping that 
 
2 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 disaster will follow his withdrawal. This hope is ful- 
 filled ; but, when the disaster actually comes, he is touched 
 in spite of himself by the distress of his countrymen, and 
 when his bosom friend Patroclus appeals to him for pity 
 he relents, so far at least as to send his forces to the rescue 
 under his friend's command. Patroclus is killed by 
 Hector ; and in a fury of remorse and revenge Achilles 
 comes back to the war. Greek and Trojan meet at last for 
 their mortal struggle. Achilles slays Hector, though he 
 knows that Hector's death is the signal for his own ; and 
 blinded, as before, by passion, he refuses to give back the 
 dead body to the Trojan's kin. The pain of the tragedy 
 is now at its height. The mainstay of Troy has fallen ; 
 Achilles is doomed ; there seems only hatred between 
 the foes. But once more we have an appeal for pity, this 
 time from Trojan to Greek, from the old Priam to the 
 man who has killed his son ; and once more Achilles' heart 
 is touched ; he relents, as he had relented before, and thus 
 we are led out of the very stress of the conflict to " the 
 high and solemn close of the whole bloody tale in tender- 
 ness and inexpiable sorrow." ^ 
 
 This is a glorious plan, but it comes to us blurred by 
 gross inconsistencies, flat repetitions, inexplicable delays. 
 Small wonder that the fight has been bitter between those 
 who refuse to believe that the harmony can be due to any- 
 thing but the creative genius of one mind, and those who 
 ask how any man could have spoilt his own work by such 
 unnecessary flaws. 
 
 The old answer was that the flaws were due to the 
 carelessness of a great but unequal poet. " Aliquando 
 bonus dormitat Homerus." But this answer, though 
 specious, appears unsatisfactory when we realise the nature 
 of the flaws. Many of the worst inconsistencies occur 
 between passages that are not only swift and brilliant, but 
 highly-finished, and written with every appearance of care. 
 
 ^ Shelley, Letter to John Gisborne, Nov. 1820. 
 
INTRODUCTION ■ 3 
 
 For instance, it is the magnificent Ninth Book (describing 
 the futile embassy to Achilles) that conflicts with the 
 equally fine words of Achilles himself in Book xi. and the 
 characteristic excuses of Agamemnon in Book xix. Or 
 else long passages, comparatively dull, such as the rally of 
 the Greeks under Poseidon (xiii.-xv. init.), are inserted in 
 such a way as actually to impede the natural onward 
 movement of the tale. 
 
 Thus, in spite of the brilliant defence by Andrew Lang,^ 
 the theory of a single Homer to whom the whole of the 
 Iliad is due has been gradually given up. Most scholars 
 would admit now that the poem, as we have it, shows 
 traces of more hands than one. Nor would they think it 
 foolish to suppose that there was a whole cluster of great 
 epic poets in one generation ; rather the analogy of 
 literature elsewhere would suggest that this was so. On 
 the other hand, the " short-lay " theory is generally dis- 
 credited ; some strong unifying story must have been 
 created at the very first to serve as the principle of growth. 
 The growth is too harmonious, when all is said, the canity 
 too great, to be accounted for in any other way. The 
 cantos which, on a cursory view, might be supposed to 
 build up the tale are all found on inspection to pre- 
 suppose it, at least in its broader outlines. 
 
 It is not rash, therefore, to assume as a working hypothesis 
 that our Iliad consists of an original core, a noble tale 
 wrought by one poet, still perhaps recoverable in its entirety, 
 but overlaid with later additions, springing out of and 
 adjusting themselves, more or less neatly, to the primitive 
 work. Such additions, it has been suggested,^ arose from 
 the demand among the eager listeners for more songs on 
 the same theme ; and such songs would be coloured by the 
 original conception, sung in connection with the original 
 poem, but not necessarily held to be part of it, nor sung at 
 
 ' Even he would surrender the Doloneia in Book x. 
 
 * Notably by M. Croiset in his Histoire de la LitUrature Grecque. 
 
4 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the same sitting, nor always consistent with it in detail. 
 The verisimilitude of the epic narrative furnishes many 
 starting-points for such lays ; M. Croiset gives as an instance 
 the passage where Andromache speaks of the three attacks 
 made upon the Trojan wall, "close to the fig-tree" (Book 
 vi. 433 ff.). As it chances, we have no song about these 
 attacks, but how natural it might have been to ask for one ! 
 Again, the scene of the assembly in Book ii., and the pro- 
 posal to return to Greece, may well have been prompted by 
 a demand for some account of what happened during " the 
 twelve days," between the defection of Achilles and the 
 Greek attack in force. (See below, chap, ii.) Songs like 
 these, when successful, would be accepted as part of their 
 stock by the bards, and take a place in what we might call 
 the "corpus" of the Iliad ; the epic tags and formulas pro- 
 viding convenient links, introductions, and endings. The 
 closeness of connection with the original would vary in 
 varying cases ; the position of each in the time-sequence 
 would, no doubt, be indicated roughly by its nature, but 
 some incidents, such as the night-raid of Diomede and 
 Odysseus in Book x., might easily be taken up and 
 dropped at will ; another, such as the futile embassy to 
 Achilles (Book ix.), might so impress the fancy that many 
 bards and many listeners would scarcely think of the story 
 without it. The whole process of accretion would be aided 
 by the custom of oral publication and transmission, which 
 seems to have been the rule in the Homeric world, whether 
 writing was practised also or not.^ 
 
 But another consequence would be likely to follow. 
 
 1 Dr. Evans' wonderful discoveries have established the existence of 
 writing in the pre-Homeric world. But this writing is as yet undeciphered, 
 and the main evidence we have to go by is still from the poems themselves. 
 There is no clear reference to writing in either Iliad or Odyssey. Oral 
 publication and transmission are both suggested by the description of the 
 intentness with which the newest song is heard, and by the incident of the 
 ^/zW minstrel (Od. i. 351 ; viii. 64). On the other hand, it is quite possible 
 that written versions did exist, supporting memory and tradition, although 
 accessible only to few. 
 
INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 In process of time there might be good cause to fear con- 
 fusion, loss, and obscurity, and then would arise the desire 
 for an authoritative version. There is, therefore, ante- 
 cedent probability for some truth underlying the tradition 
 that Peisistratus, in the sixth century B.C., found the poems 
 scattered and confused, and had them carefully collected 
 and arranged in a definite sequence. Discrepancies and 
 incoherencies would, of course, be all the more manifest 
 when old and new were thus tightly bound together. But 
 there is nothing surprising in their being left unharmonised 
 if we may believe, and we surely may, that by this time 
 the whole body of the poems had come to be regarded 
 with love and reverence as the work of a mighty past. 
 Hebrew literature might furnish many parallels. 
 
 With such a view, so stated in general outline, I am 
 entirely in sympathy ; and I believe, moreover, that it is 
 quite possible to disentangle the original core of the Iliad 
 from the present mass. But the reconstructions actually 
 proposed seem open to serious criticisms. It appears to 
 me that certain important considerations have been over- 
 looked, and that in their light we should discover the 
 original to be far more like the Iliad as we have it now 
 than has usually been supposed. 
 
 In the first place, much of the traditional poem has 
 scarcely had a fair chance at the hands of modern critics. 
 Scenes where the drift and bearing are not obvious at once 
 have been cut away without further thought. But a great 
 dramatic poem does not give up all its secrets at once. 
 There are subtle harmonies that can only be realised clearly 
 after long and sympathetic study : the work on Shakespeare 
 might suffice to prove this. And Homer, like Shakespeare, 
 can put in very important points very quietly.' We may 
 miss them, and that is our loss. The poet will not over- 
 emphasise them for our sakes. Therefore it is not enough 
 to ask ourselves whether such and such a passage could be 
 cut out and the story still hang together ; we must ask 
 
6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 further whether the omission really leaves the figures as 
 solid, the story as enthralling, the background as ^and, as 
 before. I feel sure that the full consequences of their own 
 excisions have not always been noticed by the critics who 
 have made them. They cannot entirely strip away the 
 memory of the " later accretions " ; there are even in- 
 stances of their praising the recovered " original " for 
 effects which could not have been obtained without the 
 " later interpolations." 
 
 Secondly, a theory of " accretions " that is formed to 
 account for glaring discrepancies brings, or should bring, 
 with it a clear presumption against a certain type of ex- 
 cision. To cut away not only individual scenes, but all 
 allusions to such, however numerous, however far apart, 
 however skilfully inwoven with their context, on the plea 
 that they were added in order to harmonise old and new, 
 is surely to prove too much. If the need for adjustment 
 was felt to this extent, if the adjustment was done with 
 this delicate care, how did it ever happen that the gross 
 blots were allowed to enter or remain.'' That many 
 scholars do overlook this difficulty will be shown in detail 
 later — for instance, in the matter of Achilles' armour. 
 The fact is that, on any theory, it must be admitted that 
 the Iliad, as we have it, shows, again and again, the marks 
 of carelessness at the joints. Whole scenes and passages 
 which do not cohere with the rest have got into the poem 
 somehow, and have been left there. This is perfectly 
 intelligible on a theory of loose additions, afterwards 
 piously preserved in one block without any attempt at 
 elaborate harmonising between old and new ; but a critical 
 theory that assumes, throughout the growth and the 
 editing, a constant union of gross carelessness and minute 
 care is liable to just the same objection as the old theory 
 of a great but negligent poet. It will not stand the test 
 of thinking out in detail. We shall find ourselves in as 
 much difficulty as before if it is really impossible; to confine 
 
INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 the work of our supposed " diaskeuasts " within narrow 
 limits, if we have to go far beyond the introduction of 
 those few connecting lines and passages that would become 
 necessary when the whole mass of the poems was made 
 strictly continuous. But I believe there is no need to go 
 beyond these limits, no need for the highly complex 
 theories of dove-tailing and interweaving that are so 
 common in the writings of the critical school. Inspection 
 will show, I believe, that the vast majority of the additions 
 to the original Iliad are of the nature of " cadenzas " in 
 music — strains of melody, brief or long, good or bad, that 
 start from the main theme and return to it and can be 
 dropped out of it without disturbing the rest of its 
 texture.^ 
 
 It seems worth while, then, to examine and re-examine 
 with these points in mind both the poem itself and the 
 reconstruction that holds the field. That reconstruction 
 is very brief. The original poem is supposed to contain 
 only the quarrel and its sequel in Book i., the rout of the 
 Greeks in xi., the sending of Patroclus, his death, the 
 return of Achilles, and the slaying of Hector (parts of 
 xv.-xxii.). This view (which goes back in its main 
 features to Grote) has been advocated in England with 
 great ability by Dr. Leaf,^ and it appears also to have 
 received the approval of Jebb. And the general pre- 
 suppositions that underlie such expansional theories have 
 been worked out with singular skill and persuasiveness by 
 Professor Murray in his " Rise of the Greek Epic." There 
 is much, of course, in the work of all three scholars that 
 I thankfully accept, but I wish to plead for the inclusion 
 in the original Iliad of much that they omit. In particular 
 I would urge the retention of Books xxiii. and xxiv. 
 
 ' There are, of course, on any theory a certain number of purely mis- 
 taken interpolations, such as 1. 45 in II. xxiv., the comment on aidos, or 
 1. 558 in the same book (bracketed by Monro). But almost every classical 
 author suffers from such disfigurements as these. 
 
 * " Companion to the Iliad'' : Edition of the Iliad (2 vols.). 
 
8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 In what follows I shall refer to Dr. Leaf as the pro- 
 tagonist, because his statement is so detailed, and it is on 
 detail that my argument turns. For convenience' sake I 
 shall call his proposed " original " by the name of the 
 " Menis " or " Wrath of Achilles," although it is true 
 that some scholars consider it essentially an Iliad and not 
 an Achilleid. This, by the way, is perhaps an instance 
 where the memory of the traditional poem still influences, 
 and unduly, those who have, in theory, given it up. Our 
 old Iliad is charged with the majesty of Troy's greatness 
 and doom ; but where can this be found in the brief 
 "Wrath of Achilles"? 
 
 My aim throughout is to urge that the poem thus 
 curtailed, far from being an artistic whole, is essentially 
 a fragment, calling at every point, and especially at the 
 end, for something more, if it is to be, as a poem, really 
 intelligible, alive for the imagination and the heart. It 
 appears to me that scene after scene, placed in this un- 
 natural isolation, loses incalculably in depth and value, 
 alike whether we consider the total general impression, or 
 the special characteristics of the detail. For instance, 
 Hector's last stand before the city (Book xxii.) is infinitely 
 more pathetic if we have learnt to think of him as the 
 husband of Andromache (Book vi.) ; while, in view of his 
 chivalrous nature, the idea of surrendering Helen to save 
 his own life is little short of unintelligible, unless we 
 remember that she is forfeit by the terms of the duel in 
 iii. Again, the struggle on the battlefield in xi. is far 
 more interesting as a whole if we have come to realise 
 what the heroes are fighting for ; the individual heroes 
 themselves are hardly more than names to us if we must 
 pass at once to this Book from Book i., whereas they are 
 living beings whom we know and admire if we have iii. 
 and iv. and vi. to instruct us. Again and again individual 
 touches occur in the " Menis " which, if we are confined to 
 the " Menis," appear to have no bearing on the situation. 
 
INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 remain barren and irrelevant within its petty scope, but 
 start into vivid life once we put them into connection 
 with some passage now expunged as "late." Such is the 
 reference to Achilles' mercy in xi. (104-106); such is the 
 vision of youthful love that passes before Hector's mind 
 in xxii. (126-128). These are but fragmentary illustra- 
 tions. Detailed study is necessary to show how incessant 
 and intimate is the connection between the " Menis " and 
 certain of the supposed additions, a connection that can- 
 not be explained unless we admit that the latter influenced, 
 and influenced profoundly, the entire structure of the 
 former. The natural inference from that admission must 
 be that both are by the same hand. If it is suggested that 
 later poets may have remodelled an early " Menis " in the 
 light of the subsequent additions, I answer that such a 
 suggestion gives up the basis on which the argument for 
 the proposed " Menis " stands. The fundamental conten- 
 tion has usually been that this " poem " can be distinguished 
 from the rest as a relatively independent whole, self-con- 
 tained, and perceptibly different in spirit and character. 
 If this position is abandoned, there seems no adequate 
 reason to suppose the existence of any such " Menis " at 
 all. For I hope to show (in c. ix.) that the supplementary 
 argument drawn from the assumed "lateness" of style 
 and language in Books xxiii. and xxiv. is equally baseless. 
 Songs, sagas, poetic matter, traditions of all kinds, no 
 doubt lie behind every part of our Iliad, even the earliest, 
 but it does not in the least follow that there was ever 
 an early poem such as the one proposed to us, starting 
 with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon, and 
 ending with the unredeemed ferocity shown by Achilles 
 to Hector. Certainly if such there ever was, it has been 
 remodelled from top to bottom. On the other hand, I 
 do believe that an early version of the Iliad not only did 
 exist, but is still in existence, and can be' discovered on 
 a fair analysis of the whole poem that has come down 
 
lo HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 to us. This version does not contain the futile embassy 
 to Achilles in Book ix., but it does contain, and could not 
 be conceived without, the present beautiful close in xxiii. 
 and xxiv.^ 
 
 The " proof" of these assertions (so far as proof is 
 possible in such matters) depends on the detailed examina- 
 tion that follows. 
 
 I have found it impossible to present my results with- 
 out repeating much that has been so well said already as 
 to become something of a commonplace to scholars. I 
 have done this for the sake of clearness, and can only 
 trust it may not prove too wearisome. 
 
 * This version I call the " Original," as I do not think that with our 
 knowledge we can go behind it, and as I conceive it to bear throughout the 
 original stamp of a mighty poet. But I would not for a moment deny that 
 this poet may have used earlier material, say, as Shakespeare used his 
 Plutarch. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE TALE 
 
 The general effect of the opening scene cannot, it is true, 
 teach us much for our present purpose. Whether planned 
 for the opening of the " Wrath " or the opening of a larger 
 fate, it is almost equally effective. This is due to the simple 
 fact that it is the opening. All that is really needed in 
 either case, so far as the general impression goes, is to pre- 
 pare our minds for something great and terrible to follow 
 as the result of the quarrel ; and the " Wrath " itself con- 
 tains the deaths of Patroclus and of Hector, which are 
 terrible enough. But the case is different when we come 
 to look at the matter in detail. First, however, we must 
 deal with the famous prologue, for one of the most plausible 
 arguments brought by the advocates of the "Wrath" is 
 based upon its character. The important lines run as 
 follows : " Sing, goddess, sing of the wrath of Achilles, 
 the accursed wrath that brought ten thousand sorrows on 
 the Achaians and hurled many a noble life down to the 
 House of Death. . . . And the will of Zeus began to be 
 fulfilled from the hour that King Agamemnon and the 
 great Achilles quarrelled with one another" (i. 5-7).^ 
 
 Now it is urged that these lines do not suggest the 
 vast sweep of our present poem. Nothing, for instance, 
 is said expressly about the doom of Troy. And the 
 inference is drawn that the poem to follow dealt with the 
 wrath of Achilles alone. 
 
 1 "and so the counsel of Zeus wrought out its accomplishment from the 
 day when first strife parted Atreides, king of men, and noble Achilles." 
 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers.) Others take the last clause in close connection 
 with the first line : " Sing of the wrath, beginning from the hour that," &c. 
 
12 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 But there are three points to notice. If the invocation 
 is to be taken as a kind of overture that must summarise 
 all the themes, why have we no reference to the death of 
 Hector, or to the special grief that is to fall on Achilles 
 himself? Because, it might be answered, (and rightly,) 
 both are implied in the general disaster. But if the poet 
 may imply so much as this, he might surely imply the 
 doom of Troy as well, bound up, as it is, with the fall of 
 Hector. Secondly, we are not compelled to take the 
 invocation as any such epitome at all. It is the Homeric 
 custom to introduce any specially striking incident by an 
 appeal to the Muse, without prejudice to further develop- 
 ments. We might almost as well say that the cry intro- 
 ducing the wounding of Agamemnon in xi. 2i8 ("Tell 
 me now, Olympian Muses, tell me who faced Agamemnon 
 first") ought to make us suspect that the encounters with 
 the other chiefs are later additions. And, finally, I think 
 good reason can be shown for believing that there is, after 
 all, an actual reference to the taking of Troy. The advo- 
 cates of the "Wrath" and the "Wrath" alone must take 
 "the will of Zeus" in the last lines to mean nothing but 
 his will to honour Achilles by humiliating the other Greeks. 
 But this is not the most natural interpretation, for Zeus 
 never thought of honouring Achilles in this way till after 
 the quarrel, when Thetis had implored him. His will in this 
 respect was a mere consequence of the quarrel. But the verses, 
 however we take them, suggest that " the will of Zeus " in 
 some sense underlay the quarrel itself : that "the fulfilment" 
 is the fulfilment of some long-delayed decree, already float- 
 ing in his mind, to which the quarrel is a necessary prelude. 
 And if this decree involves the fate of Troy, we have a 
 significant parallel to the belief referred to in the Odyssey 
 that a quarrel between the greatest Achaians was to be the 
 signal for the end (Od. viii. 75-82). The terms of the 
 reference there suggest that this belief is widely known 
 Agamemnon, it is said, saw Odysseus and Achilles at strife. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TALE 13 
 
 and he "rejoiced when the best of the Achaians quarrelled. 
 For so had Phcebus Apojlo prophesied to him at Pytho 
 when he crossed the stone threshold to seek counsel of the 
 oracle. For in those days the first wave of sorrow was 
 coming on the Trojans and the Greeks according to the 
 will of Zeus." Agamemnon, as Merry says (note ad he), 
 must have " been told by the oracle he might hope to take 
 Troy when he should see an angry quarrel arise between 
 the noblest of the Achaeans." 
 
 It is to be added that in the Odyssey passage " the will 
 of Zeus " evidently means his will concerning the develop- 
 ment of the Trojan war as a whole.^ 
 
 The supporters of the " Wrath," therefore, cannot claim 
 that the limited interpretation they put upon the prologue 
 is either more natural or more impressive than the old 
 view that sees in " the will of Zeus " a will vast enough 
 to include the ending of the war. How that will is con- 
 firmed and consummated it is the business of the poem to 
 show. The details, indeed, are not yet clear to the mind 
 of Zeus himself; but it is here we get the momentous 
 hint that the quarrel is to lead to a final conclusion of the 
 whole struggle. 
 
 We may now take the scene of the quarrel itself, and 
 in this it is important to note carefully how the character 
 of Achilles is drawn. It is a mistake to conceive him as 
 one roused to anger without good cause. The provocation 
 is wanton and excessive. Agamemnon is obviously in the 
 wrong : forced to give up Chryseis for the army's sake, he 
 compensates himself by plundering the innocent Achilles 
 of his lawful prize. It is equally a mistake to think of 
 Achilles as implacable in his purpose. On the contrary, 
 at the very outset we have clear proof that he is apt, in 
 the heat of passion, to resolve on harsher methods than he 
 will carry out. In his anger he threatens to go home to 
 
 1 The Odyssey uses the plural, "boulai," the Iliad the singular, "boule," 
 but this difference is trivial. 
 
14 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Phthia (169), but we hear no more of this intention. When 
 the taunts of Agamemnon become unbearable, it is in his 
 mind to kill him, but before the irrevocable deed he is 
 checked by the descent of Athena. And how must Athena 
 be regarded here ? Not, surely, as a purely external in- 
 fluence. The gods in Homer are treated as finite indi- 
 viduals, it is true, but almost always they also represent 
 some larger power as well, either in the soul of man or in 
 the world of Nature. In fact the Homeric conception com- 
 bines the two ideas, and is sometimes puzzling enough. 
 But in this passage the matter seems plain. The mention 
 of the internal struggle surely indicates that Athena stands 
 here for the wise counsel in a man's own heart, just as she 
 does in Od. xx. (init.), when Odysseus communes with him- 
 self the night before the final struggle. It is obvious at 
 any rate that we cannot think of her in this case as an all- 
 wise prophetess, for, if we do, we must face the awkward 
 fact that she is urging her favourite on a course she knows 
 will end in the bitterest grief. Far better for him to have 
 struck down Agamemnon on the spot ! This being so, 
 we ought not to attach the weight of an important pro- 
 phecy, the fulfilment of which must be expressly recounted, 
 to the lines (212 if.): "This I say to you, and my words 
 shall be fulfilled. You shall have thrice as many glorious 
 gifts one day to atone for this insolence ; therefore keep 
 back your wrath and obey me." The fact is that Achilles 
 knows his worth {cp. 244) ; he reahses that, if he remains 
 inactive now and merely holds aloof, he will be in a far 
 better position and obtain far greater honour than is possible 
 by any other course. This general expectation, it will be 
 observed, is amply justified by the sequel, and it may even 
 be suggested that the account of the embassy in Book ix. 
 sprang from a wish to develop this hint of the threefold 
 gifts, meant by the original poet to remain a hint and 
 nothing more. 
 
 Immediately after this storm of anger come notes of 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TALE 15 
 
 tenderness and pathos. We are told of the friendship 
 between Achilles and Patroclus, of the yearning love of 
 Thetis, of the early death that is to come upon her son. 
 Now, if the poem ended with the triumphant cruelty of 
 Achilles, what induced the poet to touch the listener's heart 
 from the very first with this kind of sympathy and solemn 
 grief ? If we mourn over a hero's mother at the opening, 
 how can we feel satisfied at the close with a conqueror 
 who forgets that the dead man has a mother too ? Or 
 are we to suppose that this effect is merely accidental ? 
 Or that at least the poet was only on the level of one 
 of his characters, and could sympathise with Thetis but 
 not with Hecuba ? 
 
 In the present Iliad, it may be added, the note of 
 doom that is struck here is but the first of a long series 
 of warnings to both Greek and Trojan, increasing in weight 
 and gloom until, in the end, the doomed Achilles meets 
 the doomed Priam face to face under the shadow of coming 
 death. But this effect is lost in the " Wrath of Achilles." 
 This first touch remains a touch and hardly more. 
 
 To resume the thread of the tale : Achilles bids his 
 mother implore Zeus to avenge him, and she promises to 
 make the prayer, but she must wait for twelve days, as the 
 gods are away on a visit to " the blameless Ethiopians." 
 The account of "the twelve days" has been questioned 
 as inconsistent and unnecessary. But the inconsistencies 
 are of the slightest, the gravest being that Thetis says 
 (1. 424) "the gods went yesterday" to Ethiopia, and yet 
 Apollo was at Chryse and Athena at Troy and Olympus. 
 The explanation of course is that the poet, as mentioned 
 before, is apt to waver in his conception of the gods ; 
 sometimes they are divine and omnipresent, sometimes 
 they are only fairies, mighty but not all-powerful, and who 
 cannot always be found. 
 
 On the other hand, the interval seems to be assumed 
 more than once, not only in our present Iliad, but even in 
 
1 6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 what is usually taken to be the " Menis " itself. Achilles, 
 when he resolves to return at last (xviii. 125), speaks of 
 having been " long away " from the field, and the phrase 
 is taken up again at 1. 248 and echoed in the next book 
 (xix. 46). Polydamus also, at the famous council of war 
 in the plain (xviii. 257), implies a prolonged absence when 
 he lays stress on his own habitual readiness to bivouac by 
 the ships so long as Achilles was at variance with his chief. 
 But if we adopt the usual excisions, Achilles' absence will 
 dwindle to less than forty-eight hours. And, while the 
 length of the interval is involved in the story, it also in 
 itself heightens our interest. We understand Achilles' 
 restless longing all the better when we think of those 
 twelve days in his hut alone. And if we are allowed to 
 keep Book xxiv., we have an effective correspondence in 
 the twelve days' pause that follows there. The waiting 
 for vengeance at the opening is balanced by the waiting in 
 misery at the close ; the tension of our excitement here by 
 the tension of our sympathy for Priam there. 
 
 At last Thetis makes her request (i. 493 fF.). Zeus sits 
 long silent, pondering on the difficulties he sees. Hera, he 
 says, will be against any Trojan success. Finally, pressed 
 by Thetis, he promises (523) to "take thought that these 
 things be fulfilled," and bows his head in token of consent. 
 The promise is solemn, but, be it observed, only general. 
 Achilles, we understand, is to receive honour through the 
 success of the Trojans ; it does not follow that from 
 the very moment of the nod they are to succeed. So far 
 as the will of Zeus is concerned there i-s no reason to 
 demand that the rout of the Achaians in xi. should follow 
 at once. The mere trouble of dealing with Hera would 
 be likely to prevent that, and indeed we find Zeus lying 
 awake all night to think out a plan (ii. i, 2). At last he 
 sends a delusive dream to Agamemnon bidding him arm 
 the host, and saying to him, " Now you may take the 
 mighty town of Troy, for the lords of Olympus are 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TALE 17 
 
 of one mind at last. Hera has won them round, and 
 doom hangs over the Trojans " (ii. 29-32). Agamemnon 
 awakes full of confidence, orders a general arming of the 
 host, calls his counsellors, and tells them the dream. 
 
 So far all is smooth in the story. Now we come on a 
 knot. At the very end of Agamemnon's speech, after the 
 words, " Come, therefore, let us see if we can call to arms 
 the sons of the Achaians," he suddenly adds, " but first, as 
 I ought, I will test them by my words ; I will bid them 
 take to their ships and fly, and the rest of you must speak 
 against it and hold them back" (73-75). The strange- 
 ness of this proposal for a test, coming, as it does, abrupt 
 and unmotived, has never been explained away, and it is 
 to be noted that Nestor, in his reply, makes not the vestige 
 of an allusion to the idea. On the contrary, he only 
 says (79-83), that if another man had told them of the 
 dream he might have disregarded it, but his respect for 
 the king makes him agree to the arming at once. He 
 ends simply with the king's phrase, " Come, let us call 
 to arms the sons of the Achaians." (This of itself might 
 suggest that the phrase had closed the speech of Agamem- 
 non's too.) 
 
 Here, certainly, it is natural to suspect that we have 
 interpolation, and that the description of the assembly 
 which follows was a later canto, springing out of the 
 original situation, but at first only loosely attached to the 
 poem. Twelve days, we remember, were to elapse after 
 the withdrawal of Achilles, and the listeners might well 
 ask : " What did the Achaians do without him all the 
 time ? Were they never discouraged ? Never angry with 
 Agamemnon ? " The scene, let us suppose, was written 
 on such an impulse, and for a date before the dream. 
 The poet who made it conceived Agamemnon (quite in 
 accordance with the original conception) as restless in 
 temper and uncertain, anxious to test the spirit of the 
 army and win an expression of enthusiasm before he led 
 
 B 
 
1 8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 them out to war again. In a preliminary meeting of the 
 chiefs he tells them of his plan to call an assembly and 
 himself propose a return to Greece, while they are to see 
 that the proposal ends in what would practically be a vote 
 of confidence. The assembly is held, and Agamemnon's 
 speech is cunningly calculated to win such a vote (observe 
 ii. 1 19-138, and see Leaf, ad loc.) ; but Thersites, a clever, 
 unscrupulous demagogue, cuts the ground from his feet 
 by attacking him for his treatment of Achilles and accept- 
 ing the proposal in grim earnest for the army. 
 
 One great advantage of stating the theory m this form 
 is, as will appear in a moment, that on this basis we can 
 explain the dislocation without any complicated system of 
 interpolation on interpolation and alteration after altera- 
 tion. We have only to suppose that, when the order of the 
 poem was fixed by the editors, the " lay of the assembly," 
 too splendid to be lost, was inserted at this place (and 
 some such place it must have found if it was to be kept 
 at all), and that at the insertion the meeting of the chiefs 
 before the testing of the army was fused with the meeting 
 of the chiefs after the dream. This was done by simply 
 tacking the lines of Agamemnon's proposal about the test 
 on to the close of his original speech about the dream, and 
 the artificial suture has betrayed itself by its awkwardness. 
 The old poem, we may now suggest, went straight on from 
 the picture of the soldiers pouring out "from ships and 
 huts like bees" (87-92) to the similes of the army gather- 
 ing upon the plain and marching out to war (455 ff.).^ 
 We thus get a new and singularly appropriate addition to 
 that famous series. 
 
 1 For convenience' sake I shall usually, as I do here, suggest the exact 
 lines where the original poem may be held to be broken and resumed, 
 although I do not think it possible always to feel certainty in such details. 
 In Appendix A I have put a list of the passages. A condensed translation 
 of the whole is to be found in "The Story of the Iliad," by F. S. Marvin, 
 R. J. G. Mayor, and myself I have quoted from this version whenever it 
 suited my purpose, sometimes expanding, or otherwise altering to make the 
 meaning clearer, or condensing further for the sake of brevity. 
 
THE OPENING OF THE TALE 19 
 
 After the similes come the Catalogues (484 ff.). Here, 
 too, omission is most plausible, and in no way conflicts 
 with the principles we have laid down. The enumeration 
 adds little to the impression of a great multitude, already 
 vividly brought before us by the similes. The main effect, 
 indeed, in the continuous poem is to irritate us by the long 
 delay, and it is odd to find the formal introduction of so 
 many characters when so much general knowledge has 
 already been taken for granted, while the list itself is never 
 referred to again. Above all, the view it gives of the 
 relative importance of the different sections in the army 
 does not correspond with the rest of the Iliad. Dr. Leaf, 
 calling attention to this, proceeds to say (" Iliad," vol. i. 
 p. 86) : " But it has been pointed out by Niese that all the 
 heroes named in the Catalogue played their parts in other 
 portions of the Epic Cycle. The conclusion is that the 
 Catalogue originally formed an introduction to the whole 
 Cycle." Such a conclusion is very welcome, and if we may 
 discard the Catalogue of the Ships we must also discard 
 with it the Trojan Catalogue, its obvious supplement. But 
 why should we discard anything more ? We can pass with 
 perfect naturalness from the lines just before the first 
 Catalogue — the lines describing Agamemnon's appearance 
 "like a god among his followers" (ii. 483) — to the verses 
 just after it (ii. 761-785), with their mention of Ajax as 
 the greatest champion left to the Greeks in Achilles' 
 absence, and with their telling picture of Achilles himself 
 and his horses and his men, chafing in their idleness. No 
 single touch, by the way, could prepare us better for the 
 service of Ajax at the rout in Book xi. than this honour- 
 able mention of him here. And if we keep the wonderful 
 lines about Achilles' horses in Book xvii. 426 ff., and 
 again in Book xix. 399 ff., we can find full significance in 
 the allusion to them at this point. It is worth adding that 
 the reference to the mares of Eumelus (ii. 763-767) is 
 also significant if, and only^if, it is taken in conjunction 
 
20 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 with the chariot-race in xxiii. (Bergk notices the connec- 
 tion, though he does not hold the two passages to be by 
 the same hand. Griech. Literaturgesch., vol. i. p. 565 n^.') 
 
 A quotation may show the smoothness of junction 
 (ii. 482, 483, and 761, fF.). "So glorious was the son of 
 Atreus that day, great among the people and chief among 
 the heroes. And tell me now, O Muse, who was the 
 best of the warriors that followed the sons of Atreus, and 
 which were the noblest steeds. The steeds of Eumelus 
 were the best . . . and the best man there was Ajax . . . 
 for Achilles and his horses were away," &c. 
 
 The scene then shifts to Troy (ii. 786), and we have 
 our first sight of Hector, the accepted leader in couhcil 
 and in war, and the sally of the Trojans and their allies to 
 meet the great attack. This passage has been traversed 
 because Iris speaks of the Achaian host as larger than any 
 seen before, and this, it is said, is not suitable for the last 
 years of the war. But the words of Iris only imply that 
 the Greek host is larger than any other army, not larger 
 than it has ever appeared before. Moreover, in view of 
 the coming disaster in Book xi., it is well to emphasise the 
 fact that Agamemnon is now attacking in force, with no 
 reserves told oiF to guard his camp. 
 
 The omission of the Trojan Catalogue (ii. 8 1 6 to end) 
 in no way involves patching, as the halt of the Trojans 
 outside the gates to form their line of battle (81 1-8 15) 
 leads naturally to their advance in full array (iii. i ff.). 
 But before dealing with Book iii. itself we must consider a 
 larger question. 
 
 Note. — Assumed " Original " (from the Opening to the Arming of the 
 Trojans) : II. i. entire ; II. ii. 1-92, 455-483, 761-815. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF ACHILLES 
 
 The next excision proposed is far more important. We 
 are asked to pass at once to Book xi. and the defeat of the 
 Greeks. There is much to be said here ; for while some of 
 the omissions seem at once welcome and justifiable, others 
 are little short of staggering. The subject is complex, and 
 it will be found convenient to take the books in their 
 reverse order. The question of x. is simple enough. 
 The incident, a night-raid on the Trojan camp, has no 
 direct influence on the story, and might be inserted at 
 almost any point. As it is never referred to again in any 
 way, the question of its general fitness must remain largely 
 a question for individual taste. It seems to me a needless 
 delay in the development, and that we have nothing what- 
 ever to counterbalance the objections brought against it. 
 According to Eustathius and others,^ the ancients them- 
 selves believed that it did not originally belong to the 
 Iliad, but was inserted by Peisistratus. It overcharges the 
 night with incident, as the Iliad stands, for it assumes 
 Book ix., and in Book ix. there is the Embassy to Achilles. 
 (In consequence, Odysseus, it has been observed, must 
 be given three suppers.) Moreover, many points in the 
 language (e.g. the number of perfects in «« and the peculiar 
 vocabulary) do seem to suggest a different hand (see Monro, 
 ad loc). 
 
 With regard to the great Embassy in ix., here again 
 my chief task must be to summarise, and thankfully, the 
 results of the critical school. I give the summary, because 
 * Cp. Leaf, "Companion," p. 189. 
 
22 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 for my own purposes I wish to lay stress on certain points. 
 The vital question seems to be, as Dr. Leaf points out, 
 whether we can make this book really consistent with 
 the words used by Achilles himself at a later time. At 
 this stage of affairs, according to ix., the Greeks have 
 suffered a marked reverse, and Agamemnon in despair 
 sends Ajax and Odysseus to Achilles, offering the most 
 ample reparation, including the restoration of Briseis, if 
 only he will return and help them. He refuses everything 
 with scorn. But in xvi., when Patroclus asks him why 
 he will have no mercy on the defeated Achaians, he answers 
 that his one cause of anger is the injustice of Agamemnon, 
 who has dishonoured him by taking away his lawful prize 
 (xvi. 52—59). Further on (71-73) he cries that the 
 Trojans would fill the watercourses with their dead " if 
 Agamemnon were only kind to me ! " How could any 
 man speak like this to his familiar friend when both of 
 them knew that he had just refused all, and more than all, 
 that he had a right to claim ? And when the terrible blow 
 of his friend's death falls upon him and his heart is full 
 of self-reproach for his folly (xviii. 107-111), never once 
 does he upbraid himself for the most foolish act of all, the 
 only act really unwarrantable, the rejection of the amende. 
 And in xix., when he comes to Agamemnon and gives up 
 his wrath in the frankest possible manner (56 ff.), confessing 
 that he too was in the wrong, he has not a word to say of 
 the Embassy, only the grim sarcasm, " it was wise of us 
 both to fight for the sake of a girl." Still more strange, 
 Agamemnon, when he rises in confusion,-^ trying hard to 
 make the best of his case, conscious that he cuts a poor 
 figure, and that the feeling of the company is against him,^ 
 never thinks of what would be by far the strongest point 
 in his favour, the fact that, spontaneously, he had offered 
 full reparation ; all he can do is to lay the blame on At6, 
 
 ' Most scholars agree in omitting 1. 77. 
 
 " xix., 78 ff. Observe the nervous entreaty for a patient hearing. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF ACHILLES 23 
 
 the madness that comes over men and drives them to 
 unreasoning rage. 
 
 Nay, he even goes so far as to say, in so many words, 
 that he had never been able to give up his anger : " even 
 when Hector was destroying the Argives at the ships I 
 could not forget the madness that had struck me from 
 the first" (xix. 134-136). 
 
 But, it may be said, in our present Iliad Agamemnon 
 does make an actual reference to the Embassy at the 
 end of his speech (xix. 140), and Achilles answers the 
 reference (147), and the final presentation of the gifts is 
 described further on (238 fF.). How are we to explain all 
 this ? Now we notice first that the reference in Agamemnon's 
 speech comes in most oddly, exactly like an after-addition 
 when the speech itself is really over. The whole passage 
 runs thus (xix. 137 ff.) : 
 
 " But since I was blinded by madness and Zeus took 
 my wits from me, I am ready to make amends, and offer 
 recompense to the full"- — almost the very words, by the 
 way, in which he accepts Nestor's proposal for the Embassy 
 in ix. (119, 120), words naturally suited to the Jirst offer of 
 reparation- — " but now be up and doing ; arm yourself for 
 the fight and summon the host" (139). Then, suddenly 
 and oddly, " And as for the gifts Odysseus offered you 
 yesterday -^ in your hut, I am here to give them all. So, if 
 you will, wait a while in spite of your eagerness for war, 
 and my servants shall bring them from my ship, so that you 
 may see I give what pleases you" (140-144). 
 
 Upon this follows an irritating delay, irritating, that is, 
 to one who is reading the poem as a whole. The poetry 
 in itself is fine, but surely so long a discussion on the im- 
 portance of breakfast in military tactics is out of place just 
 now, when we are burning for the encounter with Hector ; 
 and the same may be said of the return of Briseis and her 
 
 ^ Not, it may be noticed, strictly "yesterday" in the present Iliad, but 
 the night before. 
 
24 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 lament over Patroclus, beautiful as that is. What do we 
 care for her now ? She has sunk out of sight. Achilles 
 and we have other things to think about. " Would that 
 Artemis had slain her the day I sacked Lyrnessus ! " 
 (xix. 59, 60). 
 
 Now all difficulty would be gone if we could suppose 
 that Agamemnon's speech originally closed at the call to 
 arms (139), and was followed at once (with the link of the 
 ordinary formulae) by the words of Achilles in 270-1275. 
 These words come in strangely where they are at present, 
 while they would form a most admirable and courteous 
 answer to the king's one and only plea if they were placed 
 here. " Zeus sent me mad," Agamemnon had said, and 
 now his generous enemy would answer : 
 
 " Oh, father Zeus ! Yes, it is thou that dost bring 
 madness upon men. The son of Atreus would never have 
 roused my spirit by his stubbornness, never have taken 
 away the girl in my despite, had it not been the will of 
 Zeus to bring death upon the Greeks" (270-275). 
 
 The application to Agamemnon of the epithet "stub- 
 born" (" impracticable," " not to be dealt with," an^x"-vos) 
 is, it may be observed, far more suitable if he has not 
 already offered reparation of his own accord. 
 
 On this theory the colloquy of the two would then be 
 followed simply by the dispersal of the host to breakfast 
 (276, 277), and the vain attempt of the chiefs to comfort 
 Achilles himself and make him take food (303 if.). The 
 two passages here assumed to be interpolated (xix. 140- 
 269 and 278-302) contain the references to the gifts, the 
 restoration of Briseis, and the discussion about breakfast. 
 These are all, in themselves, quite natural additions : the 
 ideas might well be suggested by the refusal of Achilles in 
 the original poem to touch food before he fights, and by 
 the proffer of the gifts in the brilliant addition of Book ix. 
 Indeed, it seems to me possible that the interpolations here, 
 from first to last, are by the same hand as ix. itself : there 
 
THE CHARACTER OF ACHILLES 25 
 
 is the same grace and spirit in the speeches, a grace and a 
 spirit that almost redeem their lack of appropriateness to 
 the larger context. In any case the work shows a close 
 sympathy with ix., and, like ix., it bears the stamp of a 
 remarkable but somewhat rhetorical poet.^ 
 
 The return to the original poem at 303 is marked by a 
 significant awkwardness at the joint.- After the lament 
 of Briseis come the words (xix. 301-303): "And the 
 women went with her as though they mourned for 
 Patroclus, but it was their own fate that they bemoaned. 
 But the elders gathered round him and begged him to 
 take food." After a moment's thought we see that "him" 
 must mean Achilles, but if the whole passage had been 
 written by one poet, surely we should not have had to 
 think even for a moment who it was that could be meant. 
 We should have had the name of Achilles instead of the 
 ambiguous pronoun. But with the omission of 278-302 
 the passage runs easily (276, 277, and 303). Achilles has 
 just been speaking : " So he spoke, and straightway broke 
 up the meeting, and the men scattered to their ships. But 
 the elders gathered round him," &c. 
 
 It. remains to examine three other passages which bear 
 on the general question of the Embassy. 
 
 (i) In xvi. 61-63 Achilles says, "It is true I said-I 
 would not cease from my wrath till the cry of battle was 
 at my ships." This has been held to contain a distinct 
 reference to his threat in -ix. 650-655, that he would not 
 think of fighting till the fire came to his own part of the 
 fleet. But there is no reason why the passage in xvi. 
 should not have been written independently ; in fact, as 
 M. Croiset suggests {pp. cit., vol. i. p. 152), it may actually 
 have helped to suggest the composition of ix. 
 
 (2) In xi. 609 Achilles cries, " Now, methinks, the 
 Achaians will stand round my knees in prayer ! " The 
 
 ^ For an admirable estimate of the characteristics of ix., see Leaf, 
 " Iliad," vol. i., Introduction to Book viii., fin. 
 
26 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 only possible way of reconciling this cry with his refusal of 
 the prayer in ix. is to do as Monro and Lang suggest/ lay 
 stress on the " Now ! " and think of Achilles as gloating 
 over his triumph. But if this is so, I would point out that 
 the natural implication would be that the first entreaty had 
 not been humble and submissive enough. But could that be 
 said of the Embassy in ix. } Could even Achilles think so ? 
 It would certainly be true, if Agamemnon had had no part 
 in the prayer, and I would submit that, if we must suppose 
 a previous embassy, it ought to be one of this character. 
 
 (3) The last passage we need take is xviii. 444-452, 
 where Thetis is telling the story to Hephaestus. " The 
 maiden whom the Achaians had chosen for his prize 
 Agamemnon took from him. And he lay eating out his 
 heart with grief for her, till the Trojans drove the 
 Achaians back upon their ships and hemmed them in, 
 and the elders made entreaty to him, and they spoke of 
 many splendid gifts. Then, though he would not suc- 
 cour them himself, he put his own armour on his friend 
 Patroclus and sent him with his warriors to the field." 
 Now if this refers to the Embassy in ix., Thetis is gravely 
 misrepresenting the state of affairs. From her account it 
 would certainly be thought, first, that Agamemnon took 
 no part in the supplication, secondly, that no one offered 
 to restore Briseis, as indeed no one could well have done 
 without the king's initiative, and lastly, that these entreaties 
 led directly to the sending of Patroclus. 
 
 The account, in short, does not suit the Iliad in its 
 present state, and so can hardly be an argument for that 
 state. It is plain that it would really fit much better if 
 " the entreaty of the elders " meant the entreaty of Nestor, 
 the eldest of them all, sent through Patroclus (xi. 790 fF.). 
 I believe that this was actually the case, and that the one 
 line which makes it appear doubtful — xviii. 449, " and they 
 spoke of many splendid gifts " — slipped in long afterwards 
 
 1 " Homer and the Epic," p. 131. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF ACHILLES 27 
 
 when the Embassy in ix. had become so famous that any 
 mention of " entreaties from the elders " might be taken 
 (really mistaken) as referring to it. 
 
 There seems every reason then to exclude ix. as a 
 later addition to the poem. It will be noticed that I have 
 made no mention of two famous arguments against it, viz. 
 (i) that it is inconsistent with the character of Achilles; 
 (2) that it would make us lose sympathy for the hero. 
 I do not think, in the first place, that it can be shown 
 to be inconsistent with the general outline of the hero's 
 character, as drawn in what are admitted to be the oldest 
 parts of the poem ; and I may add that those who hold 
 it to be so must face the question how a great poet — (and 
 the poet of ix. was a great poet) — could have been so 
 much interested in the original hero' as to draw the scene 
 of the Embassy, and yet not have realised that he was 
 making a flagrant incongruity. At the same time I do 
 believe that the action of Achilles here is not in perfect 
 harmony with the subtler details in the delineation of his 
 character elsewhere, at least as it presents itself to me. 
 He is never the man to remain obdurate merely because 
 he wished to see his private enemies suffer, when his own 
 honour was already appeased. But I am anxious not to 
 lay stress on this point now, because one of my objects 
 here is to establish firmly what I conceive to be the original 
 picture of his nature, and I would avoid even the appear- 
 ance of using my conclusion as a premise. If, however, 
 on other grounds shown, I hope, to be adequate, we do 
 exclude ix., it is of the highest importance to observe that 
 the character of the hero then stands out in a far more 
 lovable light. He had withdrawn until his honour, 
 wantonly insulted, should be appeased ; his opponent, the 
 original aggressor, has not even apologised ; yet, before 
 any reparation has been offered, the distress of his allies 
 and the prayer of his friend touch him in spite of his 
 pride : he cannot bring himself, it is true, to forget every- 
 
2 8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 thing and go back humbly to fight himself in the tyrant's 
 army, but he sends his troops and his armour and his 
 friend. "We can feel," as Dr. Leaf says,^ "for the 
 passionate but high-hearted man." Now if this is the 
 hero the poet made, if this is the Achilles of the " Menis," 
 how shall we be content to take our leave of him in a 
 mood of bitter vengeance and furious cruelty ? Could the 
 poet himself have been content? The consequences that 
 follow the exclusion of ix. have not, I venture to think, 
 been fully appreciated by those who at the same time 
 exclude xxiv. This is no argument against the exclusion 
 of the former, but it is a strong one for the inclusion of 
 the latter. 
 
 There are several smaller touches throughout the 
 poem that reinforce this impression of the underlying 
 tenderness and chivalry in Achilles' nature. Most of 
 them will be noticed in their place, but three may be 
 mentioned here ; two of these come from the " Menis " 
 itself. 
 
 At the opening of xi. express mention is made of 
 Isus and Antiphus (loi if.), two sons of Priam whom 
 Achilles had taken prisoner but had set free for a ransom. 
 They are cut down now by Agamemnon, and it seems to 
 me also that a definite stress is laid on the king's savagery 
 in the fight, a stress which makes us think all the more 
 highly of Achilles' placability in holding his prisoners 
 to ransom. In the first place it is said that Agamemnon 
 knew the princes well, for he had met them in the Greek 
 camp, and an ancient reader would feel at least as much 
 as a modern the instinctive dislike to killing any one who 
 had once been received under conditions of even quasi- 
 hospitality (cp. in xxi. the appeal of Lycaon for mercy on 
 this very ground). Immediately afterwards (xi. 123 ff.) 
 we hear of Agamemnon scorning an entreaty for quarter 
 and a promise of ransom from the two sons of Antimachus. 
 * " Companion," p. 23. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF ACHILLES 29 
 
 And if, as I believe, Book vi. is part of the original, we are 
 prepared to expect such action from Agamemnon and to 
 hate it, for we remember how he overbore the merciful 
 impulse of Menelaus when a similar prayer was made 
 (vi. 37-65).^ 
 
 Achilles' habit of mercy is brought to our notice again in 
 xxi. 34 ff., just before the final scene with Hector, and here 
 again it is a son of Priam, Lycaon, whose life he once had 
 spared. This is one of the passages from the " Menis " 
 Itself, and is of such high significance that it must be dealt 
 with fully in its place. 
 
 The third passage is from Book vi. (a book which will 
 be discussed in the next chapter). Andromache takes occa- 
 sion to tell Hector, in lines that can hardly be torn from 
 their context (414 fF.), how Achilles had slain her father,^ 
 but afterwards had been too chivalrous to strip him of his 
 armour, and had burnt his body with all due honour ; and 
 how he had taken her mother prisoner, hut afterwards had 
 let her be ransomed by her kin. There is no meaning in 
 this digression except to suggest that Achilles is a man, 
 fierce perhaps and even cruel in the heat of passion, but 
 one who can hear the voice of honour and mercy in his 
 calmer moods. This is the Achilles we know fully, when 
 xxiv. is left to us ; this is the Achilles indeed whom the 
 
 ^ It is almost incredible to me that in view of the context, aisima pareipon 
 (vi. 63) could be taken to mean anything but " uttering awry, perverting, 
 the right." (The negative sense in the compound verb, clearly indicated 
 by the preposition para, being uppermost.) This is a perfectly natural 
 meaning for the Greek, and is in fact supported by the parallels (e.g. II. 
 vii. i2i,xii. 213 ; Od. xiv. 509, iv. 348. Q>. II. vi. 333, x. 445 ; Hes.Op.260). 
 It would require overwhelming evidence on the other side to make one be- 
 lieve that a poet born of woman had deliberately set it down that it was 
 right to kill the baby in its mother's womb (vi. 58, 59). jEschylus, who 
 loved his Homer, must have taken it as I do, or what are we to make of 
 his great chorus in the " Agamemnon " ? 
 
 ^ Her father was King of Thebe, and it was at the sack of Thebe that 
 Chryseis was taken, though her home was in Chryse. This is mentioned in 
 i. 366 ff. "Why Chryseis was taken here instead of in her own home we are 
 not told " (Leaf, ad loc.)i But may it not be because the poet had King 
 Eetion and his city in his mind and instinctively arranged to bring them 
 into ours ? 
 
30 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 " Menis " itself, mutilated though it is, indicates as well as 
 it can.-' 
 
 Passages like these can only be explained away either 
 by supposing that they are inadvertencies on the part of 
 the original poet, and very foolish inadvertencies, for they 
 will make us all the more dissatisfied to end with xxii., or 
 that they are skilful, and very skilful, additions, made after 
 the creation of xxiv. in order to harmonise old and new. 
 The artificiality and difficulty of the last theory (in view of 
 the inconsistencies remaining) has been dwelt on sufficiently, 
 but it is scarcely more artificial or more difficult than the 
 first. 
 
 1 This was written before the appearance of Professor Murray's " Rise of 
 the Greek Epic." I find in that work so illuminating a comment on the spirit 
 of Book vi. that I quote it to reinforce my own. Professor Murray has 
 been dwelling on the conception of aidos as representing the sense of 
 honour. He goes on to say: "When Achilles fought against Eetion's city, 
 ' he sacked all the happy city of the Cilician men, high-gated Thebe, and 
 slew Eetion : but he spoiled him not of his armour. He had aidos in his 
 heart for that ; but he burned him there as he lay in his rich-wrought armour, 
 and heaped a mound above him. And all around him there grew elm-trees, 
 planted by the Mountain Spirits, daughters of Aegis-bearing Zeus. . . .' That 
 is aidos pure and clean, and the latter lines ring with the peculiar tenderness 
 of it. Achilles had nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nobody would have 
 said a word if he had taken Eetion's richly-wrought armour. It would have 
 been quite the natural thing to do. But he happened to feel aidos about it" 
 ("Rise of the Greek Epic," p. 8i). To these words, instinct with poetry 
 and sympathy as they are, I would only add that aidos is the keynote of 
 II. xxiv. from first to last. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 
 
 I MUST now resume the analysis of the Books between ii. and 
 xi. Books X. and ix. we have discarded, and if we discard 
 ix. we must also discard viii., which is obviously designed 
 solely as an introduction to it. Dr. Leaf's suggestion 
 (" Iliad," ad loc.') that the bulk of it may actually be by 
 the author of ix., seems well worthy of consideration. 
 
 Book vii. contains the duel scene between Ajax and 
 Hector, the building of the Achaian wall, and the proposal 
 in the Trojan assembly to surrender Helen. The parts, 
 taken in close connection with each other and with what 
 has gone before, present many difficulties. The abortive 
 proposal about Helen is natural in itself, but why should 
 the Achaians spend the time in building the wall when they 
 have succeeded so well in the field, and are confident that 
 they will take Troy .? ^ The building of the wall seems 
 composed with reference to Achilles' scoff in ix. (348-353) 
 at Agamemnon's careful precautions. At more than one 
 point the narrative is jerky or confused, and it may be that 
 we have here two lays originally distinct, one containing 
 the Trojan suggestions about Helen (say, 344-432), and the 
 other describing the building of the wall and the burial of 
 the dead (say, 313-343, 433-482 end). These two songs, 
 we may suppose, have been run together and found some 
 sort of a place for themselves here in the fixed order. We 
 have a third additional lay, I believe, in the duel between 
 Ajax and Hector (vii. 8-312), so odd a pendant as it 
 
 ^ Note the prowess of Diomede in v. and the words of Idomeneus in iv. 
 265-271. 
 
 31 
 
32 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 stands to the duel between Paris and Menelaus in iii. 
 Dr. Leaf points out^ the strange action of the Trojans 
 and of the Achaians in accepting another truce and another 
 duel immediately after the first duel and the violated truce, 
 and the anti-climax of a contest that is a mere trial of skill 
 after a duel that is to decide the whole question of the war. 
 We may then readily agree that it is impossible to hold that 
 the two were meant from the first to stand side by side 
 in a poem composed with a view to unity of eiFect. But 
 why should it follow that " it is equally impossible to sup- 
 pose that the third book is the older of the two episodes " ? 
 Surely the same objections would apply whichever book 
 was written first. The mere fact of composing iii. at a 
 later date ought not to have blinded an artist of high rank 
 to the flaws he was introducing. And the artist in iii. is 
 of the highest rank. The duel alone is a far finer piece 
 of work than the duel in vii., and, if it is a copy, it has 
 certainly surpassed its model to a quite surprising extent.^ 
 Finally, the natural explanation of the opening allusion in 
 vii. (69-72) to the violated oaths of iii., is that the speech 
 was written by some one who had Book iii. in mind. The 
 motive for the composition of the duel in vii., as an isolated 
 song, is not far to seek. There may well have been a desire 
 to hear of a duel between Hector and the one Greek who 
 really kept him at bay in the absence of Achilles. Or, 
 perhaps, as Professor Murray has suggested to me, the song 
 
 ' " Companion," pp. 149, 150. 
 
 * Compare the monotonous and abortive regularity of the fighting in vii. 
 244 ff. with the rush and pressure of Menelaus' repeated attacks in iii. 346 ff. 
 Moreover in iii., Menelaus' eager cry for vengeance, his bitter cry of dis- 
 appointment, add greatly to the life of the whole. Compared with all this the 
 duel between Ajax and Hector has the cold formality of a tourney. It is to 
 be noted that Menelaus prays to Zeus for a righteous decision of the ordeal 
 (iii. 351-354), and that Zeus does not grant his prayer (as Menelaus feels, 
 very bitterly, 365-368). While the Greek's own skill always gives him the 
 advantage, he is always just foiled — by some unlucky accident, as we should 
 say — by the intervention of the gods, as an Homeric audience would feel. 
 Zeus is watching the fight, and, mindful of his promise to Thetis, will not 
 suffer Menelaus to slay the adulterer. Otherwise the war might have 
 ended without the need for Achilles. 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 33 
 
 goes back to a tribal tradition in which Ajax was the 
 chief hero. 
 
 The importance of the admission that Book iii. may 
 be the earlier will be seen when we come to consider its 
 influence on the rest of the tale. It could not be main- 
 tained, I think, that the duel between Hector and Ajax 
 had any effect of importance. We may then discard the 
 whole of vii. except the first half-dozen lines, which are 
 closely united to Book vi. on the one hand, and to xi. (62 ff.) 
 on the other, as we shall see later. Book vi. itself is bound 
 up with what precedes it in iii., iv., and the first part of v. 
 That its quiet scenes of home and tenderness gain infinitely 
 in their general effect by coming between the pictures of 
 slaughter and battle has been noticed again and again. 
 In detail the interdependence is almost as striking. For 
 example, the interview of Hector with Helen and Paris in 
 vi. needs for its full elucidation the help of iii. How does 
 it come about that Paris should be dallying with Helen 
 in Troy when the battle is at its height ? And he himself 
 makes a reference to his mortification (336), and his rising 
 hope of future victory (339), which we can only under- 
 stand if we suppose some signal reverse, such as his failure 
 in the duel. Helen's words to Hector (344-358), if taken 
 alone, would be just enough to give us a bewildering hint 
 of her character, not enough to be the convincing revela- 
 tion they are when illuminated by what we see and hear 
 of her in iii. It is not merely that iii. and vi. are in 
 harmony, not merely that iii. gives the clearest picture 
 of her beauty ; it is that in vi. we only find her upbraiding 
 the man who has her under the charm, while in iii. we 
 learn how the charm can work even against her will.^ We 
 understand her fully if we may have iii. to throw light 
 on vi. I do not see how we could from vi. alone. 
 
 ' I would refer the reader here to Dr. Leafs clear summary of the 
 simple, profound psychology in the drawing of her character : " Com- 
 panion," p. 99. 
 
 c 
 
34 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Further, we have then a complete picture of Paris and 
 Helen to serve, through contrast and likeness, as a foil 
 to the picture of Hector and Andromache. On the one 
 side, Paris, brilliant and irresponsible, taking his passion 
 as an easy luxury, brave enough, it is true, but without 
 the soul that gives a sense of shame ; Helen, bound to 
 him, but humiliated by the bond, her finer spirit putting a 
 strange distance between them ^ : on the other side. Hector 
 and Andromache, with their high confidence in each other, 
 the kind of love that makes Hector tell his worst fears to 
 his wife,^ and Andromache cease to hold him back when 
 she knows that he is resolved to face his death. 
 
 We have good cause, then, for thinking that the scene 
 between Paris, Hector, and Menelaus, at the opening of 
 iii., was from the first bound up with the meeting between 
 the brothers at Helen's side in vi. But if this is so, some 
 interval is necessary between the two episodes, and this Is 
 provided in iii., iv., and the early part of v. Here we have 
 the spiriting away of Paris by Aphrodite after his failure in 
 the duel, the breaking of the truce through the treachery 
 of Pandarus the Trojan, the review of the Greek troops 
 by Agamemnon, the encounter of the two armies and the 
 prowess of Diomede. 
 
 The last part of v., however, must be dismissed, for there 
 Diomede's " Aristeia " is carried to extravagant lengths, over- 
 topping any exploit of Achilles, and full of extraordinary 
 encounters with the gods themselves. These peculiar 
 marvels, we must note, are not only entirely overlooked 
 in Book vi., but what Diomede says there himself is 
 inconsistent with them, refusing, as he does twice over, 
 even to think of fighting with the Immortals (vi. 128, 
 129, and 141). Yet the expansion in itself is natural 
 enough, for Diomede is an attractive figure from the start ; 
 so that here again all the conditions seem satisfied by the 
 
 1 iii. 16-75, 383-447 ; vi. 350 ff., 503 ff. 
 ' vi. 407 ff. 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 35 
 
 theory of additional songs springing out of the early work, 
 yet only loosely connected with it. We may suggest that 
 these additions begin with the curious supplement to 
 Athena's first words of cheer to Diomede (v. 127-132), the 
 supplement in which she promises to take away the mist 
 from his eyes so that he may distinguish between god 
 and man, and bids him fear not to fight against Aphro- 
 dite. This is obviously introduced as a prelude to the 
 attack on Aphrodite herself, which follows later (v. 330- 
 470). Aphrodite, it has been observed, is here called 
 " the Cyprian," " Kupris," a name that never re-occurs 
 in Homer. In passing, it should be noticed that the 
 capture of Eneas' horses by Diomede's cousin in the 
 earlier portion of the book — the portion presumed to be 
 original — is obviously meant to be read in connection 
 with the chariot-race in xxiii. The natural presumption is 
 that both are by the same hand. 
 
 After the fantastic doings of the gods (v. 330-470) 
 we pass back suddenly (471) to the splendid human out- 
 burst of Sarpedon, reproaching Hector for his slackness 
 in the fight. This is a most worthy introduction for 
 Sarpedon, and a fine preface for the re-entry of Hector into 
 the m616e and for the Trojan rally against Diomede (493— 
 505) ; but the effect of it all is greatly blurred by the 
 resumption (506) of the abortive struggles between mortal 
 and Immortal, which go on to the end of the Book. And 
 at the first line of Book vi. we are brought back just to 
 where we were left before, at the Trojan rally under Hector 
 and Sarpedon (v. 505). Diomede, in spite of his exploits 
 against the gods, has made no further progress against his 
 human foes. He is pressing them hard, but they can still 
 hold him back. Hector is able to leave the battlefield for 
 a little while at the advice of Helenus the soothsayer, in 
 order to go into the city and command prayer and sacrifice 
 to Athena. We may believe — I think we are meant to 
 believe — that Hector accepts this priestly suggestion more 
 
36 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 readily than he might otherwise have done because of two 
 reasons of his own. He guesses that Paris has slipped 
 away to solace himself for his defeat with the joy of Helen, 
 and he cannot bear his brother's shame as a recreant and a 
 sensualist. He will go and fetch him back. In the second 
 place, Hector knows that the Trojans have broken the 
 truce, and the knowledge has struck a chill to his sensitive 
 heart. Now he may see his wife for a moment in the city, 
 and if Troy is doomed for this treachery, as he fears, if he 
 himself is to fall with the fall of his country, perhaps this 
 very day, it would be something at least to say good-bye to 
 Andromache once more. All this seems to me only a fair 
 inference (I would go further myself and say an inevitable 
 one) from his own words to Hecuba, to Paris, to Helen, 
 and to Andromache,^ when he reaches Troy. It may be 
 said that such action at such a time shows a certain weak- 
 ness in Hector's character. It undoubtedly shows, and I 
 think on purpose, that he is not, for all his dash and fire, 
 a superlative warrior, that his generalship is apt to be 
 faulty, that he is liable to depression, and even, we may 
 suspect, subject to panic. All these points will be im- 
 portant to remember when we come to his meeting with 
 Achilles. '' 
 
 At present we are not allowed to dwell much on the 
 gap left by his departure, for Diomede's onslaught is im- 
 mediately checked by his meeting with Glaucus, Sarpedon's 
 cousin. They learn that there is an hereditary friendship 
 between them, and the delightful episode gives us an 
 interest in Glaucus which, as we shall see later, is of great 
 value for Book xii. (the attack on the wall) and for Book 
 xvi. (the death of Sarpedon). 
 
 If we have now, as I hope, made out a case for the 
 
 interdependence of Books iii. to vi. (allowing for the 
 
 necessary omissions in v.), we may proceed to take them 
 
 in their proper order, and see what they give us for the 
 
 » vi. 280 ff., 32s ff., 365 ff., 441 ff., and 521 flf. 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 37 
 
 imaginative understanding of the situation assumed in the 
 " Wrath." In the first place, it is here we learn to know 
 the gallery of characters whose existence is involved in the 
 tale. So far we are only familiar with Achilles and 
 Agamemnon. And, as I hope to show, we shall need a 
 knowledge of the others. At the very opening of Book iii. 
 Paris, the cause of the whole trouble, is brought before us. 
 Stung by Hector's reproaches, he suggests a duel with 
 Menelaus, under a solemn oath that the victor is to possess 
 Helen and all her wealth, while both armies are to go home 
 in peace. It has been objected that if Paris was to propose 
 this at all, he ought to have done so long ago. But is it 
 not more natural to suppose that it would need the pressure 
 of the long siege and the protracted struggle to make him 
 tolerate the bare idea of risking Helen on such a chance ? 
 Moreover, he is essentially a man who acts on impulse ; not 
 usually troubled by the disapproval of others, he is yet 
 perfectly ready, with easy good-nature, to admit the justice 
 of special reproaches,^ and to take advice when it chimes in 
 with his mood. He admires Hector, and happens to be 
 "spoiling for a fight" (iii. 60, 16-20). It is equally in 
 accordance with his character that he should propose a duel 
 now when roused by his brother's reproof, and refuse to 
 abide by it afterwards. 
 
 And after Paris we are shown Helen, in scenes .that are 
 not only exquisite themselves, but make us understand the 
 entire movement of the war. We can sympathise with the 
 Trojans who kept the prize, and with the Greeks who 
 fought to win her back. We realise what men will undergo 
 for her sake, and why. The battlefield is lit up, as it were, 
 by the radiance of her loveliness. She shines out " over the 
 field of blood the blushing star." Then we are shown 
 Priam — dignified, tender-souled, chivalrous — till our 
 hearts go out to the noble old man ; and by the simple 
 device of the " Observation from the Walls " the figures of 
 
38 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Agamemnon, Menelaus, Odysseus, and Ajax are made to 
 pass before us, until we know their bodily presence as they 
 lived. 
 
 But we shall be told, in spite of all these advantages, iii. 
 must go, because Agamemnon's consent to the duel is 
 inconsistent with his confidence in his dream. He believes 
 that he can take Troy, and is it likely that he would accept 
 an arrangement by which, if defeated, the Greeks would lose 
 all, and, if victors, would only recover Helen and her wealth ? 
 The answer is twofold. In the first place, is it clear that 
 Agamemnon is so very confident after all .'' Was he likely 
 to place very much reliance on the dream ? He has never 
 said anything about it to the army at large, nor is it ever 
 mentioned again. Nestor, it is plain, does not think much 
 of it, and expresses his feeling almost in so many words 
 (ii. 80-82). This indeed is what we might expect from any 
 Homeric character, for the Homeric belief in omens, dreams, 
 and signs is by no means free from wavering and uncertainty.^ 
 And Agamemnon of all others would be likely to vacil- 
 late, a man, as Dr. Leaf says, " in turns overweening and 
 depressed."^ But even if he has no doubt about the fulfil- 
 ment of the dream, it does not follow that he would not 
 accept the duel, believing that it might prove the first step 
 towards the consummation. Zeus will give the victory to 
 Menelaus, Helen will be theirs, and after that something else 
 may happen to give them Troy as well. This interpreta- 
 tion of his attitude finds complete confirmation in a most 
 significant addition that he makes (on his own account) to 
 the terms of the oath. The proposal of Paris, endorsed by 
 both Hector and Menelaus, was simply that the victor 
 should have Helen and her wealth, while the armies were 
 to be at peace (iii. 70-75, 90-94, loi, 102). But 
 Agamemnon, when taking the oath, adds that, if Paris falls, 
 the Trojans are not only to give back Helen and her 
 wealth ; they are also to " pay a recompense that men will 
 
 ' Cp. xii. 237-243 ; Od. xix. 560, 561. * "Companion," p. 67. 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 39 
 
 speak of in days to come ; and if they will not pay the 
 price, I will stay here and fight until I make an end of the 
 war" (iii. 286-291). These significant words are re- 
 peated by him a second time after the defeat of Paris, when 
 he calls on the Trojans to surrender Helen and her wealth, 
 "and pay a fitting recompense, such recompense as men 
 may speak of in days to come" (iii. 459, 460). 
 
 We may now turn to iv., and the opening scene in 
 heaven. This is a rock of offence to the critics, who ask 
 how Zeus can possibly discuss the upshot of affairs with 
 Hera and actually talk of making peace after his solemn 
 promise to Thetis that he will grant success to the Trojans 
 until Achilles is avenged. Strange the scene undoubtedly 
 is, but the strangeness is due to the peculiar (and at 
 bottom, inconsistent) conception of the gods, to which I 
 have alluded before. The Zeus in the poet's mind is at 
 once the omnipotent god, who is the personification of 
 Destiny, and the individual husband, powerful indeed but 
 limited, and ever at variance with his wife. 
 
 Let us now examine closely the conversation in ques- 
 tion. In the first place, we are expressly told that Zeus is 
 speaking sarcastically in order to annoy his wife — " he tried 
 to provoke Hera by cutting words, and what he said was 
 aimed at her" (iv. 5, 6). It is almost as though we were 
 warned not to take his words too literally. But, without 
 pressing this point, it is clear that we need not suppose his 
 deliberations to be inconsistent with the resolve to honour 
 Achilles. It does not follow that the question, " Shall we 
 stir up war again, or make peace between the two ? " must 
 imply that he really countenances the idea of no more 
 fighting at all. Almost these identical words are used by 
 Athena in her question to Zeus at the close of the Odyssey 
 (xxiv. 475, 476). There Zeus replies: "Let them make 
 a firm covenant together . . . and love each other as they 
 did before " (483, 485, 486). Athena goes down expressly 
 to fulfil this decree, and yet there is slaughter before the 
 
40 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 peace is made. At the same time, as I said above, I suspect 
 that the form in which Zeus threw his question, suggesting 
 at least the possibility of immediate peace, sprang from his 
 desire to irritate Hera. But the leading thought in the 
 mind of Zeus and the leading purport of the scene are 
 plainly indicated by his concluding words, " If this were to 
 the mind of all, Menelaus might take Helen home and 
 Priam's city still be saved" (iv. 17-19). The real ques- 
 tion is, shall Troy be doomed to fall or no ? That this is 
 so, is clear from the whole drift of the dialogue ; and we 
 may compare not only the scene just quoted from the 
 Odyssey, where a colloquy in heaven decides the end in 
 Ithaca, but the still more striking parallel in Iliad xvi. 
 431-458, where the fate of Sarpedon is decided between 
 Zeus and Hera, Zeus evidently anxious to save Sarpedon, 
 and Hera urging his death until her husband yields. It 
 would almost seem as though such a difference of opinion 
 between the king and queen of the gods was a symbol for 
 the oncoming of a disaster, felt to be inevitable, but pitiful 
 and tragic. The inevitable is accepted ; it is decreed by 
 the universal Father, but it is accepted and decreed with 
 sorrow. The " will of Zeus " as representing Destiny, the 
 will referred to in the prologue, is here confirmed by the 
 actual god himself, even against his own private will as an 
 individual. It is impossible to get rid of all inconsistency ; 
 but it is an inconsistency in the very conception of the 
 god's nature, an inconsistency born of the unconscious 
 attempt to symbolise metaphysics by mythology. In the 
 decree itself, once it has gone forth, there is nothing in- 
 consistent. That Troy should be doomed and the doom 
 made known to the listeners of the tale, and yet that the 
 Trojans should succeed for a time, and Achilles receive his 
 honour, is a perfectly natural scheme. On the other hand, 
 if the poet had decided that Troy was to be saved, Zeus 
 might have arranged for the truce to be broken by acci- 
 dent, so that peace and friendship might be possible in the 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 41 
 
 end, after Achilles had received his due. But the poet 
 wishes us to know that Troy must fall, and so Zeus con- 
 sents to Hera's wish, and the breaking of the truce is 
 brought about by treachery on the Trojan side, treachery 
 after solemn oaths which the gods were called upbn to 
 witness. 
 
 After this there could be no real hope for the. final 
 deliverance of Troy. Honourable Trojans, like Hector, 
 would begin to feel, as we have seen that Hector does 
 feel, the first touch of despair. On their side the Achaians 
 would gain confidence, as the words of Agamemnon and 
 Idomeneus show they did '^ (iv. 164, 165, 269-271). It 
 is not by accident, surely, that the same cry is put into 
 Agamemnon's mouth and Hector's, triumphant for the 
 one, infinitely pathetic for the other. " A day will come 
 when holy Ilium must fall, and Priam of the stout ashen 
 spear, and all his people," echoing with fateful significance 
 the very words of Zeus : " For above all cities and all 
 nations of the earth, I have loved the holy town of Ilium, 
 and Priam of the stout ashen spear, and all his people " 
 (iv. 46-47, 164-165; vi. 448-449). 
 
 A little later on Pandarus, the actual traitor, is killed by 
 Diomede (v. 296), and the listener feels that the doom of 
 Pandarus is just. That there is no comment on his death 
 in the poem ought not to cause difficulty, for the poet 
 hardly ever makes a comment in his own person, and neither 
 Diomede nor Sthenelus knew who the traitor was, since 
 Pandarus had been hidden from the Greeks when he did 
 the deed (iv. 113-115). Pandarus breaks the truce by 
 shooting at Menelaus and wounding him (iv. 104 fF.), and 
 we learn to know more of Menelaus in this scene. He has 
 already borne himself gallantly in the duel, and shown a 
 generous sympathy for the warriors fighting on his account, 
 a sympathy which makes him rejoice to accept the offer of 
 Paris : " Trojan and Greek have suffered enough in our 
 ^ See " Homer and the Epic," A. Lang, p. loi. 
 
42 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 quarrel, and it is the wish of my heart that they should 
 fight no more" (iii. 97 ff.). Now we see the steadiness 
 with which he takes his wound, and hear his calming words 
 to Agamemnon (who has almost lost his self-control) : 
 
 " Courage ! No need to alarm the host ! The arrow 
 has not gone deep, and I shall live ! " (iv. 184 ff.). 
 
 We can understand the affection with which he inspires 
 his brother: indeed the love for Menelaus is the only 
 thoroughly pleasing thing about Agamemnon. 
 
 The rest of the scene and the review that follows in iv. 
 complete our knowledge of the heroes who are to be so 
 prominent in xi. Machaon, the good physician, is brought 
 forward, and " a physician is worth a hundred men " (xi. 
 514). It is he who staunches the wound of Menelaus 
 (iv. 210-219), and after that is done Agamemnon reviews 
 the host (iv. 223-421), and it is in this review that we 
 come into touch with the other chieftains who are to bear 
 the brunt of war in xi., — Idomeneus the mighty prince, 
 Ajax (only briefly mentioned before), Nestor (whom we 
 had only met so far as a counsellor), Odysseus (so far 
 only described by others), and Diomede. The interviews 
 with Agamemnon reveal their personalities quite clearly : 
 Diomede, courteous, chivalrous, and self-reliant ; Odysseus, 
 strong, dignified, claiming and receiving respect, thinking 
 in the battle of his son Telemachus ; Nestor, cautious, 
 experienced, an old man but doughty still ; and Ajax, 
 recognised even by Agamemnon as one who needs no 
 urging, holding his men well in hand, taking praise, as he 
 took most things, in silence. When we come to Book xii. 
 we shall see also that there is significance in the honourable 
 mention of Menestheus beside Odysseus. 
 
 That Agamemnon should occasionally be unfair in 
 what he says is only natural for a man of his type at 
 this moment of anger and excitement. Was he fair in 
 Book i. to the aged Chryses ? Or just to Achilles? Of 
 the Trojans we have seen Paris, and Helen, and Priam ; 
 
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF BOOKS III.-VI. 43 
 
 and in vi. we meet Hecuba, the motherly-hearted woman, 
 who guesses what her son has come for, and tries to inveigle 
 him into taking food and rest. Hector we can see from 
 many points of view ; see him as he is seen by those who 
 know him best, and know his worth — by his mother, by 
 Paris, by Helen, but best of all by his wife Andromache. 
 More will be said about his relation to Andromache when 
 we come to xxii. : at present we must turn once more to 
 xi. and its connection with what has gone before. 
 
 Note. — Assumed " Original" from the Opening to the end of vi. II. i.; 
 ii. 1-92, 455-483, 761-815 ; iii.; iv.; v. 1-126, 133-329, 471-505 ; vi. 2 to end. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS (BOOKS XI.-XV.) 
 
 In the last two chapters reason has been given for holding, 
 provisionally, that the original poem continues unbroken 
 (save for the latter part of v.) from the beginning of iii. 
 to the beginning of vii., where Hector and Paris return to 
 the field, but that there it is interrupted by a mass of later 
 additions which go on to the close of x.^ 
 
 As regards the beginning of xi., on either theory (mine 
 or that of the " Menis "), the opening lines of this Book, 
 which tell of a new morning and fresh preparation for 
 battle, must be considered as later too. Dr. Leaf speaks 
 of this part as a connecting passage designed to effect 
 the transition in returning from the interpolations to the 
 original,^ and I have no wish to traverse this suggestion. 
 Here, I admit, we seem to have the hand of the " diaskeu- 
 ast " at work. Dr. Leaf suggests that the connecting 
 passage is closed at xi. 56,^ with the description of the Greek 
 array ; but, if my theory be correct, the next six lines 
 describing the marshalling of the Trojans must also belong 
 to the " diaskeuast." For we should expect the original 
 poem to proceed at once from the reappearance of Hector 
 and Paris on the field (vii. 1-7) to the actual business of 
 the hand-to-hand fighting, and this begins at xi. 62. I 
 suppose, then, the original sequence to have been as follows: 
 " So the two brothers sallied out from the gate, Paris and 
 glorious Hector, thirsting for the fight. And the sight 
 of them was as welcome to their comrades in the field 
 
 ' For Books vii. and viii., see c. iv. init., pp. 31, 32 ; for Books ix. and x., 
 see c. iii. '' " Companion," p. 201. 
 
 ' He adds "or a little later" ("Companion," loc. cit.). 
 
 44 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 45 
 
 as a fair wind is welcome to weary mariners after they 
 have toiled long at the oars. And as a star shines out 
 among the clouds, and then is hidden again, so was Hector 
 seen, now here, now there, now in the van, and now rallying 
 the rear."^ It is well to note in passing that Hector's 
 drooping spirits are revived by an inspiration from Zeus. 
 Iris bids him wait till Agamemnon is wounded and then 
 make his rush, in the confidence of success.^ 
 
 The rest of xi., with the exception of a stray line here 
 and there, and Nestor's reminiscence (670-761), is generally 
 recognised as original, and has been praised by Dr. Leaf as 
 "a perfect piece of ancient and uncontaminated poetry."* 
 But let us see how the perfect work suffers if we remove 
 all that might contaminate it. The rout is produced by 
 the wounding of the prominent Greek heroes, and critics 
 rightly point to the naturalness of the device, and its 
 superiority over the supernatural mechanism in viii. They 
 do rightly in this, but it is not right to forget that, if we 
 may not have iii. or iv. or v. or vi., none of the " prominent 
 heroes " except Agamemnon are prominent to us at all. 
 We have once met Nestor, it is true, but only in his capacity 
 as an ineffective, if well-intentioned, counsellor. We have 
 not even seen Odysseus or Diomede or Menelaus or Ajax 
 or Machaon, much less been taught to know their qualities. 
 The reader who has " the disfiguring interpolations " to 
 help him feels a thrill of terror for the Greeks, a thrill of 
 hope for the Trojans, as, one after another, the best-known 
 Achaians are disabled. The wounding of Agamemnon is 
 
 1 I should not like to press the point, but it does seem to me possible 
 that the ■word phaniten in vii. 7 is taken up hy phanesken in xi. 64. 
 
 ^ xi. 186 ff. The last lines of the message " until he reach the ships and 
 the sun sets and the sacred darkness falls," do not fit with the sequel, and 
 have probably slipped in by mistaken repetition from the resolve of Zeus 
 in xvii. 454, 455, where they are quite in place (see Munro, xi. ad loc). 
 
 " " Companion," p. 202. In his edition of the " Iliad " (Introduction 
 to xi.) Dr. Leaf somewhat modifies this statement, saying that the book 
 " has doubtless undergone, even in the older parts, internal modifications." 
 But he admits that these " are now beyond our power to detect." 
 
46 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the signal, as Zeus had promised Hector, for the defeat 
 of the men on whom we know that the king relies and has 
 reason to rely xi. (370 fF.). 
 
 First Diomede is wounded, Diomede the valiant, in 
 whose house valour was a tradition, then Odysseus, the 
 hero whose intellect equalled his courage, then Machaon, 
 the good leech, then jNestor, the counsellor proved in war. 
 Each of these we feel is worth a hundred men.^ Would it 
 be possible to feel this if the names were names to us and 
 nothing more ? 
 
 Nor is this all. As none of the disabled heroes ever 
 fight again, we should have to admit — if we followed the 
 " Menis " and the " Menis " alone, and passed at once from 
 ii. (init.) to xi. — that a prince of story-tellers and a writer 
 of supreme heroic verse deliberately framed his narrative so 
 as to make the one and only appearance of these champions 
 on the field — his own country's champions — the occasion 
 for their signal and unredeemed discomfiture. Diomede 
 in particular would appear as nothing but a boaster, instantly 
 put to shame ; for if we are not to hear of his exploits in 
 Book V. and his brave endurance there when wounded by 
 Pandarus (95 ff.), we shall not know of anything he has 
 done to justify his haughty words to Paris here (xi. 385 fF.).^ 
 
 If the reader thinks I over-emphasise these points, let 
 him try the experiment of telling the story in this truncated 
 form to listeners whose ignorance keeps them unprejudiced. 
 Let him see if he can rouse any sympathy for these un- 
 proved, easily-defeated Greeks, who claim so much for 
 themselves, and then are immediately put to flight. I think 
 the story-teller will find reason to regret that he did not 
 trust to *' Homer." Nor would it meet the case to urge 
 that the Greek champions in question must have been tribal 
 heroes, and an Homeric audience would know them well 
 
 * V. 253 ; iii. 216-224 ; iv. 350 ff., 193 ff., 293 ff. 
 
 ^ These admissions would be the more awkward for those, who hold 
 that the poet was so ultra-patriotic that he could not even sympathise with 
 his own lovable Hector, because Hector, forsooth, was an " enemy." 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 47 
 
 enough already. An audience of that type would only be 
 the less likely to tolerate such a treatment of their favour- 
 ites. Put Nelson in the place of Diomede, and imagine 
 an English audience hearing nothing about Nelson but his 
 defeat, and a defeat after boasting ! 
 
 Again, if we had only the " Menis," the peculiar 
 character of Paris would be unknown to us, and hence 
 we should lose entirely, not only the splendid effect of his 
 careless, brilliant re-entry into the fight,^ where he is to do 
 so much harm, but also the shiver of surprise, changing 
 to a kind of awestruck excitement when we find this dandy 
 sending Diomede and Machaon and Nestor out of the 
 battle. Zeus, we feel, must have a hand in the matter. 
 Odysseus is wounded too, and Agamemnon has gone, 
 and our minds turn hurriedly to consider who is left. 
 Idomeneus has his hands full (xi. 501). Menelaus, we 
 remember, was wounded by Pandarus before (iv. 127), 
 slightly, it is true, but still enough to hamper him, and 
 even if he were unscathed, he could not uphold the fight 
 alone. But there is one great bulwark still, Ajax, " the 
 best of the Achaians after Achilles " (ii. 769), and we recall 
 that even Agamemnon had no fault to find with him 
 (iv. 285). Will he not help? And help he does in the 
 glorious passages that every one knows (xi. 485 ff., 544 fF., 
 cp. XV. 674 fF.).* But how much more glorious if the help 
 comes as a service from an old and trusted friend ! The 
 one man who now comes forward to support him (xi. 575), 
 Eurypylus, is immediately wounded, and again it is Paris 
 who does the mischief. We have only heard once of Eury- 
 pylus before (v. 76 fF.), and I would ask the candid reader 
 if his loss does not seem far less important than the loss of 
 Agamemnon or Odysseus or Diomede or Nestor. It may 
 
 ^ vi. fin.; vii. init. 
 
 ° The daring juxtaposition of the two metaphors, the metaphor of the 
 lion and the metaphor of the ass, seems to me to give us the character of 
 Ajax with wonderful force and humour. The two together just describe 
 him : he has the good stout donkey in him as well as the lion. 
 
48 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 then occur to him how much the "original" may be 
 indebted for its own eiFect to the " later accretions." 
 
 On the other hand, I fully admit that according to 
 my theory there is a long interval, and what might even 
 be called a long delay, between the promise of Zeus to 
 Thetis in i. and the fulfilment of that promise through 
 the Greek rout in xi. The interest cannot be said to flag, 
 for everything that happens is intensely interesting, but the 
 actual main story does not advance. The duel between 
 Paris and Menelaus with all its attendant circumstances, 
 the breaking of the oaths, the review by Agamemnon, the 
 resumption of battle, the prowess of Diomede, Hector's 
 quitting of the field and his return with Paris, all this 
 intervenes before the loss of Achilles can be brought home 
 to the Greeks with its crushing weight in xi. This, of 
 course, is the reason why acute critics have been tempted 
 to cut the intervening parts away. But to yield to the 
 temptation is to destroy the effect of xi. itself, as we have 
 seen, and, as we shall see later, the effect of xxii. also. 
 Thus the delay is all but completely justified by the enrich- 
 ment of the crisis when it actually comes. I say " all but 
 completely," for I am prepared to grant it conceivable 
 that an even greater degree of skill might have achieved 
 an equally great result without any sense of delay. But 
 to say this is only to say that Homer was not superhuman. 
 It takes him some time to gather his threads together, but 
 the threads are essential to his pattern. To cut them would 
 not mend matters. 
 
 It is interesting to note that a similar interval occurs in 
 the Odyssey between the first resolve of Telemachus (in 
 Book i.) to oust the suitors and discover his father, and 
 the actual initiation of the vengeance itself in Book xvi., 
 when father and son meet together at last. Certain critics, 
 for similar reasons, have denied the unity of the Odyssey on 
 the very ground of this delay, but the defence of that unity 
 must be postponed to the second part of this essay. In our 
 
 L^' 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 49 
 
 highest dramatic literature, as it seems to me, we can find 
 two other parallels to this Homeric use of what may be 
 described as a pause after the first shock of the opening, 
 before the listener can understand how the results of the 
 action taken there are to work themselves out in another 
 and consequent crisis. Professor A. C. Bradley in his 
 " Shakespearean Tragedy" (Lect. ii.) points out that Shake- 
 speare's usual plan " is to begin with a short scene, or part 
 of a scene, either full of life and stir, or in some other way 
 arresting. Then, having secured a hearing, he proceeds to 
 conversations at a lower pitch, accompanied by little action, 
 but conveying much information " (p. 43). Again — and 
 here we come to a deeper matter — in many plays, after a 
 central crisis and before the final catastrophe, we find "a 
 momentary pause, followed by a counter-action which 
 mounts at first slowly, and afterwards, as it gathers force, 
 with quickening speed " (p. 56). Professor Bradley goes on to 
 point out the "difficulties and dangers" of a scheme involving 
 this second pause (adopted in "Julius Cassar," "King Lear," 
 and "Macbeth"), the risk of "a decided slackening of ten- 
 sion," even perhaps of a certain tendency to " drag." Yet 
 Shakespeare used it often, and Professor Bradley suggests a 
 deep, " though probably an unconscious, reason " in the poet's 
 mind for the preference of such a plot over one that might 
 be apt " to show less clearly how an act returns upon the 
 agent, and to produce less strongly the impression of an 
 inexorable order working in the passions and actions of 
 men, and labouring through their agony and waste towards 
 good " (p. 67). May not something of the same feeling 
 have been stirring in the depths of Homer's mind.? He 
 was quite great enough to have had the sense of the vast 
 and complex order in which man is set among men, of the 
 terrible and momentous results to which one rash action 
 may lead, results which may go far beyond the individual 
 and drag down a mighty nation in his fall. But if he had 
 this sense he would demand a wide canvas for his picture, 
 
 D 
 
50 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 The need for us to know the Greek heroes before we 
 can feel for ourselves how Achilles' withdrawal is destined 
 to affect them, has been dwelt upon already. The same 
 is true for the Trojan side. We could not see how surely 
 Achilles' folly led to the brief Trojan triumph if we were 
 not shown what manner of man their champion is. We 
 could not understand what the loss of Hector will mean to 
 Troy unless we were shown the relation between him and 
 his city. We could not conceive in its fulness what the fall 
 of that city itself will mean unless we had learnt both to 
 love the citizens and their king and to despise the 
 adulterer who brought the war upon his country. The 
 poet needs for his own effect to let us know all this, and as 
 soon as may be. He does not tell us before the quarrel, 
 partly in order "to secure a hearing" by a vivid scene at 
 the outset, a scene that holds in itself the kernel of what is 
 to come. Indeed the success of his abrupt opening has 
 provided a commonplace for the praises of critics from 
 Horace downwards. But also, I believe, the poet adopted 
 this scheme because he wanted to give the impression of a 
 sudden fierce and hasty action, which we feel is bound to 
 have momentous consequences, but what consequences we 
 cannot yet discern ; consequences which do not manifest 
 themselves at once, and which we can only fully appreciate 
 when we look, and look deeply, into the sea of character 
 and circumstance that surrounds the initial deed. Slowly, 
 as in actual life, we come to see what it all leads to. 
 
 We must now return to the close of Book xi. I have 
 already touched on the words of Achilles to Patroclus at 
 this crisis, as he stands on his ship watching the rout. It 
 is wholly in keeping with the sweeter interpretation of his 
 character that he should send Patroclus to Nestor to inquire 
 after one of the wounded men. This is not the action of 
 a man " gloating over his triumph." Nestor in his reply 
 begs Patroclus to go back to Achilles and implore him to 
 relent : " there is a power in a friend's word." Neither 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 51 
 
 of them say anything about the unavailing words of the 
 friends on the Embassy supposed to have taken place the 
 night before. They seem to know nothing about it. 
 Patroclus agrees readily, but on his way to Achilles he 
 is stopped by the wounded Eurypylus, and stays out of 
 pity to nurse him. It has been asked ^ if it is not un- 
 natural that Patroclus should delay, even for the sake of 
 a wounded comrade, at such a critical moment. The 
 answer — an important answer — is that it just depends how 
 great the crisis is. Even the kindly Patroclus could 
 scarcely linger if the Greeks were at the last gasp. If 
 the rout in xi. is held to represent the darkest hour for 
 the Greeks, then we must admit an artistic blunder. But 
 if we are meant to conceive that the Greeks, though hard 
 pressed, have still a good chance, that they have, let us 
 say, a second line of defence, then the action of Patroclus, 
 though it heightens our excitement, does not give us a 
 shock nor cause a sense of dislocation. The wall and the 
 struggle round it are exactly what we require : xii. is 
 needed to justify the end of xi. 
 
 It justifies also the long reminiscence of Nestor in his 
 reply to Patroclus immediately before (xi. c. 670-761). 
 This has been struck out as grotesquely inappropriate to its 
 context. But the alleged inappropriateness can only be 
 found in its length, for it is admittedly a brilliant piece of 
 work in itself, and entirely in keeping with Nestor's char- 
 acter. And the length, I believe, will not seem too great 
 if we remember, as I have said before, that, unless we excise 
 xii., there is no reason to suppose that the Greeks are 
 absolutely at the last extremity. Moreover, it should not be 
 forgotten that the passage, after all, is not so much as one 
 hundred lines. It would take less than ten minutes to recite, 
 and would be grasped much more quickly by an Homeric 
 Greek than by an English student. Finally, a certain 
 amount of jwappropriateness in the old man's lengthy story 
 
 1 Monro, "Iliad," xi. Introd. 
 
52 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 is actually appropriate to the context. Increase of tension 
 is gained just by feeling that the tale, though very good, 
 is very long, and that the sands may be running out for 
 the Greeks while Patroclus is kept listening to Nestor. 
 
 All these considerations are reinforced when we find, 
 in Book xxiii., that the whole scene between Nestor and 
 Patroclus, and the reminiscence in particular, are brought 
 before us again, in a very subtle manner, and with a very 
 wonderful effect. 
 
 It is perhaps a work of supererogation to add, that 
 our excitement here is in no way inconsistent with our 
 conviction that Troy is doomed. On the contrary, that 
 conviction helps us to reach the right attitude. We cannot 
 hope for Troy's escape, and what we now fear is irrepar- 
 able disaster to the Greeks, so that the end will mean the 
 annihilation of both armies in one indiscriminate slaughter ; 
 in short, that Achilles will repent too late to save his 
 friends, though not too late to avenge himself on Troy — 
 repent when the people are destroyed, as Nestor says him- 
 self (xi. 764). (This confident expectation, by the way, of 
 Achilles' future remorse is another of the many indications 
 in the "Menis" itself that Achilles, for all his passion, is 
 never conceived as inhuman.) Thus our knowledge of 
 the fatal decree against Troy, at last definitely promulgated 
 in heaven, helps to keep our sympathies in that right 
 balance which is necessary for the full appreciation of a 
 struggle between noble enemies. We may exult, we ought 
 to exult, in Hector's moment of triumph, but the exulta- 
 tion should not overpower our sympathy for Hector's foes. 
 And the knowledge that Hector's success could not win 
 for him the one thing that he desires — the salvation of 
 his city— this knowledge does prevent our wish for that 
 success from being overpowering. Room is left in our 
 hearts for the Greeks ; their cry for Achilles can be our 
 cry as well ; and the poet has taken care that it should 
 be so. 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 53 
 
 The objections brought against xii. must now be con- 
 sidered. Dr. Leaf would discard the book, if only because 
 it contains the wall, and wherever the wall occurs there is, 
 on his view, confusion in the narrative. Now it may be 
 granted at once that there appear to be two interpolations 
 in the book. One contains the abortive attack by Asius, 
 which we will discuss presently. The other is the digres- 
 sion in the first fifty lines " about the subsequent destruction 
 of the wall by Poseidon and Apollo " (Monro, ad loc). 
 Even so conservative a scholar as Monro admits that this 
 is probably suggested by one of the passages about the 
 building of the wall in vii. (443 ff.). But this brief 
 digression can be dropped out of xii. without disturbing 
 its texture (omitting, say, the lines from Sb to 37«). Let 
 us now take the rest of the narrative in detail and test 
 it carefully. It is true we cannot say for certain exactly 
 how the wall was built ; but does that matter ? It is with 
 it as with the raft of Odysseus. In either case we know 
 quite enough to make the story clear, though we might 
 not be, able to construct a model. The wall may have 
 been of earth propped with wooden pillars, as Dr. Leaf 
 suggests (" Companion," p. 220), or of masonry and wood : 
 we cannot say. But we know that it was strong enough 
 to bear men standing on it (xii. 265), and yet not too 
 strong to be torn down by hand ; we know that the trench 
 in front of it was hard for chariots to cross under a shower 
 of spears, but not impossible ; we know that there was at 
 least one gate,^ and that by the time Hector and Sarpedon 
 reached the wall, the gate (or gates) had been shut by the 
 Greeks (290, 340). 
 
 With these simple facts in mind, let us follow the story 
 step by step. Hector stands in his chariot at the edge of 
 the trench, ready to make his last fierce rush (xii. 40 iF.). 
 The splendid picture here has been suspected, because 
 Hector is compared to a wild boar at bay, and it is said 
 ' xii. 340 is ambiguous. 
 
54 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 (quite truly) that he is not at bay, but taking the offensive. 
 But this is to miss the point of the simile by pressing the 
 details — a mistake that is not uncommon. The leading note 
 is surely just the irresistible daring of the boar, a daring that 
 is to prove fatal to himself: "Nothing can daunt him till 
 his courage brings him to his death, and wherever he makes 
 his rush, the ranks give way " (45-48). We are reminded, 
 or reminded we ought to be, of Andromache's words to her 
 husband, only an hour before: "Your daring will be your 
 ruin" (vi. 407). And we ought to remember also that 
 Hector, as she had foreseen (vi. fin.), never returns to her 
 alive. The same note is struck in the simile of Sarpedon 
 lower down (xii. 305, 306) : " He will make his rush 
 and seize his prey, or fall there in the front." Sarpedon, 
 too, is to meet his doom that day, as we shall find. 
 Polydamas then comes forward with sage advice to the 
 doomed men. Let them leave their horses and charioteers 
 at the lip of the trench, and cross on foot themselves. 
 The trench is difficult for the chariots, and even Hector's 
 horses have refused the plunge. If the Trojan charge 
 succeeds, well and good ; if not, at least they escape the 
 danger of the chariots becoming entangled in the trench 
 on the retreat. Wise counsel, accepted by Hector here ; 
 but, wise as the counsellor is, he is not, as a rule, one 
 who carries weight, certainly not as against Hector. This 
 appears in a moment, and a quiet little touch in xv. 
 (445 if.) emphasises it curiously. Cleitus, his own friend and 
 charioteer, disobeys his chief's wishes in this very matter 
 later on, hoping to please Hector and thinking him over- 
 borne by Polydamas. He crosses with the chariot and 
 follows into the thickest of the fight. This would be easy 
 enough to do when once the wall was carried : there must 
 have been at least one causeway across the fosse. But it 
 is expressly noted that the horses prove a danger in the 
 crowd on this very occasion, as Polydamas sees again. No 
 doubt other charioteers would follow the lead of Cleitus, 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 55 
 
 and thus there is no difficulty (as it has been thought) 
 in finding later on, at the successful charge of Patroclus 
 (xvi. 364 fF.), that " many a car was broken in the trench," 
 as Polydamas had feared. Hector's car, however, is not 
 one of these, and it may be presumed that when he left it 
 behind (at Polydamas' advice) he gave his charioteer strict 
 injunctions to stay where he was told ; and Hector is a 
 man who, when understood, is always obeyed. It should 
 not be overlooked that the stress laid here on the in- 
 effective wisdom of Polydamas is just the preparation 
 needed for us to realise later on all the danger that 
 Hector runs in neglecting his advice at the close of the 
 day, after Achilles has appeared at the trench (xviii. 
 249 if.). 
 
 To return to the narrative in xii. : the Trojans, when 
 they decide to attack on foot, divide into five parties (xii. 
 84 fF.). The object of this arrangement is not expressly 
 stated by the poet, but it ought to be clear enough : it is 
 to divide the Greek resistance, and the plan evidently 
 succeeds. Hector would never have been allowed to get 
 right up to the gate and take his aim with the stone so 
 easily, if Ajax and his namesake and Menestheus had not 
 all been occupied elsewhere. (Menestheus, we remember, 
 is honourably mentioned in the " Review.") Sarpedon and 
 Hector, it is expressly said, are at the head of the two 
 most daring bands (xii. 88-90, 104-107), so that we are 
 not surprised afterwards to find they share between them 
 the glory of carrying the wall. Then follows (108-195) 
 an episode which is certainly both ineffective and inhar- 
 monious : the abortive attack by Asius, one of the five 
 captains, on some gate — it is not clear whether the same 
 gate that Hector breaks down in the end, or another. The 
 episode is curiously terminated, breaking off abruptly, with 
 only a hint of the death of Asius to follow at some time, a 
 hint not fulfilled till Book xiii., which we shall find reason 
 to think does not belong to the original poem at all. The 
 
56 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 gate is open during this episode (121), but it appears that 
 it is taken as closed later, at 290 possibly, certainly at 34O, 
 and nothing is ever said about the closing. Moreover, the 
 whole action of Asius in outstripping both Sarpedon and 
 Hector strikes one as out of key. But the whole passage 
 (xii. 108-195) '^^^ easily be omitted; it can be dropped 
 without affecting the rest ; and we may suppose it prompted 
 by a wish to hear something of the fortune of the other 
 companies beside Sarpedon's and Hector's. The fight at 
 the wall may have bulked largely in the traditions. The 
 rest of the book is a model of speed and vigour. Hector 
 and his men are just about to cross the trench when for a 
 moment an evil omen checks them. Polydamas begs them 
 to draw back for good, but Hector sweeps away all such 
 protest as superstitious, and dashes his men at the wall. 
 At first Ajax and his namesake direct the resistance all 
 along the line ; then Sarpedon and Glaucus make a deter- 
 mined assault at the point where Menestheus is posted ; 
 Menestheus, hard pressed, sends along the wall for help ; 
 Ajax and Teucer reach him in the nick of time ; Glaucus 
 is wounded (though not utterly disabled), but Sarpedon 
 drags down enough of the wall to make a breach. Still 
 the Greeks will not give way until Hector, with a mighty 
 cast, breaks down the gate, and further defence is useless. 
 What is there obscure in this ? Or where is the lack of 
 vigour ? 
 
 Let us now see how great is the gain to the whole 
 poem from this clear and glorious narrative. We see 
 Hector for the first time as a leader of almost irresistible 
 dash ; in no scene before has he shown this force and fire ; 
 never before has he been drawn as a champion so worthy 
 to meet Achilles. And Sarpedon wins our hearts now by 
 the character that opens out in his famous speech to 
 Glaucus, facing death, as he does, in the hope of glory. 
 The friendship between the two recalls the friendship be- 
 tween Achilles and Patroclus ; we are made to sympathise 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 57 
 
 with the Trojan allies as we do with the Greek heroes. 
 Achilles is not the only man who is to lose his bosom 
 friend in the war. We shall be asked to sorrow with 
 Glaucus too.^ 
 
 But the most striking effect of the book is on the 
 immediate situation. The excitement rises higher and 
 higher ; the need for Achilles grows greater and greater. 
 Will Patroclus never make his appeal ? Will he waste the 
 precious moments for ever with Eurypylus ? 
 
 But on this moment of tension follows the longest 
 retardation of the story that can be found. Zeus, for no 
 conceivable reason, turns away his eyes (xiii. 1-7), and is 
 afterwards beguiled by Hera (xiv. 153-351), while 
 Poseidon rallies the Greeks, and the battle sways to and fro 
 without any conclusive result. This oscillation endures 
 throughout two Books and a half, until at xv. 389 we are 
 brought back to the exact point we left at the end of xii. 
 The Trojans in xiv. had been driven off after all without 
 Achilles' help, but in xv., with Apollo's assistance, they 
 cross the wall once more, and this time without a struggle 
 (xv. 351-367). It is scarcely credible that one and the 
 same poet could have written xii. and then marred its effect 
 by such a tame after-clap as this, and it is significant that 
 the second taking of the wall in xv. must be accomplished, 
 like the rout of the Greeks in viii., by supernatural agency. 
 Moreover, the fighting is languid and the incidents on the 
 field are clumsy, e.g. the Greeks go to their tents for 
 armour, when they can least be spared, and the success of 
 the Locrian archers in xiii. (712-722) is little short of 
 ridiculous. Again, at the opening of xiv. Nestor hears the 
 noise of battle apparently for the first time, though all 
 through xiii. the fight has been raging within the wall. 
 As war-poetry the poetry is poor, but on the other hand it 
 
 ^ " Other men lose the souls they love, dear as Patroclus was to him, 
 and they weep for them, but they let them go. The heart of man was made 
 to sorrow and endure " : xxiv. 46 fF. 
 
58 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 shows a wonderful skill in decoration and a wonderful 
 brilliance in lighter narrative. The chariot of Poseidon upon 
 the waters (xiii. 23-31), the couch of Zeus and Hera upon 
 Mount Ida (xiv. 346-351), such pictures have the splen- 
 dour and charm of a Titian. The work throughout, in its 
 qualities and its defects, in its opulence of fancy, its lack of 
 moral tone, its nervelessness in battle, and its delight in 
 voluptuous grace, seems to indicate a period when the flower 
 of epic art, though still beautiful, is already overblown. The 
 contrast is most marked between such work as this and the 
 sinewy vigour shown in Book xii. that precedes it, and in 
 the latter half of Book xv. that follows it. The point where 
 the original begins again in xv. seems to me unmistakable. 
 Let us remember our cry for Patroclus and Achilles at the 
 end of xii., when the wall was carried, and then observe how 
 admirably this is answered by xv. 390 ff. " Now while the 
 Trojans and Achaians were fighting at the rampart Patroclus 
 sat in the hut of Eurypylus and cheered him and talked to 
 him and put simples on his wound, but when he saw the 
 Trojans charge the wall and the Achaians turn and flee, he 
 groaned and smote his hand upon his thigh and cried, 
 ' Eurypylus, I can stay with you no longer, in spite of all 
 your need ; the battle has grown too hot. Your squire 
 must see to you, and I must hurry to Achilles and urge 
 him to take the field.' " (This passage, by the way, could 
 scarcely have been written by a poet who had in his mind 
 more than one capture of the wall.) 
 
 Patroclus hurries away, and meanwhile, in spite of Ajax, 
 the mass of the Trojans still get forward inch by inch, till 
 at last (xv. 592) they bear down the resistance and "rush on 
 the ships like ravening lions.^ Here even the advocates of 
 the " Wrath " admit that the original appears again, so we 
 
 1 On my theory they have been attacking Xhe ships since xv. 390, but this 
 is the final and victorious rush. It is wholly needless to suppose that the 
 verb " rushed-upon " (593) implies the absence of previous attacks, any more 
 than it does at xv. 395. 
 
THE ROUT OF THE GREEKS 59 
 
 need say little more. But the last words of Ajax, fighting 
 desperately h Voutrance (733-741), have some bearing on 
 the question of Book xii. He is trying to give his men 
 the courage of despair, and he cries out : "Is there any 
 better wall behind us ? " Dr. Leaf, discarding xii., and 
 wishing (for which I do not blame him) to keep this 
 splendid scene unaltered, takes Ajax to mean the meta- 
 phorical " wall " made by the ships and the line of battle. 
 It is " not necessary," he says, to assume that this portion 
 of the poem belongs to those which speak of a literal wall. 
 Perhaps not, but it is exceedingly natural. 
 
 Note. — Assumed " Original " (from the Return of Hector and the Rout 
 of the Greeks to the end of xv.) ; vii. 1-7 ; xi. 62 to end ; xii. i-6«, 37^-107, 
 196 to end ; xv. 390 to end. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 
 
 The close of xv. leads at once to the appeal of Patroclus 
 and the relenting of Achilles in xvi. This has been already 
 discussed and reason shown for taking the more attractive 
 view of the hero's conduct. But we may pause for a 
 moment to note in detail the gentleness that is bound up 
 with the fierceness of it all. Achilles is ready for pity 
 even before his friend has spoken (xvi. 5), and the famous 
 simile in which he compares him to a little girl pulling at 
 her mother's skirts, looking tearfully into her face and 
 pleading to be taken up (7-1 1), is not only poignant in 
 itself, it brings before us the whole sweetness of the rela- 
 tion between the terrible Achilles and his gentler, kindlier 
 friend.^ " There is no tenderness in the Achilleid," so 
 Geddes would have us believe ; but the very pith of the 
 central situation is that the passionate hero relents at the 
 prayer of his loving comrade. 
 
 One other matter calls for notice, the lending of Achilles' 
 armour to Patroclus. Dr. Leaf would cut this out, believing 
 that he detects confusion in the accounts. Now with it we 
 must cut the closing words of Thetis to her son in xviii. 
 (if not the whole of her visit), the entire episode of 
 Achilles at the trench, and the whole of the making 
 of the armour — all undeniably, on whatever theory, very 
 early and very glorious productions. And besides this, 
 all the following references must be got rid of also, 
 
 • Cf. xvii. 670-672, and note the epithet of " kind " (enlh) for Patroclus. 
 Cf. xi. 785-793- 
 
 6a 
 
THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 6i 
 
 as "harmonising" additions: — xi. 798-803; xvi. 40-43, 
 64, 134, 140-144, 796-800; xvii. 186-187, 191-214, 
 450, 709-711; xviii. 82-85; xix. 1-22, 365-368, 383. 
 Nearly all of these references are most skilfully joined 
 to their context, and some of them — as, for instance, 
 Achilles' cry for his lost weapons in his helplessness (xviii. 
 82 fF.) — cannot be torn away without mutilating an ex- 
 quisite passage. Sometimes the joining is said to be early 
 work (xviii. fin.), sometimes late (xvii. 205), but it must 
 be admitted to be always uncommonly skilful. Surely all 
 this is enough to give us pause. Why in the name of 
 common-sense did the " diaskeuast " trouble so much about 
 the armour and neglect the Embassy ? 
 
 Now let us examine the alleged obscurities introduced 
 by the lending of the armour. In xvi. 793-804 Apollo 
 strips Patroclus of his helmet and his shield, breaks his 
 spear, and loosens his corslet.^ How can this be recon- 
 ciled, it is asked, with the assertion of Zeus later on (xvii. 
 205-206) that *' Hector had taken the armour from 
 Patroclus' head and shoulders," or with Hector's own 
 boast (xvii. 187), that he had spoiled the dead.'' It 
 was Apollo that stripped Patroclus, it is urged, Hector 
 only picked up the spoils. But such literalism is not only 
 somewhat hard on the poet ; it really implies a misconcep- 
 tion of the situation ; for the stroke of Apollo would not 
 have cost Patroclus either the armour or his life, had not 
 Hector completed the work. Hector may justly claim to 
 have spoiled him, and justly be held responsible for it. 
 It is quite gratuitous to press the words " from head and 
 shoulders" in the speech of Zeus as though they must 
 necessarily imply the actual dragging off of all the armour 
 by Hector. Even in modern parlance, if a man's hat blew 
 off and some one seized and kept it, the despoiled indi- 
 
 ^ Apollo smites Patroclus on the back between the shoulders (791). I 
 imagine the stunning blow to break the baldric and loosen the clasps of the 
 corslet at the back. (See below c. xv. on the Armour.) 
 
62 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 vidual might say, "You have taken the hat from my 
 head," and no one could accuse him of serious inaccuracy. 
 Besides, if we are to match pedantry by pedantry, we might 
 insist that Hector has in any case to take off the sword, 
 the greaves, and, we may add, the corslet, for xvi. 804 need 
 not, and I believe does not, involve more than the loosen- 
 ing of the clasps.^ 
 
 The next difficulty is found in the change of armour 
 Sy Hector (xvii. 186-214). Now on a cursory reading of 
 this passage, and this passage alone, it might perhaps seem 
 odd that Hector should leave the fight for this purpose ; 
 but, in the first place, we ought to remember that it could 
 not take long to put on the whole Homeric panoply, and 
 in the next — ^what is much more important — that Hector 
 is never conceived either as a perfect tactician, or as a 
 warrior who cannot know the touch of fear. On the 
 contrary, Sarpedon, Glaucus, iEneas, Polydamas, have all 
 on occasion to show him either the necessity for courage 
 or the proper generalship. In vi., as we pointed out, the 
 wisdom of his leaving the field is more than doubtful, and 
 in xvi. 656 (which is admitted to belong to the "Menis") 
 we read that Zeus put the heart of a weakling in his 
 breast. True, the weakness does not last — it never does 
 with Hector; but here, when Glaucus taunts him, he is 
 conscious of it, and his words show that he is (xvii. 170- 
 182). He cannot deny in his heart that he has just 
 flinched before Ajax (128-130), and simply to put the 
 blame on Zeus does not appease his conscience (176-178). 
 He resolves to retrieve his position by a signal display 
 (180) — "see if I play the coward all day long" — and for 
 this he will equip himself in the famous armour, and rival 
 Achilles in appearance, as in daring. 
 
 The only other difficulty to be considered here, and it 
 
 * See c. XV. on the Corslet. I make no doubt that none of these "diffi- 
 culties " would have been thought of if it had not been for the prejudice 
 roused by Reichel against the corslet. 
 
THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 63 
 
 is a "purely negative" difficulty, is that in xxii., when 
 Hector receives his death-wound, while wearing the armour 
 that he had stripped from Patroclus, it is not expressly 
 stated that this armour really belonged to Achilles. Surely 
 in the swift rush of that terrible scene the poet might take 
 something for granted. Moreover, if we are allowed to 
 keep the passage in xvii. (186-214) for which I have 
 just argued, we could urge with considerable force that 
 quite sufficient stress has already been laid upon the fact. 
 What do we read ? " And Hector put on the immortal 
 armour that the gods of heaven gave to Peleus, and the 
 aged Peleus to his son, but that son never lived to wear it 
 in his age" (xvii. 194-197). After this, what more do 
 we want ? It is those who cut away this reference in xvii. 
 who are then surprised that there is none in xxii. It may 
 be noted, by the way, that in xxii. Achilles does not attempt 
 to pierce the immortal armour that he knew so well. He 
 watches narrowly where to strike, and strikes where there is 
 an opening (xxii. 321-327). 
 
 Are we for the sake of such "difficulties" as these 
 to face the real difficulty of tearing out the lending of 
 the armour from the fabric of the tale ^ Why, it is the 
 loss of his armour that leads directly to Achilles' splendid 
 appearance by the trench, and that to the council of the 
 Trojans, where Polydamas advises retreat, and that again 
 to the touching words of Hector in xxii. itself about his 
 own rashness. Moreover, the description of Hephaestus 
 and his work plays a most important part in the general 
 scheme of the epic, as I hope to show when we come to 
 consider it in detail. The idea itself of Achilles lending 
 his armour when he sends out his friend is both natural 
 and pathetic. Dr. Leaf throws doubt on the naturalness 
 by observing that "if it was really the intention that 
 Patroklos should be mistaken for Achilles, the result is 
 a signal failure." -^ But the expedient would be amply 
 
 ^ " Companion," p. 269. 
 
64 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 justified if his appearance made the Trojans hesitate at 
 all, and wonder, if only for a moment, whether Achilles 
 had returned : " in battle," as Nestor says, " a little time is 
 breathing-space enough" (xi. 798-801). This justification 
 it receives (xvi. 278-282). 
 
 The victorious onslaught of Patroclus leads to the 
 beautiful episode of Sarpedon's death. It is admitted that 
 this is perfect in itself and harmonious with its context. 
 " But if the analysis of previous books is correct, it must 
 be an addition, for Sarpedon has hitherto appeared only in 
 places which are not so old as the M^w? " (Leaf, " Iliad," 
 vol. ii. p. 155). The only result of this argument should 
 be, I think, to make us distrust that analysis. And Sarpe- 
 don's death is not only harmonious with the original epic, 
 the spirit of it is essential to our right comprehension of 
 its spirit. The irresistible daring of the Greek is set face 
 to face with the noble courage and stainless honour of his 
 foe : the Trojan champion is doomed, as he had foreseen 
 himself: he must die, and though our hearts cannot turn 
 from his slayer, we cannot help pitying the slain. This 
 is all emphasised for us in the preliminary scene between 
 Zeus and Hera in heaven, and there too we have the 
 tender promise that the swift messengers, the twin brothers, 
 Sleep and Death, shall carry the dead man home to his 
 own land at last. The exquisite decoration of the lines 
 springs, like all the greatest decoration, from a sympathy 
 as exquisite. We are supported through the pain of the 
 conflict by the hope of peace and honour for the dead. 
 And can any one help seeing that here at least the poet's 
 sympathy is with both conqueror and conquered at once ? 
 Like his own Zeus, the poet can weep tears of blood for 
 Sarpedon while he sends the Greek to kill him (xvi. 459). 
 Whoever wrote this scene (and whoever heard it with 
 intelligence) had a wider sympathy than could be exhausted 
 by the success of one side, and one alone. 
 
 The long struggle over the dead body of Patroclus 
 
THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 65 
 
 in xvii. has been challenged as weak and uninteresting. 
 Certainly there is one part to which exception can justly 
 be taken : the episode from 459 to 59a. This, it may 
 readily be admitted, is weak and flat. Hector and iEneas 
 make a futile attack on the horses of Achilles (an attack 
 forbidden by Apollo), and the fighting is as languid 
 as the attack is futile. But this passage can easily be 
 explained as an expansion based on the promise of Zeus 
 to the horses, that Hector should never win them for him- 
 self (xvii. 449). And, to my mind, the weakness and 
 flatness of this interpolation only serve to throw into relief 
 the vigour and excitement of the desperate struggle over 
 the dead bodies of Patroclus and Sarpedon. I suppose 
 this is a matter of " subjective impression," and it is hard 
 to give reasons for the stir in the blood. But at least 
 the bare prose recital may show that the narrative is clear 
 and coherent, and closely knit to what precedes and follows 
 it. It is to be remembered that the vital matter is to 
 save the dead body of Patroclus. Menelaus strides up 
 and stands over it, "like a cow over her new-born calf" 
 (xvii. 4) ; he slays Euphorbus, who claims (with some 
 justice) the honour of stripping the slain ; but he is driven 
 ofi^ by the rush of Hector with the mass of the Trojans 
 behind him. At once he races for help to Ajax, that great 
 bulwark in distress, and they are back in time to fight for 
 the body, though the armour has been taken. Hector 
 flinches for a moment, and then, taunted by Glaucus, who 
 is burning to get the corpse of Patroclus as a possible 
 exchange for his beloved Sarpedon, he equips himself in 
 the armour and rouses allies and Trojans for an over- 
 whelming attack. Among the Greeks Ajax and Menelaus 
 shout for the two last of their champions, Idomeneus and 
 Ajax the son of Olleus. Then a strange mist drops from 
 the sky, for Zeus who loved Sarpedon loved Patroclus 
 too, and " would not have his body taken for a prey " ; 
 and thus the last hand-to-hand struggle begins. The 
 
 £ 
 
66 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 struggle is long — and surely it would be so ; victory sways 
 from side to side — how should it not? Ajax rallies the 
 Greeks, Apollo rouses JEnezs ; and " so they fought on 
 like fire, and it seemed that sun and moon were blotted 
 out of the sky. For the battlefield was wrapped in dark- 
 ness where the heroes were locked in that wrestle above 
 the dead " (366 ff.). There is sunlight elsewhere, and on 
 the skirts of the battle Antilochus and his brother, the sons 
 of Nestor, are " fighting a running fight," on the watch for 
 their comrades' need — that is, keeping themselves as a 
 reserve — no sign of " slackness," but a prudent piece of 
 tactics, expressly stated as due to Nestor's advice. And 
 the sequel proves that the advice was good, for it is 
 through Antilochus that the rescue of Patroclus' body 
 is at last eiFected. But, for the present, owing to the 
 darkness, neither Antilochus nor his brother know that 
 Patroclus has been slain. Thus, when Zeus finally " gives 
 the mastery " to Hector (in compensation for his coming 
 doom), and when Idomeneus turns and takes to the car 
 of Meriones his friend and flees in terror (625), Ajax and 
 Menelaus have only one chance left — to send a runner 
 with the news to Achilles. And this chance they cannot 
 take ; the mist hides horse and man, they can find no one 
 in the darkness. Then, in answer to the agonised prayer 
 of Ajax, " Father Zeus, save the sons of the Greeks from 
 this ! Slay us if thou wilt, but slay us in the light ! " the 
 fog is swept away, and Menelaus, at the bidding of Ajax, 
 can search for the racer Antilochus. (We are expressly 
 prepared for the choice of Antilochus by an episode in 
 the fight at the ships (xv. 568), where Menelaus calls 
 Antilochus " the best of the younger men and the fleetest 
 of foot.") Antilochus is found, and goes on his fearful 
 errand, and the Greeks have still a chance (698). But it is 
 a faint one, as Menelaus knows, for how can Achilles lead 
 a rescue without his armour? Face to face with death, 
 Ajax and Menelaus will not desert the dead. By a 
 
THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 67 
 
 supreme effort Menelaus and Meriones get Patroclus in 
 their arms and hoist him shoulder-high, while Ajax and 
 his namesake keep the Trojans back. Desperately they 
 toil to the camp, and they do win home in the end, and 
 why ? Because Achilles appears at the trench. 
 
 What is there amiss here ? One might have thought 
 it a battle-piece calculated to turn every one who heard it 
 into a warrior. And those who excise it have to face a 
 great gap in the " Menis " itself, for they see that there 
 must have been something in the original that told of 
 what happened to Patroclus' body, and of how Achilles 
 heard the news. Dr. Leaf wisely refuses to fill the gap 
 with " useless guesswork," but have we not something 
 here that is not guesswork, and that would fill it very 
 well ? We may add that a lecturer who has to handle 
 the poem without it will find, when he comes to the 
 dying prayer of Hector in xxii., that he has laboriously 
 to explain to his class the great importance the Greeks 
 attached to the rescue of the dead. " Homer," if he 
 would have allowed him, would have done this for him 
 already, and much more effectively. 
 
 Once more, it is impossible to doubt that there must 
 have been "something like" the visit of Thetis in the 
 original poem. Could she, who rose to comfort her son 
 for his wounded pride, stay in the depths of the sea when- 
 he had lost his friend ? What do we want better than the 
 perfect scene we are given.? (xviii. init.) Doubtless we should 
 all accept it thankfully, if it were not for what I must call 
 this unaccountable prejudice against the armour ; since 
 there is no denying the awkward fact that references to 
 the armour are bound up with it in a curiously intimate 
 way. For the rest, the prophecy of Thetis to her darling 
 son, that his own death must follow close on Hector's, 
 and Achilles' heroic acceptance of his doom, are of almost 
 vital importance to the sequel of the tale. Without this 
 we could not feel one-half the sympathy for the hero, 
 
68 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 nor could we enter into his feelings when he answers the 
 portent of his horse's voice (xix. 400), or when he accepts, 
 quietly, the dying prophecy of Hector that his own death 
 is close at hand (xxii. 355 ff.). Nor should we see, as we 
 do now, the doom of Troy unfold itself before our eyes. 
 Achilles in this mood, we know, is certain to kill Hector ; 
 and what will happen when Hector has gone ? Sarpedon, 
 the other bulwark, has fallen. The awful "will of Zeus" 
 has developed itself before us. 
 
 It can be imagined with what feelings we hear after this 
 of Hector's rash resolve to encamp beside the ships, though 
 he has seen for himself that Achilles has returned (xviii. 
 243 ff.). But the whole scene here between him and Poly- 
 damas demands, for our full understanding of its inward- 
 ness, the knowledge that we have gained in Book xii. It 
 is there that we learn what Hector is like in the flush 
 of success : it is there that we learn Polydamas to be 
 a prudent counsellor : it is there that we see how (as so 
 often in actual life) a sensible, ineffective voice can be over- 
 borne by a brilliant personality. There is the humour of 
 a poet who knows character to the depths in the creation 
 of Hector's triumphant speech, all assertion and eloquence 
 and no argument, despite his praiseworthy efforts to take 
 the judicial tone. We almost smile, in the midst of our 
 crushing anxiety, when he clinches the matter by saying 
 to Polydamas : " You need not try to persuade the others ; 
 they will not listen to you. I won't let them." (xviii. 
 295, 296.) 
 
 Then we pass, if "Homer" may lead us, from the 
 strain of these sights, from the places of battle and death 
 and agony, away to the peaceful home of the gods and the 
 marvellous smithy of Hephaestus. The effect of the change 
 can hardly be over-estimated. We have had a day of 
 crowded emotion and excitement ; we have felt the rush 
 of conquest and the terror of defeat ; our hearts have been 
 torn with sympathy for each side in turn, for the doomed 
 
THE SENDING OF PATROCLUS 69 
 
 Troy, for Hector and Andromache, for the Achaians in 
 their dread, for Achilles in his punishment. We are at 
 the very heart of the tragedy. The evening has come, and 
 there is a natural pause .^ 
 
 The terrible day is over, and the sacred darkness has 
 fallen, and now with no undue abruptness, still united to 
 the tragedy by the mournful figure of Thetis, we are gently 
 taken away to the starry house of Hephaestus and the fairy 
 world of handicraft and rest. Like the similes in the battle, 
 the change at once relieves and heightens the tragic impres- 
 sion of the whole. It is the same art at work that later on 
 
 ^ I suggest a rough provisional "time-table" for the events of the day. 
 Although I would not, as a rule, attach great importance to a poet's sense of 
 time, nor think it well to read him watch in hand, still it is interesting to 
 observe that the poem provides, as a matter of fact, ample room in one day 
 for all that is assumed to happen. And, what is more important, the " time- 
 table " fits in exactly with all the indications of time that are given in what, 
 on other grounds, has been taken for the original poem. I have supposed 
 a summer's day. Though nothing is definitely stated as to this, it seems 
 to be taken for granted ; no mention is made of wintry weather, while stress 
 is laid on the sunlight, and the dust and heat. Indeed it seems to be a sun- 
 stroke that brings about Patroclus' death. 
 
 A.M. 5-8. Arming of the Achaians ("early dawn," ii. 48) ; meeting 
 of the armies, and the duel (Bks. ii., iii.). 
 
 „ 8-9. Breaking of the oaths, Agamemnon's review, and the 
 opening of the fight (Bks. iv., v., and vi. init.). 
 
 „ 9-10. Hector in Troy (vi. med. and fin.). 
 
 „ 10-12. Return of Hector (xi. 84: "The hour indicated is about 
 9 or 10" — Leaf, ad loc.) ; rout of the Greeks ; battle 
 at the wall and at the ships (Bks. xi., xii., xv. fin.). 
 M.-P.M. 12-2.30. Patroclus to the rescue; rout of the Trojans (xvi. 777: 
 " The time indicated is early afternoon " — Leaf, 
 ad loc.) (Bk. xvi.). 
 P.M. 2.30-7.30. Death of Sarpedon and Patroclus ; struggle round the 
 body of Patroclus ; retreat of the Greeks, and the 
 appearance of Achilles at the trench (Bks. xvii,, 
 xviii.). (xviii. 241, sunset.) 
 
 It will be observed that the greatest part of the day's fighting is taken up 
 with the rescue led by Patroclus and the contest over his body. This is 
 well, for not only is the exploit of Patroclus the turning-point of the tale, 
 the stress of the situation is greater if we conceive Achilles waiting long for 
 his friend's return. And, what is more, this harmonises exactly with the 
 emphasis laid on the length of the struggle in xvii., "hour after hour," 
 " all day long " (384). It also justifies to a certain extent Thetis' excited, 
 exaggerated account of how they fought " all day long at the Skaian gate " 
 (xviii. 453). 
 
70 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 produced in the drama the great device of the choruses. 
 And the effect gains in breadth and grandeur by the char- 
 acter of the scenes that are inlaid upon the shield. Why 
 are they described in such fulness and with such exuberant 
 delight ? Not merely because the poet wanted to make a 
 magic piece of workmanship in the fashion of his day, but 
 because at this moment his mind turned instinctively for 
 rest and strengthening to larger pictures of life, away from 
 the passion and turmoil of these individual sorrows to 
 general views of other lives in peace and war, to other 
 battles and other sieges, to marriages and dances, and trials 
 at law, to vintages, and ploughing, and all the work of the 
 fields. Troy may fall and Achilles' life be wrecked, but 
 the world goes on as before. The tragedy is at once more 
 pathetic and more bearable when seen in the larger setting. 
 Possibly it may be noticed here, that so far, with the 
 exception of the Assembly in Book ii. and the Embassy 
 to Achilles in ix., all the most famous scenes of the Iliad, 
 all that sticks in the memory, all the glorious passages 
 that innocent readers have, from time immemorial, instinc- 
 tively assumed as due to one master-hand, all these come 
 into our selection, and all the duller cantos, all the parts 
 where Homer " nods," have fallen away. The curious 
 effect of intermittent slumber that Horace noticed is now 
 explained. It would be very faulty criticism to have built 
 up our selection with an eye to this, or to have taken 
 splendour as the one test of primitiveness, but when 
 through an independent analysis a whole emerges that is 
 not only solid and coherent but also flawless in beauty and 
 in power, the result may certainly be said to be satisfactory. 
 And this result is attained by no complicated system of 
 endless remaniements with their endless difficulties : one has 
 only, as it were, to give the poem a shake, and the loose 
 additions drop away. 
 
 Note. — Assumed Original from the Appeal of Patroclus to the Making 
 of the Armour (xvi. ; xvii. 1-458, 593 to end ; xviii.). 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE DEATH OF HECTOR 
 
 We now draw swiftly to the terrible vengeance of Achilles. 
 The opening of xix. is bound up with the making of the 
 armour, and the next scene, in which Achilles is reconciled 
 to Agamemnon, has been dealt with already (chap. iii.). 
 Reason has been shown for omitting the passages connected 
 with the Embassy and the discussion on breakfast ; but 
 otherwise the development of the story follows exactly the 
 lines we might expect. So far as I know, no other part 
 of xix. has even been traversed as either inconsistent or 
 obscure : such arguments as are brought against any part of 
 it are based on the supposed " unnaturalness." But surely 
 it is most natural that Achilles should refuse to touch food 
 in the fever of his excitement, that the mere thought of it 
 should bring a rush of agonised memories about a friend 
 who once spread the board for him and did all the kindly 
 offices Patroclus would have been so sure to do. It seems 
 to me, therefore, that we have a perfect right to use all 
 the details here as evidence for the original conception of 
 Achilles' character ; to note in particular his cry of anguish 
 for his father, old, helpless, waiting for the tidings of his 
 son's death (xix. 334-337)- We have already had a hint 
 before of his love for his father (in his words to Patroclus 
 during the rout, xvi. 15, 16). It is a subtle and poignant 
 touch that he should express it more fully now, when the 
 agony of Patroclus' loss and the knowledge of his own 
 doom are heavy upon him. But what a wonderful pre- 
 paration the cry makes for the visit of Priam in xxiv. ! 
 And in general the whole Canto makes us feel that the man 
 
72 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 who can sorrow for his father and his friend as Achilles 
 sorrows, the man who can relent as he has relented, the 
 man who can give up his own wrath against the aggressor 
 and confess his own fault with such noble frankness, this 
 man is not one who cannot be touched by the sorrows of 
 his foes, once the fury of his vengeance is over. The poet 
 who wrote this Book must have known enough about the 
 human heart to know that. 
 
 The end of xix. is generally admitted to be original, 
 and so I may pass over it quickly. But I must dwell a 
 little on the portent of the speaking horse, and point out 
 how much it gains in interest and in pathos, if we may 
 remember what precedes. We love the horses to begin 
 with, if we have heard about their grief for their fallen 
 charioteer (xvii. 426 ff.), when they stood on the battle- 
 field like statues, refusing to stir from their place. Indeed 
 without this knowledge we should miss the point of the 
 horse Xanthus finding a voice at Achilles' unfair reproach 
 that they had deserted Patroclus on the field. And Achilles' 
 answer to the prophecy of his doom is (as I have indicated 
 above, p. 67) far more touching, courageous, and signifi- 
 cant, if we realise that Thetis has already told him that his 
 death must come at once if he takes the vengeance he 
 desires. The horse speaks true, but there is no need of the 
 portent, and no portents will stop Achilles now. " I know 
 well enough myself that it is my fate to perish here, far 
 from my father and my mother. None the less I will not 
 hold my hand till the Trojans are sick of war" (xix. 421). 
 
 But in dealing with the next Book the results of the 
 critical school can be accepted with gratitude ; for the delay 
 in the action up to xx. 381 is nothing short of astounding. 
 Dr. Leaf points out that the opening (1-74) seems origin- 
 ally designed to serve as a prologue for the Battle of the 
 Gods in xxi., when that was sung as a separate piece. It 
 is out of place in the continuous poem ; for there is no 
 room for it in xxi. as xxi. now stands, and in this Book 
 
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 73 
 
 the "unabating battle" that it leads us to expect (xx. 31) 
 has to abate at once (xx. 136). Dr. Leaf adds a significant 
 note : " That the . . . change from tumultuous frenzy to 
 peaceful indifference . . . should have been left untouched 
 does more credit to the pious conservatism than to the skill 
 of the editor " (" Iliad," vol. ii. p. 348). Here he seems to 
 me to lay his finger exactly on the right clue for disentangling 
 the interpolations at large. It is " pious conservatism " and 
 not subtle skill that has given the Iliad its final shape. 
 
 For the objections against the next section (xx. 75-380) 
 I cannot do better than continue my quotation : " Far from 
 having any special appropriateness to this part of the war, 
 it is glaringly inconsistent with its context. Achilles Issues 
 from the camp burning with the fury of insatiable revenge ; 
 yet his advice to his very first adversary is to go away ' lest 
 some harm befall him ' " (xx. 196). " In the whole of this 
 speech (178-198) there is not one word belonging to the 
 situation. Achilles is in a merciful and indeed bantering 
 mood." On the other hand, the piece would do well 
 enough if composed for a time before the death of Patroclus, 
 and for that we may suppose it was originally made. But 
 if it was to be put in the body of the fixed Iliad, it would 
 have to come here or hereabouts, since Achilles does not 
 appear on the field before : and " pious conservatism " has 
 put it in. The leap that the poem takes at 381 — "But 
 Achilles sprang on the Trojans, clothed in his valour, crying 
 his terrible cry " — leaves little doubt where the original tale 
 of vengeance was resumed. 
 
 As regards xxi., we may agree also in discarding from 
 it the "Battle of the Gods" (383-521), an interlude out 
 of place in this part of the story and out of harmony 
 with its spirit, and also Achilles' fight with the River 
 which precedes it (xxi. 228-382). The Fight is a mag- 
 nificent poem, but it detains us so long from Troy, that 
 it is impossible to understand how, if their foe was thus 
 engaged, the flying Trojans could have been as hard 
 
74 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 pressed as we are told they were (xxi. 527). Moreover, 
 by its superhuman marvels it overtops the excitement of 
 the coming struggle with Hector. The line in the original 
 that prompted its creation may well be found in Achilles' 
 fierce boast, that the River will not save his worshippers in 
 their peril (xxi. 130 ff.). We must discard also the pre- 
 ceding "death of Asteropaius " and its sequel (136-227),^ 
 for this is obviously "a weaker echo" of the "death of 
 Lycaon " immediately before. 
 
 But the death of Lycaon (xxi. 34-135) is not only 
 perfect in itself: it is admitted to fit well into its place 
 and to show no inconsistency ; indeed Priam's touching 
 reference to this son of his in the next Book (xxii. 46) 
 actually presupposes it, and the critic must be a bold man 
 who offers to tear that reference away. Now if the scene 
 of Lycaon's death is original, we must admit several things; 
 first, that just before the final scene with Hector, the poet 
 has made our hearts bleed for Priam and the Trojans by 
 this pitiful death of Priam's son ; secondly, that he has 
 laid emphasis afresh on the former possibilities of mercy 
 in Achilles' heart (see above, c. iii.). True, such mercy is 
 now a fountain sealed, but one day will it not flow again .'' 
 It is unbearable grief that has checked it, and there is a 
 kind of grief that can work out its own cure. The centre 
 of the situation is given by Achilles' own words ; unsur- 
 passed for their mingling of pity and bitterness, of love 
 and hate : " Poor lad, no pleading and no ransom can 
 avail you now. Once, when Patroclus lived, I would give 
 
 ' Most scholars recognise "an awkward joint" just here (xxi. 223-228, 
 see Leaf, ad loc). I think he has certainly discovered the right solution, viz. 
 that 11. 223-227 closed the Asteropaius addition to the poem with the River's 
 successful appeal to Achilles to leave his waters in peace, and 1. 228 began 
 the next (and far finer) extension, describing the encounter between the god 
 and the hero in the river-bed. I should like to add that 1. 227, " So saying 
 he {i.e. Achilles) dashed after the Trojans like a destroying god," might 
 well have belonged at first to the original poem, taking us from AchjUes' 
 cry of triumph over the slaughter at the ford (1. 135) to the resumption of 
 his pursuit at 1. 522. 
 
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 75 
 
 the Trojans quarter and sell them beyond the sea, but 
 none shall escape me now whom the gods deliver into 
 my hands, and above all, not one of Priam's sons. Die, 
 my friend ! You must die too. Why should you lament ? 
 Patroclus is dead, and he was a better man than you " (xxi. 
 99-107). 
 
 And now we come to what is called " the final act " : 
 the death of Hector beneath the walls. Let us note care- 
 fully what it needs for its own eiFect. 
 
 Dr. Leaf himself '^ has said, that at the opening of this 
 struggle we feel that " a still greater matter, the fate of 
 Troy, is virtually settled." We do indeed, but whence 
 does the feeling spring ? From iii. and iv. and vi. and 
 xii. ; from our knowledge of the decision in heaven, of 
 the breaking of the oaths on earth, of the vital importance 
 of Hector to Troy. But iii. and iv. and vi. and xii. on 
 the theory of the "Wrath" do not belong to the original 
 poem at all. The advocates of the " Wrath " have no 
 right to the feeling, and must give up the lurid background 
 of doom which forms so splendid a setting to the whole. 
 Here, as so often, scholarship has been the bane of scholars. 
 The Iliad is too familiar to them ; they cannot think away 
 what they cut away. 
 
 The prayers of Priam and Hecuba from the walls 
 are, it is admitted, at least in substance original. But 
 how much they lose in pathos if we know nothing about 
 the old king and queen, if they have never even seen 
 them before ! Our sympathy with Hecuba's last appeal 
 to Hector^ is infinitely more tender if we have already 
 known her as the mother who would always see in the 
 warrior the little child at her breast. The thought of 
 Priam's anguish is infinitely more piercing if we remember 
 that he could not bear to watch even Paris fighting for 
 his life,^ if we think that the last time we saw him on the 
 walls was in his gracious dignity and kindly talk with 
 
 ' Companion," p. 354. ' xxii. 79-89. ' iii. 304-307. 
 
 1 », 
 
76 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Helen,^ if we realise that the gods have already decided 
 that Troy must be sacked,^ and his worst fears fulfilled.^ 
 
 And the scene points forward as well as back. It is 
 incredible that any poet could have introduced a father 
 and mother watching the life-and-death struggle of their 
 idolised son, and never tell us so much as whether they 
 saw the end or not. And if we keep the scene that tells 
 of this (405 ff.), how are we to tear from it the lines that 
 tell us also of the old man's resolve to go and entreat 
 the conqueror for the body of his son? (416 fF.). And 
 when once the suggestion has been made, how could poet 
 or reader rest until it had been fulfilled ? Nor is this the 
 only passage in xxii. where the pregnant hint is given. 
 At the very moment of the slaying, Achilles vows he will 
 take no ransom for the corpse, " not even if Priam himself 
 were to offer your weight in gold" (347)- And is this 
 the first time, we may ask, that Achilles, even the Achilles 
 of the " Menis," has made a cruel vow which he will not 
 keep.? (xvi. 61 fF.). 
 
 We come to the deliberations of Hector (99-130). 
 Here it is scarcely too much to say that they only become 
 luminous when read in the light of passages cut away by 
 the advocates of the "Wrath." We can understand how 
 he thought of offering to give up Helen and her wealth 
 (111-120), if we know that both were fairly forfeited by 
 the result of the duel in iii. Otherwise the thought is 
 almost a piece of treachery, all the more pusillanimous 
 after the high dreams of honour in the lines just before 
 (99-110). We can understand his reluctance to enter the 
 city and face the reproaches of the people when we have 
 learnt from his words to Andromache what honour means 
 to him. The repetition of the line, " I could not face 
 the Trojans and the women of Troy," here and in vi, is 
 not without significance. And it is only the thought of 
 that scene with his wife that can make his last words 
 
 ^ iii. init. ' iv. init. ' xxii. 59 ff. 
 
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 77 
 
 (126-129) intelligible to us at all. He rejects the idea 
 of parley with Achilles : " I cannot talk with him in love 
 and kindliness, as youth and maiden talk — as youth and 
 maiden meet by rock and tree and talk together/. Hector 
 has his death before his eyes ; he knows that Achilles is 
 a better man than he ; he dare not let himself think of 
 Andromache by name, but, unbidden and half-veiled, a 
 symbol of their love rises and lingers in his heart. The 
 repetition of " youth and maiden," though admired by the 
 ancient critics, is considered by some of the moderns as 
 " a superfluous prettiness hardly suiting the surroundings." 
 And so perhaps might we consider it if we thought the 
 surroundings were limited to xxii. The connection between 
 xxii. and vi. is indeed so intimate that M. Croiset, who calls 
 attention to it,^ holds that vi., though due to a different 
 poet, was yet written before xxii., and influenced its com- 
 position ! an admission that comes dangerously near the 
 
 1 Although so much difficulty has been felt about the meaning of the 
 phrase "dir6 Spuis oil' i.irh ir^Tpr]!" (1. 126) "by rock or tree" (or "from rock 
 or tree," the preposition being/ambiguous), I can see no reason why it 
 should not be taken here simpiy as giving the background to the pictured 
 meeting, in spite of the fact that it has an entirely different colour in Od. 
 xix. 163, where Penelope asks Odysseus to tell her of his race, "for you are 
 not sprung," she adds, " from rock or tree." Set phrases of this kind, it has 
 been noticed, can vary much in meaning according to the varying context. 
 Browning, for instance, uses our own proverbial " stock and stone " in two 
 completely different ways, viz. — 
 
 " The water slips o'er stock and stone." 
 
 ("By the Fireside.") 
 
 " Why, men ! men and not boys ! boys and not brutes ! 
 Brutes and not stocks and stones ! " 
 
 (" The Ring and the Book.") 
 
 I do not think it fanciful to add that Hector is standing near the Scaian 
 gate and the oak tree, and close to the spot where he parted from his wife 
 for the last time. Nor yet that the rare and beautiful word iopif^/ievai which 
 he repeats here (127, 128) is the very word used by the poet in Book vi. for 
 that last talk between the husband and the wife (vi. 516). In English we 
 have no single word, at once familiar and dignified, by which to translate 
 it : its natural meaning is the speech which is the speech of love, and it is 
 only the tyranny of a theory that could find that meaning out of place here. 
 
 * Histoire de la Literature Grecque, vol. i. p. 162. 
 
78 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 old jest that Homer was not written by Homer, but by 
 another poet of the same name. 
 
 It might seem unnecessary to add that the preceding 
 books have shown us Hector's weakness as well as his 
 strength ; his rashness and his liability to momentary panic, 
 as well as his patriotism and nobility and power of rising, 
 in the end, superior to his own fears. We are thus led to 
 expect and to dread and to hope for every turn of his 
 mood, from the first doubts and waverings, through the 
 disgrace of his flight, up to the noble stand which more 
 than redeems it. These things seem obvious. But the 
 simple-minded reader would have thought it just as obvious 
 that the poet felt the pathos of Hector's fate, and yet some 
 of the scholars who close our Iliad at xxii. meet us with 
 the amazing argument that because we can and do feel the 
 utmost sympathy with Hector in the midst of our exulta- 
 tion with Achilles, it does not follow that the poet could, 
 rather the reverse. His sympathy was for Achilles, and 
 Achilles alone ; with the man who loved his friend, but 
 not with the patriot who died for his city. Are we to 
 admit this ? And admit the inevitable inference that in 
 writing the wonderful scene the poet most grossly mis- 
 calculated his own effect ? For he has made all his readers 
 mourn for Hector. 
 
 The position that involves these awkward conclusions 
 is thought to derive support from the stress laid on the 
 ferocity of Achilles, and on the help he receives from 
 Athena. But the retort lies at hand, that this only shows 
 the more how unsatisfactory it would be to end at xxii., 
 with so jarring a triumph for the hero, aided as he is by 
 luck, blinded by passion, unsoftened by a touch of relent- 
 ing. Admit the stress to the full : it only shows that the 
 poet stresses the discords to make us desire the harmony. 
 
 That it is a goddess who aids Achilles only confirms 
 this view, though it has been thought to cut against it. It 
 is forgotten that the action of the gods in Homer is not 
 
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 79 
 
 necessarily conceived as directly "moral"; their inter- 
 vention can represent, and is used again and again to repre- 
 sent, what Goethe might have called the "daimonic" 
 element in things — ^whether in the heart of man or in 
 external happenings — the mysterious, incalculable influences 
 or accidents that help to decide the day, be they good or 
 be they bad. Athena inspires Pandarus to break the oaths 
 in Book iv.; the breaking is none the less treacherous and 
 none the less known to be treacherous because of that. 
 Apollo disables Patroclus by a sunstroke ; the disablement 
 is none the less pitiful, none the less a tragic heightening of 
 the odds against Patroclus because the god has dealt the 
 stroke. On the contrary, it is felt to be, as we say, a 
 cruel fate that Patroclus should be sent reeling by a blow 
 from the god just when his foes are waiting for their 
 chance. The intervention of the gods in the fighting can 
 never be understood unless this point is grasped : they are 
 introduced again and again, not to suggest the poet's na'lve 
 satisfaction with the result, but to symbolise that element 
 of " luck " which is also one element of " fate," for it is 
 a very shallow criticism that does not see the two are in- 
 extricably bound together. It may be doubted whether the 
 poet was altogether happy in his choice of a symbol, but 
 the drift of the symbolism itself ought not to be doubtful. 
 And in the work of the original poet it is used, daringly 
 indeed, but always with sufficient discretion ; never pressed 
 so far as to make nonsense of the human fighting, so that a 
 man's own skill might seem to go for nothing, yet often 
 far enough for us to feel that the victor did not win 
 without help from circumstance. And this external help 
 (slight as it may be in itself) can discount the glory of 
 victory and open our hearts to the fallen. This is essen- 
 tially the case here. The help Athena actually gives to 
 Achilles is singularly slight,^ but the treacherous manner of 
 
 ^ She only restores his spear to him, and the swift-footed hero, no doubt, 
 could have snatched it from the ground himself (xxii. 276, 277). 
 
8o HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 her intervention, the bitter pang of disappointment and 
 loneliness that she causes Hector to endure, make our 
 hearts ache for the doomed hero. That he should believe 
 his brother De'iphobus is beside him and turn to him for 
 another spear and find there is no man to help him, while 
 Achilles gets back his own spear unobserved, all this makes 
 us feel, with a kind of indignant pity, how cruelly the luck 
 has turned against Hector — how completely the gods have 
 forsaken him and left him to his fate, as he says himself. 
 Do what he will now, his hour has come at last. " The 
 gods have called him to his death." The inevitable result 
 is a rush of sympathy for the man. Even with a lesser 
 than Hector we should feel " that he was warring on his 
 Destiny, and that ennobles all living souls." ^ And the 
 feeling is intensified still further by his last heroic prayer to 
 strike one more gallant stroke before he dies, a prayer that 
 is denied. To hold that a sympathy so inevitable cannot 
 have been foreseen by the poet is to credit him with a 
 blundering to me inexplicable. Everything in his own 
 fight from first to last has gone to build it up. 
 
 But there is no question of blundering once we admit 
 that this terrible fight is not the end, that something more 
 is to follow, something that will leave us at peace with 
 Achilles and at rest in our grief for Hector and Hector's 
 kin, something also that will make us feel that Zeus had 
 not forgotten Hector, even in his death. Every longing 
 that the poet himself has awakened is satisfied if after the 
 fierceness of xxii. we have the tenderness of xxiv., if after 
 the discord we have the resolution into the harmony of a 
 sorrow that has learnt at last to understand the sorrows of 
 an enemy, if after the sight of Hector dragged at the 
 wheels of Achilles' car we look upon Hector in his father's 
 arms. 
 
 So much does the " Menis " itself suggest and demand 
 such a close, that if it had come down to us alone I believe 
 ' G. Meredith, " Farina," c. 
 
THE DEATH OF HECTOR 8i 
 
 we should have been forced to the conclusion that it was a 
 fragment and nothing more. The books of the " Wrath" 
 are like the " Beauties " of Shakespeare, beautiful indeed 
 even when taken alone, but a hundredfold more beautiful in 
 their proper setting. And if it should turn out to be true 
 that the setting which could give them this beauty was the 
 work of later hands, still we must not let the diversity of 
 authorship, if such it be, blind us to the character of the 
 result produced. We must still read xxii. in the light of 
 xxiv. (as well as in the light of iii. and vi. and xii.), or our 
 loss will be incalculable. If Homer does not exist we must 
 just invent him, for the sake of literature. But that so 
 vital a unity can really be due to the work of many men 
 separated in time from each other is to my mind almost in- 
 credible : " as well might it be said," to quote De Quincey's 
 admirable words,^ " that the parabola described by a cannon 
 ball was in one half due to a first discharge, and in the 
 other to a second, as that one poet could lay the preparation 
 for the passion and sweep of such a poem, while another 
 conducted it to a close." If De Quincey's view is right, 
 many interesting conclusions would follow. Perhaps one 
 of the most important would be that we should then have 
 to recognise in the earliest Greek epic known to us those 
 characteristic traits found elsewhere in the best Greek art : 
 the imaginative sympathy with opposing points of view, the 
 inner relation of part to part and to the whole, and the 
 peculiar power of symmetric construction which could 
 make the excitement and emotion rise inevitably ever 
 higher and higher, with greater and greater stress and 
 intensity and strain, till a topmost point was reached, and 
 then, still through the same inevitable unfolding of its own 
 inner nature, find a way to sink at last into rest and peace. 
 
 Note. — Assumed Original (from the Return of Achilles to the end) : 
 xix. 1-139, 270-277, 303 to end; xx. 381 to end; xxi. 1-135, 227, 522 to 
 end ; xxii.; xxiii. 1-797, 884 to end ; xxiv. 
 
 ' " Homer and the Homeridse.'' 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENES 
 
 The truth of this conclusion will, I believe, appear the 
 more plainly the more we examine the actual transition to 
 the close. For this is eflFected with the most .subtle skill. 
 Swift as the change may be in Achilles' action from xxii. 
 to xxiv. it is not felt as abrupt : in his character, we might 
 almost say, there is no change at all but only growth. 
 And it is Book xxiii. that enables us to feel this, and to 
 feel it in a hundred ways. 
 
 Book xxii. closes with the outrage of his triumph. 
 The wrong of it is emphasised by the poet's undertone 
 of grave pity for the fallen : " Zeus had given Hector to 
 his enemies that day, to be dishonoured in his own native 
 land " (xxii. 403-404). It is emphasised again by the 
 pitiful wailings of Andromache and Hecuba in Troy, all 
 the more pitiful because they are known to be incomplete ; 
 those who love Hector cannot even hold his body in their 
 arms and weep out their hearts over him. Our sympathies 
 almost swing away in revolt from Achilles : but at the 
 opening of xxiii. the outburst of agony for his loss brings 
 us back to him again. His dream that night, when sleep 
 falls on him at last after the murderous struggle of the 
 day, and his dead friend seems to stand beside him, and 
 bid him farewell, and counsel him for the last time — that 
 dream goes into our hearts like a knife. When he springs 
 up between sleeping and waking and cries out that he 
 believes he has seen the spirit of his friend, that it was 
 just like him, and told him everything he ought to do, we 
 are ready to say once more that after all Achilles is very 
 
THE CLOSING SCENES 83 
 
 young, and it is only the passion of youth that has led his 
 generous heart astray. In his sleep he does not think of 
 revenge and cruelty, he thinks of the man he loved. Yet 
 we see the next moment just how that passion can pervert 
 him for the time. It is the savage element in his very 
 grief that makes him kill twelve Trojan youths and 
 slaughter his friend's own dogs to fling them into the pyre : 
 " Black deeds were in his heart that day " (xxiii. 176).^ 
 
 And then, after that, when the night comes once more 
 the poet shows us the tall figure dragging himself wearily 
 round the pyre, mourning as a father might mourn for a 
 son who has died on his marriage-day. It is for a moment 
 as though Achilles had grown old before his time, and 
 perhaps that is the only way in which passionate souls like 
 his can grow at all. But Achilles is not only a soul of 
 passion, he is the son of a hero and a goddess, and the 
 powers of dignity, self-restraint, and courtesy are also his. 
 We see all this during the Funeral Games that follow. 
 And we see a great deal more, if our eyes are open, till we 
 are almost tempted to say that this Book is the most 
 amazing of all the poet's achievements. Certainly we can 
 echo Schiller's saying that the man who has read Book xxiii. 
 need not feel he has lived in vain. But this can only be if 
 we read it — as Schiller, being a poet, doubtless did — in 
 connection with what came before and what comes after. 
 
 The connection with what comes before has been 
 doubted, because it is said that the wounded heroes could 
 hardly have recovered sufficiently to take part in active 
 
 ' Once more I am impelled to supplement my own words by the words 
 of Professor Murray : " The wonderful thing that Homer does is to make 
 you understand Achilles' state of mind. The cruelties which he practises 
 are those of a man mad with grief, a man starving and sleepless, who, when 
 he yields at last, yields in a burst of helpless tears. And it makes some 
 difference, also, that Achilles is deliberately giving up his own life. He 
 heaps all that he has, as it were, upon the pyre of the friend whom his own 
 petulance and pride has caused to die" ("Rise of the Greek Epic," p. 132). 
 In a note Professor Murray, with the true instinct for a poetic whole, brings 
 together from xxiv. and the " Menis" the passages that go to prove this. 
 
84 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 games. But the only wounded hero who makes any great 
 exertion is Odysseus ; and stress is laid upon his exceptional 
 strength and skill (xxiii. 787-792). The two Ajaxes, 
 Eumelus, Meriones, Antilochus, Epeius, Euryalus, have 
 not been wounded at all. Menelaus was wounded, but only 
 slightly, and he and Diomede only take part in the chariot- 
 race. Moreover, they have all had three nights and two 
 days in which to recuperate. And, finally, they are, one 
 and all, heroes of the god-like past. We may therefore, I 
 think, discard this objection as superficial and turn to the 
 merits of the Book. 
 
 It is only the first and most obvious of these that it 
 relieves the strain of the continuous lamentation in xxii. 
 and xxiv., that by its broad and genial, even broadly 
 humorous, treatment it reminds us (as the Making of the 
 Shield did in its own way) that there are other things in 
 the world than a broken heart, and that life is not, and 
 should not be, one cry of self-bewailing. Nothing could 
 be more poignant, and nothing could endear Achilles more 
 to us, than the contrast between his courteous, kindly 
 presidency at the scene of games and mirth, and the un- 
 healed wound in his heart which opens out afresh when he 
 is left alone in xxiv. But all through that bright scene his 
 pain is felt as an undertone, and those who say that the 
 Elizabethans were the first to unite tragedy and comedy 
 would do well to study this. Everything that Achilles 
 says and does shows it, and what is more, what is a kind 
 of miracle of construction, the scene in whole and in detail 
 is so planned as to call up the past again before us, and 
 make us feel again and again the sting of its sharp lessons. 
 Achilles at least feels it. When Idomeneus and Ajax, the 
 son of O'ileus, quarrel over a trifle and the quarrel threatens, 
 because of " angry words," to go beyond words, when Ido- 
 meneus wishes his proud opponent " to learn that he is 
 wrong and pay for his mistake," who is it that stands up 
 and stops the strife ? Who is it but the man that remem- 
 
THE CLOSING SCENES 85 
 
 bers how he felt the same wish and used the same words ? 
 (xxiii. 473-498). We should compare with this scene the 
 whole scene of the first quarrel in Book i., and note especi- 
 ally the use of the word apenes, a rare and untranslat- 
 able word, " proud " in the bad sense, denoting a hard and 
 unforgiving pride. It is only used four times (if I am 
 right) in the Original Iliad, and each time with point. 
 First by Achilles of Agamemnon (i. 340) ; then by 
 Patroclus when he reproaches Achilles himself for not 
 giving up his wrath (xvi. 35) ; then here (xxiii. 484), by 
 Idomeneus to Ajax, when it strikes home to Achilles' con- 
 science ; and lastly (again in this Book, 1. 611), by Mene- 
 laus, when he sets the example of sweetness and generosity 
 and claims that his was never an unforgiving heart. It is 
 almost as though the motto for the whole tale of blood 
 and vengeance was just this : it is not well to be hard of 
 heart — forgiveness is the best. Patroclus is the model for 
 us after all, older and wiser than his faulty, glorious friend, 
 Patroclus the kindly, the man who is known as enees, 
 Patroclus the gentle and humane. "^ In the Iliad as in the 
 Odyssey it is those who can settle men's quarrels who are 
 wise (Od. vii. 73-74). Achilles almost admits as much in 
 so many words, almost confesses his initial fault again, and 
 the gentle, even faltering, tone in which he says it is 
 infinitely touching : 
 
 "Ajax and Idomeneus, let us have no more angry 
 words ; they are not right. And you yourselves, I know, 
 both of you, can blame another man for using them" 
 (492-494). 
 
 Again two scenes of anger follow, and again in each of 
 them the rising quarrel is averted by Achilles, and in each 
 of them we are reminded of Book i. 
 
 ' Is it possible that apenes is actually set ini verbal opposition to eneis? 
 At any rate enees appears only to be applied to Patroclus (and to him 
 often) except in this Book (and the exception is noteworthy), where Nestor 
 lays claim to the epithet (648). 
 
86 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 First Antilochus claims that he is robbed of his rightful 
 prize, and then Menelaus, with more justice, does the same. 
 
 Antilochus has been second in the chariot-race, but 
 Eumelus, the best man of all, has had his car overturned 
 by an unlucky accident ; and Achilles proposes, with ready 
 sympathy, that he should be given the second prize to 
 make amends. 
 
 But Antilochus resists the well-meant proposal ; he 
 refuses to give up the mare he has won. " I will not give 
 her up," he says, just as Agamemnon said he would not 
 let Chryseis go. " Let who will," he adds defiantly, " come 
 and fight for her" (xxiii. 553-554). 
 
 Through likeness and through contrast there is brought 
 back to us Achilles' proud refusal to fight for a prize that 
 was given him as a free gift, though he would fight for 
 whatever else he had : Agamemnon, if he chose, might 
 come and try (i. 298-302).-' This is a little matter that 
 men are quarrelling over in their games, but what did 
 Achilles quarrel over himself.? It cannot seem much to 
 him now. This quarrel at least shall go no further, and 
 he will give an additional prize for the sake of peace 
 (555-562). 
 
 But the introduction of Menelaus and Antilochus has 
 further results for us, and very wonderful these are. The 
 last time we saw the two together was on the battlefield at 
 the desperate struggle to save Patroclus' body ; the last race 
 that Antilochus ran was to take Achilles the awful news 
 (xvii. fin.). The memories of the disastrous past are 
 coming thick about us, and the special indulgence that 
 Achilles shows to Antilochus gives a keen edge to them 
 all (xxiii. 556, 794-796). It is very characteristic of his 
 passionate nature that he cannot do enough for the man 
 
 ' I think the verbal echoes are intentional between i. 298-302, 29 on the 
 one hand and xxiii. 553-554 on the other. There seems to be intention 
 also in the similar stress on the staff of judgment grasped by Achilles in 
 i. (234 ff.) and by Menelaus in xxiii. (566 ff.), where each is protesting against 
 unfair treatment. 
 
THE CLOSING SCENES 87 
 
 who told him Patroclus was killed and held his hands lest 
 he should kill himself (xviii. init.). It would either be 
 that, or a refusal ever to see the man again. When 
 Antilochus races once more and stands once more panting 
 before him, but this time in mirth and not in agony, 
 Achilles answers with a smile and gives him a prize above 
 his due (xxiii. 785 fF.). 
 
 And now Antilochus and Menelaus are at strife. 
 Menelaus claims that the prize of Antilochus was unfairly 
 won, as indeed it was. But both the men remember the 
 sweetness of their proved friendship even in their present 
 irritation ; indeed there actually rises to Menelaus' lips, in 
 the midst of his reproaches, the very phrase of address, 
 courteous, and almost caressing, with which he had called to 
 the younger man in his need : " Come hither, Antilochus, 
 nursling of the gods"^ (xvii. 685 ; xxiii. 581). And this 
 remembrance makes us long all the more that the rising 
 feud between the old friends should be allayed, a longing 
 that is perfectly satisfied by the lovely close, when the 
 contest turns to a contest of generosity, and the kind heart 
 of Menelaus is glad at the change, " as the ripening corn 
 is glad when the dew falls on the ears." No poet ever 
 wrote lines more adequate to the beauty of reconciliation 
 than these (S 97-600). They can stand beside the mercy- 
 speech of Shakespeare, and Isaiah's wistful prophecy of 
 "the cloud of dew in the heat of harvest." iEschylus 
 must have remembered them when he took the metaphor 
 and gave it the terrible turn that could make it express 
 Clytemnestra's fierce thrill of delight in the touch of the 
 blood-drops that fulfilled her vengeance. 
 
 With minds thus attuned to love reconciliation we are 
 made to look back on all that has happened since the 
 disastrous day of the quarrel. 
 
 At the very opening Achilles speaks of his horses, the 
 
 ' It is noted by commentators as "curious" that Antilochus should be 
 called by this epithet here. 
 
88 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 immortal horses, who could win every race, but who will 
 not race to-day : they stand with their heads drooping 
 and their manes trailing on the ground, just as we saw 
 them when Patroclus lay dead upon the field (xxiii. 271- 
 284; xvii. 426-440). Then the horses of Eumelus are 
 brought forward, the darlings of Apollo, who were singled 
 out as the second-best on that first day of the great attack, 
 when the host marched out in such glory and confidence 
 (xxiii. 288, 289; ii. 763-767). Then the horses bred by 
 Tros that Diomede won at the outset of the fight, the chief 
 of his exploits, when the traitor Pandarus who broke the 
 truce was killed*. Sthenelus who caught the steeds is here 
 to tend them now (xxiii. 290-292, 510-513; v. 259 fF.). 
 Athena, too, will aid her favourite in the game as she aided 
 him in the fight. And after Menelaus and Antilochus 
 comes Meriones, the man who helped to carry the dead 
 Patroclus home (xxiii. 293-302; xvii. 717 fF.). And 
 Idomeneus is watching, whom Meriones sent back to the 
 ships in his own car when the turn of the fight had come 
 (xxiii. 450 fF.; xvii. 620 fF). And Nestor is here too, with 
 his well-meant but not always effective counsels, and his 
 interminable tales. He has a precious goblet given to him 
 to-day, to set beside the treasured bowl in which his mess 
 was served when Patroclus came to ask about Machaon, in 
 the hour that was "the beginning of his doom" (xxiii. 616, 
 617 ; xi. 632 fF). And the same memories of his young 
 days are on the old man's lips, the same talk about 
 Bouprasion and the sons of Aktor and the chiefs of the 
 Epeians (xxiii. 629 fF.; xi. 670 fF). Achilles listens patiently 
 to the reminiscences that seemed so unending to us then. 
 And Ajax and Odysseus, who last stood side byside facing the 
 Trojan rush, stand up now for a friendly wrestling-match 
 (xxiii. 708 fF.; xi. 485 £F.). And once more Achilles sees to 
 it that the struggle does not end in bitterness and that the 
 competitors are given equal prizes (xxiii. 735). The foot- 
 race follows, and what is the prize for this ? The silver 
 
THE CLOSING SCENES 89 
 
 bowl that was once the price paid for Lycaon, Priam's son, 
 now, like Hector, lying dead (xxiii. 746, 747 ; xxi. 41). 
 And the race itself, the neck-and-neck struggle between 
 two men, most strangely does it bring back to us the 
 desperate race round the walls of Troy when the course 
 was fixed and the prize was set, but the prize for which the 
 racers ran was Hector's life. Then comes the laughter 
 over the accident at the end, when Athena makes one of 
 the rivals trip — where ? Where, but in the offal of the 
 cattle slain for the dead Patroclus? (xxiii. 776). Nothing 
 but the daring of a supreme poet could have achieved this 
 union of the grotesque and the pathetic. • ^ 
 
 Last of all (xxiii. 884 fF.^), Agamemnon comes forward, 
 to try for a prize, but this time Achilles will run no risk of 
 irritating his restless vanity. With a finished grace that 
 veils his shrewd knowledge of the king, he takes it for 
 granted that Agamemnon's skill can need no testing, and 
 he gives him the first prize without a contest. Meriones 
 receives the second, but the first and best is put into the 
 hand of the herald who came to take Briseis from her 
 rightful lord (xxiii. 897 ; i. 320 if.). 
 
 What a review it is that we have here ! The poet does 
 not tell us what Achilles thought and felt when he saw 
 behind the present the spectral past. He does a much 
 better thing : he makes us see it for ourselves, and then, 
 with the ghosts of it in the air, he shows us Achilles, 
 outwardly calm and self-possessed. 
 
 Nor is this review and the pause it involves without a 
 most important place in the structure of the epic as a 
 whole. As at the beginning, after the first stroke of the 
 opening, we had the pause involved in the duel and the 
 review of the chiefs, and thus gained both a clear know- 
 ledge of the actors who were to do so much later on, and a 
 
 > The most conservative scholars are agreed that 798-883 is a later 
 interpolation (see Monro, ad loc, and Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation 
 of the Iliad). 
 
90 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 consciousness of the great background for their deeds, so 
 here, we pause once more before the final close, and look 
 back in a calmer, sadder temper on all that we have gone 
 through. And as the first review and the first pause led 
 of their own nature to the turmoil of the central strife, so 
 does this scene draw our interest on to the end ; the desire 
 for reconciliation, the sense that Achilles has wronged him- 
 self as well as Hector by yielding to a ferocity that is not 
 the deepest part of his character, the longing that Hector 
 as well as Patroclus should have the full dues of mourning 
 — all these emotions are intensified in us by every touch of 
 this Canto, and all of them demand Book xxiv. 
 
 Thus the two pauses, the one at the beginning and the 
 one at the close, serve to bind the whole poem together and 
 add a noble steadiness and balance to its fiery speed. It 
 may not be fantastic to trace here the same genius at work 
 as the one that discovered the right rhythm for the pedi- 
 mental groups, and devised the stately opening and the 
 measured close for the drama. 
 
 The correspondence between beginning and end finds 
 further expression in Book xxiv., where the twelve days' 
 pause while the gods are away at the Ethiopian feast recalls 
 the twelve days of inaction at the outset (see c. ii.). And 
 this effect is enhanced by the last visit of Thetis to her son, 
 bidding him put all thought of vengeance away : her first 
 visit was in answer to his demand for it. 
 
 It is of less importance, perhaps, to point out that this 
 Book can serve as a valuable test for the genuineness of the 
 selections already made on other grounds. Most of the 
 detailed correspondences have been mentioned, but it is 
 interesting to note that in the Games the character of 
 Menelaus takes a prominent place, and a place that corre- 
 sponds with his part in the war. Ajax, Odysseus, and 
 Diomede may outdo him in physical strength and in skill, 
 as they do both here and on the field, but no one has a 
 character more generous and attractive, and character 
 
THE CLOSING SCENES 91 
 
 strikes deep. We think of his eagerness at the outset that 
 Trojans and Greeks alike should suffer no more for his 
 sake (iii. 97 foil.), as of his gratitude here for what Nestor 
 and his sons have done for him (607 foil.) ; we remember 
 how he was the first to hear the cry of Odysseus in distress 
 (xi. 463) ; we remember how he stood by the dead Patroclus 
 at the risk of his own life, all through that fearful struggle 
 (xvii.). He is wise too, and prudent, as was shown in his 
 caution about the oaths in iii. when he knew that Paris 
 might break faith, but Priam's word would be sure.^ And 
 his speech then was both courteous and to the point, as 
 it is here, and as he had given the Trojans occasion to 
 know that it could be (iii. 213-215). This general effect of 
 his fine nature is obscured in the Iliad as we have it now, 
 because so many other incidents intervene to blur it, but 
 here, in what I hope is the recovered original, it is un- 
 mistakable, and it has at least one striking result. Set 
 against the irresponsible thoughtless charm of Paris it 
 leaves us without a shadow of doubt that Menelaus is in 
 the right, and that the doom of Troy is just. We cannot 
 but acquiesce in it, although with heavy hearts. 
 
 Book xxiv. has that sublimity which makes one shrink 
 from touching it. To point out its beauty would be much 
 like saying that the close of " Lear " is written with con- 
 siderable power. It may be left to speak for itself, and 
 indeed even those who question its " authenticity " never 
 dream of questioning its supreme greatness and truth. 
 But two or three remarks may be offered concerning the 
 general structure of the Book. The closing repetition 
 of the Trojan dirges in a fuller form has been considered 
 flat and weak, but it seems to me that the weakness is only 
 produced when we have first insisted on cutting out xxiii., 
 and thus have brought the lamentations of xxii. and xxiv. 
 into a juxtaposition that was never meant. The inter- 
 
 1 Antilochus in the Games appeals to, and recalls, Menelaus' own 
 judgment about the lightness of youth (xxiii. 589, 590 ; iii. 108, no). 
 
92 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 vention of the lapse — and such a lapse, filled with honour 
 to the enemy — makes all the difference. Then the repeti- 
 tion, being what it is, produces a singularly satisfying effect. 
 It is the resumption, and also the completion, of an incom- 
 plete strain : it is like hearing a tentative melody taken up 
 and brought to a full close in some great symphony. 
 Moreover, the presence of the three women, Hecuba, 
 Andromache, and Helen, round the dead Hector on his 
 bier, their presence and their characteristic utterances, bring 
 back to us, very vividly and poignantly, the memory of 
 their speech with the living man in vi. The poem, as it 
 were, folds in upon itself, with all its gathered memories. 
 
 Last of all, it seems worth saying that the final recon- 
 ciliation between the two noble enemies, between Achilles 
 and Priam, for a reconciliation it is — though the war must 
 be resumed and go on to the death — is actually brought 
 about in and through the very bitterness and agony of the 
 strife. And this because the strife, however bitter, never 
 loses its hold on nobility. It is the slaughter of Priam's 
 son that brings the father and the slayer face to face, and 
 it is revenge that led to that slaughter ; true ; but it was 
 revenge for a beloved friend, it was revenge knowingly 
 undertaken at the cost of the avenger's life. And the man 
 who fell was well-beloved too, and those who loved him, 
 they too were of the mettle that could encounter death. 
 From the first the opposing sides are set in fierce opposition, 
 growing ever fiercer, and yet each, in virtue of its own 
 nobleness, has that in it which could recognise the other : 
 they are drawn nearer and nearer by the clutch of the 
 terrible struggle : they meet face to face, and behold, at 
 the heart they are friends. It is in this way and in no other 
 that we are led finally to what we have long dreaded, long 
 felt to be inevitable, and at last ardently desired, the 
 consummation of the burial rites for Hector, tamer of 
 horses. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ILIAD XXIII. AND XXIV. 
 
 In the first chapter of this book I described as baseless 
 the arguments for diversity of authorship drawn from the 
 supposed change of style in Iliad xxiii. and xxiv. I must 
 now bring forward my justification for such a description. 
 It is true that these arguments have been considered of 
 the greatest value by leading scholars. Jebb goes so far 
 as to say : " If Books xxiii. and xxiv. are viewed simply 
 in relation to the plot, there is no reason why they should 
 not have belonged to the primary Iliad itself. It is the 
 internal evidence of language and style which makes this 
 improbable" {op. cit., p. i6i). In spite of the high and 
 deserved authority attaching to the name of Jebb, I hope 
 to show that he was relying here upon entirely inadequate 
 statistics.^ 
 
 In such questions indeed the necessity for wide statistics 
 and thoughtful examination cannot be urged too strongly. 
 The business of weighing these minute matters is so delicate 
 and difficult, that to overlook is often to falsify. The usual 
 line of argument has been to call attention to the Odyssean 
 affinities in Iliad xxiii. and xxiv., and there to let the matter 
 rest. Now I have no wish whatever to deny Odyssean 
 affinities in xxiii. and xxiv. (believing, as I do, that the 
 Original Iliad and the Odyssey are by the same poet) : 
 
 1 I may say also that to admit a slight change of style in Iliad xxiii. and 
 xxiv. would not really hamper my theory. It would be a tenable hypothesis 
 that the poet had developed in his style during the elaboration of his work, 
 and that he exhibited his " second manner " at the close of his poem ; but 
 the hypothesis is unnecessary. 
 
 93 
 
94 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 but the vital question is whether these affinities are greater 
 than the affinities displayed by other parts of the Original 
 Iliad, including the " Menis " itself. No adequate attempt 
 seems to have been made at such a comparison, and if it 
 is made, an entirely different complexion is put on the 
 whole affair. For instance, it is said that Iliad xxiv. shows 
 a large number of Odyssean lines and phrases (lines and 
 phrases, that is, which only recur in the Odyssey). Perfectly 
 true, but then the first Book of the " Menis," Iliad i. A, 
 shows quite as high a proportion, and that if we omit the 
 lines 430^-489, which are suspected solely on the ground 
 of their Odyssean character. In Appendix B. (i) I have 
 given as full a list as I can make of such passages from both 
 these Books. It is drawn mainly from Schmidt's Parallel- 
 Homer, checked by Ebeling's Lexicon. I have not included 
 on either side false parallels, such as alSiofiai irepi Krjpr (II. 
 xxiv. 435), and al§€0/j.ar irepi yap /x e<pi\ei (Od. xiv. I46). 
 Nor have I counted any phrases of less than four words 
 which happen to be so like similar phrases elsewhere as 
 to possess no significance at all. Some of the instances 
 contain more than one line, but I have counted each 
 instance as one, for where there is more than one line 
 a repetition is in the nature of a " run." My results 
 give — for Book i. A: — 102 instances in 551 lines; for Book 
 xxiv. Q : — 126 instances in 804. The proportion is actually 
 lower for Book xxiv.^ 
 
 Again, a high proportion of purely Odyssean words is 
 claimed for xxiv. O. But a proportion just as high or even 
 higher can be found for xxii. X, an essential Book of the 
 "Menis" (omitting the suspected portion as later, 405 to 
 end). Ebeling's invaluable lexicon gives: — for the "Menis" 
 part of xxii. X, 26 Odyssean words in 404 lines ; for xxiv. Q, 
 
 ' I am aware, both for this case and for all the following, that my 
 enumeration may be defective. I do not think, however, that the broad 
 results can be wrong : as the different tests I have applied agree. And in 
 many instances I have the support of inquiries already made by scholars. 
 I shall, of course, be grateful for any correction. 
 
STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ^ AND Q 95 
 
 50 in 804. Further, 4 of these 50 are doubtful ; and 
 in the first 404 lines of O there are only 19 Odyssean words, 
 as against the 26 of X (see Appendix B. 2). Many of 
 the words in ^, moreover, occur in the " Odyssean " lines 
 already counted above. I have marked such words with a 
 star (*).' 
 
 These results, I think, are enough to give us pause. 
 And they are only confirmed when we come to examine 
 the syntax and the metre. This is a more complicated 
 question, for to answer it we must also estimate how great 
 the change really is in this respect between the Odyssey 
 and the Original Iliad in general. 
 
 It may be pointed out, to begin with, that it is rash 
 for those who do not believe in the unity of the Iliad to 
 take the Iliadic instances from the poem as a whole with- 
 out discrimination. For several of the usages claimed as 
 typical only occur in certain special parts ; e.g. rvvrj only 
 occurs in what I believe to be the original poem ; and the 
 free use of Sia vvktu is a trick of Book x. Moreover, it is 
 plain that the proportion in the differences between the 
 Iliad and Odyssey must vary, according as we conceive 
 the Original Iliad to have been long or short. I have 
 been careful therefore to catalogue the Iliadic instances 
 according as they occur in the Additions or in what I 
 believe to be the Original Iliad, noting any differences or 
 likenesses between the " Menis " and xxiii. and xxiv.^ I 
 
 1 It may be added that Iliad i. and xxii. (A and X) are the only Books 
 of the " Menis " suitable for comparison (in this respect) with Q and the 
 Odyssey. Book xi. A is too much taken up with fighting, and all the other 
 Books are so much cut about by the critics that it is impossible to find an 
 undisputed passage long enough for the purpose. But all of them would 
 show a proportion of such purely " Odyssean " phrases. See Butler, 
 "Authoress of the Odyssey," c. xiv. 
 
 ^ Attempt has sometimes been made to group together the usages in 
 Iliad ix., X., xxiii., and xxiv., but this has not been satisfactory, because 
 sufficient care has not been taken to compare these with other Books. 
 There is only one instance of a possibly significant agreement between 
 these four as against the Books of the " Menis," viz. the use of ^ttI. c. ace. in 
 iTr' alaf, 4ir' AvBptlivovs (see Appendix C). 
 
96 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 do not scruple to treat the Odyssey as a whole, believing 
 that it is due in the main to one author,^ and I would 
 point out that most of the peculiarities claimed with any 
 justice as Odyssean occur from first to last throughout 
 that poem. 
 
 Again, it is misleading not to inquire into the reason 
 for the prevalence of certain idioms in the Odyssey and 
 the omission of others. When such inquiry is made it 
 will be found that there is often no need to assume any 
 development of idiom at all. The Odyssey is, in the 
 main, comedy, and moreover it contains a far higher pro- 
 portion of speech and dialogue than the Iliad. Many of the 
 usages prevalent in the Odyssey, e.g. that of the first person 
 of the optative with av (/cej/), can only occur in speeches. 
 Others {e.g. /nerd with the gen.) are deliberate colloquialisms, 
 used for a comedic purpose. 
 
 Finally, it is most important to observe that many of 
 the generalisations are based on a surprisingly small number 
 of instances. Sometimes, indeed, there is not more than 
 one instance available and often not more than three. It 
 behoves us not to build much on these. It is dan- 
 gerous also to include repetitions in the statistics without 
 notice. 
 
 Applying these tests to all the cases, it will be found 
 that the imposing list of " Differences between the Iliad 
 and Odyssey," as given by Jebb and Monro, crumbles into 
 something very small. I do not wish to deny all difference 
 and all development, but I do wish to raise the question 
 whether the differences, when accurately estimated, do not 
 prove to be much smaller than is usually supposed : so 
 much smaller that it is in place to ask whether they are 
 not exactly the kind of differences a poet might be expected 
 to exhibit in passing, after a certain lapse of years, from 
 one poem to another of a somewhat different type. The 
 full evidence I have collected on this point will be found 
 
 • For my reasons, see cc. xi. ff. 
 
STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ^ AND Q 97 
 
 in Appendix C. : it cannot be estimated in full without 
 consulting the instances given there, but I may tabulate 
 the main results in this chapter. The reader is asked to 
 remember that two questions are at issue : — 
 
 (i) How great is the difference in grammar, diction, 
 and metre between the Odyssey and the Original Iliad in 
 general ? 
 
 (2) Where such a difference exists, do Iliad xxiii. and 
 xxiv. (■^ and ^) approximate to the Iliadic type or the 
 Odyssean ? 
 
 It will be found again and again that when the usage 
 is really Odyssean it does not occur in Iliad xxiii. and xxiv., 
 and when it is Iliadic it does. Moreover, when an Odyssean 
 usage does happen to occur in Iliad xxiii. and xxiv. it also 
 occurs in the " Menis " (e.g. Final rel. clauses with the subj.). 
 And in more than one case an Odyssean usage is found in 
 the " Menis," and the '* Menis " alone (e.g. aixcpl, c. dat. = 
 " concerning " with verbs of thinking). Finally, there are 
 cases where the Original Iliad, including the " Menis " and 
 xxiii. and xxiv., agree with the Odyssey as against the 
 rest of the Iliad (e.g. in the use of oi/^e/y). 
 
 In drawing up the list I have followed the heading in 
 the Index to Monro's Homeric Grammar (ed. 1891), 
 " Iliad and Odyssey, differences." The strongest instances 
 in favour of the difference come early, viz. the slightly 
 freer use of a/«<^/ and vepl. In the " Summary " that 
 follows I have marked as " Iliadic " or " Odyssean " the 
 usages claimed by Monro or Jebb as characteristic of, or 
 peculiar to, the Iliad or the Odyssey. I have added one 
 query where I think the claim doubtful, two where I think 
 it unjustified. 
 
 The Summary should be read in three parallel columns. 
 I have marked with a star the instances where Iliad xxiii. 
 or xxiv. (■^ or Q) follow the Odyssean and not the Iliadic 
 usage. There are only eight of these in the whole list, 
 and only two that I think can be of any weight at all, viz- 
 
 G 
 
98 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the increase of hiatus after the vowel e in xxiv., and the 
 use of the phrases 67r' atav, eir avBpwTrov^. 
 
 N.B.— The Odyssey contains c. . . • 12,000 lines. 
 The Original Iliad contains c. . . 9>ooo » 
 The Additions to the Iliad contain c. 6,700 „ 
 
 SUMMARY OF APPENDIX C 
 
 Usage. 
 
 § I. mv 
 
 § 2. djU0i u. dat. = concerning, 
 with verbs of speak- 
 ing and thinking. 
 
 (Thf use with 
 other verbs is found 
 in the Original II.) 
 
 § 3. Trep/ c. gtx\.= concerning, 
 with verbs oi speak- 
 ing, hearing, and 
 thinking. 
 
 (The use with 
 other verbs is found 
 in the Original II.) 
 
 § 4. yuerd c. gtn. = among 
 
 § 5. ^7r£ c. ace. = in quest of 
 (with persons). 
 
 §6. iirl c. ace. = to imply 
 extent, without a 
 verb of motion. 
 
 //. or Od. ? 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 (4 Original, 4 Addi- 
 tions, I Odyssey.) 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 7 in the Od. 
 I in the II. (the 
 Menis). 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 9 in the Od. 
 I in the II. (the Addi- 
 tions). 
 
 ' ' Odyssean " ? 
 
 2 instances only in 
 the Od., both design- 
 edly colloquial (x. k 
 330, xvi. TT 140). 2 in 
 the Additions. 
 
 " Iliadic " ? 
 
 5 in Original II. 
 
 3 in Od. 
 
 or, including animals, 
 
 6 in Original II. 
 
 5 in Od. 
 
 " Odyssean "? 
 
 6 times in Original II. 
 (including the Menis), 
 and in various phrases. 
 
 15 times in Od., but 
 always, except once, in 
 variants of ^jri 70101' or 
 
 II. xxiii. 'ir, xxiv. fi. 
 *Not in *• or Q. 
 
 Not „ 
 
 Not 
 
 Not 
 
 "•Not ,, 
 
 InU. 
 
 *In * and Q. 
 (Also in ix. I, and 
 X. K. The only possible 
 case of significant agree- 
 ment between these 4 
 Books.) 
 
STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ^ AND Q 
 
 99 
 
 § 7. itri with forms in <pi{v). 
 §8. irpii c. dat. = ^«j'«^i' 
 
 § 9. dj/di c. gen. . 
 
 10. avd c. ace, with collec- 
 tives (abstract). 
 
 § II. KaT-d c. ace, with collec- 
 tives (abstract). 
 
 §12. Kara c.3.cc. = in guesiof. 
 
 § 13. SiCI, V^KTa 
 
 § 14. if with plurs. of persons 
 = among. 
 
 § 15. iv with abstract words . 
 
 16. e(f c. gen. — in conse- 
 quence of. 
 
 17. Inf. after a relative, and 
 
 § 18. Ace. and Inf. 
 
 //. or Od. ? 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 (3 cases in Od.) 
 
 "Odyssean"? 
 But there is only one 
 instance. 
 
 "Odyssean"? 
 But only 3 cases, of 
 which 2 are doubtful. 
 
 " Iliadic." 
 20 Original II. 
 6 0d. 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 
 "Odyssean" ? 
 I in II. (the Menis). 
 3 in the Od. (or 4). 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 
 "Odyssean"?? 
 But the full statistics 
 seem quite against this. 
 
 "Odyssean"? 
 II., 18 instances. 
 Od., 14 [varied). 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 I in the Menis. 
 I in the Additions. 
 S (or 7) in the Od. 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 I in the Additions 
 (ix. I.). 
 
 5 in the Od. 
 Perhaps due to col- 
 loquialism. 
 
 "Odyssean"? 
 Only if we exchtde 
 the cases introduced by 
 irplv, irdpos, impersonal 
 verbs, and 56s. 
 
 //. xxiii. ^, xxiv. 
 Not in 'I' or J2. 
 
 Not „ ,, 
 ^rot „ „ 
 
 Twice in 'I'. Not 
 in U. 
 
 In *■ and 0. 
 
 Not in * or f2. 
 
 Not in ^. *In O 
 (3 times). 
 
 But also once in the 
 Menis. The phrase is 
 a trick of x. K — 9 times. 
 
 No increase in ^ or 
 ij, as against Books of 
 the Menis. 
 
 No increase in 'I' 
 or O as against X (the 
 Menis). 
 
 Not in * or fi. 
 
 Not 
 
 Not 
 
lOO 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Usage. 
 § 19. Gen. abs. in the Aor. 
 
 § 20. Tts 6'5e 
 
 § 21. ?o as a pure Reflexive 
 
 § 22. Freer use of the Article 
 
 (l) Use with airdp, Si, &c. . 
 
 (2) Use with liiv . 
 
 (3) Use with rel. clause fol- 
 
 lowing the noun. 
 
 i 23. t6 n. ace. x&\. — where- 
 fore. 
 
 § 24. S<: demonstrative . 
 
 § 25. oivtKa = thai . 
 
 § 26. 6Ti. = that . . • . 
 
 § 27. Indirect Discourse. Con- 
 versation, &c., re- 
 ported after verbs of 
 saying. 
 
 II. or Od. f 
 
 "Iliadic"? 
 7 Original II. 
 3 0d. 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 Apparently only 2 
 cases. 
 
 "Iliadic"? 
 18 Original II. 
 18 Od. 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 But very slight. 
 
 "Iliadic"? 
 
 " Iliadic." 
 'Odyssean." 
 
 //. xxiii. *, xxiv. O. 
 
 *Not „ „ 
 (But the negative 
 argument is very weak, 
 when the instances are 
 so few.) 
 
 Not in •*■ or O. 
 
 In ^ and fi. 
 (5 cases). 
 
 No increase in Ji com- 
 pared with the Menis. 
 
 Slight increase in the 
 number of cases — not 
 the character — in ^. 
 But this accounted for 
 by the enumeration, &c., 
 in the " Games." 
 
 No lessening per- 
 ceptible in "ir or J2. 
 
 In * and JJ. 
 
 Not in 4' or 0. 
 
 " Iliadic " ? One instance claimed 
 
 I in the Od. by Monro for ^', but 
 
 3 (?) frpm the Origi- highly doubtful. 
 
 nal II. (of which 2 are 
 
 highly doubtful). 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 Only 3 absolutely 
 clear cases in Original 
 II. 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 
 " Iliadic." 
 
 " Odyssean " ? 
 But this due to the 
 fact that there is more 
 conversation in the Od, 
 not to any change of 
 syntax. 
 
 In ^, rwt in 0. 
 
 Not in ^ or fi. 
 In ■i; and fi. 
 Not in ^ or O. 
 
STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ^ AND Q loi 
 
 C/sag-e. 
 § 28. Attraction of the Rel. 
 
 § 29. Final Rel. Clauses with 
 the Subj. 
 
 § 30. Ke(c) in General sen- 
 tences. 
 
 § 31. Opt. with Key of un/ul/i/kd 
 condition. 
 
 § 32. Opt. of concession, ist 
 pers, with &v. 
 
 § 33. el and Opt. after a Pre- 
 sent (Condtl.). 
 
 § 34. ei alone with Opt., to 
 express wish. 
 
 §35. cl'ffc with Opt., and a^eXoj/, 
 to express wish. 
 
 § 36. ei 7(i/3 with Opt., to ex- 
 press wish. 
 
 § 37. Object-Clauses with cJand 
 the Opt. 
 
 § 38. Tlivr\ 
 
 n. or Od. ? 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 I in the II. (in the 
 
 Menis). 
 S Od. 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 Increase in Od. 
 (Idiom suited to speech.) 
 
 " Odyssean " .? ? 
 Illusory. See Appen- 
 dix C. 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 12 Original II. 
 3 Od. (2 of which are 
 doubtfiil). 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 (Idiom only possible 
 in speech.) 
 
 20 Original II. 
 Above 40 Od. 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 
 3 II. (2 from the 
 Additions, i Menis). 
 
 4 Od. (all in 
 speeches). 
 
 " Iliadic " ? 
 Only if limited to 
 cases without any apod. 
 3 Original II. 
 I Additions. 
 
 "Odyssean"?.? 
 9 times Od. 
 but also 
 
 9 times Original II. 
 Rare in Additions. 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 (without an apod.). 
 
 "Odyssean.'' 
 Of fully-developed 
 clauses. 
 3 0d. 
 I II. (the Menis). 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 Only Original II. 
 
 5 cases. 
 
 //. xxiii. ^, xxiv. Q, 
 Not in •■ir or fi. 
 
 *In *■ and fi, but also 
 in the Menis. 
 
 In S2 {not ^). 
 
 */« 0, 7iot ^ (several 
 times in 0). But also 
 in the Menis. 
 
 Not in SE' or Q. 
 
 I in Q. 
 
 In 'J' and Q, but also 
 in the Menis. 
 
 Not in '^ or 0. 
 Not in SS' or 0. 
 
I02 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Usage. 
 
 
 //. or Od. ? 
 
 //. xxiii. *■, xxiv. fi. 
 
 § 39 (I)- M" • 
 
 
 " Iliadic." 
 11 Original 11. 
 2 0d. 
 
 In<ir. 
 
 (2). p.iiv . 
 
 
 "Iliadic." 
 4 Original 11. 
 I (or 3) Od. 
 
 In * and Q. 
 
 § 40. yiv ovv . 
 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 1 11. (Additions). 
 5 0d. 
 
 Not in *■ or 0. 
 
 § 41. ^ iiii = num. . 
 
 
 " Odyssean " ? 
 Only 2 cases. 
 
 Not in -ir or Q. 
 
 § 42. Neglect of Position . 
 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 
 No increase m ^ or fi 
 as against ibs Menis. 
 
 § 43 (a). Hiatus at the Bucolic 
 Diaeresis, 
 
 " Odyssean." 
 Increase of c. i per 
 cent, due to its appro- 
 priateness to speech. 
 
 No increase in '^ or J2 
 as against the Menis. 
 
 {&). Hiatus after 
 vowel e. 
 
 the 
 
 "Odyssean." 
 Increased slightly in 
 Od. 
 
 No increase in *. 
 *Possible slight increase 
 inO. 
 
 § 44. Digamma neglected 
 dpya and IpSu. 
 
 in 
 
 "Odyssean" ? 
 Doubtful. 
 
 No signs of neglect 
 in -^ or fi. 
 
 I would lay stress on the fact that though I differ from 
 Monro's conclusions I do not traverse the actual figures 
 given by him, or by the men on whom he relies. Indeed 
 I should have very little confidence in my own results if 
 they involved this. I only analyse his statistics and com- 
 pare them with other figures, many of which I have drawn 
 from the " Menis " itself. But the analysis and comparison 
 I have made, if sound, appear to me effectually to dispose 
 of the stock arguments for " lateness " of syntax, diction, 
 and metre in Iliad xxiii. and xxiv. That the Odyssey has 
 special affinities with one part of the traditional Iliad and 
 not another is, I think, certainly suggested by the evidence ; 
 but that part appears to be, not '^ and Q taken by them- 
 selves, but the " Original " taken as a whole. 
 
STYLE AND LANGUAGE OF ^ AND Q 103 
 
 As to the arguments other than those based on points 
 of language and metre, these are few in number, and could 
 not be claimed as weighty even by those who urge them. 
 The last Book of the Iliad is said to show a tenderness in- 
 compatible with the " Wrath " ; but this is to beg the whole 
 question of the spirit pervading the original poem, in how 
 unwarrantable a way I have done my best to show. The 
 mythology is said to be diiFerent ; Hermes, it is said, is the 
 messenger of the gods instead of Iris. But Iris is still 
 the messenger : it is she who takes word to Priam : Hermes 
 goes as a guide and a helper. And, not to press this point, 
 there is something else to be considered. When the mytho- 
 poeic faculty is active — and active it was, on any theory, 
 from the dawn of the Homeric age down to classical times 
 — new forms are constantly appearing among the deities 
 and new functions developing, and all of these will readily 
 find expression in the poems of the day. There is nothing 
 strange in the supposition that one man and the same used 
 the early figure of Iris, and the newer type of Hermes ; 
 nay, he himself may have been the creator who gave that 
 newer vision its exquisite outline and charm. 
 
 Again, the scenery of xxiv. fi is supposed by some 
 critics to suggest peaceful surroundings, and not the life 
 of a camp. But if this is really so, how did a warlike 
 audience come to tolerate the absurdity ? And is it 
 really so.'' It is said by Dr. Leaf ("Iliad," vol. ii., no(e on 
 xxiv., 448 if.) that the hut of Achilles is described as though 
 it were a palace, because it is called a "house," and has 
 a forecourt (av\?y), porch {-TrpoSofMos), and open corridor 
 (aWovara) : the poet is supposed not to have " taken the 
 trouble to consider how little his spacious dwelling agrees 
 with . . . the first conditions of a naval camp." But is 
 there really any palatial conception at all? On the con- 
 trary, the poet says expressly that the building was of 
 wood — (stone was always used for any "great house") 
 — and the roof thatched with reeds from the meadows 
 
I04 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 (450-453). It need have been no grander than the hut 
 Eumaeus made for himself (Od. xiv. init.). The swine- 
 herd, like Achilles, had a forecourt to his house and a 
 porch (ai;X?7 and vpoSo/noi), with ornamental epithets to 
 boot : — v^}]Xi^, /caX>7 re neyaXr] re — and his living-room is 
 called a /xeyapov (Od. xvi. 165). The Myrmidons could 
 surely have made as comfortable quarters for their chief : 
 they had nine years for the work. Probably the idea that 
 there is something impossibly magnificent about the place 
 is due to the use of epic formulas such as : " the maids 
 went out of the hall with torches in their hands," formulas 
 used when the scene of action really is a palace. But the 
 repetition of epic formulas " without close regard to the 
 circumstances which distinguish one occasion from another"^ 
 ought to be common enough to put us on our guard against 
 such a misunderstanding. 
 
 It is hard to resist the suspicion that such arguments 
 as these would never have been thought of at all if it had 
 not been taken for granted that the diction and metre of 
 II. xxiv. proved it to be "late." 
 
 ' Jebb, " Homer," p. 156. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 
 
 For some time past it has also been taken for granted that 
 the Odyssey and the Original Iliad are by different authors. 
 But it must be remembered that this is certainly not proved ; 
 to my mind it is not even probable. 
 
 The question has been practically decided (and decided, 
 as I think, both rashly and wrongly) by considerations of 
 language. But an examination such as that outlined in the 
 preceding chapter raises the question whether the small 
 differences of language that undoubtedly exist are such as 
 to indicate diversity of authorship. On the contrary, from 
 certain points of view they actually suggest identity. For 
 the new usages, as a careful reading of Appendix C. will 
 show, grow naturally and easily out of the old. They do 
 not even always show an approximation to the type of later 
 Greek.-^ They suggest, it is true, a development of style, 
 but a development by one and the same individual along 
 his individual lines. In such a development there would 
 be nothing surprising. For we ought to remember that 
 the style of every vital artist is constantly growing while 
 he works. This is often forgotten in Homeric controversy, 
 but it has been proved a hundred times over in other 
 literatures and other branches of Art. The change in 
 metre, it will be seen, is almost the minimum we could 
 expect from any poet, amounting tc a barely perceptible 
 increase in lightness and variety. 
 
 The same considerations hold when we come to con- 
 sider the actual change in vocabulary. This change 
 
 * Note e.g. the use of the Subjunctive after Final Relative Clauses. 
 
io6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 is certainly considerable, much the greatest indeed of 
 all that are evident, but is it any greater than we might 
 expect from one man? Taking Ebeling's lexicon as a 
 basis, I find 400 words which, occurring more than once 
 in the Odyssey, do not occur at all in the Iliad. To 
 these we must, for our special purpose, add 119 more, 
 which do occur in the Iliad, but only in the Additions. 
 I have not counted words that only occur once in the 
 Odyssey, because many of these are " nonce-words," and 
 in any case their inclusion seems most unsafe in view 
 of the numerous small changes and losses that the text 
 of both Iliad and Odyssey must have undergone. But 
 I have tried not to omit any words, important or unim- 
 portant, that the Odyssey uses more than once and that 
 do not occur in the Original Iliad. I have not counted 
 the Iliadic words that are dropped in the Odyssey. This 
 did not seem to be necessary. But I may remark in passing 
 that if such a list were to be made with any security the 
 discarded words should only be drawn from what, on other 
 grounds, is taken to be the Original Iliad. For instance, 
 something has been made of the fact that a certain com- 
 pound verb meaning " to break through," avappijyvviui, only 
 occurs in the Iliad. But it should be added that it only 
 occurs once in the Original (xviii. 582), for the other 
 passages are from portions universally rejected as late 
 (xx, 6^ ; vii. 461). 
 
 In judging the change as a whole I must first say I 
 agree with those who hold that it is of a character that 
 cannot be explained merely by the difference of subject- 
 matter ; though that, no doubt, goes for a great deal. 
 But we cannot jump from this to diversity of authorship. 
 To estimate its real significance we must seek the help 
 of analogy from the custom of other poets. We can, 
 unfortunately, find no exact analogy, for we know of no 
 other style in literature at once so artificial and so free 
 as the epic dialect. It will not do to press the instances 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 107 
 
 of modern poets with their deliberate choice among the 
 methods of many periods, although I think them worth 
 recalling, the better to realise how strong is the natural 
 impulse in an artist to seek for varied forms of expression. 
 But it has been suggested to me by Professor A. C. 
 Bradley that a fairly close parallel might be found in the 
 difference of vocabulary manifest between Milton's early 
 period and the time of " Paradise Lost." Now Bradshaw's 
 lexicon gives something over 1200 words (1228 according 
 to my enumeration), which, not occurring before that 
 period, occur more than once in " Paradise Lost " and 
 subsequently. I have not, of course, included proper 
 names, or geographical epithets of any kind. The mass 
 of Milton's earlier poems is about 3500 lines (round 
 numbers); the mass of "Paradise Lost" 10,550: that 
 is to say, about three times as much. Now the Odyssey 
 is about one-third as long again as the Original Iliad : 
 therefore we should expect the Miltonic increase to be 
 between two and three times as much as the Odyssean. 
 And this is just what it is : 1228 words against 519. 
 
 Both in the Miltonic vocabulary and the Homeric the 
 increase is not, as a rule, in exceptional, out-of-the-way 
 words. If the student will consult Ebeling's lexicon for 
 Homer he will see how many of the fresh words in the 
 Odyssey are formed on the basis of words previously 
 existing, such as compound verbs on the basis of simple 
 verbs, or simple verbs where there was only a noun or 
 an adjective before. Jebb -^ calls attention to the fact that 
 there are some new words " expressing moral and religious 
 feelings." Of these, three certainly may be admitted as of 
 some importance : the words meaning " holy," " piety," and 
 " God-fearing " {ayvn, oa-'irj, deovS^s). The appearance of 
 these in the Odyssey has been thought remarkable. But 
 Professor Bradley has given me a curiously close parallel 
 from the changes in Shakespeare's vocabulary : " In the 
 
 1 " Homer," p. 55, n. i. 
 
io8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 plays written during the first half of his literary career 
 the word ' pious ' never occurs, while it occurs eleven 
 times in the plays from ' Hamlet ' onwards." 
 
 It does not seem paradoxical, in view of these considera- 
 tions, to say that if we assume unity of authorship and at 
 the same time a lapse of some years between the writing 
 of the poems, then, far from being surprised at the great- 
 ness of the metrical and linguistic changes between the 
 Iliad and the Odyssey, we might well wonder at their 
 smallness. It is very difficult of course to speculate with 
 any degree of confidence on the details of the process by 
 which the epic dialect was developed. No doubt there are 
 many signs — e.g. the customs of repetition and borrowing, 
 the affection for stock phrases and epithets — that point 
 to a strong reverence for tradition, and this reverence, it 
 may be admitted, would work against the tendency to 
 novelty. But there are other factors apparent : there is 
 a wonderful facility for coining words, especially com- 
 pounds ; there seems great richness in " nonce-words " ; 
 above all, the mere feat of producing the hexameter diction 
 itself argues a buoyant interest in language, a mastery of 
 resource, and an exuberance of invention that can hardly 
 be exaggerated. It is only a dying poetry that can do 
 nothing but repeat itself. Whoever wrote the Odyssey 
 was alive, and he must have had abundant resources to 
 draw on : first, his own inventive genius ; next, the work 
 of the other poets whom we may safely assume as con- 
 temporaries and predecessors ; and lastly, a fresh store in 
 the language of common life. This last, we may perhaps 
 venture to think, would have had an especial charm at 
 the end of his life for one so human and urbane. Drawing 
 upon all three, with that union of delight in creation, and 
 respect for tradition always supremely characteristic of 
 Greek art, he so welded new to old that the Greeks could 
 hardly imagine him to be a different man and our critics 
 can hardly believe him to be the same. 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 109 
 
 But, it is said, independently of grammar, diction, and 
 metre, the spirit and atmosphere of the two poems are 
 essentially different. The argument that the Odyssey in 
 general shows an increase in humane and tender feeling 
 is, I think, only held, and could only be held, by those 
 who question whether Book xxiv. can belong to the Original 
 Iliad. This argument, therefore, we have already dealt 
 with in substance, and we may pass on to the next. 
 
 The contention that the Odyssey shows a higher level 
 of religious feeling has far more to be said for it. To a 
 certain extent I agree that a change has taken place, but 
 here again our final attitude depends on whether we include 
 or exclude II. xxiv. Nothing in all the Odyssey is on a 
 higher level of religious emotion than the visit of Iris to 
 Priam, than the call of Zeus to Thetis. Nothing, it would 
 be truer to say, is on a level anything like so high. But 
 the whole question is very complex, because the Homeric 
 conception of the gods is a complex of conflicting elements. 
 There is the religious spirit proper, the desire to represent 
 an ideal of goodness and power which man can trust and 
 adore ; there is the quasi-metaphysical impulse to symbolise 
 the forces of Nature, the play of accident, the desires and 
 passions of men, good or bad ; there is the pure fairy-tale 
 pleasure of creating individuals no better and no worse 
 than ourselves, in no more profound relation to the uni- 
 verse, but with far greater power over it. The elements 
 that went to create the goblins, the fairies, the devils, the 
 religious creeds, the philosophical systems of later times, 
 all had their part in the making of the Homeric Pantheon. 
 In the Original Iliad these elements play in and out of 
 each other, with apparently no sense of contradiction 
 troubling to the poet, and at times in a manner to us 
 most baffling. But in the Odyssey, though the elements 
 are still there, and none of them, I think, increased in 
 intensity, yet a perceptible sundering has taken place and 
 a consequent great gain in clearness. In particular the 
 
no HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 evil side of the gods sinks into the background. It is 
 still present, as the story of Aphrodite and Hephaestus 
 shows/ but it is much less prominent. Athena in par- 
 ticular plays a far nobler part. The offices of the Tempter 
 and the Enemy are taken over, as it were, by the inter- 
 mediate creatures of the poet's inexhaustible fancy, by 
 Circe, the Sirens, the Lotus-eaters — by the Cyclops, Scylla, 
 and Charybdis. But the change seems to me just the 
 kind of development we might expect from a man of 
 thoughtful mind, and that man a poet and a creator.^ 
 
 There are those who hold that a somewhat different 
 society is suggested in the Odyssey, but, so far as I am 
 aware, it is not claimed that the suggestions are strong 
 enough to bear the weight of a theory. True, that in 
 the Odyssey the public meeting is more often referred to, 
 and the right of hereditary kingship is questioned. " But 
 the evidence on these points is very slender ; and allowance 
 must be made for the special conditions presupposed by the 
 subject of the Odyssey" (Jebb, op. cit., p. 50). The main 
 features of the civilisation, it is clear, are identical. Some 
 have thought that the poet of the Odyssey is more familiar 
 with iron, because twice a reference to iron slips out in 
 a way which shows it is known to be the regular metal 
 for weapons, although the heroes themselves carry the 
 traditional bronze. "Steel of itself attracts a man," says 
 Odysseus, evidently quoting a proverb, when he bids his 
 son put the weapons away (Od. xvi. 294, repeated xix. 
 13). But it is most interesting to note that in the Original 
 Iliad there are also two references to iron, which betray 
 the same knowledge in the same sort of way. One of 
 these is from a part that it is hard to think did not belong 
 to the "Menis" itself. It is where Antilochus holds 
 Achilles' hands during the first agony of his grief," fearing 
 
 ' I consider this original, though I admit it may be doubted. See 
 below, p. 112. 
 
 " ?^or the poet's attitude to death and the life after death, see c. xiii. 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY iii 
 
 he would cut his throat with the steel " (II. xviii. 34); 
 Again, when Pandarus makes his treacherous shot, we 
 read, " he drew the string to his breast and the steel " 
 {i.e. the arrow-head) "to the bow" (II. iv. 123). There 
 is a third reference in the Original which is very similar. 
 It is where the oxen slain for Patroclus are said to lie 
 dying, "with the steel in their throats" (II. xxiii. 30). 
 Now there is only one case in the Additions where iron 
 is mentioned in connection with a weapon of slaughter, 
 and there the weapon is not a cutting weapon at all, but 
 the iron mace of a giant (II. vii. 141). It seems quite 
 possible therefore that a special interest in iron weapons 
 is characteristic at once of the Original Iliad and of the 
 Odyssey. Metaphors from the hardness of iron (the " iron 
 heart," &'c.) are also common in both poems, and per- 
 ceptibly rarer in the Additions. 
 
 cp. Odyssey iv. 293 
 „ „ xxiii. 172 
 
 „ „ XV. 329 
 
 „ „ xii. 280 
 
 „ „ xix. 494 
 
 e.g. Original Iliad — 
 xxiv. 205, 521 . 
 xxii. ("Menis") 357 
 xvii. 424 . 
 xxiii. 177 . 
 iv. 510 . 
 
 Additions — 
 
 II. XX. 372, 
 apparently the only instance. 
 
 The arguments remaining are chiefly connected with 
 the actual mythology of the poems. Mythological ground 
 is notoriously unsafe, and never more so than here. 
 The Iliad makes Charis (" Grace "), the Odyssey makes 
 Aphrodite (" Beauty "), the wife of Hephaestus the artist- 
 smith. It is thought impossible for a poet to vary his 
 mythology to this extent. Granted that it is (which may 
 well be doubted), the entire force of the objection depends 
 on the false assumption that the Odyssey conceives Aphro- 
 dite to remain the wife of Hephsstus for ever. The 
 exact contrary is the case. The whole point of the lay 
 
112 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 of Demodocus (where the one Odyssean reference to 
 Aphrodite and Hephsestus occurs) is to show that Hephasstus 
 is compelled to divorce Aphrodite because of her faithless- 
 ness. That indeed is the one justification for his open 
 exposure of her and her paramour. ' ' Come and behold 
 them," he cries to the assembled gods, " until her father 
 give me back the bride-gifts that I gave him for his 
 daughter ; seeing she is fair, but faithless " (Od. viii. 
 306-320). The return of the bride-price involves the 
 return of the bride, and Hephaestus is free to marry 
 again.^ 
 
 Again, it is said that in the Iliad the gods live on an 
 earthly mountain, and that in the Odyssey they dwell in a 
 wonderful region where no rain nor snow can come. But 
 in both poems they dwell " on Olympus," and in both, we 
 may add, they dwell in fairyland. The starlike homes that 
 Hephaestus built (II. i. fin.), where living maidens of gold 
 waited in the halls (II. xviii.), are surely never conceived 
 as discoverable by an earthly climber. The only parallel 
 to them is the palace of the Odyssean Alcinous in that 
 enchanted island to which no ship can ever come again. 
 Dante placed the Earthly Paradise upon a mountain in the 
 southern seas, and he is very careful to give us its exact 
 geography, but he would have smiled at an actual expedi- 
 tion to find it. Here, as so often, criticism of the letter 
 may stifle the spirit. 
 
 " Iris is the messenger ih the Iliad, Hermes in the 
 Odyssey," But the pun on the name of Irus the beggar 
 — "the young men called him Irus because he carried 
 messages " (Od. xviii. 6) — shows that Iris has not lost 
 her place. 
 
 " The Dioscuri are mortals in the Iliad ; in the Odyssey 
 
 ^ It should perhaps also be said that after all the Aphrodite-Hephasstus 
 passage may be an interpolation. The song of Demodocus has often been 
 suspected, and it certainly breaks the sequence of the narrative in rather 
 a curious way. 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 113 
 
 they are deified " (Merry, " Odyssey," Introduction). 
 There is only one reference to the Dioscuri in the Odyssey 
 (Od. xi. 300-304). How is it incompatible with the 
 Iliadic conception? (II. iii. 237, 243, 244). In many 
 ways it is even reminiscent of it. In the Iliad Helen speaks 
 of her brothers, " Castor the horseman and the boxer Poly- 
 deukes, my own two brothers, whom my mother bore." 
 And the poet says, " But they lay already in the lap of the 
 life-giving earth." The actual words are echoed in the 
 Odyssey, and stress is laid on the fact that the heroes are 
 the sons of Leda and the mortal Tyndareus. Elaboration 
 follows, but no inconsistency. " And I saw Leda, the wife 
 of Tyndareus, who bore him two mighty sons. Castor the 
 horseman and the boxer Polydeukes, who lie in the lap 
 of the life-giving earth, yet still live on. They, have 
 gone below the sod, yet still they are honoured by Zeus. 
 One day they live and another day they die, turn in turn, 
 and they are honoured like the gods" (Od. xi. 298-304). 
 It does seem perverse to suppose that this mysterious 
 changing immortality " beneath the earth " is inconsistent 
 with bodily death at the end of their human life : why, it 
 actually implies it. 
 
 " Neoptolemus is but a child in the Iliad, a young 
 warrior in the Odyssey" (Merry, "Odyssey," Introduc- 
 tion). But the one passage referring to Neoptolemus in 
 the Iliad (xix. 326-333) breaks the sequence of the verses 
 in which it is embedded, and is held by the most con- 
 servative of scholars to be a late interpolation. And even 
 there nothing decisive is said about his age. And even if 
 it was, nothing is, or ought to be, matter of more familiar 
 knowledge than the liberty a poet allows himself with the 
 ages of his characters. They may grow up in a single 
 night, or, like Helen, never grow old at all. 
 
 " Neleus in the Odyssey has three, in the Iliad twelve 
 sons" (Merry, loc. cit.). But what are we to think of this 
 argument when we find (Od. xi. 281 ff.) that the "three 
 
 H 
 
114 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 sons " in the Odyssey are simply the sons borne him by 
 one woman alone, Chloris, the Heroine of the passage, his 
 queen and wife, and that there is nothing whatever to 
 suggest that there were not other sons by other women, 
 the others that Homeric custom would actually lead us 
 to expect ? Why do eminent scholars offer points like 
 this in evidence ? 
 
 It must be that the diiFerence in language has been held 
 conclusive, and that any other difference has therefore been 
 too readily accepted as illustrating " the workings of a 
 different mind" (Jebb, op. cit., p. 172). But if I have 
 shown reason, as I hope I have, for drawing different con- 
 clusions from the linguistic facts, I may win a hearing for 
 what I believe to indicate the workings of one mind and 
 the same. The subject, of course, is not susceptible of 
 proof, but, independently of the conclusion, the statement 
 of such affinities may be of interest. Underneath the super- 
 ficial differences of theme there appear to me remarkable 
 likenesses of sentiment and treatment.^ 
 
 The Iliad is tragedy, no doubt, and the Odyssey, on the 
 whole, is comedy, but it was a Greek who taught us that 
 it belongs to the same man to write tragedy and comedy. 
 And our own supreme dramatist might teach it to those 
 who do not read Plato. Moreover, it is not right to over- 
 emphasise the tragic aspect of the Iliad and the joyous 
 side of the Odyssey. The poet who drew the scenes on 
 the great Shield of Achilles, the poet of the lusty games 
 in xxiii., the poet of Helen and Andromache and Andro- 
 mache's baby, that poet did not lack a sense for the joy 
 of life. And the Odyssey, for all its surpassing freshness, 
 shows a stern conception of what life and death can mean. 
 A deep sadness is felt beneath the brilliance and delight, 
 a sense of the awful things that happen in life and the 
 
 ^ I take my illustrations of course only from what I hold to be the 
 Original Iliad. I assume, provisionally, that the Odyssey is a unity : my 
 reasons are given in the subsequent chapters. 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 115 
 
 blank of the dead world that follows.^ Human affection 
 is set for us against this dark background with a peculiar 
 and most touching power : the scene between Odysseus 
 and his mother's ghost (Od. xi.), the dream of Achilles in 
 which his dead friend comes to him for a last and vain fare- 
 well (II. xxiii.), stand together, and alone in literature. The 
 pathos of old-age, in particular, is felt in both poems with un- 
 surpassed intensity and presented with unsurpassed delicacy. 
 Laertes and Anticleia can stand side by side with Priam. 
 
 The sacredness of home and wife and child that so 
 dignifies the Odyssey is the very nerve of the idyllic scene 
 between Hector and Andromache (II. vi.). Odysseus 
 himself in the Iliad takes for his title " the father of Tele- 
 machus" (II. iv. 354), and the nostalgia of the "Return" 
 vibrates through all the years at Troy (e.g. II. xviii. 89, 90 ; 
 xix. 324). Over against this we have the miracle of 
 character-drawing that can give us the magic of Helen, 
 the half-unconscious siren who can shatter the home with 
 one lift of her eyelids. Most difficult is this magic to 
 express in words, and most unmistakable. It is not the 
 mere spell of beauty, it is not the vulgar power of an 
 ordinary mistress ; in some mysterious way it is bound 
 up with intellectual and even moral charm. Grace, and 
 refinement, and dignity, and quickness of wit, and kind- 
 ness, and sympathy, and keenest sensibility, Helen has 
 all these, and yet with them all a fatal weakness that 
 makes her yield to Paris at the moment when she most 
 despises him (II. iii. fin.), that makes her capable of luring 
 the Greeks to their doom at the will of Detphpbus (Od. iv. 
 274). The desire to give pleasure, at once a woman's 
 greatest charm and greatest temptation, it is this that is 
 Helen's snare. And such a desire in her, though bound 
 up with the mystery of sex, is not merely a matter of sex : 
 
 • The likeness in the conception of the after-world is most remarkable. 
 But this subject is complex, and the discussion must be reserved for c. xiii., 
 
ii6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 it is also a lovable quality of heart. We can see this 
 best when the fine part of her nature makes her wish, as 
 she often wishes, to please most those whom she most 
 respects. We can see how her grateful reverence for Priam, 
 her tender gratitude to Hector, long to find expression. 
 It goes to our hearts when she looks sadly for her brothers 
 among the Grecian host, and thinks that they are not on the 
 field because they are ashamed of her (II. iii. 241). Her 
 conscience justifies the Trojan women for their blame (II. 
 iii. 410), just as it justifies C5dysseus and Menelaus for their 
 pursuit (Od. iv. 240 ff.), and I believe it is a real pain to her 
 to outrage them by going to Paris under their eyes. Cleo- 
 patra, I think, would have enjoyed the flout. Years after 
 she will weep pensive tears with Menelaus over the sorrows 
 of old days and rejoice to soothe away the pain of memory 
 by the opiate she brings (Od. iv. 220 ff.), and act the 
 motherly hostess for the son of the man who had spent 
 himself in the fight for her. 
 
 But, as a modern poet would teach us, if a woman's soul 
 is to live she must be strong enough on occasion to drown her 
 heart, and this is just what Helen can never do. She must 
 needs make herself appear to every man the very wife of 
 his bosom, even at the risk of his life (Od. iv. 274 ff.) ; her 
 reverence for Priam, her gratitude to Hector, can never give 
 her strength to save them by tearing asunder the bonds that 
 link her with Troy. She has not the courage for great 
 deeds, but in speech and daily life she has the courage of 
 an exquisite tact. Just as, when she comes suddenly face 
 to face with Priam before the outspread army of the Greeks 
 (II. iii. 145), she saves the situation by accepting it with perfect 
 frankness, so she makes the after-life with Menelaus serene 
 and unruffled by an entire admission of the past and an en- 
 tire acceptance of blame (Od. iv. 260 ff.). And yet the very 
 ease and sweetness with which she does this warns us that 
 hers is not one of the great natures who may sin, but who 
 buy their salvation through their loyalty to truth : a truth 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 117 
 
 so easily bought as hers does not and cannot save. We 
 know that the iron, after all, has not entered, and will never 
 enter, into her soul ; and we even smile a little when 
 she says she is worn with weeping, while the poet tells us 
 that her face was like the face of a goddess, knowing no 
 touch of age or death (II. iii. 176, 158). So, after all her 
 adventures and all her lovers, she comes into her husband's 
 hall looking like the virgin Artemis, immortal and un- 
 stained (Od. iv. 122). 
 
 Many writers since Homer's day have tried to give the 
 siren charm, and some have done so, but this peculiar type, 
 this blending of tenderness, modesty, and deadliness, has 
 only been given twice, with this supreme success, once in 
 the Iliad and once in the Odyssey. 
 
 Equally subtle is the Homeric humour : almost always 
 quiet and unobtrusive, once discovered it is an unfailing 
 spring of delight. For it is the humour that rises out of 
 a keen insight into character. We have only to think of 
 Penelope exasperating her son by her attempt to combine 
 the sorrows of a lonely wife (perfectly genuine as they are) 
 with the excitements of a much-wooed widow ; of Agamem- 
 non fussing over his chieftains, scolding the submissive and 
 eating his words at the bidding of the fierce (II. iv.) ; of 
 Hector, in the flush of victory, trying, quite vainly, to assume 
 the judicial tone against the cautious Polydamas (II. xviii.). 
 
 Another point should not be overlooked : the love for 
 animals and the understanding of them shown in both the 
 poems. The qualities of the famous passage about the dog 
 Argus in the Odyssey are well known, its simplicity, its 
 dignity, its insight into the character of an animal, its sure- 
 ness of touch on the pathos of the link between animals and 
 men, the link of sympathy that makes the animal suffer 
 when it seems only born for enjoyment. And all this, so 
 rare in great literature that it can hardly be paralleled, finds 
 its exact parallel in the Iliad. We turn to the fight over 
 the body of Patroclus and we read (II. xvii. 426 ff.) : — 
 
ii8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 " But the horses of Achilles stood apart from the fight 
 and wept. They had seen their charioteer fall by Hector's 
 hand, and they would not move away. Again and again 
 Automedon struck them with the lash, and he coaxed 
 them, and he chided them, but they would not stir. They 
 would neither go to the ships nor enter the fight once more. 
 
 " There they stood, as though they had been sculptured 
 above a hero's tomb, with the splendid car behind them and 
 their heads bent to the earth, while the long manes slipped 
 out from the yoke and hung trailing in the dust. They 
 knew they had lost their master, and the hot tears rolled 
 down in their grief. And the son of Cronus looked from 
 heaven and saw their sorrow and said in his heart : 
 
 " ' Ah, unhappy creatures, why did we give you to Peleus 
 the king ? You are deathless and he must die. Why should 
 you sorrow with men who sorrow ? ' " 
 
 Surely there is no need to quote more, or to bring for- 
 ward the other scene where the horses are reproached by 
 Achilles for deserting Patroclus, and Hera gives one of 
 them a voice to defend himself. If it is not the same man, 
 it is at least the same spirit that created these lines and that 
 told us how, when Odysseus came home at last, old, worn, 
 and miraculously disguised, " a dog who was lying at the 
 gates lifted his head and pricked his ears. It was the 
 hound Argus whom Odysseus had reared himself long ago 
 before the war. Once he used to follow the hunters to the 
 chase, but no one cared for him now when his master was 
 away, and he lay there covered with vermin on a dung- 
 heap in front of the gate. Yet even so when he felt that 
 Odysseus was near him, he wagged his tail and dropped his 
 ears, but he had not strength enough to drag himself up to 
 his master" (Od. xvii. 291 fF.). 
 
 I have dwelt at some length on this because it seems to 
 me that recognition of the real affinity has been impeded, 
 here as elsewhere, by the over-acute perception of superficial 
 differences. It has been urged with much skill and at first 
 
THE ILIAD AND THE ODYSSEY 119 
 
 sight with some force, that the Iliadic poet shows a horror 
 of dogs. They are dreaded in the Iliad as the devourers 
 of dead men. Now an observer of dogs would certainly 
 know that this was possible in war, but how does the state- 
 ment of it imply a horror of the animal ? It is the horror 
 of war it implies, war that destroys all natural and kindly 
 relations. This seems clear from the very passage that 
 speaks most plainly of the horrible thing (II. xxii. 66-71). 
 The peculiar pain of it is that the dogs who will lick his 
 blood are the dogs Priam " had reared himself," who had 
 fed at his table and kept watch at his gate. Once more, 
 we may recall how over Patroclus' pyre in the bitterness of 
 his heart Achilles slays two of his comrade's favourite dogs, 
 and the slaying is put side by side with the murder of 
 twelve Trojan youths among " the black deeds that were in 
 his mind" (II. xxiii. 173-176). 
 
 Again, the treatment of myth and fairy-tale that makes 
 the special delight of the Odyssey has genuine analogies in the 
 Iliad. The poet turns to the legends for rest and refresh- 
 ment in the midst of his own sorrows, and so gives us the 
 story of Bellerophon in Book vi., of Hephaestus in Book 
 xviii., of Niobe in Book xxiv. He turns to them for rest, 
 but he does not turn away from life : they too are charged 
 with the sense of mystery and tears. In the Odyssey the tales 
 are only elaborated : it is the same spirit at work : indeed 
 their deathless charm for young and old springs just from 
 this, that they combine the freshness of a fairy-tale with 
 the great significances of life. 
 
 Finally, the structure of each poem displays the same 
 great qualities. In each the plot is at once compact and 
 mighty — the plan of a majestic building framed to endure. 
 There is the same breadth of handling in both, the same 
 delicate interweaving of part with part and all parts with 
 the whole. It does injustice to their living unity to speak 
 of either as closely-knit, but closely-knit they both are, 
 from first to last. Down to the details there are significant 
 
I20 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 likenesses. In each there is one climax near the centre, 
 another and a greater near the end, and both of them end 
 in calm, and a kind of reconciliation. In each the hero is 
 brought vividly before our minds at the outset, and then 
 withdrawn, so that we may long for him the more. In 
 each the opening begins with an outburst of anger and a 
 threat of vengeance : and in each the opening is followed by 
 a steady movement onwards, at first comparatively quiet, but 
 gathering force and passion on its way. 
 
 It would be fascinating to pursue this subject further, 
 but it has already gone far enough for this chapter. Further 
 points will appear in the detailed discussion on the Odyssey 
 that follows. 
 
 Enough perhaps has been said here to show cause for re- 
 considering in this age the question of the " Chorizontes " 
 once more, with, I hope, a little more respect for the 
 verdict of antiquity. We might indeed have passed over 
 " the dogmatic slumber " of ancient readers without scruple, 
 but the question was definitely raised as early as the third 
 century B.C., and raised, as Jebb points out {op. cit., c. iv. 
 init.), only to be as definitely rejected. This in itself is a 
 strong presumption on our side. And if it should turn out 
 after all that the instinct of the Greeks themselves was 
 right in this matter, the progress of the poet from Iliad to 
 Odyssey would find parallels of the highest interest else- 
 where in literature and art. Goethe and Shakespeare in 
 poetry, Giovanni Bellini in painting, Beethoven to some 
 extent in music, show this change from acute tragedy to 
 something that is neither tragedy nor comedy, something 
 delightful, genial, even gay, but something that has in its 
 heart the pain of many years. 
 
 Every alert reader, I think, would say instinctively that 
 the Odyssey is the work of a man far on in life. This 
 man, he might well go on to say, must surely have written 
 a poem before, at least in his head. What if, after all, that 
 poem was the Iliad ? 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE ODYSSEY 
 
 Throughout the preceding chapters I have assumed that 
 the bulk of the Odyssey should be considered as the work 
 of one poet, and one alone. This view is held by many 
 scholars, even by some whose criticisms would go far to 
 disintegrate the Iliad : Dr. Leaf, for instance, has written 
 in support of it. But there is an important body of 
 opinion on the other side, following the lead of Kirchhoff 
 and Wilamowitz in Germany. It is necessary, therefore, 
 to state the reasons which I consider justify my assumption 
 of its unity. Here, as in the Iliad, the argument turns 
 in the main on a detailed inquiry into the imaginative 
 content of the poem. But something may be said at the 
 outset about the nature of the objections in general. 
 
 Even on a cursory view of the Odyssey it is plain that 
 except for a few short passages, such as the tale of Eumaeus 
 in XV. (380-492) and the extension of the Nekuia in xi. 
 (565 ff.), destructive criticism can find none of the patent 
 inconsistencies that were so marked in the Iliad. It has 
 to base itself upon minute discrepancies, many of which 
 it is hard to believe are discrepancies at all. 
 
 For instance (i) Telemachus stays far longer at the 
 palace of Menelaus than he had intended : but is it the 
 least surprising that the young man should linger on in 
 the splendid home where Helen was the hostess instead 
 of hurrying back to the hateful scenes in Ithaca ? That a 
 visitor should talk of going and still stay on is no unusual 
 phenomenon. 
 
 (2) Odysseus, when he removes the weapons from the 
 
122 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 hall on the eve of the great fight, gives up his first idea 
 of leaving two swords and two spears and two shields 
 to serve for his son and himself. And he says nothing 
 about this change of plan. But when he made his first 
 proposal he had not yet seen the suitors nor taken stock 
 for himself of their quickness and audacity. Now that 
 he has, he realises that it would not do to leave such 
 weapons within their reach. He does not waste words 
 in explaining this to Telemachus, who indeed will do his 
 bidding without any words at all : they have no time to 
 spare : the women, and even Eurycleia, must not see them 
 at their work, for this action of " the beggar," if observed, 
 might go far to rouse a suspicion that would wreck the 
 plot. 
 
 (3) Again, the fact that Odysseus is known through 
 his disguise by the old nurse and the old dog, is supposed 
 to show that there were once two distinct forms of the 
 poem : one with the magical transformation wrought by 
 Athena's wand, the other with only the natural change 
 that his travel and the years had brought about in the 
 hero's looks. As though it were not the very sign and 
 seal of the true poetic use of miracle that we should find 
 it impossible to say where magic begins and nature ends ! 
 There is no finer touch in the Volsung saga than where 
 Brynhilde, speaking to Siegfried of the dreadful Tarnhelm 
 that hid him from her under the guise of a stranger, tells 
 him none the less, " And yet all the while I knew your 
 eyes." The art, of course, lies in using the supernatural 
 to heighten the sense of wonder and mystery, and at the 
 same time keeping the natural forces of insight and per- 
 ception in their accustomed play. We should lose an 
 infinite amount from the scenes with Argus and with 
 Eurycleia if Odysseus were not miraculously disguised ; 
 for what we exult in is just that the old nurse can pene- 
 trate the disguise, however miraculous, by the help of her 
 touch, and the old dog without the need of touch at all. 
 
THE ODYSSEY 123 
 
 Few readers, it may be hoped, would be impressed by 
 any one of such objections as these, taken alone, but the 
 mere fact that many are made, and made by able scholars, 
 does its work. Moreover, it is no doubt perfectly possible 
 to find long sections of the Odyssey which are intelligible 
 enough without constant reference to the rest, especially 
 if we do not scruple to cut out inconvenient allusions. 
 The Odyssey is a lengthy work designed for recitation, 
 and it would mean very faulty construction on the poet's 
 part if the listener could not understand as he listened 
 without the need of " turning back." But it gives a handle 
 to the separatists. They fix on such portions as the journey 
 of Telemachus and the wanderings of Odysseus, and ask 
 why these could not stand alone. The answer in brief is 
 that possibly they could, but the whole poem is not nearly 
 so fine if they do. To develop that answer is the purpose 
 of these chapters. 
 
 To bring out its significance we must go a little way 
 back. What is it that chiefly distinguishes Epic from 
 Romance .'' This question has been well put and well 
 answered by Professor Ker,^ and the gist of his answer 
 is that Epic has far more of the fulness and solidity of real 
 life. This is a fruitful idea and may lead to interesting 
 conclusions. One might even say that the seminal impulse 
 of Epic is the desire to give, in art, the impression of the 
 whole life of man by a tale of heroic deeds — not, as in 
 mere Romance, to escape from actual life into some land of 
 faery, or to confine oneself, as in most modern novels, to 
 a single sphere of emotions, or to select, as in the Drama, 
 one special type of crisis and set out its immediate Before 
 and After — but to take the whole wide sweep of men's 
 chief interests and fears and joys, and illuminate that 
 mighty circle by the light of their own characteristic deeds. 
 This is why most epics tend to take a wide sweep in time 
 as well as in content, basing themselves on some story 
 ^ " Epic and Romance." 
 
124 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 which involves in its catastrophe the fate of many men, 
 even of whole nations, and maybe of the whole world. 
 Because the long drift of events through time is a part, 
 and a great part, of man's interest, and a part too which 
 it is singularly difficult to represent in the symbolic pro- 
 cedure of Art. All Art must necessarily use a kind of 
 symbolic shorthand : it behoves that the shorthand should 
 be as easy to read as possible. To compress something 
 of " the amplitude of time " into one brief narrative, to 
 make us feel in one short compass how the individual 
 affects and is affected by others whom he may never have 
 seen and never will see, this is not an easy matter. 
 
 The theme of a Welt-Be gehenheit, of a definite special 
 event that shakes the whole world, is welcome to the epic 
 artist, for by its mere outline it brings before the mind 
 that widening circle of influences that helps to build up 
 the universe. 
 
 But there are other ways of producing this result : there 
 are other tales than those of, say, a great city's fall, which, 
 when handled by a master, might produce this broad effect, 
 this effect of having, somehow, seen the whole of man's 
 life moving on before us. Take the bare outline of our 
 Odyssey as it might be stated by Aristotle : a hero after 
 long wanderings and perils wins his way home to his faithful 
 and hardly-bested wife, and triumphs over the troubles 
 that beset both him and her. The mere framework of this 
 story could bring in at one sweep a whole range of interests 
 too often divided, the interest of adventure and strange 
 lands, and the interest of home and country. From the 
 beginning to the end of time a tale that can unite these 
 two fascinates and will fascinate the heart of man. If the 
 Greeks invented the union, that alone would be a worthy 
 contribution to the Epic. There is a certain amount of 
 evidence, however, to suggest that the tale with this peculiar 
 combination of Wandering and Return had been, in some 
 form or other, a W elt-Mdrchen when Homer took it up. 
 
THE ODYSSEY 125 
 
 The evidence here is slight, but of an interesting character. 
 The situation of the Returned Husband, at least, is known 
 all over the world (see Andrew Lang, "Homer and the 
 Epic "), and Dr. Jane Harrison has found a most curious 
 parallel to the actual structure of the Odyssey at the close 
 of the North American tale of the Red Swan.^ The like- 
 nesses here go down to small details. I give almost in 
 full the part that concerns us, italicising the marked 
 resemblances. 
 
 After the hero, Odjibwa, has won his beautiful wife, the 
 Red Swan, his brothers reproach him for having taken and 
 lost the magic arrows of their dead father. They entreat 
 him to go and find others for them, and he consents. He 
 sets ofF on his travels, and comes to the under-world. There, 
 to his astonishment, he meets skeleton animals who have the 
 voices of men. They ask him, " Why he was so bold as to 
 visit the abode of the dead?'''' And the spirit of a buffalo 
 tells him that he can go no farther in these regions, and 
 bids him return at once to his tribe, for his brothers are trying 
 to get possession of his wife. The spirit tells him also that he 
 will live to a very old age, and live and die happily. Odjibwa 
 looks to the West, and sees a bright light but no sun, and 
 asks what it means. " // is the place, where those who were good 
 dwell." " And that dark cloud ? " " Wickedness," rephes 
 the spirit. And then Odjibwa returns to the earth, "and 
 saw the sun giving light as usual and breathed the pure 
 air." And the story goes on, " «// the rest that he saw in 
 the homes of the dead and his travels and actions are un- 
 known, but he wandered a long time in quest of information to 
 make his people happy" He comes home unexpectedly and over- 
 hears his brothers quarrelling about the possession of his wife, 
 who is faithful to him. Odjibwa enters the house " with the 
 stern air and the conscious dignity of a brave and honest man" 
 lays the magic arrows on the bow, and shoots them dead. 
 
 1 " Algic Researches," vol. ii., by Schoolcraft. New York, 1839. Alluded 
 to in "Myths of the Odyssey," J. E. Harrison. 
 
126 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Here are certainly surprising likenesses, in plan, in 
 sequence of detail, almost in phrase. 
 
 Further, there are one or two little touches in the 
 Odyssey itself which suggest that the poet is handling a 
 theme already familiar in its broad outlines to his hearers : — 
 
 (i) The wooers are referred to in the first Book without 
 a touch of previous explanation simply as the wooers (i. 91) : 
 the listener has to understand " the wooers of the absent 
 hero's wife." 
 
 (2) The journey to the under-world in xi. is introduced 
 with no elaborate preparation, much as though the poet 
 felt that he could count on an expectation for it already 
 in the minds of his audience. 
 
 (3) There is an odd little point in Book i. (262 fF.) 
 about the successful search of Odysseus for poison to put 
 on his arrows. Now the practice of using poisoned arrows 
 is clearly felt by the poet to be wrong ; ^ it is also out of 
 keeping with his hero's upright and humane character, and 
 it is never mentioned again. Why then does the poet put 
 it in at all ? This could be explained if we suppose that 
 he could not entirely shake off the influence of an old 
 tradition, a tradition in which the use of essentially deadly 
 arrows was a cardinal point of the tale. 
 
 But in whatever way these curious points and strange 
 affinities are to be explained, it is obvious that the mere 
 presence of this form of the story among the Red Indians 
 shows how naturally it could take root among a primitive 
 people. The theories in particular that see in the Nekuia 
 (Book xi.) a later and sophisticated addition, have much to 
 
 * See Professor Murray, "The Rise of the Greek Epic,'' p. 121 (a passage 
 which suggested this point to me) : — 
 
 " In a 261 we are told how Odysseus once went to Ephyra, to Ilos, son 
 of Mermeros — an ominous name — to seek a man-slaying drug to anoint his 
 arrows withal. But Ilos would not give it him. He feared the nemesis of 
 the eternal gods. ' But my father,' the speaker continues, ' gave him some. 
 For he loved him terribly.'" 
 
 " The Odysseus of the earliest legends," Professor Murray continues, 
 "must of course have used poison." 
 
THE ODYSSEY 127 
 
 reckon with here. On the slight evidence before us, it is 
 true, we cannot decide whether the poet, as poets so often 
 do, found a good story and made it better, or whether he 
 invented it from the first ; but the story itself is of such a 
 character that we can, I think, safely say so much as this : 
 If the poet did start with the framework of the Odyssey 
 as we have it now, he started with a splendid scheme, a 
 scheme in its germ epic, and one that could appeal to 
 unsophisticated and cultured alike. 
 
 But the start, though a great deal, is not all. A poet's 
 scheme, if it is to become alive, has to grow in his brain and 
 heart till he sees and feels how the situation involves the 
 characters and the characters explain the situation. And if 
 the seed is to grow into an epic, it must feed on a rich soil. 
 It will now be my endeavour to show how both these things 
 happen in our Odyssey. The situation grows clear and 
 it grows broad. The characters themselves, by their actions 
 and their words, make us understand to the full how they 
 have reached the position in which we find them ; and at 
 the same time, from first to last, the poem is so built 
 as to give a wide horizon to our thoughts. Take the 
 characters first. 
 
 Penelope is exactly the woman who would drift into 
 the hopeless position from which it needs the hero to rescue 
 her. Essentially a passive nature, she cannot realise for 
 herself what action means, its necessities and its dangers. 
 Thus she is formed to slip into the hands of the strong 
 in the end. At the same time, as with so many natures 
 of this type, strength and force have a peculiar attraction 
 for her, and this attraction indeed plays a great part in the 
 genuine love she feels for her real strong hero, Odysseus. 
 But if she cannot have her true hero, she is not averse to 
 the stir of vigorous young life about her which appears, 
 at least on the surface, to defer to her and to woo her : 
 not averse, that is, so long as it does not call on her for 
 immediate and irretrievable action. 
 
128 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 It is quite plain, for instance, that though she may 
 "hate her suitors with all her heart" (xviii. 165), yet 
 their presence in the house of her husband does not drive 
 her past endurance, as it does Telemachus. We are not 
 the least surprised to hear their express statement that she 
 gave each man of them some ground of hope (ii. 91). 
 Not that she has the slightest wish to marry any of them 
 while Odysseus is alive. But the position has a flattery 
 for her which is full of danger. And, as we have said, 
 she has the kind of inertness that prevents the clear 
 realisation of danger (though it does not prevent a great 
 dread of it). On this point too, her otherwise harmless 
 vanity does her harm. Without sufficient force of char- 
 acter to rule and resist, or sufficient quickness and subtlety 
 to outwit and out-manoeuvre, she can never quite give up 
 the belief that either her " gentle womanly influence," her 
 personal charm, or her deftness will save her in the end 
 from anything worse than annoyance. Antinous (the 
 ablest of the suitors) sees this plainly (ii. 115), and takes 
 his measures accordingly. The futile plan of the web, a 
 plan that even if it were not discovered could do nothing 
 but gain time, is paralleled by her astounding belief that 
 she can check the man who has meant to murder her son 
 by telling him that it is really very wrong to think of 
 doing such a thing (xvi. 418 ff.). This nervelessness of 
 grasp is shown by countless other touches. She has lost 
 all influence with her son Telemachus through her irri- 
 tating little ways : he has ceased to tell her anything he 
 can help, and gives his confidence to the old nurse instead, 
 who indeed shows herself a thousand times more shrewd 
 and more reliable (ii. 349). Though her instinct is 
 to be full of kindness to her dependents and the poor, 
 she is so helpless in the hands of the suitors that she 
 dare do nothing now for the old Eumaeus (xv. 374 ff.). 
 She remembers word for word, and with much sentiment, 
 the last loving injunction of Odysseus to take care of his 
 
THE ODYSSEY 129 
 
 old father and mother (xviii. 267), and yet she lets Laertes 
 go away to his farm when his wife dies, and eat out his 
 heart by himself, mourning for his son. The only service 
 she can think of doing for him is to make him a winding- 
 sheet, which she has no intention of finishing : and there 
 is a spice of truth in Butler's delicious picture of Laertes' 
 ruefulness on coming to call and hearing from Eurycleia 
 that " her mistress was upstairs working at his pall, but she 
 would be down directly." ^ And it is very hard to forgive 
 her for not looking after Argus, though of course she is 
 the last mistress in the world who would be able to keep 
 " the careless maidens " up to their work. She is, in 
 short, just the kind of woman who cries herself to sleep 
 in difficulties, and wakes up looking wonderfully plump 
 and fresh (as she does in Book xviii. 195, &c.). 
 
 And yet with all this we never for a moment cease 
 to feel her fitness to be the well-loved wife of Odysseus. 
 Her real gentleness, her goodness and kindness of heart, 
 her love, which though it is never fiery is never weak, her 
 constancy, her comfortable beauty, even her weakness and 
 need of help — we understand how all these called to 
 her strong husband across the seas. She had two holds 
 upon him, and it is hard to say which was the greater : 
 she offered him rest and she claimed his protection. He 
 could take his fill — and perhaps more than his fill — of 
 wild adventure and romance in other ways : and his was 
 the self-poised strength that cares to give succour rather 
 than receive it. Thus the old commonplace about husband 
 and wife being the complements of one another is in some 
 ways more than usually applicable to these two. Penelope 
 certainly is " lost " without her husband : she needs the 
 shelter in which to flower, and we feel that she is speak- 
 ing more truly than she knows when she says she has no 
 beauty now he is gone. 
 
 All this subtle characterisation is given from first to 
 
 » " The Authoress of the Odyssey," p. 131. 
 
 I 
 
I30 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 last throughout the poem, as even the references (which 
 might be indefinitely multiplied) may indicate. And it is 
 given with an unobtrusive incisiveness of touch which 
 makes the handling truly epic. There is no over-elabora- 
 tion, rather an extraordinary restraint in the work, an 
 economy of line and modelling, so to speak, which pre- 
 vents the figure ever coming forward too prominently. 
 Its place in the picture is perfectly defined, and it keeps 
 that place perfectly. It is the same with the wonderful 
 characters of Helen, Nausicaa, Circe ; entrancing as they 
 are, we never feel that the light has gone out of the book 
 when they disappear. Perhaps one of the reasons why it 
 is so hard to write epic nowadays is that we have lost 
 this method of subtle simplicity in the draughtsmanship. 
 Our best writers put down so much about their characters 
 that there simply is not room left for the onward march 
 of a tale. On the other hand, in the " ^neid," except for 
 Dido, and in " Paradise Lost," except for Satan, there is 
 little characterisation at all. 
 
 And the question should be faced whether we are to 
 suppose the Homeric feat of uniting complete modelling 
 of the figures with epic breadth and swiftness of narrative 
 — a feat so delicate and so hard of achievement at any 
 time — could be achieved with absolute success by a number 
 of writers and editors pulling each other's work about. 
 
 Let us now return to the general structure of the tale. 
 The character of Odysseus is even more intimately bound 
 up with this than the character of Penelope, because the 
 interest in the central situation is raised to the highest 
 possible pitch in and through the raising of the hero's 
 character. The adventurous elements in the story of the 
 Wanderer's Return are heightened by the instinctive selec- 
 tion of those adventures that are most full of romance and 
 mystery, and at the same time in each one of them some 
 leading trait of the man is put before us — his daring, 
 his thirst for knowledge and experience, his resource, his 
 
THE ODYSSEY 131 
 
 endurance, his dignity, and his charm. On the other hand, 
 the tender domesticity of the theme is deepened by making 
 him not only a husband but a son and a father, with old 
 parents whom he loves, and a boy who is the hope of his 
 heart (^e.g. i. 189 fF.), and by showing at the very outset 
 not only the desperate need of his family for his presence, 
 but his own loneliness in the desolate island where he is 
 held against his will by the barren magic of a nymph who 
 is not wholly human. Further, and this is of almost equal 
 importance for the epic character, he is at once a man who 
 works with his hands and a man who has part in the 
 destinies of nations. The " heroic " age, it has been often 
 noticed, was at an advantage here over more complicated 
 civilisations. It could find its epic heroes almost ready- 
 made ; there was little " division of labour " to cut a man 
 out from one or other of those great spheres of action 
 that make up the bulk of life. The man who makes his 
 own bedstead, and the man who takes a mighty city, each 
 sees a distinct aspect of things. In our day the two are 
 hardly ever united, but it was not so in heroic Greece. 
 Yet even there, there would be something of the separa- 
 tion, and the intuition of the poet is shown by fixing on 
 a man like Odysseus for his purpose — a man who is not 
 Agamemnon or Priam with their stately retinues — but yet 
 and for all that a man who has played his part, and a 
 chief part, in the taking of Troy. We should feel it odd 
 if we heard of Agamemnon or Priam building their own 
 rafts, polishing their own bedsteads, but how much we 
 should miss from the homely vigour of the Odyssey if 
 Odysseus could not do so with perfect naturalness ! And 
 we should miss as much from its greatness and dignity 
 if we did not also think of the hero as the man who 
 had fought for Helen nine long years at Troy (xxii. 227). 
 Nay, we should miss more, for it is through this connec- 
 tion with Troy that the story rings with the echoes of that 
 tragic fall which shook the world ; it is through this con- 
 
132 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 nection that we are made to feel, in almost every canto 
 of the poem, that the Return of Odysseus was only one 
 of many " Returns," many home-comings after long war- 
 fare, to lands that had suffered in the absence of their 
 kings. And thus our horizon widens out from the first 
 into that larger world of which the little rocky island 
 was after all only a part. The table that Homer spread 
 for us is large enough to carry " the rich banquet " that 
 iEschylus knew. 
 
 The leading notes are struck at once in the noble 
 opening prologue, the demand for the tale of " the many- 
 sided hero," " the man who sacked the mighty citadel of 
 Troy, who wandered far and wide over the world, and 
 saw the cities of many men and learnt their minds and 
 ways, and suffered much himself, striving to save his own 
 life and to bring his comrades safe home again" (i. 1-5). 
 
 The great war, the life of adventure and discovery, the 
 struggle for home and friends, here they are all before us. 
 And then comes word of how the hero had been baffled ; 
 how his comrades had perished through their own folly, 
 and how when all the other Greeks had returned he was 
 still left alone, " longing for home and wife in Calypso's 
 hollow caves" (6-15). And then the hint of his final 
 struggle and triumph ; of the decreed return to Ithaca 
 and his dear ones, and of the contest that still awaited 
 him there (16-19). 
 
 It is not merely the stately phrasing that makes these 
 lines so splendid, it is the inexhaustible richness of content 
 (suggested with easy mastery in a score of verses), the view 
 back over a crowded life, and the view forward to struggle, 
 victory, and home. Then, after these full chords, the 
 effect is carried on more quietly by the flowing narrative 
 of the scenes in Olympus and in Ithaca which link together 
 the thought of the heroic wanderer and the thought of 
 those who are waiting for him and in sore need of him. 
 And they link it to another thought as well, a thought 
 
THE ODYSSEY 133 
 
 which we are never allowed to forget, the thought of the 
 return of Agamemnon, the outrage done to him, the leader of 
 all the Greeks, and the long-delayed revenge taken by his son 
 for it (Od. i. 35 if.). This not only gives us a broad historic 
 horizon, it helps to dignify the actual theme. The Odyssey, 
 from one point of view, is a tale of Nemesis, of judgment 
 upon the insolent, and restoration of order by the just, 
 and this point of view is immensely reinforced by the 
 parallel with another tale — and so great a tale — of wrong 
 suffered and justice done. It helps to clear the triumph 
 of Odysseus from the suspicion of personal spite, to make 
 us see it for what it is, with all its fierceness, the dignified 
 re-assertion of right. For when we think of the murder 
 of Agamemnon and the outrages in Ithaca we realise that 
 the forces of riot are strong in the world, and that without 
 such men as Odysseus and Orestes, on whose strength 
 whole communities hang, society would suffer shipwreck 
 in anarchy. Clytemnestra (as she is sketched in the 
 Odyssey) is demoralised by JEgisthus ; and Penelope, but 
 for her husband, would be at the mercy of the wooers. The 
 incessant references to the Agamemnon story are thus of 
 high importance for the moral weight of the Odyssey ; 
 and it may be added that on the separatist theory their 
 presence would be hard to explain at all. 
 
 The character of Telemachus is so drawn as to increase 
 our desire for a display of strength in the right cause. 
 We see that though he is a son after a hero's heart, he 
 is a son who needs that hero at his side. Generous, high- 
 spirited, and affectionate, he has not as yet either the 
 self-control or the resource that would enable him to put 
 the crooked straight. He cannot dominate his mother 
 so as to make her take a decided line : he can neither 
 outwit nor overpower the truculent suitors. He is not 
 the man to conquer, as he says himself (ii. 60). 
 
 Yet his plans are excellent, if he could only carry them 
 through. To set out himself in search for his father has much 
 
134 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 to recommend it, and he does at least make a beginning of 
 action here. As regards his mother, his own wish would 
 be that, if she persists in her attitude of neither accepting 
 nor refusing a second husband, she should betake herself 
 to her father's house and let the wooing be carried on 
 there, and thus at least prevent the wreck of her son's 
 home and property in the suitors' feasts (i. 275 ff. The 
 advice of Athena, as often, representing the wise thought 
 of a man's own mind ^). But to get Penelope to leave her 
 place in the palace willingly is quite beyond his power, and 
 he has neither the heart nor the courage to force her 
 against her will (see ii. 130 ff.). She wants, as many 
 women might, both to keep her present position and have 
 opportunity, if she chooses, to marry again. (For her 
 feeling about leaving the house, see also xix. 533 if. ; xx. 
 
 341-344; xxi. 77-79-) 
 
 It is this rock of Penelope's passive obstinacy that all 
 but wrecks Telemachus' plan of denouncing the suitors' 
 conduct before the assembled citizens and the gods. In 
 itself it is a good plan, since to drive the suitors out by 
 force single-handed would be quite impossible for him, 
 and it is plain from the temper of the islanders that it 
 is hopeless to look for any vigorous backing from them. 
 Even Mentor cannot get support in the assembly (ii. 
 229 fF.). Failing force, it would, in the first place, put 
 Telemachus in a strong moral position if he could get 
 the citizens to admit publicly that the presence of the 
 suitors in the house was an intolerable and uncalled-for 
 outrage (see A. Lang, " Homer and the Epic," p. 263). 
 And in the next place, the appeal is not only to the 
 citizens, it is to the gods (" let the gods be witness," 
 i. 273). Now it is the conviction of Homeric times that 
 the gods hear a solemn appeal. It is this conviction that 
 gives force to an oath : the appeal binds the gods to listen, 
 and if they listen, they will do justice on the guilty. 
 ^ See note at end of chapter. 
 
THE ODYSSEY 135 
 
 Hence the guilty dare not call them to witness, but 
 Telemachus may dare and does dare: "and I will call 
 upon the gods in prayer that Zeus may grant us ven- 
 geance" (ii. 143-145). And again (ii. 211), "The gods 
 know it now." 
 
 This part of his plan, then, may be said to succeed, and 
 moreover it prepares our spirits for the coming vengeance, 
 but the appeal to the citizens fails. Antinous completely 
 outwits him here, first by laying the blame on Penelope for 
 her double-dealing in keeping her suitors on and off — a fact 
 Telemachus cannot gainsay — and next by boldly suggest- 
 ing that if he dislikes the position he should send his 
 mother back to her father's house — the very plan her son 
 has thought of himself, but cannot carry out, as Antinous 
 well knows (ii. 85-128). Thus the tables are neatly turned, 
 the suitors carry the meeting with them, and the collapse is 
 largely due, as we have seen, to the unfortunate fact that 
 Telemachus and his mother cannot work together.^ Here 
 is the little rift within the lute that makes us long more 
 than ever for Odysseus to put things right. 
 
 Nothing is more subtle in the Odyssey than the way this 
 relation between Telemachus and his mother is indicated ; 
 it is done in a spirit of the finest comedy, illustrating and ex- 
 plaining what so nearly becomes a tragedy. They love each 
 other and they respect each other, these two, but they do not 
 understand each other. Telemachus has the keen-sighted 
 sharp intolerance of youth : he discerns his mother's trifling 
 with the suitors, and he cannot bear it. It only amuses her 
 large-hearted husband, who understands her perfectly and 
 never doubts the depth of her love (xviii. 281-283). But 
 Telemachus cannot away with the policy of shilly-shally, and 
 her parade of wifely grief under the circumstances irritates 
 him to the last degree. So he does her much less than justice, 
 and when she cannot endure hearing the minstrel sing " the 
 Return of the Achaians " and comes among the suitors to 
 
 ' For an explanation of further details, see note at end of chapter. 
 
136 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 ask pathetically for silence (perhaps with an eye to the 
 pathos), her son, in the sharpest way, cuts her short, and 
 says that plenty of heroes have perished beside Odysseus 
 and she had better listen quietly (i. 325 ff.). And this 
 although (or perhaps in a sense because) he himself 
 only just before has been all but crushed to the ground 
 with the fruitless yearning for his father (i. 113 ff.). This 
 is the first appearance of Penelope and Telemachus, and it 
 leaves, or should leave, an ineffaceable impression on us. 
 Perhaps it is partly because his own character is not of the 
 strongest that the elements of indecision in Penelope's 
 nature irritate her son so much. He can make no allow- 
 ance for her hesitation and doubt in the recognition scene 
 with Odysseus at the end : it puts him out of all patience 
 that she should not fling her arms round her husband's 
 neck at once, while it is easy to fancy the kindly smile with 
 which Odysseus tells his son to leave them to themselves 
 (xxiii. 96-140). 
 
 The old nurse, too, has on occasion to stand up for her 
 mistress against the sharp criticisms of the young master 
 (xx. 129 ff.). These are always prefaced, no doubt, by a 
 filial phrase, and one that is genuinely felt, but it is only 
 the cursory reader who will miss their sting because of that. 
 On the other hand, Penelope does not like to feel her son 
 changing from a boy into a man : she feels vaguely that 
 she is losing her hold over him, and longs for the time when 
 he was younger and more amenable (xix. 530 ff.). But she 
 does not go the right way to regain her influence when she 
 balks him at every turn, when she takes hirn to task (quite 
 unjustifiably) in face of the assembled suitors (xviii. 21 f ff.), 
 or when she assumes an injured tone and says that she sees 
 he is determined to tell her nothing about his father before 
 the suitors come into the hall (xvii. 100 ff.). It would be 
 easy to multiply the instances : in fact the difficulty is to 
 stop. One could go on for ever discovering new subtleties 
 in their relationship till one had commented on every Une, 
 
THE ODYSSEY 137 
 
 for every saying and every action is characteristic, and no 
 two are the same. And it is only with the supreme creations 
 of art that we can do this : with works of lesser imaginative 
 force there comes a point where we feel the artist has seen 
 no further. The very silences of Telemachus and his 
 mother are almost as significant as their utterances. Pene- 
 lope never says to her boy, " At any rate I have you, and 
 you will help me." Telemachus never answers, " I want to 
 look, after you, as my father would have done." They are 
 not enough heart in heart to feel that all cannot be lost so 
 long as they have each other. So when Odysseus returns at 
 last, it is not, as it would be with many a mother, the first 
 impulse of Penelope, after the rapture of their meeting, to 
 ask her husband what he thought of their boy : nor does 
 it concern Telemachus much to realise that his mother 
 will be safe at last. The situation presents itself to him 
 entirely from the other side ; it is his father that he wants 
 to be comforted, loved, honoured, and compensated for 
 his sufferings (xxiii. 100 ff.). 
 
 It would not be well to pass from Book i. without call- 
 ing attention to the characteristics that fit it for its place as 
 an introduction : its completeness of exposition, its vivid- 
 ness, the arresting quality of the situation presented, and 
 the sense that something fateful is set on foot. Wila- 
 mowitz gives so good a description of its general structure 
 and the effective way in which it lays the foundation for 
 the whole poem, that it is a pleasure to translate his 
 words : — 
 
 "We are shown the wooers and how they play their 
 game day after day ; we are shown Penelope, her grief, her 
 loneliness, and the influence she has over them. We are 
 shown Telemachus, feeling the burden of their presence, 
 but unable to shake himself free from it. Antinous and 
 Eurymachus are both introduced, and we hear what is 
 necessary about Laertes and Eurycleia. And then, very 
 quietly, so quietly that we do not at first discern the goal 
 
138 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 at which it aims, the hand of the divinity begins to move 
 and work amid the chaos." ^ 
 
 This could not be better put, and makes one wish more 
 than ever that Wilamowitz had spent his powers on sym- 
 pathetic and not destructive criticism. 
 
 Note So much trouble has been made by Kirchhoff and others over 
 
 the speech of Athena to Telemachus in Book i. (269-302) that it may be 
 well, even at the risk of repetition, to add an exposition of it in detail. 
 Moreover, I make no doubt that the latter part of the speech (293-302), 
 counselling the slaying of the suitors, is not original. Once it is removed, 
 the whole is readily intelligible. It may need a little filling-out, but that is 
 all. I translate the relevant portions, condensing slightly : — 
 
 (i. 269 ff.) " You must bethink you how you can drive the suitors from 
 your halls. So listen to my words. Summon the Achaians to the meeting- 
 place to-morrow, and speak out before them all, and let the gods be witness. 
 Call upon the wooers to return to their own lands, and for your mother, if 
 her heart is set on marriage, let her go back to her father's house. They 
 {z'.e. her father and his kinsfolk) will arrange the marriage and set out the 
 bride-gifts, all that should go with a well-loved daughter. And for you your- 
 self, I would have you fit out a ship and make search for your father. Go 
 first to Pylos and ask of Nestor, and then to fair-haired Menelaus. If you 
 hear that your father is alive and will return (287), then you might still 
 endure the wasting of your substance for one more year (288) ; but if you 
 learn that he is dead and gone, come back to your own land and pile him 
 a barrow and pay him the dues of death, and give your mother to a 
 husband" (292). 
 
 [" But when you have done all this (293), then bethink you how to slay the 
 suitors in your halls, by craft or openly ; for you are a child no longer, and 
 must put away childish thoughts. Have you not heard of the glory that 
 Orestes won, slaying the man who slew his sire ? (300). You too, my friend, 
 are fair and strong, and you must be valiant, so that men to come may speak 
 well of you " (301, 302).] 
 
 The urgent matter for Telemachus is to get the suitors out of the house 
 as soon as he possibly can. On the other hand, he cannot bear his mother 
 to marry if there is any chance that Odysseus is still alive. 
 
 Athena's proposals are based on the knowledge that Penelope is un- 
 willing to make an end of the wooing either one way or the other (cp. i. 249, 
 250). That being so, Telemachus is to couple the solemn appeal to the 
 gods and the demand for the suitors to leave the palace with an arrangement 
 that his mother, if the wooing must go on, shall receive them at her father's 
 house. Penelope's father and his kinsfolk (the " they " of the translation) 
 are to undertake the responsibility of all arrangements for the marriage. 
 Telemachus is to have nothing to do with it, so long as he does not know 
 whether his father is alive or dead. He himself is to set out in search of 
 Odysseus. He may hear good tidings of him. In iha.t case, if Azs moi/ier 
 and the suitors have not submitted to his wish, if, in spite of his solemn 
 
 ^ Homerische Untersuchungen, p. 1 1 {Das Erste BucK). 
 
THE ODYSSEY 139 
 
 appeal, they are stillin the palace, he may put up with the trouble for another 
 year, hoping for his father's return (287, 288). The hypothesis here itali- 
 cised is not given in full, but it ought to be easily understood from the con- 
 text and from the "conditional'' turn of 1. 288. It is indeed so likely in 
 itself that the poet does not feel it necessary to set it out at length. 
 
 Or Telemachus may hear that his father is dead. If so, he may acquiesce 
 in his mother's marriage and give her away himself (289-292) : noi force her 
 to marry, as some commentators suggest ; nothing is said about force, and 
 besides it is plain that Penelope, who is already not entirely hostile to marriage, 
 would not need much forcing, once she were sure Odysseus was dead. 
 
 So far, then, there is no difficulty. But the proposal that Telemachus 
 should plot the slaughter of the suitors after one of them, with his own con- 
 sent, has married his widowed mother, is certainly astounding. I do not 
 believe the lines can have been written for this place by the original poet. 
 It is noticeable that the last two verses with the suggestive comparison 
 between Orestes and Telemachus are to be found at the close of Nestor's 
 speech in iii. (199, 200), where they are quite in place. Nestor knows some- 
 thing about the situation in Ithaca (iii. 211 ff.), and is anxious to brace Tele- 
 machus up to face it like a man. I conceive the awkward passage in 
 Book i. to be an expansion of Nestor's hint, added to Athena's counsel by a 
 careless rhapsode under the dominating influence of the Orestes story. 
 
 The actual failure of the appeal to the citizens and the reasons for it are 
 set forth in the text. That Telemachus should forestall his scheme by burst- 
 ing out with the proposal to the suitors themselves beforehand and so giving 
 them time to make their plans (i. 368 ff.), seems to me entirely in keeping 
 with his character— always more impulsive than strong. 
 
 But he succeeds in making his solemn appeal to the gods as Athena had 
 suggested : and it is to this part of the plan that Zeus refers at the opening 
 of Book v., when Athena complains that the suitors are trying to murder 
 Telemachus, who has now sailed from Ithaca. Zeus answers : " My child, did 
 you not plan this yourself, so that Odysseus might avenge himself on his foes 
 at his return ?" (v. 22-24). That is to say, Zeus reminds Athena that the present 
 state of affairs is largely due to her own plan, i.e. the plan that Telemachus 
 should come forward, appeal to the gods and the citizens, and set out in 
 search of his father. One of her objects was to call down vengeance on the 
 wrong-doers, and this object she has gained, and the emphasis on the gain 
 is meant for the reader's benefit, so that we may realise vengeance is afoot 
 at last. One result, however, has been to make the suitors resolve on the 
 murder of the man they can no longer treat as a negligible quantity : but 
 this resolution Athena can easily frustrate, as Zeus goes on to indicate, and 
 as she proceeds to do. This little dialogue between father and daughter in 
 V. can thus be explained if we have i. and ii. before us : otherwise it seems 
 to me singularly perplexing. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 To go in search of his father is obviously the only thing 
 now left for Telemachus to do, and he never shows him- 
 self more his father's son than when he gives both the 
 suitors and his mother the slip. As regards the structure 
 of the epic, it has been noticed again and again with what 
 skill the narrative of his search balances the narrative of 
 his father's wanderings until both streams of the tale join 
 together in the same channel and lead steadily and grandly 
 to the climax (Leaf, " Companion to the Iliad," pp. 21,22; 
 A. Lang, " Homer and the Epic," p. 247). It is not so 
 often noticed how every point of detail in the " Tele- 
 machia " helps towards three important results ; how every 
 successive touch makes us realise more and more the domi- 
 nating force of Odysseus himself, the greatness of the 
 war in which he had been engaged, and finally the perils 
 and sorrows that the other heroes, especially Agamemnon, 
 had to endure in their turn. The bare headings for the 
 Books as given by Merry in his school edition may serve 
 to indicate this : — 
 
 Book iii. : " Nestor recounts the sufferings of the Greeks 
 after the fall of Troy " ; " Nestor describes the murder 
 of Agamemnon." Book iv. : " Old memories make them 
 all weep " ; "The tale of Odysseus in disguise"; "The 
 story of the wooden horse " ; " Proteus reveals the fate 
 of the Greek heroes " (including Agamemnon). 
 
 Thus at one and the same time a broad basis, a real 
 epic basis, is laid for the poem, and yet the interest in 
 the individual hero, far from being dissipated, grows as 
 
THE WANDERINGS 141 
 
 we hear of his mighty exploits, and realise the inefface- 
 able impression he has left on Nestor, the old counsellor, 
 Menelaus, the gallant warrior, and Helen, the fairest of 
 women. The figure of Helen alone, so wonderfully is 
 it drawn, would be enough to illuminate the whole back- 
 ground of the past war. Not even in the Iliad is her 
 subtle charm and her deadly power given with more delicate 
 incisiveness than here (see above, c. x.). 
 
 The "Telemachia" closes with the suitors' plot to 
 murder the lad (iv. fin.). This is absolutely necessary for 
 our right attitude towards them : otherwise we should only 
 feel that they are no worse than a set of rough young 
 barons, insolent, doubtless, and lawless, but quite good- 
 hearted at bottom. And indeed this is just what they 
 are ; but the poet would have us realise to what this kind 
 of lawless insolence leads when there is no strong man like 
 Odysseus to keep it down, if need be with an iron hand. 
 The fact that the suitors are not made into black-hearted 
 ruffians adds greatly to the solidity of the conception, but 
 we should fail to get the full effect if the evil consequences 
 were not, in some such way as this, brought clearly before 
 us. Otherwise the whole structure would fall out of 
 balance, and we should find our sympathies in the end 
 actually swinging right away from Odysseus to his foes. 
 
 The voyage of Odysseus from the isle of Calypso to 
 the land of the Phaeacians (v. and vi.) is usually taken as 
 due to one poet, and that one the earliest of all ; but the 
 sojourn at Scheria itself, and the narrative of his adventures 
 as told by Odysseus before the Phaeacian court, fare ill at 
 the hands of the separatist critics. Certain attempts at 
 excision one can only pass over with a sigh : for instance, 
 the sacrilegious proposals to tamper with the perfect figure 
 of Nausicaa. KirchhofF's suggestion that her farewell speech 
 to Odysseus may have been a stop-gap added by a " bear- 
 beiter'"^ can only be set side by side with Pick's pronounce- 
 ' Kirch., Die Homerische Odyssee, Notes on Od., viii. 456-468, p. 214. 
 
142 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 merit that the hero's entreaty at their first meeting is made 
 more impressive if we omit his comparison of the maiden 
 princess to the tall palm-tree that grew beside Apollo's 
 temple.^ Ordinary argument is hardly in place here : but 
 there are other matters in which it may be of use. It may 
 be observed, for instance, that the scene of the games in 
 Scheria — where the unknown stranger surprises the com- 
 petitors by showing that he can outdo them all with ease, 
 once he chooses to put forth his strength — ^is almost de- 
 liberately calculated to prepare us for another trial of skill, 
 where the game is to be a game of life and death. And to 
 point the reference we have the express claim by the hero 
 himself of his prowess with the bow — the bow that is to 
 play so great a part in the second "game" (viii. 215 ; c/i. 
 xxi. 426 fF.). 
 
 Objection has been made to the way in which Odysseus' 
 narrative is introduced, and the concealment of his identity 
 until his tale begins. But examination, I think, will show 
 the subtlest skill at work throughout. Odysseus does not 
 want to be known for two very good reasons : he realises 
 that if the Phasacians discover who he is they will only be 
 the more loth to let him go ; they do, in the upshot, keep 
 him a day longer when they find it out. And he has 
 had enough of detention by loving hands. Secondly, he 
 does not want, if he can help it, to recount his sufferings ; 
 they are too near him and too keen. And he knows that 
 the Phaeacians will be as eager for the tale as we are. 
 
 Therefore when Arete asks him who he is, while he 
 professes, with deft diplomacy, to give her a frank answer, 
 he is careful at the same time to tell her nothing of his 
 identity (which is of course what she really wants to know), 
 and to hint that he cannot bear to speak of all his past 
 life. A vivid account of his adventures on the way from 
 
 ' This because the reference to Delos conflicts with Pick's theory of a 
 strictly non-Ionian origin for the poem. {"Die Horn. Od. in der urspriing- 
 lichen Sprackform" B. i., Der Homeride Kynaithos, p. 282.) 
 
THE WANDERINGS 143 
 
 Calypso's island completes the veiling of his refusal (vii. 
 241-250, 259-289^). All the grace and humour involved 
 in this courteous baffling of Arete's inconvenient inquiry 
 are missed by KirchhofF and Wilamowitz.^ These critics 
 apparently think it is quite impossible for a diplomatist 
 to say " I will tell you all you ask," and then tell you 
 nothing of the kind, and let you see that he has no intention 
 of doing so. 
 
 The concealment of his name by Odysseus is not only 
 quite adequately "motived": it serves another end: it 
 increases our excitement : we want the Phasacians to find 
 out the secret, we want to be spectators of their delight 
 and interest when they know that the unknown guest who 
 has charmed them is the famous Odysseus. (And here we 
 have a foretaste, with a difference, of what we shall feel in 
 another house when, for other reasons, he remains unknown.) 
 The sense of his fame is brought fresh before us by the 
 reiteration of his exploits in the songs of the unconscious 
 minstrel. And on the other hand the tears of the hero at 
 the memory of Troy quicken our sympathy with his longing 
 for his home, and our readiness to answer to every personal 
 touch in his narrative. All these gathered emotions pre- 
 pare us for the splendid opening of his tale, an opening 
 which can only be fully appreciated when these points are 
 felt. First the great name flashes out, clear and majestic 
 after the long delay, like a sword drawn from the scabbard 
 in some stately ceremony (ix. 19, 20): "I am Odysseus, 
 the son of Laertes, the man whom all men know, and whose 
 fame has gone out into all the world." 
 
 The full acceptance here by Odysseus of his own 
 renown is freed from all suspicion of boasting just because 
 he is speaking to friends who have already given him end- 
 less honour, as though he were " a god among men," and 
 already proclaimed the glory of the name they do not yet 
 
 ' 251-258 is universally recognised as an interpolation. 
 ' See Wil., op. cit., p. 133, Kirke und Kalypso. 
 
144 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 know to be his. Thus he is not asking for respect, but 
 justifying those who have already given it. Indirectly it is 
 a royal compliment to them, and the delicate courtesy with 
 which he prefaces the great announcement by saying that 
 he will tell them his name and his home so that they may 
 always be friends, adds one more charm to the splendour. 
 
 After the name follows the loving description of the 
 rough island that has proved her right now to be called the 
 nurse of heroes, and then, ever with the same courtesy, the 
 sigh of longing for it, " for nothing can be sweeter to a man 
 than his own home and his own kin, though he should dwell 
 amid all wealth and comfort in a foreign land" (34-36). 
 
 Thus once more, as at the opening of Book i. (but 
 without a hint of copying), we have the three notes struck : 
 the note of home, the note of adventure, and the note of 
 old renown. The thought of the renown just here whets 
 the edge of our eagerness for the coming tale : it is not the 
 adventures of any casual traveller we are to hear, but the 
 trials of a proved hero. 
 
 This tale itself (which, as I shall try to show, exhibits 
 a profoundly natural unity) has been split up by the critics 
 for utterly frivolous reasons ; e.g. part is supposed to have 
 been written originally in the third person and not the 
 first, because it is thought that Odysseus could never have 
 known what befell his comrades in the house of Circe after 
 they had left Eurylochus and before he came thither him- 
 self (x. 233-243). As though every one of them would 
 not have been sure to tell him all about it afterwards ! All 
 such difficulties vanish on inspection. Odysseus could 
 know, without being told, that the wonderful young man 
 whom he met in the enchanted glades was Hermes (x. 277) 
 — ^just as Helen could know that the woman at her side 
 was Aphrodite before the goddess openly revealed herself 
 (II. iii. 396 ff.) — simply because Odysseus, like Helen, 
 possessed some mother-wit. As Andrew Lang says, with 
 a thrust that relieves one's feelings, " Odysseus was a 
 
THE WANDERINGS 145 
 
 hero and not a commentator." The details about the 
 Lasstrygonians, the name of the fountain, &c. (x. init.), 
 were told to Odysseus by the two of his crew who escaped. 
 Considering that the poem actually says (x. 117) "the 
 other two darted off and reached the ships," it seems 
 more than usually perverse for KirchhofF to insist that 
 they were all killed. Of course KirchhoiF is ready with 
 the assertion that 1. 117 is an "interpolation" {op. cit., 
 Excurs. iii. pp. 307, 308), but this is surely nothing more 
 nor less than to destroy harmony in order to create diffi- 
 culties. And to make the plain places rough is not the 
 work of a wise critic.^ 
 
 It is worth adding that if the narrative of Odysseus 
 were thrown into the third person we should have to give 
 up all the little touches of individual confession, of self- 
 criticism and self-approval, that infuse such vitality into the 
 whole : such as " But one thing I found was too hard for me:" 
 " But I would not listen ; far better would it have been if I 
 had : " " That was the saddest sight I saw in all my wander- 
 ings over the seas." These, if transferred to the poet, would 
 be quite out of keeping with the Homeric method, for 
 Homer in his own person hardly ever allows himself a 
 
 ^ It is quite different with the tale of Eumseus about the circumstances of 
 his carrying-off in babyhood (xv. 390-484). These Eumaeus could not have 
 found out, and it is much to the point to observe this and to question whether 
 the tale (which in many other ways does not harmonise with the original 
 conception of the swineherd's character and position) is not by another hand, 
 as I, for one, believe it to be. Elsewhere the Odyssey, if it is fairly treated, 
 will be found never to break this rule of only making the narrator tell what 
 he saw or what he could easily have learnt or inferred. In Book xxiv. 
 there is an interesting little touch in the narrative given by the dead suitor 
 in the under-world. Amphimedon believes that the trial of the bow was a 
 deliberate plan concocted between Odysseus andhis wife (167, 168). This is, 
 of course, an incorrect inference, but just the kind of inference the suitors 
 might draw, and thus it gives the vivid stamp of a personal narrative to 
 the account. But the use Kirchhoff and his followers make of this happy 
 touch is the wild one of supposing that it is a trace of an original version 
 of the Odyssey ; — as though the shrewd Odysseus, who knows his wife 
 through and through, would ever have confided to a woman like Penelope 
 a plan that called for the utmost self-control, discretion, and instant resolu- 
 tion. 
 
146 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 comment on his characters or his scenes : and if they are 
 cut out altogether, the loss to the liveliness of the tale 
 would be irreparable. 
 
 There is another form of attack upon the narrative 
 which depends on the entirely uncritical belief that wher- 
 ever there is repetition and resemblance — whether of inci- 
 dent, character, or poetry — there there must be borrowing ; 
 e.g. Circe and Calypso have similar features, therefore Circe 
 is borrowed from Calypso or vice^ versa. I venture to call 
 this belief " entirely uncritical " because it makes no distinc- 
 tion between the cases where repetition weakens the poetical 
 effect and where it enhances it. Repetition is suspicious 
 where, as in the two duels in the Iliad (Books iii. and vii.), 
 the second incident is an anti-climax to the first, or where 
 (as in the two accounts of the Creation in Genesis) the two 
 stories only purport to describe the same event. But some- 
 times repetition has a real and great poetic value. Take a 
 supreme instance : the underplot of the cruelty to Glou- 
 cester playing into and answering the overplot of the cruelty 
 to Lear, till the whole world seems to rock with the horror 
 of the same sin. And it is impossible even to think of 
 Lear without thinking of the double outrage he suffers at 
 the hands of the one and the other daughter. But the line 
 of argument that KirchhofF and Wilamowitz adopt would 
 make Goneril into a mere " doublette " of Regan. 
 
 Similarly here, in its degree, the very prologue we have 
 been discussing heightens by its use of repetition our sense 
 of the seductions that Odysseus has withstood. It is not 
 one goddess only who has wooed him, and whom he has 
 refused for his wife's sake. " Nothing can be so dear as 
 home," he tells us : " Calypso, the fairest of nymphs, would 
 have kept me in her hollow caves ; Circe, the enchantress, 
 would have held me in her halls ; but they could not win the 
 heart within my breast " (ix. 29, 32). Who can be blind 
 to the loss we should sustain if either of these names were 
 removed .'' It is the repetition of the same temptation in 
 
THE WANDERINGS 147 
 
 varying forms that tries the hero's mettle. This secret of 
 the effect of repetition lies indeed so near the first principles 
 of story-telling that it is almost the first discovery made by 
 all ballads and all fairy-tales with their constant formula of 
 "The first time this, the second time this, but the third time 
 something else." From " Sister Anne, Sister Anne " in 
 " Bluebeard " to Sir Bedivere and Excalibur in the " Morte 
 d'Arthur," the device has been used and used again. 
 
 The inveterate suspicion of borrowing leads to another 
 deplorable result : the distinctive features of the two situa- 
 tions are constantly overlooked. Thus we get from Wila- 
 mowitz the astonishing opinion that Circe and Calypso have 
 practically the same character, and would look much the 
 same to an artist {pp. cit., p. 116). But Calypso is essen- 
 tially the merely lovely, kindly, simple, and very dull 
 creature who has nothing to offer the man she would 
 enchain except her beauty, her tears, and the prospect 
 of a perpetual life with her ; while Circe is the subtle 
 enchantress for all time, as full of dexterous wiles and far- 
 reaching knowledge as Odysseus himself, as quick to see 
 when her charm has failed as Calypso is slow, almost as 
 marvellously drawn in her union of irresponsible ensnaring 
 and generous impulse as Shakespeare's own Cleopatra. 
 
 There is another point connected with the Homeric use 
 of repetition which calls for discussion. This has to do 
 with the employment of general formulas — " tags," if one 
 chooses to call them so — repeated without overmuch concern 
 for the possible variation of detail on each particular occa- 
 sion. Such, for example, is the descriptive phrase, "built 
 high in a conspicuous place," used alike for the bedchamber 
 of Telemachus, the palace of Circe, and the hut of the 
 swineherd (Od. i. 426 ; x. 211, 253 ; xiv. 6). 
 
 Wilamowitz says the use of it in the first instance makes 
 sheer nonsense,^ and shows that the verse is borrowed ; but 
 this argument will not bear inspection, because it takes no 
 
 ^ Op. cit., p. 8, Das Erste Buck. 
 
148 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 account of the fact that, whether borrowed or not, the verse 
 cannot possibly have seemed sheer nonsense either to the 
 poet who introduced it or to the listeners who accepted it. 
 We must ask how they conceived the verse to be taken, 
 whatever its origin, and when we have found the answer 
 to that, we shall see there is no need for the hypothesis of 
 borrowing. The fact is, that the use of these formulas 
 closely resembles the use of masks in the Attic drama ; 
 they serve to indicate in a generalised form the outline 
 of the required situation, without troubling the listener's 
 attention by points of detail. And thus, when used 
 with discretion, they greatly aid the epic swiftness and 
 simplicity of narrative. The poet trusts to our wit to fill 
 in the outline for ourselves, if we so choose, by different 
 detail appropriate to the different cases. Thus, to take the 
 instance just quoted, the words " standing out in a con- 
 spicuous place " (lit. " in a place seen round "), when 
 we meet them in Book x., may suggest to us, if we like, 
 an open lawn all round Circe's palace, but it is our fault 
 and not the poet's if we go on to say they must imply in 
 Book i. a space without any building all round the prince's 
 bedchamber. There they need only suggest that the room 
 could be seen from all parts of the palace, which is just 
 what would be the case if it was on a top storey in the 
 corner of the court. 
 
 Similarly the phrase "they looked on one another" is 
 used in the Iliad of the Myrmidons' astonished gaze after 
 the sudden entry of Priam (II. xxiv. 484), and used again 
 in the Odyssey of the interchange of looks between the 
 maidservants when the beggar offers his services (Od. xviii. 
 320). But " stared " is the suggestion in one case, and 
 " winked " the suggestion in the other. 
 
 It is difficult to believe, but it is undoubtedly the case, 
 that no more serious arguments than what we have men- 
 tioned are brought against the unity of Odysseus' narrative, 
 with the important exception of the difficulties suggested 
 
THE WANDERINGS 149 
 
 by the Nekuia in Book xi., a matter we shall discuss 
 presently. And such arguments are allowed to obscure 
 the astonishing unity of treatment in all the adventures, 
 where the interest of an explorer's work, the sheer charm 
 of a fairy-tale, and the mystery of allegory, are united as 
 they never have been before or since. Perhaps it is our 
 very familiarity with the incidents that makes us overlook 
 this uniqueness in their handling. Good stories, even good 
 fairy-stories, are not uncommon, but the perfect mastery of 
 allegory is so rare, that, in spite of Plato's myths and the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," many excellent critics are inclined to 
 distrust allegory altogether as a possible form of art. And 
 here, from first to last, in the tales of the Lotos-eaters 
 (ix.), of Circe and the swine (x.), of the Sirens' island 
 (xii. init.), of the narrow passage between Scylla and 
 Charybdis (xii. fin.), we have themes that to the end of 
 time will stand for symbols of spiritual realities, and yet 
 which are quite enthralling in themselves taken simply as 
 narratives of physical events. Our eagerness for the escape 
 of Odysseus' comrades from the Lotus-eating land, when we 
 read the tale as children and only think of the honey-sweet 
 fruit as a curious product of the country, is every whit as 
 keen as the interest that arises when we look back on it all 
 from the standpoint of Tennyson's poem. 
 
 The secret of success lies, I suppose, in taking for the 
 symbol an event which in itself contains the same element 
 as the thing symbolised, so that a channel is opened, as it 
 were, between the shallows and the depths of the same 
 ocean, and the fancy can plunge at will, far or near, from 
 what seems known and simple into the unknown mysteries 
 that flow round it and through it. After all, at bottom, it 
 means the same weakness to eat a fruit that destroys physical 
 initiative, and to forget the heavenly kingdom in a palace 
 of indolence. And not to row the ship out of danger be- 
 cause of an enchanting melody is really to forget home 
 and kindred in the thirst for rich experience. There must 
 
I50 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 always be a difference, of course, between symbol and thing 
 symbolised ; but the very point is, that it is the sense of 
 the community through the differences that gives its fasci- 
 nation to symbolism. For perhaps the human spirit divines 
 that experience is destined to strange transformations as it 
 passes up from one stage of life to another and yet will 
 ever remain recognisably the same ; and perhaps one of the 
 spirit's greatest longings is to discern and represent to itself 
 in some fashion how this may be. 
 
 All the endless significance of the Homeric allegories is 
 suggested without one hint of sermonising, by a miraculous 
 simplicity of touch that the critic feels, but despairs of 
 describing. " They longed to stay there and eat the lotus 
 and forget their journey home," of the comrades who are 
 all but lost (ix. 96, 97). " It is hard for mortal men to 
 pluck it, but the gods can do all things," of the magic 
 herb that gave Odysseus power to resist the spell of Circe 
 (x. 305, 306). "A spirit had put the waves to rest," 
 of the strange calm that fell when the ship was nearing 
 the Sirens' island^ (xii. 169). But it is impossible even 
 to translate without either spoiling the delicate fabric 
 or weakening the vivid suggestion, or both. 
 
 It may help us to realise how unique is the Homeric 
 method here if we recall the fact that, so far as we can tell 
 from their extant works, neither Pindar, ^schylus, Sopho- 
 cles, nor Euripides show any love for allegory of this 
 peculiar kind. They all feel the charm of the old tales, 
 they all recount them in their songs, but they treat them 
 either as mere decoration, or as material for actual human 
 drama. They do not use them to give this sidelong, preg- 
 nant hint of likeness in unlikeness, of possible transfor- 
 mations in experience, of something in physical incidents 
 
 ' A remarkable instance of the way criticism can overreach itself is found 
 when Wilamowitz declares that this marvellous touch can have but scant 
 significance, and that the repetition of the lovely formula, " the wind dropped 
 and there was a dead calm," indicates clumsy borrowing from Od. v. 391 
 (pp. clt., "Kirke und Kalypso," p. ii8). 
 
THE WANDERINGS 151 
 
 that adumbrates another something difFerent from the phy- 
 sical, something in our life that means a difFerent life. So 
 far as this goes, Plato, paradoxical as it may sound, might 
 claim to be the only Homerid among them all. Homer 
 would have understood his story of the cave. But Plato 
 has become an apostle as well as a poet, and the fervour 
 of his religious teaching colours the pellucid clearness of 
 the Homeric fountain. 
 
 Further, the adventures of Odysseus show another unity 
 beside this unity of treatment, a unity perhaps even more 
 important so far as the special purpose of the Odyssey is 
 concerned, and that is the unity of the hero's character. It 
 is these adventures that prepare us for his action on his 
 return. " Odysseus in the palace of Alcinous is the same 
 man as Odysseus in the hall at Ithaca," says Professor Ker 
 (op. cit.). It is very rightly said. And it is worth while 
 analysing how we come to realise this. It is from the 
 adventures we learn that he is not only astute, he is on 
 occasion daring to the very verge of rashness. In action 
 his impulse is always to get face to face with danger. 
 It is so when he slings his sword across his shoulder 
 and strides through the haunted glens to the house of 
 Circe in defiance of Eurylochus : it is so when he beards 
 the Cyclops : it is so when he cannot help arming himself 
 to fight with Scylla. We know beforehand that he will 
 face the suitors man to man, whatever Telemachus may 
 say. Even his cunning is of the audacious kind, that will 
 stake all on one bold ruse : the man who thought of hiding 
 under the ram's belly is just the man to disguise himself as 
 a defenceless beggar and welcome the trial of his own bow. 
 We are prepared for this also, it may be added, by earlier 
 allusions : by the minstrel's song of the wooden horse, by 
 Helen's account of his daring entry into Troy disguised as 
 a beggar (iv. 242 AT.). But these, after all, are only hints, 
 and it is only in his own story that we get the full reach of 
 his courage displayed and exemplified. 
 
152 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Moreover, we now learn that he has in him that 
 " daimonic " element, which means among other things a 
 latent store of terrible fierceness, a fierceness that can leap 
 out at need and destroy like the lightning. He keeps it back, 
 but it is there : he does not hew the head of Eurylochus from 
 his shoulders in his anger at his cowardice, but he knows 
 very well he could have done it, " though Eurylochus was 
 my own near kinsman " (x. 441). We know it too, and it 
 is the knowledge of this element that gives half its power 
 to the scene where he stands naked before the suitors, with 
 the bow that only he can bend in his hand. It is the 
 knowledge of this that makes us shudder when Melan- 
 thius kicks the man he takes for a beggar, and when 
 Antinous flings an ox-bone at his head. And we feel a 
 flash of it when Odysseus seizes the old nurse by the throat 
 in his fear that she may disclose his plot. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE HOUSE OF DEATH 
 
 The climax of all the adventures is the great adventure 
 in the world of Death, and it is the climax in more ways 
 than one. It may be, as suggested above, that the poet 
 was following an old legend here, but in any case he was 
 following an instinct of the human heart. After the tale 
 of Troy and the hairbreadth escapes by land and sea, 
 after Circe and Calypso and the Lotus-eaters, the thought 
 rises — there is one more adventure this man must face, . 
 and that is the adventure of Death. And round death 
 there gather, as there should, all that was sweet and great 
 and terrible in the man's own life, and the dim past along 
 with it and the shadowy future. Everything is summed up 
 here in this mighty Book of the Nekuia, Book xi., placed, as 
 a Greek would place it, near the centre of the poem : the 
 care of Odysseus for his comrades and his crew, the intense 
 love of mother, father, wife, and child, the magic of the 
 fair women famous in story, the prowess of the stalwart 
 heroes who had been his mates at Troy, the fallen great- 
 ness of Agamemnon brooding over the tragedy of his own 
 return, the announcement of the struggle that awaits 
 Odysseus himself, and above all the mysterious prophecy 
 of what is to happen when that struggle is over and past, 
 the call out of the sea that is to come to the hero at the 
 end of his life, the wonderful call, the knowledge of which 
 makes the close of the Odyssey wide and free and splendid, 
 safe from the dread of commonplace stagnation at the end 
 of such a life. 
 
 And over everything, not obscuring the individual 
 
154 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 interest, heightening and deepening it rather, and yet lead- 
 ing us out beyond it, there broods " the sense of tears in 
 mortal things," till the words of Anticleia to her son and the 
 cry of Achilles for his father seem to speak for the whole 
 host of " brides and youths unwed and old men who had 
 suffered much, and gentle maidens with the young grief 
 in their hearts, and warriors who had died in battle with 
 their blood-stained armour on their backs." -^ 
 
 A man who had seen that could face the suitors with- 
 out fear. 
 
 The view of the spirit-world held by the poet can be 
 shown, I think, to be singularly definite and precise, once 
 we omit the scenes of Minos, Sisyphus, and Heracles in 
 the latter part of the book (xi. 565-627), as almost all 
 scholars have agreed to do (see Merry, ad loc.'). The 
 difficulties that arise from the changes in landscape and 
 cosmology are well known : e.g. the sudden introduc- 
 tion of punishment for sinners, the sudden and unex- 
 plained transition from the low shore among the willows 
 to a wide and mountainous region. In addition, I cannot 
 help thinking it highly improbable that Odysseus, who 
 was no Dante, would have described the torture of Tityos 
 to his Phaeacian hosts when Alcinous had already spoken 
 of the man in terms that might well imply he had been an 
 honoured friend^ (Od. vii. 324). 
 
 The remainder of the book shows a clearly thought- 
 out scheme, and one that seems to me in striking agreement 
 with the view presented in Iliad xxiii. and Odyssey xxiv., 
 though I am aware that quite the contrary has been held 
 to be the case. 
 
 1 xi. 37-41. It is possible, and I think likely, that these lines have got 
 shifted from their proper place at the end of the whole scene (viz. between 
 632 and 633) to their present not altogether satisfactory position. The 
 addition of the interpolation 565-627 (for which see below) would have been 
 calculated to dislocate the original sequence. 
 
 " Is it possible that this whole section (565-627) is due to a poet follow- 
 ing the form of the legend found in the Red Indian tale, where the hero 
 sees the signs of punishment and reward ? 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 155 
 
 The first point to grasp is that in all three Books it 
 is conceived that the souls of men unburied cannot pass 
 the actual gates of Hades' palace : but none the less they 
 must leave the upper world and come down to his king- 
 dom. They have lost the full life of earth, and are not 
 yet free of the House of Death, and their lot is the most 
 pitiful of all. The moment Patroclus is slain on the field 
 his spirit flies to the under-world (II. xvi. 856). But in 
 Iliad xxiii. he can say to Achilles : " Bury me, that I may 
 pass the gates of Hades. For now the dead souls keep 
 me off, they will not let me come to them across the 
 river, and I wander helplessly up and down along the 
 palace-gates"^ (II. xxiii. 71-74). 
 
 The river is no doubt the river Styx, here in Homer, 
 as so often afterwards, the great dividing line, though there 
 is as yet no Charon and no boat. But there is an asphodel 
 meadow on the hither side (Od. xi. 539 &c.), and this 
 meadow is more or less neutral ground between, the living 
 and the dead. Even the souls who have crossed the Styx 
 can recross to this meadow if they choose : and it is here, 
 no doubt, that Patroclus wanders, and here that Odysseus 
 himself, a living man, is allowed to venture, and here that 
 the unburied suitors meet Agamemnon and Achilles in 
 Odyssey xxiv. It is plain that Odysseus himself never gets 
 beyond the meadow, nor, as it would appear, ever even 
 sees the Styx, though he sees the river Cocytus that comes 
 
 i 74. i-v €ii)virv\is"A'C5osSw. I take avd here just in its primitive sense of 
 "alone," "up along," not implying inside, which would make needless 
 difficulty. 'And, never does mean " inside," it only comes often to imply it, 
 because of the context, and here the context excludes the implication and 
 confines us to the original sense. (,Cp. in English the difference between 
 " hanging about" and " running about a house.") 
 
 For other Homeric instances of ara where the translation " in " would 
 be quite unsuitable, see 
 
 II. xviii. 546. Toi U arpiipaaKov dv' iyiiovs (of men ploughing): "They 
 turned back along (or at) the furrows.'' 
 
 II. xix. 212. and. icpbdvpov reTpaniiivos (of a corpse) : "With the feet turned 
 up towards, in the direction of, the door." (And cp. the common phrases 
 i,vh, iroraiibv, dva podv.) 
 
156 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 from it (Od. x. 513 ff.). And the fact that he does not 
 penetrate into the very depths of the under-world, and never 
 beholds Persephone or Hades face to face, gives a great 
 sense of reticence and mystery to the narrative. 
 
 Now so long as the bodies are unburied or unburnt and 
 the spirits have not crossed the Styx, it is possible for them 
 to return occasionally as shades to the upper world, as 
 Patroclus does in Iliad xxiii., and as Elpenor seems to 
 threaten in Odyssey xi. 73. (See Leaf, "Iliad," vol. ii., 
 Appendix L : a treatment of the subject to which I owe 
 much.) Before burial the links of connection between the 
 dead and the living are not yet entirely sevt -ed, and thus 
 it is still possible for the shades to speak, aftfer a fashion, 
 with living men when they choose, in dreams, for instance, 
 like Patroclus, or in the limbo of the asphodel meadow, 
 like Elpenor. But, buried or unburied, after death they 
 lose the power that would enable them to act freely for 
 themselves in our world. 
 
 Patroclus and Elpenor, for instance, can only implore 
 others, in this shadowy manner, to act for them. In the 
 Iliad (xxiii. 103, 104) the spirits are said to be deprived of 
 phrenes ; in the Odyssey (x. 493-495) of fhrenes and of 
 nous. The loss of nous and phrenes means, I take it, the loss 
 of this mundane energy of brain that sustains action in 
 real waking life, the loss of what we might almost call 
 vital force. For nothing can be made of the statements 
 either in the Iliad or the Odyssey, if either is taken to 
 imply the denial of intelligence as such. Patroclus in the 
 Iliad and all the ghosts in the Odyssey have plenty of intelli- 
 gence. Monro's note to the Iliadic passage hits the point. 
 His comment on the word //^r^«a is as follows : — " ' midriff' 
 — the physical organ of life and thought, the condition of real 
 life " — that is, I conceive, the life in which a mind can, by 
 its own choice, produce changes in matter. Of course 
 an Homeric Greek would not have put it in this way, but 
 this is the kind of distinction that Homer has in view. 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 157 
 
 Intelligence may persist after death, but the power of acting 
 in the world of matter has gone. Only for Patroclus 
 and Elpenor certain channels of connection with living 
 minds remain open, while for Anticleia (whose body has 
 been burnt) a draught of warm blood is needed even to let 
 her spirit have speech with her son. Teiresias is the one 
 exception to both these laws of limitation : he has not lost 
 his power, nor been cut off from connection in this way ; 
 yet even he finds the blood an assistance (xi. 96 ; x. 493— 
 495). It is just because Elpenor is still unburied that he 
 is able, without drinking the blood, to recognise Odysseus 
 and speak to him at once ; and because he can do this, 
 Odysseus, not having been instructed in these mysteries, 
 is surprised that Anticleia cannot do it also (Od. xi. 84 fF., 
 140 fF.). 
 
 This shows, by the way, how difficult it is to tear out 
 the episode of Elpenor from the pathetic episodes of Anti- 
 cleia and Teiresias. And the episode of Elpenor ought to 
 justify itself by the sharp sense of actuality that it brings 
 with it. Suddenly, in this dim uncertain world, on the 
 verge between life and death, Odysseus meets the lad that 
 had been one of his crew not twenty-four hours before. 
 The very weakness of Elpenor's character (on which stress 
 is laid in x. 552-555) gives a keen poignancy to the 
 sudden change. Light-natured and feather-headed, he 
 stands before his captain now with all the pathos and 
 dignity of death about him. So does the poet prepare 
 us for the change from the enchanted house of Circe to 
 the solemn house of Death, and, once we grasp his drift, 
 we feel that the simplicity of his method is equal to its 
 effectiveness. 
 
 It has been complained that the visit to Teiresias is 
 useless in our Odyssey as it stands, because Teiresias does 
 not tell Odysseus how to get home and Circe does (in 
 Book xii.), and yet Circe tells Odysseus that Teiresias will 
 help him about his journey (x. 538-540) : — 
 
158 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 "He will tell you of your way and the stages of 
 your journey and your return, how you are to pass across 
 the sea." 
 
 But — omitting the possibility that these lines may have 
 slipped in by mistaken repetition from iv. 389, 390 — we 
 are justified in inferring from the general situation itself 
 that Circe does not send Odysseus to Teiresias only to 
 find out the details of his route: she thinks, no doubt, 
 that he could give help in this respect also (as he does 
 by reinforcing her caution about Thrinacia), but her main 
 object must be that he should tell Odysseus the state of 
 affairs he may expect on his return to Ithaca. She knows 
 that Teiresias is a prophet and a seer in a sense in which 
 she is not, and she sees (what the commentators do not 
 see) that it would be as well for Odysseus to learn what 
 has happened in his home during his long absence. And 
 she is quite justified by the result. It is through the inter- 
 vention of Teiresias that Odysseus learns about the presence 
 of the suitors in his house, a knowledge he could have 
 gained no other way, and a knowledge that determines his 
 action on his arrival in Ithaca — that makes him see, for in- 
 stance, the wisdom of going to the faithful swineherd's hut 
 before he risks a visit to the palace. 
 
 And through the meeting with his mother's spirit, 
 which is bound up with the appearance of Teiresias, he 
 learns not only of his wife's faithfulness, but of his father's 
 helpless longing for his return. Our own longing that 
 Odysseus should come home before it is too late — our 
 longing kindled by his longing — is thus raised to the 
 highest possible pitch. Indeed the dark background of 
 the Homeric under-world makes this desire almost un- 
 bearably poignant here. Anticleia has died in fruitless 
 yearning for her son, and now she can never clasp him to 
 her breast in the empty world of the phantoms. Heaven 
 send that he is home in time to give that comfort to the 
 old Laertes at the least ! Thus Book xi. not only prepares 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 159 
 
 us for the struggle with the suitors, and the vengeance 
 upon them : it demands for the appeasement of the desire 
 it has aroused in us the meeting between father and son in 
 Book xxiv. No poet who looked for an answering throb 
 of sympathy from his listeners could possibly write the 
 words of Anticleia, and never tell us if father and son met 
 each other again on earth. If xxiv. is " late," then the 
 whole of xi. must be " late " too. 
 
 The meeting with Anticleia leads at once to the vision 
 of the fair women of old time. His mother's spirit as it 
 floats away from Odysseus bids him mark what he sees 
 that he may tell his wife of it afterwards.^ Then, one by 
 one, the lovely figures rise before us, their long robes trail- 
 ing among the tall spires of the asphodel. The beauty of 
 the scene is manifest, but its full significance is not always 
 grasped. Its office in the first place is to open for us the 
 vistas of the past and so give us the long sweep that Epic 
 loves. And it does this partly by turning genealogy into 
 poetry, or rather, we may say, by unveiling the poetry that 
 is hidden in genealogy — hidden for us more than for the 
 Greeks, with their freedom from the burdens of snobbery 
 on the one hand and statistics on the other, and with the 
 light of their magical fancies about divine ancestors to 
 illumine the distant past. Moreover, we should remember 
 that before the dawn of history, with its records of " epochs " 
 and " periods," it could only be through genealogies, or 
 only through them in the main, that the historical thirst 
 could be satisfied, just as before the time of atlases geo- 
 graphy rested upon travellers' tales and mariners' guides 
 and the mere names of foreign places. 
 
 But here the past is not only opened by genealogy, it is 
 linked in a thousand subtle ways to the present, and to the 
 
 ^ xi. 223, 224. It takes all the sparkle out of the words if Anticleia is 
 supposed only to mean the gefteral sights in the House of Death. The one 
 thing Penelope would be sure to ask about would be the famous beauties of 
 the past, and Anticleia is woman enough to realise this. 
 
i6o HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 present that we know in the Odyssey. This Vision of Fair 
 Women could have been composed for no other place.^ 
 The first of the company is Tyro (235), the grandmother 
 of Nestor, and Chloris, his mother, follows later. Now 
 Nestor in the Odyssey, as in the Iliad, plays a far from 
 unimportant part. He has been the first to welcome the 
 son of Odysseus and send him on his way. And in the 
 Odyssey, as in the Iliad, stress is laid upon his age and all 
 the generations he had seen : "Thrice, men say, he has 
 been king through the generations of men : yea, like an 
 immortal he seems to me to look upon " (Od. iii. 245, 
 246. B. and L.). Far back then, right into the abysm of 
 time, it must have seemed to his hearers that Odysseus had 
 travelled when he told them that he had looked on the 
 face of Tyro. And to Tyro, moreover, the suitors had 
 compared Penelope in Book ii. (120) to Tyro, and to 
 Alcmene, who appears in the under-world soon after Tyro 
 (xi. 266). Chloris (281) is not only the wife of Neleus 
 and the mother of Nestor : through the beauty of her 
 daughter Pero she is brought into connection with " the 
 noble prophet" Melampus (291), and Melampus, we are to 
 learn in Book xv. (225 ff.), is the ancestor of Theoclymenus, 
 who inherits the family gift of second-sight and is destined 
 to comfort the son of Odysseus with his prophecies. Only 
 half the tale about Neleus, Pero, and Melampus is narrated 
 here (xi. 287-297). The other half is told in Book xv. 
 215 ff., and with it is mentioned the quarrel that arose be- 
 tween Neleus and Melampus, and the consequent departure 
 of Melampus to Argos. One day the great-grandson of 
 Melampus, Theoclymenus, will be fleeing for his life from 
 Argos through sandy Pylos, and he will not be able to take 
 refuge with Nestor because of this feud between their 
 families from old days. So when he finds Telemachus and 
 his ship upon the beach he will beg to be taken on board, 
 
 ^ Wilamowitz, whose theory precludes him from finding the key, says 
 that the choice of the figures appears quite accidental {op. cit., p. 149). 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH i6i 
 
 for that is his only chance of escape. Thus strangely, the 
 poet feels, can past and present be linked together. This 
 intimate connection between xi. and xv. explains the frag- 
 mentary manner, otherwise so hard to understand, in which 
 Melampus' story is alluded to in xi. It is meant to wait 
 for its completion till xv. 225-240, a passage which fits this 
 broken half exactly. And in the same place (xv. 244-247) 
 the tale of Eriphyle, just touched on in xi. (326, 327), is 
 taken up again, when we hear of her husband Amphi- 
 araus, another descendant of Melampus and another pro- 
 phet himself, who dies at Thebes because of his wife's 
 treachery. 
 
 This thought of a woman's treachery suggests a note 
 on the leading feature of this " Catalogue." The Heroines 
 are all women who, either through their children or them- 
 selves, have left their mark upon the fortunes of the world 
 for good or evil, and this fits supremely well with the spirit 
 of the Odyssey, which like the Iliad, but even more than 
 the Iliad, is instinct with the influence of women. Helen, 
 Andromache, Hecuba, Briseis, are more than matched in 
 the Odyssey by Helen, Penelope, Nausicaa, Arete, Circe, 
 Calypso, and the old nurse. It is most fitting that Odysseus, 
 whose life, at every turn, is bound up with a woman's will,^ 
 should be led into the past by the star-like faces of the 
 Heroines. And in the background, dim but ever present, 
 compared and contrasted with his own wife, there stands 
 the figure of Clytemnestra. It is on her account as well as 
 Helen's that Leda is chosen here (298), and she is given 
 the title " wife of Tyndareus " just because it is Tyndareus, 
 and not Zeus, who is the father of Clytemnestra. The 
 parentage of Helen was too well known to need even an 
 allusion ; the name of Leda would be enough. Alcmene 
 (266) is chosen not only because of the comparison with 
 Penelope (ii. 120) but also because she is the mother of 
 
 ' Note the words used by Odysseus himself of " women's counsels " in 
 this very book, xi. 437-439- 
 
 L 
 
1 62 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Heracles, the mighty bowman, one of the only two men with 
 whom Odysseus would not have dared to match himself in 
 archery (viii. 224). (It is the bow of the other, Eurytus, 
 that he has at home.) Epicaste (271), the wife and mother 
 of CEdipus, is the type of all those women through whom, 
 though not by whose desire, disaster comes upon themselves 
 and upon their kin, and that again suggests from another 
 point of view the situation and the danger of Penelope. And 
 Iphimedeia (305) is the mother of the giants who defy the 
 gods. And here we are meant to think, by likeness and by 
 contrast, of another giant race, as arrogant, but not as fair, 
 the race of the Cyclops. One of these also, Polyphemus, 
 Odysseus' ancient foe, claimed to be sprung from Poseidon. 
 On this point it should not be overlooked that, after Zeus, 
 the only god who is accepted in this company for the divine 
 father of heroes is just the stormy god of the sea, so long 
 the enemy of Odysseus, but destined, as he has just learnt, 
 to be his friend at death (xi. 1 21-136). It is almost as 
 though the poet would have us feel that it is out of the 
 embrace of the waters, terrible at once and beautiful, that 
 the strongest races spring. And indeed he almost says it 
 in so many words at the very outset, in the stately farewell 
 speech of Poseidon to the bride whom he has seized 
 (248-252) : — 
 
 " Rejoice, O woman ! in our love, and as the year 
 comes round thou shalt bring forth glorious sons : for the 
 bed of an Immortal is not barren. Cherish them, and 
 nurse them, and bring them up to manhood. And now go 
 home and hold thy peace and do not speak of it. But, 
 behold, I am Poseidon, the shaker of the earth." Thus 
 the great name is made to ring out with a kind of splendour 
 that lifts the story up and away out of the region of 
 amours into the region of mysteries.^ 
 
 The peculiar method by which the general effect is 
 gained in this Vision of the Women should be compared 
 ' For some further points of detail, see Appendix D. 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 163 
 
 with the handling of the Games in Iliad xxiii. (see chap. viii.). 
 In each case a profound and subtle connection with a larger 
 whole is attained through the touch of the associations 
 aroused in us, without one direct word on the poet's part, 
 by name recalling name, incident incident, and character 
 character. 
 
 After this scene, and almost as though deliberately to 
 mark it, and let us brood on it a little while, on it and on 
 the divine human tenderness of Anticleia that has just pre- 
 ceded it, the poet makes the one and the only break in the 
 long narrative of Odysseus. The hero pauses, and we 
 pause too, and feel the dead silence throughout the 
 shadowy halls, as though we too were spellbound with the 
 listeners who sit, motionless and awestruck, round the man 
 that has been with Death, until Arete breaks the tension by 
 her gracious words. Nothing could well do more to mark 
 and heighten the effect of mystery than this pause. And it 
 is done in the true epic manner : with no obtrusion of the 
 personal feelings of the poet, no comment even, only a 
 quiet statement that the listeners could not speak. Then, 
 through the courteous dialogue that follows, we move 
 from these phantoms of the far-distant past to the stately 
 figures that come nearer our immediate theme, the kingly 
 comrades with whom Odysseus fought side, by side at Troy. 
 The appearance of Agamemnon is the occasion for a full 
 development of the Clytemnestra tale. This is given in 
 such a way as to bring out to the full the horror of the 
 final murder ; the earlier accounts have all dwelt on the 
 causes that led to it, but Agamemnon himself lingers with 
 a fascinated memory over the details of that pitiful slaughter 
 in the great hall amid the remnants of the feast. And this 
 detailed description ought to flash into our minds later on, 
 when we stand in another hall after another feast to watch 
 another struggle for life and death, but this time one in 
 which the parts are reversed and the right cause triumphs 
 against the odds. It certainly flashes into the mind of 
 
1 64 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Odysseus when he finds himself alone on the shore at 
 Ithaca, with only his wits and the counsel of the gods 
 to help him (xiii. 383). Agamemnon himself draws 
 the parallel and the contrast between Clytemnestra and 
 Penelope, though he little knows how closely his words 
 happen to fit the actual state of the case — an uncon- 
 sciousness that increases their effect. But in these very 
 words there is another element, an element which adds im- 
 mensely to their life-likeness, but which only the greatest 
 skill could have introduced here without blurring the 
 tragic impression. For it is nothing more nor less than 
 a comic element. The fussy changeable temperament of 
 Agamemnon, always in extremes of confidence or depres- 
 sion, the nature we learnt to know so well in the Iliad, has 
 set its stamp here also. Clytemnestra's treachery has 
 darkened the world of women to him ; no woman is to be 
 trusted any more ; and yet the impression of the faithful 
 Penelope, whom he saw long ago as a young wife with her 
 baby at her breast, is none the less ineffaceable. He has 
 become the convinced woman-hater who yet cannot forget 
 the good women he has known, and a smile is due to the 
 utter and most natural confusion of his consequent advice 
 to Odysseus : — 
 
 " Never be gentle to any woman, nor tell all that is in 
 your heart even to your wife ; there is no faith in woman- 
 kind. But your wife is wise and faithful ! " (xi. 441- 
 
 445)- 
 
 After Agamemnon appears Achilles, with Patroclus and 
 Antilochus at his side. The memories of our Iliad are 
 necessary for this passage. The three friends have met 
 together at last ; the two who were all in all to each other, 
 and the third who brought to the one the news of the 
 other's death. And Antilochus, we must not forget, is 
 Nestor's son, the youngest comer into the world of shadows 
 from that long glorious line that Poseidon begat when he 
 took Tyro for his bride. And it was for Antilochus that we 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 165 
 
 saw his living brother weep, side by side with Telemachus 
 in the home of Menelaus (Od. iv. 186-188). The long- 
 distant past and the present, the living and the dead, they are 
 linked together here. The love of family and friends — that, 
 after all, is the never-failing note of the Nekuia. It is for 
 tidings of his son that Agamemnon asks : it is the news 
 of his son's renown that alone can comfort Achilles : it is 
 the thought of his father's loneliness that adds the last pang 
 to his grief. This is not only to strike the deepest chord 
 in the Odyssey, it is not only to be in harmony with the 
 strongest yearnings of Anticleia, Laertes, Odysseus himself, 
 in harmony with the far echoes roused by the music of the 
 Heroines, it serves to make the whole world of the shades 
 more terrible and yet more peaceful, more dreadful in its 
 separation from the living, and yet brought back near to us 
 by the love that abides there. " Yea, though they may say 
 the dead forget their dead, yet even in the grave I will 
 remember my friend" (II. xxii. 389, 390). 
 
 It is only the words of the Iliad that are fit comment 
 on the Odyssey. 
 
 The loss of weight to the Odyssey if this Book were 
 removed can hardly be over-estimated. From some aspects, 
 indeed, it might be called the most epic of all the Odyssean 
 books. For the typical epic always tends to express a 
 complete view of the universe and man's place therein : 
 the epic impulse is not really satisfied until it has set the 
 pageant of man's history in relation to what was before his 
 birth and what will be after his death.^ So much is this 
 the case that the great epics, widely as they may diiFer in 
 other respects, have constantly agreed in bearing a philo- 
 sophical stamp. The poem of Lucretius may here be 
 classed with the " .S)neid," with " Paradise Lost," with the 
 " Divine Comedy." 
 
 The view of the universe put forward in the eleventh 
 
 ' I owe my appreciation of this point to Mr. Roger Fry's lectures on 
 " The Language of Art." 
 
1 66 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Odyssey is very terrible. Perhaps, indeed, that is the first 
 and the most lasting of the many impressions it makes on 
 us. Even the sweetness of the love with which it is 
 charged cannot avail to annul this. We cannot read 
 without a shudder the words of Achilles, reticent, stern, 
 unforgettable, heavy with the empty horror of his stifled 
 existence. In certain moods we even ask how any man 
 could have endured the conception of a life that must end 
 in this, how any poet could have chosen, for a background 
 to his tale of love and action, a place so silent and so> fear- 
 ful. To ask these questions leads us, I think, to realise in 
 some measure the force of the belief and the impulse that 
 drove the witer forward. In later Greek literature that 
 peculiar belief tends to pass away. Either the expectation 
 of immortality fades out altogether, or it begins to take a 
 glory upon itself. Other ideas come to the fore, the ideas 
 of punishment and reward, the ideas of escape into a life 
 more real than this. But for the poet of the Odyssey (and 
 as I believe for the poet of the Iliad also) thejdead, lisf^-UD 
 for ever in a life which is no life. The agony a soul would 
 feel that was full of love and exulted in action, if, while 
 retaining consciousness, it was debarred from all action and 
 all knowledge of the beloved living, this it is that gives the 
 depth of pain to Achilles' cry (Od. xi.), to Patroclus' last 
 farewell (11. xxiii.). A conception so imaginative, so 
 austere, and so pathetic, it is hard to believe was not also in 
 great measure individual. Of course the creed must have 
 been drawn largely from current beliefs, though sometimes 
 it would appear to be designedly opposed to them;^ but 
 the precision of the system imagined, the passion of the 
 emotion, do strongly suggest the work of one heart and 
 mind. It is a mind that has brooded much and long over 
 death and life and popular wisdom, over ghosts and 
 
 '■ E.g.^ in the li^-wza/ of forgetfulness after death (II. xxii. 389, 390), in the 
 doctrine that only the unburied dead can haunt the living (II. xxiii. 75, 76 ; 
 Od. xi. 71, 72). 
 
THE HOUSE OF DEATH 167 
 
 dreams and visions, over the terrifying phenomena of 
 dissolution and the apparent utter loss of power that it 
 brings. It is a heart that cannot conceive the cessation of 
 love, or the extinguishing of the desire for action. Out of 
 all this comes a structure almost as definite as Dante's, and 
 instinct with a feeling almost as intense. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 
 
 In Book xi. the emotion and excitement of the first half 
 of the Odyssey reach their height. The waves of feeling 
 that have been gathering all through the earlier Books 
 break with a solemn thunder there. And then by degrees 
 the surges die away. In xii., as it were, the force of the 
 breaker spends itself, completes itself, and is ended. We 
 are brought back gradually to a calmer mood, and in a 
 sense to the point from which we started. For the tale 
 of Odysseus ends as it began, with his sojourn on Calypso's 
 island and his final escape (xii. fin. ; vii. 241 fF.). 
 
 The subsidence of the emotion, the return to the 
 original starting-point, is effected with masterly skill : 
 xii. is graver in tone than ix., and yet similar ; the adven- 
 tures are more mysterious, more tragic than any of the 
 early enterprises, and yet they are akin. The Sirens' island 
 contains a fuller development of the theme that underlies 
 the tale of the Lotus-eaters : the seizure of the crew by 
 the monstrous Scylla recalls the perils of the Cyclops' 
 cave, but outdoes them in horror. In the end the 
 warning of Teiresias is sadly justified. The first part 
 of his oracle has a gloomy fulfilment : the comrades of 
 Odysseus are lost through their own weakness. But 
 still when all is done we have learnt nothing more griev- 
 ous about the present fate of Odysseus himself than 
 we knew before. We understand now how it is that 
 in spite of all his efforts his comrades have been lost : 
 but when we met him first he was all alone. We have 
 been excited, touched, awed. But we come back to peace, 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 169 
 
 and indeed to more, to comfort and to hope. For after 
 all he has reached the friendly land of the Phaeacians, and 
 to-morrow he is to be taken home. There, it is true, he 
 must begin another struggle, and the rest of Teiresias' 
 prophecy is ringing in his ears. But the battle will be 
 fought at home in his own land, and what triumph may 
 we not hope for from the man who has been among the 
 dead .'' 
 
 Thus we pass to the opening of the next great division 
 in the poem, the tale of the Return itself, and the vengeance 
 it involved. Book xiii. is essentially a Book that marks a 
 fresh beginning, for everything in it is calculated to arouse, 
 and nothing to satisfy, our interest. 
 
 One of the most amazing proposals about the supposed 
 original Odyssey is to be found in KirchhofF's idea ^ that, 
 while it contained Teiresias' prophecy of trouble for 
 Odysseus at home, it ended simply with the hero being 
 laid down asleep by the Phaeacians on the shore of Ithaca. 
 The prophecy, Kirchhoff remarks serenely, need not dis- 
 turb us, because Teiresias has also added that Odysseus 
 will triumph in the end. On this principle, we might 
 retort, there would be no need to disturb ourselves by 
 reading any of the poem at all. 
 
 As a matter of fact the sleep, with his enemies so near, 
 would seem almost too dangerous if it were not for the 
 immediate appearance of Athena and her counsel that 
 Odysseus should go forthwith to the faithful swineherd's 
 hut, and there await Telemachus, in order to make their 
 plans for the coming vengeance (xiii. 221 fF.). Thus the 
 book is essentially a book of pause and transition, while the 
 new forces are gathering strength for another and a final 
 climax. The comparative quiet of its movement, combined 
 with the underlying excitement — no startling action, but all 
 the preparations for one — ought to be compared with the 
 closely similar spirit and structure of Book i. And indeed 
 
 1 Op. cit., p. 237, Notes to Od. xiii. 184. 
 
lyo HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the whole drift of this and the remaining Books — xiii. to 
 xxiv. — the whole progress of the emotion, its rise and its 
 fall, ought to be compared with the earlier half (i. to xii.). 
 The growth up to a climax and the transition from climax 
 to peace, which we noticed there, both are repeated here 
 in a greatly heightened form. And this correspondence 
 of rhythm and balance throughout, even though it may 
 not be perceived at first by the intellect, is felt by the 
 emotions, and helps to give the coherence of one symphonic 
 movement to the whole poem. 
 
 Here, from Book xiii. and onwards, step by step, the 
 action quickens, the interest grows, the characters expand, 
 until just before the end there is a stupendous crash, and 
 a mighty victory (Book xxii.). And then the force that 
 showed itself in the struggle and won the victory completes 
 its work and brings itself to rest in the calmer movement 
 of xxiii. and xxiv. 
 
 And, as in Books i. to v., so here from xiii. to xv., it 
 is Athena who bestirs herself to frame for father and son 
 a line of action that will bring them into touch with one 
 another. It is she who rouses Telemachus to return from 
 Sparta (xv. init.) ; and once more we must repeat that her 
 significance cannot be understood here if we think of her 
 only as an external being, any more than it could be under- 
 stood in Iliad i. It is because KirchhofF and Wilamowitz 
 insist on limiting her in this way that they miss all the subtle 
 characterisation of the passage where Telemachus resolves 
 to return. I have already tried to show that there is 
 nothing unnatural in his lingering at Sparta in itself, but 
 it is here that we may realise what he feels when his 
 conscience tells him that, however natural it may be, it 
 is none the less a mistake. For, to repeat it once again, 
 the words of Athena may represent the ideas that come 
 into a man's own mind. The specially divine element is 
 to be found in the suddenness and appropriateness of the 
 leading thought : it flashes into the lad's mind, " like an 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 171 
 
 inspiration," as we might say, that he must return at once, 
 but the way the idea comes is all coloured by his temper 
 at the moment. He has been lying awake thinking cease- 
 lessly of his father, and now the whispers of Athena give 
 to the life the sudden sense of what he ought to do, mixed 
 with the reproaches of conscience and the exaggerated fears 
 that would surge through the brain in such a sleepless 
 night. Has he done more harm than good by coming ? 
 (xv. 10-12). Perhaps his mother has taken the fatal step, 
 has married already and ceased to care even for her son 
 (15-23): he must look to himself now, unless perhaps 
 some trusted woman-servant can help him — here Eurycleia 
 floats before his brain (24-27). Is not this precisely 
 what we might have guessed Telemachus would feel sooner 
 or later under the circumstances ? But KirchhofF and 
 Wilamowitz only ask anxiously why Athena should tell 
 such lies.^ That Telemachus should kick his bedfellow 
 to awaken him — Peisistratus has been sleeping with aggra- 
 vating soundness all the time — that he should imagine for 
 a moment they could start that very minute, and then 
 that he should be quieted by his comrade's very sensible 
 advice to wait till the morning, when he may take his 
 departure in proper form — all this is in the same manner, 
 combining keen humour with unfailing dignity. 
 
 The fact that Telemachus is more than a little uneasy 
 about the length of time he has spent (to no particular 
 account) in the home of Helen is one reason why he dis- 
 likes so much being catechised by his mother about his 
 journey (xvii. 40 ff.). The critics say it is natural she 
 should ask : so it is, but they omit to see it is also natural 
 that he should not care to answer. He would have no 
 reply (for he has not his father's ready tongue), if his 
 mother asked him, as she would be sure to do, why he 
 had stayed so long. So he will not speak at all until 
 compelled by the injured tone Penelope adopts (xvii. 
 ^ Wilamowitz, op. cit, p. 93, Televiachie und Odyssee. 
 
172 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 lOO ff.). The scene has all the delicate mockery of a 
 Jane Austen, combined with an epic massiveness. Then 
 he gives her a singularly dry account, discreetly avoiding 
 all mention of dates, and ending with the designedly vague 
 statement, "When I had finished this I came away" 
 (148). 
 
 From the middle of xvii. to the end of xxi. we are 
 taken up with the long endurance of Odysseus in his own 
 house, unknown, outraged, and in hourly peril, near to all 
 he loves, yet unable to claim his own, watching his chance 
 for the stroke that will decide the day. But, long as the 
 passage is, we do not feel it either monotonous or discursive. 
 And this is largely because of the skilful way in which new 
 incidents that diversify are blended with a repetition and a 
 reiteration that unites and consolidates. (See above, p. 146.) 
 The eifect of the repetition is particularly interesting and 
 deserves further analysis here, especially in view of the 
 objections the critics raise. It is in part achieved by the 
 use of what are almost refrains, e.g. the constant recurrence 
 of the wish, " If Odysseus were to come home ! " or the 
 boast, " He will never come home now." But incidents as 
 well as words are repeated. Not only do the omens and 
 warnings grow incessant : three several times the suitors 
 hurl missiles at the unknown king, twice he is insulted by 
 his own maid-servants, twice jeered at by Melanthus, twice 
 discovered against his will and before it is safe that he 
 should be known. And always the repetition far from 
 weakening the effect greatly heightens it. Each fresh out- 
 rage increases our wonder how long the patience of Odysseus 
 is to hold out. A single insult might have been passed 
 over, but the perpetual succession is unendurable. Our 
 amazement at the hero's unshakable self-control grows 
 and deepens, and with it our sense that the suitors are 
 filling up the measure of their iniquities. Antinous (xvii. 
 460 ff.), Eurymachus (xviii. 389 ff.), Ctesippus (xx. 288 
 ff.), all have gone too far now even to hope for mercy. 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 173 
 
 That in each case some even of the riotous company should 
 protest emphasises the insolence of the deeds. Similarly 
 with the wanton maid-servants ; their execution at the end 
 would seem impossibly ferocious to us (and we may hope, 
 would have seemed so even to the listeners of that day), if 
 it were not for the reiterated taunts of Melantho to the old 
 defenceless beggar.^ 
 
 In the thrilling scene of xix. 335 fF., when Eurycleia 
 recognises Odysseus by the touch of the scar on his leg, 
 half the excitement of the situation is lost if we do not 
 realise that public discovery means death to her master. 
 The hall is full of the disloyal maids who would go out 
 and tell the suitors forthwith. And the nurse's intuition is 
 almost too quick even for Odysseus' iron grip : another 
 moment, and, if his hand had not been at her throat, every- 
 thing would have been known. For the same reason 
 Odysseus stops with a stern command Eurycleia's attempt 
 to dilate on the wrong-doings of the handmaids. Suspicion 
 would be aroused at once if they saw the old nurse in 
 earnest consultation with the beggar. 
 
 In fact Odysseus is only just in time to retrieve the slip 
 he had made when he had asked for his old nurse to attend 
 on him, forgetting her swift penetration. He has no sooner 
 made the request than he realises his mistake, but it is too 
 late to draw back, and he can only swing round from the 
 firelight and hope that the darkness will prevent her seeing 
 the scar. Thus a breathless sense of danger mingles, or 
 ought to mingle, with our throb of sympathy in Eurycleia's 
 joy. That Penelope should not notice anything is exactly 
 in keeping with her character. Penetration was never her 
 strong point. Odysseus is in a beggar's garb, and she is 
 always greatly influenced, as he remembers, by a person's 
 
 '■ The words "j/e^ a second time " concerning Melantho's second insult 
 (xix. 65), the wish of Athena that Odysseus should bear still more (xviii. 347, 
 348), the prophecy of the goatherd that many a stool would be flung at 
 Odysseus (xvii. 231, 232), are further indications that the poet was quite 
 aware what he was doing when he used repetition. 
 
174 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 clothes (xix. 218 fF. ; xxiii. 115, 116): just now, moreover, 
 she has gone ofF into a pensive dream. 
 
 Not a Aaw, one would have thought, could have been 
 found by the most captious critic in this scene from first to 
 last. But instead of saying grace for the meat that is set 
 before us here, Wilamowitz proposes to destroy it by 
 making the discovery of the scar an intentional prelude 
 designed by Odysseus for the revelation of his identity.^ 
 
 The same consciousness of danger in premature discovery 
 increases the pathos of the scene with Argus. Odysseus 
 dare not go up and pat him while Eumaeus is there, for fear 
 that the swineherd should see it all and say, "Why, the dog 
 knows you ! " It is, once more, the sense of danger in dis- 
 covery, and the knowledge that he has been twice discovered 
 already, that makes the dream of Odysseus in xx. (93 ff.) 
 startle and thrill us as it does. He has lain down to sleep 
 in the porch, the night before the final trial ; restless, even 
 he, with the knowledge of his perils. And then, in the 
 early dawn, while he is near waking, the sound of his wife's 
 weeping comes to him from her upper chamber and mingles 
 with his dreams. He springs up, half in joy, half in fear. 
 Wilamowitz recognises the beauty of the scene : how is it 
 he can say it is lost in our Odyssey, and has no connection 
 with what precedes ? ^ 
 
 We come now to the struggle in the hall (Books xxi., 
 xxii.). Here the total effect will be found, I believe, to 
 depend largely on what has gone before, to such an extent in- 
 deed that in considering the question of authorship we are 
 compelled to choose between two alternatives. Either the 
 poet who wrote this scene wrote it with the bulk of the pre- 
 ceding cantos before him — and if so, it seems unnecessary 
 to suppose him a different man — or else the later authors 
 managed, without touching it, to improve it vastly in every 
 point by the mere addition of their prefaces. 
 
 It is our previous knowledge of Odysseus, as I have 
 ' Op. «'/., Odysseus vor Penelope, pp. 59, 65. 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 175 
 
 tried to show above, that gives half its power to the great 
 scene when he reveals himself. But we have also, and we 
 need to have, a wider knowledge than this. We know the 
 forces on which he can count and the forces arrayed against 
 him. Our intimate acquaintance with Telemachus, Eumseus, 
 and the neatherd Philoetius assures us that his backers, 
 though few, are of a mettle to give him good support. We 
 know the suitors also both in their power and their weak- 
 ness. We know their influence in the island, and how there 
 is only one man left. Mentor, to stand by the right cause. 
 We know the situation in the household : there is one 
 woman, and one alone, on whom we can really rely, the old 
 nurse Eurycleia : the maids are either treacherous or weak, 
 and Penelope is the last person to look to for help in action. 
 (Fortunately she is out of the way, sunk in a magic sleep 
 upstairs.) Finally, the very length and mass of the preced- 
 ing narrative enables us to feel that we are acquainted with 
 all the powers that could be called in to aid one side or the 
 other. So in a flash, as it were, we can estimate their 
 relative strength when the last struggle begins. This is 
 more important than may appear at first sight. For it is 
 just this underlying knowledge, none the less potent for 
 being half unconscious, that sharpens the excitement with 
 which we watch every step of the fight. Instinctively 
 and instantaneously we calculate, and to a nicety, the worth 
 of each momentary gain as the advantage swings from one 
 side to the other. 
 
 But to grasp the tactics of the fighting we must also 
 have a plan of the hall in mind. Nor does the poet fail us 
 here : the preceding Books have told us enough to make us 
 understand all we need about the structure of the building, 
 once we realise two cardinal points : 
 
 (i) The women's quarters are in the rear of the great 
 hall, communicating with it by a doorway which can be 
 shut on the inner side (the side of the women). In the 
 previous Books the poet has indicated this position very 
 
176 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 clearly, e.g. xvii. 505 iF., in connection with xvii. 339, 466. 
 (See the note below, and Jebb's " Homer," note i., p. 180.) 
 (2) The wooden threshold (xvii. 339) and the great 
 stone threshold (xvii. 30) are both at the great doorway- 
 opposite the women's quarters — the doorway, that is, 
 between the great hall and the courtyard. The wooden 
 threshold is to be regarded as part of the fittings of this 
 stone threshold, superposed upon it much in the fashion of 
 a carpet.^ (See the accompanying map.) 
 
 Women's Hall 
 : C ; 
 
 Great O 
 
 HaU 
 
 D 
 
 X E 
 
 F? 
 
 Porch 
 
 Courtyard 
 
 F? 
 
 Gate 
 
 A. A. Great Threshold. It is of 
 
 stone with wooden fittings, 
 and thus can be referred to 
 either as the Aatvos ovSds or 
 the /ueAivos oijSos. 
 
 B. Great Doorway. 
 
 C. Doorway into the Women's 
 Hall. 
 
 D. D. Line of Axes. 
 
 E. Seat of Odysseus. 
 
 F?, F?. Raised Postern (o/ao-o- 
 Ovpri), either in the same wall 
 as the Great Doorway or in 
 the wall at right angles to it. 
 
 1 Students who are familiar with Professor J. H. Myres' article "On the 
 Plan of the Homeric Home" (J'. H. S., xx. 1900), will observe that I agree 
 with one half of his theory and not with the other. I welcome the recog- 
 nition that both stone and wooden threshold belong to the same doorway, 
 but Professor Myres seems to me to cause entirely needless difficulty by plac- 
 ing the women's hall in front of and opposite to the men's hall, right across 
 the courtyard. Jebb's first argument for the position of the women's hall 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 177 
 
 With these points in mind we can follow Odysseus' 
 plan. It is essential for him to prevent a rescue being led by 
 the islanders. As things are, he may just manage to get 
 the better of the suitors, but the task would be hopeless 
 if the latter were reinforced. And reinforced they would be 
 if their need were discovered. Odysseus knows this, for he 
 has learnt the situation from his son (xvi. 95 ff., 235 ff.). 
 Therefore no appeal for help, if he can prevent it, must 
 reach the town. Thus, before the fight begins, he sees to 
 it that the maids, good and bad alike, are locked into their 
 quarters behind the hall (xxi. 235-239). To reach the city 
 the treacherous maids would have to rush through the 
 fighting men,^ face to face with Odysseus himself, having 
 first beaten down the resistance of Eurycleia and the honest 
 women. The shutting of the door at this inner end of the 
 hall serves another purpose also : it is there to block the 
 suitors if they should turn to fly.^ 
 
 At the other end of the hall, close to the open doorway 
 and the great threshold, Odysseus is posted by Telemachus 
 on his arrival (xx. 257-259). He takes this position, 
 
 appears to me quite untouched by Professor Myres, and quite conclusive. 
 Odysseus when invited to leave his first place near the great doorway in 
 order to visit Penelope in the women's hall, replies that he is afraid of the 
 throng of riotous suitors (xvii. 564). One of them had attacked him before 
 when he was going up the hall (or down the hall in the Homeric phrase), 
 i.e. towards the inner end. But on Professor Myres' theory, Odysseus " would 
 only have had to turn his back upon the suitors and leave the hall " (Jebb, 
 "Homer," p. 182). 
 
 ' That is, assuming that there was no second door to the women's hall, 
 leading into the corridor. I think this assumption justified, because Odysseus 
 would have known of such a door if it had existed, and therefore would 
 not have made the answer he did to EumiEus (xvii. 564 ff.) about the risk of 
 passing the suitors op the way to Penelope's room. (See the preceding note.) 
 But even if there was such a door, the women, in order to get out of the 
 palace, would have to dash through the porch, and so risk an encounter 
 with Odysseus at the great doorway, a risk which even Melanthius does not 
 dare to run. 
 
 * Myres (/. H. S., vol. cit.) suggests that they might break down the 
 door, but as it is closed on the inner side (see xxii. 394), this would take a 
 considerable time, and meanwhile their enemies would spear them in the 
 back. 
 
 M 
 
178 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 ostensibly because it is a lowly place — the beggar's seat was 
 usually at the threshold — but really because it suits his plan 
 for the coming battle. He can spring at once to the door- 
 way after he has shot his arrow through the long line of the 
 axes, and from thence both guard the egress and take his 
 aim at every man. He does not try to have the great doors 
 closed at his back, partly because the attempt would arouse 
 suspicion, partly because he may need turning-room for 
 himself and his supporters in the fight.^ But just before the 
 critical moment he sends the neatherd Philoetius to make the 
 outer gate of the courtyard fast (xxi. 240-241, 388-392). 
 It is only when we understand the relation between the 
 suitors and the islanders that we can fully appreciate the 
 reason for this. Odysseus can hardly do it simply in order to 
 block the path of the suitors, because if once they got past 
 him at the doorway of the hall and out into the courtyard, it 
 would be easy enough for them to open the outer gate. (It 
 opens, of course, from the inner side.) The real reason is 
 to prevent any casual passer-by from entering the court- 
 yard and so hearing the uproar, discovering the truth, and 
 giving the alarm to the sympathisers in Ithaca. 
 
 Meanwhile Telemachus, in order to avoid suspicion, 
 remains at his place of honour near the centre of the hall ^ 
 
 ' Jebb (y. H. S., vii.) thinks that the doors are shut, because of xxii. 258, 
 which speaks of a spear from the suitors striking on the door. But it might 
 well have struck the open door aslant, aimed, as it is, with an inaccurate 
 aim, at men standing in the doorway. 
 
 ''■ The last two lines of xxi., as they stand with the ordinary reading, are 
 opposed to this, for they imply that Telemachus came to his father's side 
 just before the latter sprang to the threshold (xxi. 433, 434) — 
 
 i,)ufl Si XP"" i'^^l" /SdXev fyx"> ^7X' ^' ^p' "iToC 
 •jrdp dp6vQV ia-T-^iKSL KeKopvdfi^vos aXdoTTL xaXfy- 
 
 If K(Kopv6i>.ivos is right, the lines must be understood to mean : " Telemachus 
 took his spear in his hand and stood beside his father's chair, his bronze 
 helmet flashing on his head." But (l) Telemachus is «(?^ wearing a helmet (see 
 xxii. III). (2) Later on he has to run to reach his father (xxii. 99). (3) The 
 translation has to neglect entirely the pluperfect sense of eVriJ/cei, " Aa^been 
 standing." I make no doubt that the proposed correction to KCKopvefi^yov (sc. 
 f7Xos) is right, and that the lines mean : " Telemachus took his spear in his 
 hand ; it had been resting against his chair, the bronze point sparkling in the 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 179 
 
 (xxi. fin.), but he puts on his sword and takes his spear in 
 his hand, ready to dash to his father's side at the right 
 moment, as he does when the suitors recover from their 
 first paralysis of alarm (xxii. 91 ff.). 
 
 As for Eumasus and the neatherd, I think we are meant 
 to gather that they remain close to the great doorway, one 
 on each side of Odysseus, from the moment he gets the bow 
 into his hands. The neatherd would hardly go farther up 
 the hall than he could help when he returns from closing 
 the courtyard-gate : it would be rash in view of the critical 
 situation, and unbecoming on his part as a humble man- 
 servant. Eumaeus has brought the bow down the hall, as 
 we say — or up the hall, as the Greeks say (xxi. 378) — given 
 it to his master, and taken his stand beside him (379). It 
 is not said that he leaves him again. It is true he calls out 
 Eurycleia from the women's quarters at the inner end (380) 
 in order to bid her shut the women's door, but, as this door 
 is still open, she could easily hear him calling ^ from the 
 lower end of the hall, and come to him there for the message. 
 No doubt Eumaeus gives her the order itself in a low voice 
 (381-385); and she, showing her usual discretion, does his 
 bidding without a word (386, 387; cp. her similar action, 
 xix. 29, 30). 
 
 When the fight itself begins Eumaeus, we are expressly 
 told, is posted beside a certain small doorway of which we 
 have not yet heard (xxii. 126-130). There has been much 
 discussion about its position, but it appears to me that the 
 simplest translation of the Greek gives the essential features 
 with sufficient clearness. The name, "raised-door" (opa-oQvpn) 
 suggests that it is a postern in the wall, raised above the 
 
 light." This meaning of KeKopvBiiivov, " tippedl^ can be paralleled by Iliad 
 xi. 43. But as this use is rare, it would be natural for a scribe who was not 
 thinking of the remoter context to corrupt it into KeKopvOfi^vos, "helmeted," 
 taking it as referring to Telemachus. 
 
 * I think too we are meant to conceive the suitors as quieter than usual, 
 half-amused as they are at the airs of Telemachus, half-alarmed at the sight 
 of the bow in the beggar's hands. 
 
i8o HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 level of the floor; but the important point to note is 
 that it is quite close to the great doorway into the court 
 (xxii. 136, 137), at the extreme limit of the threshold 
 (127). (I follow most scholars in presuming that^ the 
 great threshold extends some way within the hall on either 
 side of the actual door-space.) The purpose^ that this 
 postern served would be clear to every Homeric listener, 
 and ought to be clear to us, for we have a similar con- 
 trivance nowadays in most massive gates, as many College 
 courts show. It is to allow individuals to pass singly in 
 and out of the building after the great doors have been 
 shut (for safety or at night) without the trouble and risk 
 of opening them.^ Whether the postern is actually in 
 the same wall as the great doorway or in the long wall 
 at right angles to it is not clear,^ but in any case it must 
 be in the adjacent corner, as a glance at the plan will 
 show. This corner position explains the statement, " there 
 was only one way up to it" (130). Thus one man, if 
 he were valiant, could hold it against a superior force, as 
 Melanthius is not slow to perceive^ (138), more particu- 
 larly as the attacking party would run the risk in flank 
 and rear of the spears from Odysseus, Telemachus, and 
 Philoetius. Even if the passage were forced the others 
 could swing round through the great doorway and cut 
 them down before they reached the court. "The door 
 into the courtyard is dreadfully close" (136, 137). 
 
 I have spent much time on this small matter of the 
 postern because, small as it is, it is very important. The 
 
 1 Merry makes a similar suggestion. But he puts the postern at the 
 inner end of the hall : which makes the tactics of Odysseus exceedingly 
 puzzling. 
 
 ''It gives access to a corridor, presumably running down the long side 
 of the hall and opening into the porch (xxii. 128, ^v 656s is \aupriv). This 
 rather suggests that it was in the wall at right angles. The phrase aKpiraTw 
 Si Trap' ovSdVj " alongside the very end of the threshold," would be compatible 
 with either position, but rather suggests the other. 
 
 ' It is possible, however, but I think less natural and effective, to suppose 
 that Melanthius is referring, not to Eumseus, but to Odysseus. 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS i8i 
 
 incident takes up barely a dozen lines (126-138), but I 
 would invite any one who doubts its effectiveness to try the 
 experiment of translating the whole scene of the fight, first 
 without it and then with it, and afterwards comparing 
 the results. He will find a really surprising difference 
 in the vitality of the whole, a difference that will make 
 him realise afresh Homer's unrivalled instinct as a story- 
 teller. For in these dozen lines several things are gained. 
 Our excitement is increased, since at first we fear that 
 the suitors may force the postern, reach the city, and raise 
 a rescue. In that case, as we know, and as they know, 
 Odysseus would never draw bow again (132-134). Our 
 sense of actuality is heightened by learning these fresh 
 details about the building and the posting of the men. 
 Above all we delight in the important part Eumaeus takes 
 in the struggle. He is chosen for a position worthy of 
 himself, and he holds it worthily. Even the insolent 
 Melanthius and the haughty suitors have to admit him 
 a doughty champion. The time has gone by when 
 Melanthius could jeer at him and the suitors browbeat 
 him as they chose (xvii.-xxi. passim). 
 
 The incident of the postern leads straight to the daring 
 exploit of Melanthius getting out of the hall by what are 
 called the pwje's and reaching the storehouse to fetch armour 
 for the suitors, who have been caught weaponless (xxii. 142— 
 199). The meaning of the /sco^e? would have been plain 
 to the poet's listeners, but it is obscure to us, for the word 
 does not recur in classical Greek. But the context suggests 
 very strongly : 
 
 (i) That they were outlets of some kind or other, 
 but outlets not usually employed for exit. 
 
 (2) That access to them was not by the postern. For 
 Melanthius rejects the idea of forcing this (136). 
 
 (3) That they were above the level of the floor. For 
 Melanthius goes up by them (142, 143)- 
 
 (4) That their position was such that he could get in 
 
1 82 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 and out by them and hand the armour to the suitors 
 without Odysseus and his men seeing at first how it was 
 done (150-166). 
 
 These conditions would be satisfied if we might suppose 
 that the hall was " lighted by vertical openings in the upper 
 parts of the side walls," as J. Fergusson believed was the case 
 with the hall at Tiryns (Jebb, "Homer," p. 184; Tiryns, 
 p. 218). If these openings or "lights" were about 6 feet 
 from the ground Melanthius could easily scramble out at 
 the inner end of the crowded hall without being observed 
 by the fighters at the other extremity. 
 
 In any case, however, it is plain that the exploit is 
 daring, and its success most dangerous for Odysseus : so 
 that here again the interest is heightened not only by vary- 
 ing the fortunes of the fight, but by showing us men we 
 know acting in a way we see to be like themselves. The 
 struggle is not between figure-heads, but between men whom 
 we understand. Quick-witted and audacious as we know 
 Melanthius to be, accustomed to do the errands of the 
 suitors about the palace (xvii. 256, 257 ; xx. 175, 176), he 
 guesses at once where the weapons are, sees that the best 
 chance for his masters lies in getting them back if he can, 
 and runs any risk to do it. And he succeeds in part, just 
 because Telemachus with his usual impulsive heedlessness 
 has forgotten to shut the storehouse door behind him, as 
 he confesses with an ingenuousness equally characteristic 
 (xxii. 154—156). The savage vengeance taken on Melan- 
 thius by the two herdsmen is only tolerable, it may be 
 added, if we remember the repeated outrages he had put 
 upon both Eumasus and the king (xvii. 212 flF. ; xx. 177 ff.). 
 
 The final scene of the contest is marked, as it is marked 
 so often in Homer, by the appearance of a divinity. Athena, 
 who had initiated the first demand for Nemesis in the heart 
 of the son, comes down to stand beside the father in his 
 last effort to achieve it. And, as before, so now, she takes 
 the shape of Mentor. Odysseus himself, having had the 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 183 
 
 outer gates closed on purpose to prevent an entry, divines 
 at once that it is the goddess in disguise, but the suitors 
 see before them the only nian in the island whom they had 
 reason to fear. Hence the fierceness of their threats against 
 him, and the leap of their exultation when the figure dis- 
 appears as mysteriously as it came. Odysseus and his three 
 " stand alone at the door " (xxii. 250). But the ranks of the 
 suitors are thinning fast, their best men are gone (244-246), 
 their last efforts are foiled, their last spears flung in vain 
 (255-280), the final panic seizes them (297), and all is at 
 an end (309). 
 
 These imperfect comments may at least indicate how 
 closely-knit is the structure of this great scene, and how 
 closely bound to what precedes it. 
 
 The beautiful passage of recognition between husband 
 and wife that follows (xxiii. 1-296) is not as a rule chal- 
 lenged in itself, even by those who would shift it from its 
 present position to a time before the final struggle, a change 
 which seems to me not only quite uncalled-for, but one 
 that would destroy the tender charm of it as the crown 
 and reward of the accomplished labour.^ I have already 
 said what I could about the subtle drawing shown here in 
 the action of husband, wife, and son, a drawing which I 
 think can only be appreciated when we have the rest of the 
 poem to throw full light upon their characters. 
 
 But the close of xxiii. (from 1. 297 onwards^) and the 
 whole of xxiv. are rejected, almost universally, by the 
 separatist school, and indeed by many critics who could 
 not be called separatist. And yet on the face of it it 
 seems a strange criticism that desires the omission of xxiv. 
 
 * For instance, the silence of Odysseus at their meeting as he waits for 
 his wife to speak to him (xxiii. 90-92) gains greatly in dignity and in 
 poignancy when we know that he has just gone through a terrific struggle 
 to set her free from all her perils. 
 
 2 But I agree with most critics that 11. 300-343 are interpolated, and 
 possibly also 11. 297-299 ; which may account in part for the assertion of the 
 Alexandrine commentators that the Odyssey ends at 296. 
 
1 84 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 To cut it away means to run counter to every canon of 
 artistic emotion, to the most marked characteristics of 
 Greek art, and to countless small allusions throughout 
 the poem. This for the sake of objections like the 
 following : — 
 
 I. "It is contrary to the Homeric view that the souls 
 of men unburied should find their way to Hades " (Merry, 
 notes, ad loc.'). 
 
 But the souls of the unburied suitors only find their 
 way to the asphodel meadow, not across the Styx, and this is 
 perfectly consistent with Odyssey xi. and Iliad xxiii., indeed 
 markedly so (see above, chap. xiii.). 
 
 II. " The dialogue between Achilles and Agamemnon is 
 out of place." 
 
 Perhaps, but this passage (xxiv. 23—101) can be cut out 
 without affecting the rest — not even involving the alteration 
 of one line. 
 
 III. " Hermes is not called ' Kyllenian ' elsewhere in 
 Homer, nor given the office of escorting the dead." 
 
 But this proves nothing. The most it can suggest is 
 the activity of the mythopceic faculty in Homer. It is 
 rather irritating to observe that while the similarity of 
 Hermes' functions in the Odyssey at large and in Iliad 
 xxiv. is made one great reason for separating the latter 
 from the rest of the Iliad, the appearance of a new trait 
 in his character here should be arbitrarily excised as 
 " late." 
 
 IV. " Kephallenian " is said to imply all the subjects of 
 Odysseus in this Book (355, 378, 429), while elsewhere 
 (except for Iliad ii. 631) it is used only for those who dwelt 
 outside Ithaca. 
 
 Now if so, the double sense must have been quite 
 intelligible to the hearers, just as the double sense of 
 " Britons " for {a) all white subjects of the British Empire, 
 and for {b) the historical Celtic people, is quite intelligible 
 to us. But if this double sense was intelligible to the 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 185 
 
 hearers, there is no reason whatever why it should not have 
 been so to one and the same poet, and the word used by 
 him just as " Briton " is used by us. I make no doubt 
 this is the right explanation, but I may add that it is 
 perfectly possible that the limited sense of " Kephallenian " 
 is the right one in all three of our present passages, and 
 in the first it is practically certain. 
 
 V. Line 535 : Oeas o-n-a (pwvtjadaiii. Said by Merry to be 
 " quite unHomeric " and " modelled on a misconception of 
 ^wetjKe deas o-rra (pwvi^crdarris (II. ii. 1 8 2), where 07ra is governed 
 by ^werjKe." But how does Merry know oira is governed 
 by ^vvet]Ke? In the very same book of the Iliad, Book ii. 
 26, 63, we have ^vvlnixi governing the genitive of the, person 
 heard {eixeQev ^wey), and Merry admits that the phrase in 
 the Odyssey might be a " <T)(^fj.a eTVfxoXoyiKov,^' namely = 
 
 Let us turn from such unreal difficulties to a con- 
 sideration of the loss for the imagination if xxiv. is cut 
 away. We are to end with an abrupt climax, truncated 
 as in a modern play, with no space either to complete 
 itself or satisfy us. The profound longing that xi. has 
 raised in our hearts for the meeting between father and 
 son must be left unappeased, a longing that Eum^us and 
 Athena have also done their best to stimulate (xv. 353 ff. ; 
 i. 1 8 8 ff.). We are to go away with the impression of the old 
 man's desolate life on the distant farm, where he stays year in 
 year out, creeping round his vineyard, eating out his heart 
 for his son. We are never to be soothed and charmed by 
 the tender playfulness of that other vineyard scene where 
 the son makes himself known at last by telling over the 
 trees that his father gave him years and years ago when 
 he was a little lad. Surely it is only a taste for the frigid 
 dignities of the supposed " grand style " that could find 
 this scene common and low in its handling ; surely the 
 reference to the physical sensation of coming tears which 
 some critics find so unseemly is only another instance of 
 
1 86 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the poet's intensely human observation. And it is this 
 scene which makes us understand in a flash why Laertes 
 chose that place of all others and clung to it. Here at 
 least he could dream himself back to the days when he 
 had his boy with him. Again it is in xxiv. and xxiv. alone 
 that we see the authority of Odysseus firmly established 
 once more over his own people. But more than half our 
 indignation with the suitors is based (as I have tried to 
 show above) on the conviction what lawlessness like theirs 
 means and leads to in the land. Unless we hear of the 
 restoration of order throughout the country we should 
 feel, and feel rightly, that the work of Odysseus was only 
 half done, that he only half deserved the name of king. 
 The early Books had discovered to us the demoralisation 
 and the apathy of the islanders, the cessation of free 
 speech and free assembly under the aggressive domination 
 of the suitors and their following. The rightful king had 
 disappeared, and all was in disorder. A brave attempt 
 had been made by Telemachus and Mentor to restore the 
 right, but it was foiled by a bold stroke from the dominant 
 powers. Now the scene swings round. Once more there 
 is an assembly, but now it is the suitors that have dis- 
 appeared, and it is their kinsfolk who must make the 
 effort to regain their place. And now it is the lawful ruler 
 who strikes the decisive stroke. And once more there 
 is a council in heaven, but this time for peace and not 
 for war, and once more in the likeness of Mentor Athena 
 comes upon the scene, but this time it is not to rouse 
 the cry for vengeance ; it is, as in the Eumenides, to bring 
 about reconciliation. The beginning of an inextinguish- 
 able vendetta is crushed, and the Odyssey ends in a calm 
 as complete and satisfying as the struggle had been exciting 
 and prolonged. Nor are we surprised at the ease with 
 which order is restored at Athena's word, for the account 
 of the assembly just before has made it plain that the 
 majority of the people are quite willing to be on the 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 187 
 
 side of law and order, only they have been carried away 
 by the fiery eloquence of Antinous' father. (He has the 
 significant name of " Fairspeech " : Eupeithes.') It is he 
 who leads the last attack, and when the father of Odysseus 
 slays him we feel that the head and front of the revolt 
 has gone. 
 
 Book xxiv. not only corresponds with and completes the 
 earlier Books, it answers the central Book of the Nekuia 
 with high impressiveness. To the world of shades where 
 Odysseus went, it is now the turn of his enemies to go. 
 In the asphodel meadow where he waited they wait also, 
 and one of the first heroes they meet is Agamemnon. 
 There, and for the last time, the tale of jiEgisthus and 
 Clytemnestra comes before us, and the last words of 
 Agamemnon are weighty with a sense of the difference 
 between good women and bad. The solemnity of the 
 meeting not only impresses us with a sense of the weight 
 of the final Nemesis — is has another result that is hard 
 to put into words, but essential to the total imaginative 
 effect. In a sense it leaves us at peace with the suitors. 
 They have paid the price, and gone out into the land of 
 mystery to which all men go. There is thus a kind of 
 dignity round their fall that recalls the dignity enwrapping 
 the frivolous Elpenor in xi. It does not seem an ignoble 
 company after all that go forth, led by Hermes, " past 
 the stream of Ocean and the shining rocks and the gates 
 of the sun and the land of dreams." They have had their 
 day and are gone to their own place where other roysterers 
 have gone, and heroes and kings with them. 
 
 It would not be well to take our leave of the Odyssey 
 without dwelling a little on the prophecy that the hero 
 is to make one more journey, and to meet a mysterious 
 death, peaceful and strange, coming to him out of the 
 sea, in the days when he shall be old and worn. This 
 prophecy, delivered in the central Book of the poem (xi. 
 1 19-137), is repeated at the close (xxiii. 266-284), and 
 
1 88 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the repetition is full of significance. For the typical epic, 
 though it must have a close, does not have an end : the 
 epic poet sees long vistas "ahead of himself," ahead of 
 every event, even the last in his actual song. There is a 
 genuine difference here between epic and drama, although 
 no doubt rather one of degree than of kind. It is a 
 difference of emphasis, but the emphasis is very differently 
 distributed. The great dramas have a great background, 
 it is true, but when the curtain falls we feel that the song 
 is over, that this phase of life is finished and done with, 
 and it was with this phase we were concerned. Lear and 
 his daughters are all dead, Hamlet is gone, Macbeth and 
 his wife have drunk the cup of punishment to the dregs. 
 But the true epic is concerned above all with the unceasing 
 onward drift of life itself, and instinctively the supreme 
 epic poets close their work in such a way as to leave us 
 with this vivid sense of going-on. " The world was all 
 before them " — that is almost the last line of " Paradise 
 Lost." Indeed Milton, Virgil, Dante, are so charged with 
 this sense that they steep their work in actual grand pro- 
 phecy concerning the whole fate of the known world. 
 The Homeric method is simpler, less tremendous perhaps, 
 but the impulse is the same. " For eleven days we would 
 bewail him, and on the twelfth day we will fight, if so 
 we must " — those are Priam's last words to Achilles (II. 
 xxiv. 664-667), and we know right well there is to be a 
 stubborn fight. Achilles himself is to perish, and many 
 a valiant man is ready to die for Troy (xxi. 586). Though 
 the mighty Hector has fallen, his countrymen will fight 
 for their country still, even though it be in vain. They 
 will not give it up without a struggle, as Achilles had 
 fancied for a moment that they might (xxii. 383). To 
 drive this conviction home to us is the purport of the 
 scene in the twenty-first Book (xxi. 545 ff.), where Agenor 
 waits outside the walls to face Achilles, just as Hector 
 himself waits a little later on. The curious likeness 
 
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS 189 
 
 between the two scenes has a distinct effect upon us, the 
 effect of opening our eyes to what is to come. Hector 
 has fellow-citizens like himself, who will carry on his 
 work. 
 
 One might almost say it would be no bad test for an 
 epic, that it should inevitably suggest another tale, as so 
 many epics have actually done. It is impossible to put 
 down the Odyssey without being haunted by that last 
 vision of the adventure in old-age that still waits for 
 Odysseus. All poets have been ready to feel the spell 
 of this, and thus it comes about that among- the gifts we 
 owe to Homer are to be reckoned the poem of Tennyson, 
 and its glorious model, the canto in Dante's " Inferno." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE ARMOUR 
 
 One of the minor arguments for a minute working-over 
 of the original Iliad — an argument which I have not yet 
 discussed — is based upon the supposed confusion and inco- 
 herence in the references to the armour. It is held that 
 such obscurity can only be explained on the theory that the 
 later poets and editors are handling a stock of descriptions 
 about a bygone type of armature which they do not fully 
 understand, while at the same time they are introducing 
 new and inconsistent details of their own. I must now 
 attempt to show that there is no need for this peculiar 
 theory. 
 
 The Shield 
 
 As regards the shield, it appears to me that all the 
 asserted difficulties vanish once we conceive the poets to 
 assume the existence of more than one type. Such a con- 
 ception is not only simple, it is actually suggested both by 
 analogy and by the evidence of the monuments. We 
 know that elsewhere, during most changes of fashion, 
 there is a period, long or short, in which both the old 
 and the new types exist at once side by side. We know 
 that in the iEgaean basin one type of shield did give way 
 to another type ; and almost every theory about the 
 Homeric poems assumes that part of them at least were 
 produced during the period when the change took place.'^ 
 
 ' It is obvious that in important respects the theory I suggest coincides 
 with the view developed by A. Lang in " Homer and his Age," a book to 
 which I owe much. 
 
THE ARMOUR 191 
 
 The fact (for fact I believe it to be) that the poets are 
 thinking sometimes of one kind of shield and sometimes of 
 another — the different kinds being sufficiently familiar to 
 them and to their audience — would explain, among other 
 things, why there has been such controversy between 
 scholars, equally able, over the one especial type of shield 
 each school takes to be indicated. For each can claim 
 some evidence as conclusive on their side. 
 
 I conceive, then, that our first poet, our original 
 " Homer," followed by his successors, assumed the use of 
 at least two types of shield: (i) a long bulging shield 
 like the Mycenaean (see Fig. i), and (2) a large circular 
 shield, comparatively flat. These great shields are borne 
 by the great heroes in their full panoply. There are also 
 indications of lighter defences, such as the Xaiariia of Iliad v. 
 453 and xii. 426, and the bucklers in x. (presumably small, 
 such as those of classical Greece), that Odysseus and 
 Diomede can carry with them when they ride. Such 
 bucklers, I suspect, were already coming into use when the 
 poets wrote, but were not considered suitable for the 
 mighty warriors of the past. There would be nothing 
 surprising if it should turn out that all three kinds of 
 shield were in constant use at the same time. As a matter 
 of fact we do find on a vase of the Dipylon style three 
 distinct shapes of shield. (See Reichel, Homerische Waffen, 
 1901, Fig. 25, also reproduced in A. Lang, "Homer and his 
 Age," p. 131 ; and cp. J. H. S., vol. xiii. pp. 21-24). I" ^'^Y 
 case it is natural to suppose that the poets who are singing 
 of heroes in the golden past would keep as many of the old 
 customs as possible to the fore, even though theSe customs 
 might be rapidly dying out. This supposition need not be 
 pushed so far as to involve any pedantic archaeologising on 
 the poet's part. 
 
 There are distinct signs that in spite of this affection 
 for the past the Mycenaean shield is thought of as rare. 
 
 Of all the instances claimed as Mycenaean that have 
 
THE ARMOUR 193 
 
 been collected by Reichel and his followers, there are only 
 three that are undeniable : the shields of Ajax, of Hector, 
 and of Periphetes. The last man, by the way, is expressly 
 said to be from Mycenae (II. xv. 638 ff.). As he turns to 
 fly he trips "on the rim of the long shield reaching to his 
 feet, which it was his custom to bear" (xv. 645, 646) : 
 
 (rTpe(pdeii yap fieroTricrQev ev acririSoi avTvyi ttoKto, 
 Tr]v avTOi (bopeeo'Ke TTOorjveKe' , eo/co? aKovTuv. 
 
 This, by the way, seems to be the only place where the 
 term TroStjveKrn, "reaching to the feet," is used of the shield, 
 and the turn of the phrase does suggest that it was not 
 every man's custom to carry a shield of such a kind. It 
 certainly proved the bane of Periphetes on this occasion. 
 
 When the shields are considered en masse they are called 
 "well-rounded," svkvkXoi (v. 453; xii. 426; xiii. 715; xiv. 
 428). The formation of a shield-wall in xiii. 130 is far 
 easier to understand if we suppose the flat shield, where rim 
 could conveniently overlap rim, than if we imagine the 
 bulging type. A completely circular form is naturally im- 
 plied by the frequent epithet Trdvroa-' elarrj, lit. "even in every 
 direction," though it is, no doubt, just possible that the 
 words might only mean "perfectly balanced." 
 
 The term afJK^i^poTt], " man-encompassing," seems,, it 
 may be admitted, at first sight more suited to the great 
 curve of the Mycenaean shield that could enclose so much 
 of the figure. But after all, the word only means " on 
 both sides of a man"; and I suggest that it may have been 
 applied to the large round shield, just to lay stress upon its 
 size, and so distinguish the panoply of the old heroes from 
 the lesser shields of lesser men. It is worth remarking 
 that the term is not, in fact, used for the shields of Hector, 
 Ajax, or Periphetes. 
 
 The adjective SuKpaKoeaa-a, " having a boss (or bosses)," 
 might be applied, so far as we can see, to either kind of 
 shield ; and for circular shield as for oblong there might be 
 
 N 
 
194 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 one boss or there might be several, and their size might be 
 large or small. 
 
 Mycenaean shield and round shield alike, both being 
 very large, are slung from baldrics which pass over the 
 breast and one shoulder, right shoulder or left, I take 
 it, according to choice. Ajax apparently wears the 
 baldric on the left (II. xvi. io6, 107), Diomede on the 
 right (II. V. 98, 798). Further, it seems most natural to 
 suppose that all the shields had bars (Kavovei) on the inner 
 side, which could serve as hand-grips on occasion ; but as 
 the word is used only twice in this connection (viii. 193; 
 xiii. 407), it would be rash to say more. 
 
 What follows will, I hope, help to show how solid is the 
 poetic realisation of the necessary detail, always in the work 
 of the first poet, and usually in the work of his successors. 
 
 Ajax uses the long shield : and Ajax is just the man, 
 physically strong and intellectually obstinate, who would 
 stick to the ancient, cumbrous, but, when skilfully used, 
 doubtless most reliable defence. Perhaps this is one reason 
 why he (alone of the great chiefs except Idomeneus) is 
 never wounded. It is his shield that is said to be like a 
 tower, his, and it would appear, his alone (xi. 485 ; xvii. 
 128, repeated also for Ajax, by a later poet, vii. 219). 
 The metaphor, it has been noticed, plainly suggests the 
 semi-cylindrical form among the different Mycenaean shapes. 
 And Ajax is not only strong, but agile and most skilful. 
 When both his hands are occupied in fighting, as they are 
 with the huge ship's pole in xv. (677 fF.), he understands 
 how " to steer his dry cow " ^ by the mere swing, twist, and 
 thrust of his shoulder. It is not surprising that his shoulder 
 should feel the strain (xvi. 106 ff., his shoulder, note, not 
 his arm) ; and yet his enemies cannot " shake the shield from 
 its place round him" ("from covering his body," Monro, 
 ad loc). Even the later poets never seem to forget this 
 
 ' Professor Murray's translation of Hector's phrase (vii. 237). See " The 
 Rise of the Greek Epic," p. 139. 
 
THE ARMOUR 195 
 
 " tower-like " shield of Ajax. He is never described as 
 wearing the corslet : in fact the passage quoted by Reichel 
 is clearly against it (II. xiv. 404 fF.). Hector's spear is 
 stopped from piercing the breast of Ajax, not by any 
 corslet, but by the two baldrics he is wearing. The passage 
 quoted by Lang on the other side is not conclusive (II. vii. 
 193, 207). For there "all the armour" that Ajax is said 
 to put on need only include helmet, greaves, sword, and 
 shield. I suspect Ajax would have despised the corslet, as 
 only really needed by those who could not manage the 
 " tower." Thus, having no corslet to keep in place (see 
 below, pp. 202 fF.), he can spare his belt on the battlefield 
 for a gift to Hector (vii. 305). 
 
 Every one knows the vivid little picture of the moment 
 in vi. (116 ff.) when Hector, turning to leave the field, had 
 slung his shield behind him, and as he stalked away the 
 black rim of the hides tapped against his heels. Hector's 
 use of the heavy Mycenaean defence helps to explain his 
 action at the repulse from the ships in xvi. At first (358- 
 362), before the repulse has become a rout, he stands back 
 a little from the others, " his shoulders wrapped in the ox- 
 hide shield," where, still facing the foe, he can escape the 
 shower of darts and the terrible spear of Ajax, and yet help 
 his own friends himself by a timely cast. But the moment 
 the rout sweeps over him from the ships it needs better 
 fighting than his to swing round the great oblong for a 
 guard on every side against the enemies who now encompass 
 him. He can hardly be blamed for taking to his chariot 
 then (367). Again, in xii., he does not attempt to scale 
 the wall as Sarpedon does, but finds it better tactics to 
 stride right up to the gates and stand there, his body well 
 protected, coolly taking aim with the enormous stone.^ 
 
 1 Hector's shield is called Traprda' eCa-r} in xi. 6i and xiii. 803. But I do 
 not believe these passages belong to the Original, nor that the later poets 
 always trouble about their detail being consistent with the first. Of course 
 when Hector puts on the armour of Achilles he gives up his long shield for 
 the round one of the Greek. (See below on the other shield of Achilles.) 
 
196 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Sarpedon's shield, on the other hand, though less efficient 
 as a stationary defence, is of a more manageable kind : and 
 this, as I have suggested, is one reason why it is he and not 
 Hector who actually climbs the wall. On a natural inter- 
 pretation the lines describing Sarpedon's shield would cer- 
 tainly be taken to mean that it was round, comparatively 
 flat, and stiffened by golden rods sewn on the inner side, 
 radiating from centre to circumference in a ring, a very 
 workmanlike device if the round shield was big.^ When 
 Sarpedon gets his hold on the wall and Ajax and Teucer 
 attack him together (xii. 400 ff.), Teucer's arrow strikes 
 the baldric on his breast at the same moment that Ajax 
 smites his shield. This coincidence is very hard to imagine 
 if we think of the curved body-covering Mycenaean shield, 
 the genuine " bulwark against the arrows." But with a 
 large round shield the position is clear. Sarpedon's shield 
 is expressly called an^i/SpoTij (402) : that is to say (as 
 explained above), it extends on either side of him, so that 
 Ajax even at close quarters cannot get past it with his 
 spear : but it is not curved, and therefore Teucer, a little 
 on the flank, finds a clear passage for the arrow sideways to 
 his breast.^ 
 
 Although I agree that the description of the shield of 
 Agamemnon in xi. 32-37 is by a later poet, I cannot think 
 that it presents any real difficulty. I imagine Agamemnon's 
 shield to be of the round type, showing ten concentric bronze 
 rings, with twenty bosses of tin along one of the larger 
 circles, and a single boss in the centre (presumably larger) 
 of dark enamel. On this central boss there is a Gorgon's 
 head " crowning " the shield, and on either side of the head 
 a face of Fear and a face of Panic. There is no difficulty 
 in supposing that the Gorgon's head is figured in the enamel 
 
 ^ xii. 294-297. do-irlSa . . . irdvroa-' it<riiv, | KoKiiv x'»XKe%>' ^fi)\oT»>', ^t> ipa. 
 XaXxeis | -IjXaa-ev, (vrotrBev Si poetas jii^e da;ucifts | x^'o'^''?' jidpSourt StijveKiiriv vepi 
 KikKov. 
 
 ' For the relation between these great shields and the prevalence of the 
 bow see A. Lang, " Homer and his Age," p. 134. 
 
THE ARMOUR 197 
 
 on the boss. In the British Museum there is a Roman 
 shield-boss with figures engraved on it, and the effect is very 
 good.^ This boss is not a mere knob, but spreads out into 
 a flat border, by which it was nailed to the shield. Both 
 knob and border are engraved. There may well have been 
 a similar border round the boss on Agamemnon's shield ; 
 and the faces of Fear and Panic may have been inlaid either 
 on it or on the shield itself. 
 
 Achilles' shield I take to be round also, for I cannot 
 see that later criticism has in any way affected Brunn's 
 argument for five concentric rings formed by the five layers 
 of which the poet speaks, extending one beneath the other, 
 the topmost layer being the smallest and forming the centre 
 (II. xviii. 478 ff.). " The stream of Ocean along the outer- 
 most rim " (607 ff.) plainly demands the round shape, and 
 there is plainly some significance for the decoration in the 
 mention of the five layers at the outset, corresponding, as 
 they do, to the five types of subject chosen by Hephaestus. 
 (I take it the five layers are of hide and the metal plating 
 covers all.) When Brunn shows,^ from the Iliad (xx. 274- 
 276), and from Aristides (Panathen, i. p. 159), that shields 
 were actually formed in this way, it seems to me we have 
 nothing more to do in the main than to accept his results 
 and be thankful. For convenience of reference I give a 
 diagram based on his, but embodying one suggestion of 
 Professor E. Gardner's (" Handbook of Greek Sculpture,Il!i 
 p. 71 ; Brunn, " Kunstgeschichte," Fig. 58). The general' 
 arrangement of the pictures follows the sequence of the 
 poet's account, which it is reasonable to assume must be 
 unbroken : we are made to start with the central layer and 
 then taken continuously along each successive circle until 
 we come to the circling stream of Ocean, along the outer- 
 most rim. And this is the order which Hephaestus would 
 
 1 British Museum. Romano-British Military Antiquities. Central 
 Saloon, Case D. 
 
 ' Kleine Schriften, vol. ii., Die Kunst bei Homer, p. 22. 
 
198 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 naturally take for his handiwork when hammering out the 
 scenes on the concentric spheres, so that if we adopt it we 
 have the impression of following the pictures as they spring 
 
 
 rx.'^'^^ o^^^i^ 
 
 ^x 
 
 
 7 ^\^ 
 
 w / a 
 
 A 
 
 U72 
 
 -V4 
 
 2Moon'^Jtarf 
 
 
 r^ 
 
 
 "4; 
 
 :0, 
 
 ^f. 
 
 >5S 
 
 The Shield of Achilles 
 
 into being one after the other under the hand of the 
 mighty smith. 
 
 "A p;-ecisely similar arrangement of reliefs in con- 
 centric bands is found upon metal shields and bowls of 
 Phoenician workmanship" (E. Gardner, op. cit., p. 70, with 
 
THE ARMOUR 199 
 
 references to Man. Inst., x. pi. xxxL-xxxiii. And cp. Helbig, 
 Das Homerische Epos, pp. 22, 23). In these Phoenician 
 works, as a rule, the heads of all the figures point to the 
 circumference, and thus, it is true, from every point of 
 view some or other of them appear upside down, but this 
 does not seem to have been thought an artistic blunder. 
 Nor ought we to think it such, when we remember the 
 many similar instances on the vases of classical Greece, and 
 consider the constant change of position involved for a 
 shield in battle, even a large shield slung by a baldric. 
 There seems, therefore, no valid reason against accepting 
 this arrangement for the shield of Achilles. At the same 
 time we should not forget that it is perfectly possible to 
 arrange figures and groups circle-wise in such a way that 
 though none of them are upside down, yet no abrupt change 
 of direction is necessary for any of the heads at any point. 
 This can be seen plainly in several mediaeval instances, and 
 even in ancient classical examples.^ 
 
 The arrangement of the scenes in concentric rings is 
 not only the one most naturally suggested by the words of 
 the poem : it is far the most effective as a symbol for the 
 imaginative content. Fdr by this means we are shown in 
 one sweep the varied life of man, dominated by the heavens, 
 encompassed by the great waters, spreading out in widening 
 circles from the concentrated interest and turmoil of the 
 city to the calmer work of the fields and the dancing ring 
 of the youth whose working-time has hardly yet begun. 
 And perhaps the poet meant us to remember that the river 
 of Ocean which touches the ring of youth and surrounds 
 the whole is also the river of Death (Od. xi. init.). 
 
 Differences of opinion must always remain about the relative sizes 
 of the circles and the relative space occupied by the scenes in each, 
 because on these points nothing really decisive is said by the poet. 
 But some clues may be found in the varying length of his descriptions 
 
 ^ See, for instance, the Italian shields in the Wallace Collection, and the 
 Shield of Athena in the Elgin Room at the British Museum. 
 
200 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 and the variations in his introductory words, the longer descriptions 
 suggesting greater space, and the change of phrase a transition to a 
 new circle or semicircle. This may be seen from the following 
 analysis : — 
 
 First (Central) Ring : Earth and. Heaven. 
 
 " On it he fashioned the earth,'' &c. (II. xviii. 483-489) : iv ;uei/ 
 ■yaiav (Tev^. 
 
 Second Ring : The City-Scenes (490-540). 
 
 I assume this to form the widest band, because : (i) The shield 
 would need a wide stretch of thickness for some distance round the 
 centre. (2) The representation of the city-scenes demands consider- 
 able space, a space to be given by width rather than length : the scenes 
 {e.g. of the besieged town) imply not long rows of single figures (as in 
 the choral dance), but clustered figures close together, often with a 
 high background much en evidence (as in the famous silver shard from 
 Mycense, Fig. 2). 
 
 But if the central circle is kept fairly small, the whole circumference 
 of the second ring will not be too great for the eye to take in the city- 
 scenes as a whole ; and that they are meant to be conceived as a whole 
 seems to be indicated by the poet grouping the two cities together in 
 his first line : — ■ 
 
 " And on it he made two cities . . ." (490) : kv St Sijo) wotrjtre 
 jroXeis . . . 
 
 Third Ring: The Country-Scenes {^a,\-^%^). 
 
 " And on it he set" (three times) (541, 550, 561) : 'Ev 8' kridf.i . . . 
 
 The threefold repetition indicates that these three scenes go closely 
 together, say in the first semicircle. I adopt Professor Gardner's 
 suggestion that in this ring the poet begins with the lower arc, so that 
 the figures go in the reverse direction to those in the preceding circle. 
 This seems to increase both the clearness and the richness of the 
 whole composition. 
 
 " And on it he made" &c. (twice) (573, 587) : 'Ev 8e . . . iroirjo-e. 
 
 It will be noticed that the second description in this arc is much 
 briefer than the first, and also that there are only two scenes in this upper 
 semicircle, as against three in the lower. Such a variation from 
 exact correspondence, far from being thought to cause difEculty, 
 should be welcomed as a sign of the rhythmic " asymmetry " so 
 familiar in classical Greek art. 
 
THE ARMOUR 
 
 20I 
 
 Fourth Ring : The Dancers (590-606). 
 
 "And on it he made a picture of a dancing-place" (590): 'Ev fie 
 Xo/oov n-oiKiAAe. 
 
 "And round about the lovely dance stood a great company" 
 (603) : TToAXcis fi' Ifjtepoevra -xophv rrepua-Tad' OfiiXoi. 
 
 The analogy of the preceding circles, and the fact that a choral 
 
 Fig. 2. — Mycen^an Silver Shard 
 (From Dr. Leaf's "Iliad." Messrs. Macmillan) 
 
 dance is regularly represented by a row of single figures, suggest that 
 the youths and maidens come in one arc and the onlookers in the 
 other. This would give us a conventional arrangement somewhat 
 
202 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 similar to that adopted for the gods on the Parthenon frieze watching 
 the Panathenaic procession and the deUvery of the peplos. 
 
 Fifth Ring : The Ocean-Stream (607-608). 
 
 " And on it he set the great power of Ocean " (607) : 'Ev 5' Irt^ct 
 TTOTafioio jueya crdfvo's 'fi/ceavoto. 
 
 The Corslet (Owprj^) 
 
 Homer's language suggests, as Andrew Lang points 
 out ("Homer and his Age," c. vii.), a light "vest" of 
 bronze, quite thin enough to be pierced by an arrow even 
 at a distance (II. v. 99). The fastenings are not beneath 
 the arms, but down the middle of the breast and the back 
 (iv. 132 iF. ; XX. 413 S.). Thus we may assume that the 
 normal Homeric corslet was made with two side-pieces, 
 and not with a breast-plate and a back-plate such as pre- 
 vailed (though not universally) in later Greece. It is said 
 to be " put together from gyala " {fyvoKoiaiv apripoTa, II. xv. 
 530), and as a gyalon elsewhere means "a hollow," it 
 is a likely supposition that the name was given to the 
 pieces because they were curved to suit the human figure. 
 Beside the two side-pieces we should probably add two 
 shoulder-pieces as well, for the corslet evidently comes 
 high up on the neck (II. xxii. 322-325). There is nothing 
 in Homer to decide the question whether these curved 
 pieces were always continuous plates of bronze, or whether 
 they were sometimes formed of scales joined together. 
 The name of " hollows " certainly suggests the former, 
 and there is certainly no direct evidence for the latter, 
 but see below on Diomede's corslet. Pausanias thought 
 that the corslets he saw depicted at Delphi were Homeric, 
 but these formed real massive breast-plates joining at the 
 sides, and so do not suit the details of our data, as will 
 appear more clearly in a moment (Paus. x. c. 26 ; 5, 6. 
 c. 27 ; 3). 
 
THE ARMOUR 203 
 
 The Homeric corslet does not open at the sides for 
 a very good reason — to avoid the risk of the slit at the 
 parts most likely to be exposed in the play of the arms 
 with spear and bow. Like a pair of stays, it opens at 
 the back as well as at the front, and for the like reasons, 
 namely, to allow more freedom to the figure and to admit 
 of the corslet being worn tight or loose as occasion de- 
 manded, the edges being left wide enough to overlap. 
 Thus one man can wear another's corslet, provided he 
 is not unusually big : Hector and Patroclus can both wear 
 the corslet of Achilles: Glaucus and Diomede can exchange 
 theirs, and Paris can adjust Lycaon's to his own figure 
 (II. iii. 332-333). Achilles himself is too big for any 
 one's corslet but his own and his father's. When his own 
 armour is taken from him, he thinks of the tower-like 
 shield of Ajax as the only thing in the camp that could 
 serve his turn (xviii. 192, 193). 
 
 The corslet comes down as a rule ^ well on to the 
 hips (covering the stomach, xiii. 371, 506-508). With 
 it there is worn a belt, the zoster — or, as it is once called, 
 the zone (xi. 234) — made either of metal or of leather 
 metal-faced (xi. 237), and furnished with two double 
 clasps, one in front and one behind, to correspond with 
 the openings already mentioned. This belt is of consider- 
 able importance for keeping the overlapping edges of the 
 corslet in place.^ I conceive it as wide, wide enough to 
 come below the corslet ; this would make it hold the edges 
 more firmly together, and it would also give additional 
 protection to the hips. A bronze belt in the British 
 Museum shows just the width required (Room of Greek 
 and Roman Life. Defensive Armour. Wall-case 1 1 2-1 19). 
 This belt has clasps and holes set at varying distances, to 
 
 1 There is no necessity to suppose that every corslet was exactly the 
 same length. 
 
 2 Doubtless there were subordinate fastenings (thongs or clasps) in 
 other places, e.g. at the top of the corslet, but we do not hear of them 
 expressly. 
 
204 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 3^ 
 
 7J 
 
 \,M 
 
 allow of its being worn tight or loose, as occasion demandec 
 With such a wide belt there is no difficulty in understand 
 ing xi. 234-237 (part of the " Menis "] 
 The belt I understand to be here calle 
 first zone and then zoster, just as we migh 
 speak indifferently of a " girdle " and 
 " belt." " Iphidamas smote him on th 
 girdle {zone) below the corslet and drov 
 with all his weight. But he did not pierc 
 the glittering belt (zostir'), for the speai 
 point was turned by the silver as thoug 
 it had been lead." It is through the lowe 
 part of this broad belt that the heroes ar 
 wounded in v. 537-615. 
 
 Sometimes there is also worn a kind c 
 short bronze kilt, the im-irpr], fastened roun 
 the waist beneath the corslet, as a ki] 
 might be fastened beneath a waistcoat (no' 
 of course, next to the skin, for the ordi 
 nary linen shirt, the chiton, would com 
 between). This kilt might also be de 
 scribed, though more loosely, as a girdl 
 with hanging flaps, and the name it i 
 called by is actually used in later Gree 
 for a woman's girdle. For defensive pui 
 poses it takes the place of the late 
 " wings," made of leather and metal, tha 
 were attached to the corslet itself; i 
 seems in fact the same thing in a les 
 developed form. Thus the general efFec 
 of the Homeric corslet and kilt take 
 {From Professor Card- together might be givcn, and I believ 
 
 ners "Handbook of . ° . \. c r 
 
 Greek Sculpture." IS given. On the iigures oi a later ag( 
 Messrs. macm.llan) g^^^ f^^ example, the stele of Aristio 
 
 (given here. Fig. 3) and a vase by Duris (Fig. 4). Th 
 
 Fig. 3. 
 
THE ARMOUR 
 
 205 
 
2o6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 scale. In both of these cases the corslet and kilt are 
 apparently made in one, and there appears no separate belt, 
 but otherwise the general appearance would be Homeric, 
 and the central figure on the vase plainly shows the method 
 of clasping the corslet in front. It is tempting to con- 
 jecture that the corslet grew in compactness, size, and 
 strength, as the large shield gave place to the small, and 
 the art of smithying the bronze developed [cp. A. Lang, 
 op. cit. ; Leaf, App. B). In the illustrations, it should be 
 noted that the corslet shows a distinct likeness to a 
 sleeveless shirt, a chiton, of bronze, and this certainly 
 seems the best clue to the famous term " bronze-shirted " 
 
 Now it is confidently asserted that, again and again in 
 the Iliad, where the corslet plays a part in the detail there 
 we find confusion in the fighting ; and this confusion, it 
 is held, betrays the corslet as an awkward interloper. Let 
 us, therefore, test the several instances in detail. There are 
 only five. 
 
 ( I ) Menelaus wears the corslet and kilt, and thus when 
 Pandarus shoots at him Athena does well to guide the 
 arrow to the place " where the golden clasps of the 
 belt came together and the edges of the corslet over- 
 lapped {lit. the corslet joined double)" (iv. 132, 133). 
 For just here the arrow has at least four thicknesses of 
 armour to get through, viz. the belt, the two edges of 
 the corslet, and last of all the kilt. And in this instance 
 it is plain that if the kilt had not been there the arrow 
 would have gone deep, in spite of the corslet and the belt, 
 and therefore the poet says it was the kilt that protected 
 him the most.^ As it is, the blood runs down beneath 
 the short flaps of the kilt, staining thighs and shins and 
 ankles (140-147). But Menelaus, looking down at his 
 
 1 iv. I3S-I38- "The arrow sped through belt {zoster) and corslet and 
 kilt, and it was the kilt that protected him the most, but even through this 
 it drove." 
 
THE ARMOUR 207 
 
 belt (not at the wound underneath, which of course is 
 covered), sees the tips of the barbs and the base of the 
 arrow-head sticking out of the clasp.-^ He sees, that is 
 to say, that the arrow is not buried up to the head in his 
 armour. Now he knows what he is wearing and the thick- 
 nesses involved, and therefore he concludes at once (152), 
 and quite rightly, that whatever the wound feels like (and 
 he had shuddered at first with his brother, 150), the arrow 
 cannot have reached a vital place, but has been checked 
 by belt and corslet and kilt, as the poet indeed has already 
 given us to understand (135-138). This is what he tells 
 Agamemnon in so many words (185-187), only he calls 
 the part of the corslet in question his "waistband" (^zdma). 
 " It was checked," he says of the arrow, " by my belt, and 
 underneath (i.e. below that again) by my waistband and kilt." 
 I follow, it will be observed, the old view (see Monro, 
 ad loc.) that the " waistband " means here simply the part of 
 the corslet that covers the waist. The part is named and 
 not the whole, I suggest — both here and again at 1. 216, 
 where Machaon undoes the armour — because as a matter of 
 fact it is only with the part that Menelaus and Machaon 
 are concerned.^ The coolness implied in this little calcula- 
 tion of Menelaus is entirely in keeping with his bearing 
 throughout, and indeed is a touch that should not be missed. 
 When the good leech Machaon appears on the scene he 
 first draws out the arrow before attempting to undo the 
 armour (otherwise he would have run the risk of twisting 
 the point in the wound), and then loosens successively the 
 belt, the waist of the corslet, and the kilt (213-216). 
 
 ' 150-152. There is no inconsistency with line 213, where the barbs are 
 said to be broken (or bent) backwards, as Machaon draws the arrow out. 
 The slender barbs need not be buried up to the tip to run the risk of being 
 broken by Machaon's tug. Anyone who has pulled a long thin nail out of 
 hard wood knows how easily it can be bent in the process. 
 
 * Or one might even guess that zSma, lit. "girded thing!' was some- 
 times used as a synonym for corslet in general. Od. xiv. 482 . ffdicos dov 
 ^xw Kci ffi/"" 4>a.^i-v(>v does suggest something of the kind. {Cp. the American 
 colloquial use of " waist " for a bodice.) 
 
2o8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 (2) It is clear from this that an archer would not 
 do well to aim where the corslet fastened at the waist, 
 because of the thicknesses involved. But it is quite different 
 for a skilful spearsman at close quarters. He might de- 
 liberately choose this place knowing that he could feel his 
 way into the vertical slit with the point of his spear, and 
 get a clear drive through the flesh into the vital organs. 
 This is what Achilles does when he kills Polydorus. As 
 the lad races past him Achilles catches him in the back at 
 the fatal crevice, and drives the spear right through his 
 body till the point comes out by the navel (xx. 413-416). 
 
 (3) From both the last cases it is plain what a risk 
 a man would run if his corslet came unfastened in the 
 battle, as it might if the leather of the thongs snapped or 
 one of the clasps worked loose. It is a misfortune of this 
 kind that befalls Patroclus in xvi. 791 fF., and leads straight 
 to his death. The corslet does not fall off him, (" naked," 
 as often, meaning only relatively "naked"), but it is "loosened 
 by Apollo " (xvi. 804) ; the top clasps at the back being 
 jerked apart, we may guess, by the staggering blow the god 
 deals him from behind with the flat of the hand upon his 
 shoulders (xvi. 791, 792). It is exactly there, at any rate, 
 " on the back between the shoulders " that the spear of 
 Euphorbus smites him, and I think we are meant to under- 
 stand that Euphorbus had the wit to aim at the opening he 
 saw (806, 807). 
 
 (4) In the duel between Paris and Menelaus we read : 
 " Menelaus hurled his lance and struck his foeman's shield : 
 through the bright shield went the mighty spear, and drove 
 on through the corslet, and tore the tunic on his flank ; but 
 Paris swerved and saved himself from death" (iii. 355-360).^ 
 
 '■ (Repeated for Hector and Ajax, vii. 251-254.) 
 . . . wpotei SoXixAiTKioc (yxo^t 
 Kal 0d\e Uptafiibao Kdr aaviSa iravTotr' dtffTjv' 
 Slo. fi^y atrtriSo? ^\0e (pasLviji 6^ptfiov ^yxos, 
 Kal did, dilipTiKos vo\vSaiSd\ov iip-qpeurro, 
 dPTiKpii 5^ :rapai \aTrdpr)v SidfiTiffe xtTwi/a 
 fyXOS' 8 S' IkXIvBtj khI aXeiaro K^pa ixiXaivav. 
 
THE ARMOUR 209 
 
 Difficulty has been made here because it is supposed, 
 surely gratuitously, that the last line must describe what 
 Paris did after the rush of the spear described in the three 
 verses preceding. It is then asked, and quite naturally, how 
 a man could swerve with any chance of success after the 
 spear was once through his corslet ? ^ But the fact is that 
 the poet never says, and, I take it, never means, that Paris 
 was foolish enough to wait till the spear was through any 
 of his armour whatsoever before he swerved. Corslet or no 
 corslet, it would go hard with him if he were so slow. The 
 poet trusts us to understand that Paris swerved aside in time, 
 swerved, that is, the moment the spear struck on his shield, 
 and so it only tears the tunic on the edge of his flank and 
 does not even scratch the flesh. The statements are made, 
 it is true, without this explanation, and are placed one after 
 the other without express subordination. But this is the 
 regular Homeric fashion : and the " paratactic " construc- 
 tion ought not to make us miss the inner connection.^ 
 
 Of course it is " a narrow shave " for Paris, and it is 
 plain from Menelaus' cry of reproach to Zeus (365-368) 
 that he too recognises it as such. 
 
 (5) When Pandarus shoots at Diomede in v. (97 fF.) 
 the arrow strikes the right shoulder-piece in front and 
 goes through into the flesh (98-100) ; but not surely out to 
 Diomede's back ! Nothing is said to suggest such a sur- 
 prising result ; indeed the wound is evidently quite slight 
 (106). The corslet is spattered with blood-drops at the 
 
 ' It may be noted that if this were the way to take the lines, it would 
 not mend matters simply to excise the mention of the corslet (358), for the 
 manoeuvre would have stil! less chance after the spear was through the 
 tunic! 
 
 ^ Indeed "paratactic" as the construction is, the very arrangement of 
 the sentences and the use of the particles are designed to indicate this con- 
 nection. The tiMv in 1. 357, describing the course of the spear after it strikes 
 the shield, calls for and is answered by the 5^ in 360, describing the move- 
 ment of Paris at the same time, and both sentences are put side by side 
 immediately after the leading statement about the first shock of the spear 
 upon the shield (356). 
 
 O 
 
2IO HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 first, but the arrow sticking in the wound prevents the full 
 gush of blood, and what issues after the first piercing could 
 only trickle slowly down underneath the armour. But 
 when Sthenelus pulls out the arrow, the blood shoots out 
 "like a javelin" (112, 113). 
 
 It may be suggested in passing that the blood would 
 spurt up all the more sharply if there was the pressure of 
 the close-fitting bronze about the aperture, and, I think it is 
 the poet's realisation of this condition that has led him to 
 the strong metaphor used. It spurts up, we are told, 
 " through the yielding shirt." ^ This may refer to (i) the 
 soft linen shirt worn below the corslet. The poet's imagi- 
 nation sees the blood staining and drenching the stuff, and 
 it is surely pedantic to demand a mention of the armour 
 again as essential. Or (2) the words may actually mean 
 the corslet itself. (In this case we must suppose scale- 
 armour.) This undoubtedly gives more point to the 
 epithet "yielding," "pliant"; but it may be admitted 
 that we should expect something more to show that " the 
 shirt " is here " the bronze shirt." Certainty is not 
 possible, but neither is it of great moment, for either in- 
 terpretation makes excellent sense. 
 
 I understand Sthenelus to draw the arrow out back- 
 wards [Siajunreph, as in xii. 398, where the buttress follows 
 Sarpedon's tug backwards). Indeed I cannot conceive how 
 the contrary can be thought possible. To get an arrow 
 right through a man's shoulder from front to back is 
 something too much of a surgical operation to be done by 
 hand on the open field ; and even if it were done, the 
 blood would not spurt out suddenly in the way described. 
 
 As Diomede does not take off his corslet, the jagged 
 edges of the broken bronze (scale or plate) must remain 
 round the wound, and as the wound is on his shoulder in 
 front, the baldric of the shield is liable to chafe it, and to 
 
 ' 5ii (TT/MTrToio x'Twyos. I follow Dr. Leaf in thinking " pliant " the most 
 natural meaning for nTpeirrbs. 
 
THE ARMOUR 211 
 
 chafe it all the more, we must observe, just because of 
 these edges, which would be pressed down on it by the rub 
 of the strap and hurt it very much, particularly if it got in- 
 flamed with Diomede's exertion, as it evidently does. There- 
 fore the presence of the corslet is not a reason against, but 
 an additional reason for, Diomede's action later on, when he 
 raises the baldric to ease the place and give the wound a 
 chance to cool (v. 795 iF.). As the breakage has left an 
 opening, he is not compelled to unfasten the corslet in order 
 to get at the wound and wipe away the blood. Moreover, 
 Diomede is the kind of man who would be sure to disarm 
 as little as possible : he does not, apparently, even take off 
 his shield ; and in any case he would have to wipe away the 
 clotted blood from the bronze before he lifted up the 
 corslet, or he might tear at the wound and hurt it more. 
 
 I imagine the use of the corslet to have come in with 
 the use of the round shield, and to be widely prevalent, 
 though not universal, in the Homeric world. It has been 
 thought that a custom which certainly seems both early and 
 widespread, " the rending of the (linen) tunic as a final 
 mark of triumph," tells against any such prevalence 
 (xi. 100 ; see Leaf, ai:i loc. ; ii. 416, and elsewhere). But it 
 seems to me to tell just the other way. The torn linen 
 tunic could have been no sign of the enemy's defeat, if he 
 had no other outer covering, for the simple reason that under 
 those circumstances it must always have been getting torn in 
 the melee whatever the warrior's fate. But the sign would 
 have been unmistakable if the tunic was usually covered by 
 the corslet and could not be torn until that was taken off, 
 for in battle it would only be taken off by the man who 
 spoiled the slain. The brevity and comparative infre- 
 quency of the references to the corslet can be explained on 
 the simple and natural supposition that it was not so 
 important a part of the panoply as the shield, helmet, and 
 spear. 
 
 The result of this long analysis appears to be that the 
 
212 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 references to the corslet, far from causing confusion or 
 absurdity, confirm each other by their vividness and con- 
 sistency. And I would add that the theory opposed to 
 this, the theory that a warlike audience, versed in the use 
 of the corslet, insisted on its introduction in the poems, and 
 yet never objected to the absurdities it introduced, — such a 
 theory cannot bear thinking out. If fighting-men wanted 
 to hear of the corslet so much, they would at least insist 
 on its making sense in the fight. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 
 
 Of all the parallels found for the Homeric poems, the 
 nearest is furnished by the great Icelandic prose sagas of 
 the tenth to the thirteenth centuries a.d. There are 
 marked and obvious differences, but the likeness, when all 
 deductions are made, is still great, so great that detailed 
 comparison may be fruitful in more ways than one. 
 
 In that Northern island, two millenniums after the 
 Homeric age, a kindred yet diverse people, under kindred 
 yet diverse conditions, began to work out for themselves 
 another noble literature, based, like the heroic poems of the 
 South, on " the deeds of men." The men were free men 
 of the white stock : they were laying the first foundations 
 of free government in the new land to which they had 
 sailed : they were making civil society there, making it 
 deliberately, and yet they were warriors and explorers first 
 of all. " With law," says Njal, as Odysseus might have 
 said — " with law shall our land be built up, and with law- 
 lessness wasted and spoiled " : and peculiar respect is felt 
 in Iceland, as in Greece, for the man who can give good 
 counsel in suits-at-law.^ 
 
 Yet the Icelander, like Achilles, held it a duty above all 
 other duties to avenge, independently of law, the friends 
 who were foully slain. Like Odysseus, he loved his home, 
 and yet, like Odysseus also, he was fain to go sea-faring 
 
 1 " The Story of Burnt Njal," c. 69 (Dasent's translation) ; cp. II. xviii. 
 497-508; Od. ix. 112-115. The translations are all taken, with the altera- 
 tion of a word or two for purposes of quotation, from Dasent's splendid 
 version. The numbering of the chapters follows his. 
 
214 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 over the known and the unknown world, and the man who 
 met him might well ask if he was pirate, merchantman, or 
 prince. Like Odysseus, he could win honour and gifts 
 wherever he went : the Earls of the Scottish isles, the royal 
 houses of Ireland and Scandinavia, the Pope at Rome, the 
 Imperial Guard at Micklegarth,^ welcomed the Icelander. 
 Yet to him, as to Odysseus, nothing was sweeter than his 
 home in the rocky island that lay far out in the West, the 
 barren land that was the nurse of heroes (Od. ix. init.). 
 Odysseus and Calypso, Odysseus and Circe, come before 
 our memories in the scene where Gunnhilda of Norway 
 would fain keep Hrut at her side, but knows by her woman's 
 wit that he hankers for his home and his betrothed in Ice- 
 land, and sends him back thither in peace and with precious 
 gifts, but lays a spell on him none the less (Njal, c. vi.). 
 Alcinous does no more honour to Odysseus than the King 
 of Denmark does to Gunnar, " letting him prove himself in 
 diverse feats of strength against his men, and there were 
 none that were his match in even one feat " ; desirous to 
 wed him to his own kinswoman, " and raise him to great 
 power if he would settle in the land " (Njal, c. 31). 
 
 From the past there came to these Northerners a 
 wonderful and stirring mythology, and at the same time 
 dreams of a new and gentler religion were beginning to stir 
 in their own hearts. There are obvious differences, as I 
 said, between these men and the Homeric Greeks : they 
 were less supple, far less sensitive to beauty : they had not 
 the grace, the refinement, the delicacy of manner. And 
 they were of far stronger stuff: they could not lie readily; 
 they could never turn before an enemy, nor cry out when 
 they were hurt. They die fighting with a grim jest on their 
 lips, and their souls go in triumph to Valhalla ; not one of 
 them flutters out indignata sub umbras. They are at once 
 more passionate and more self-controlled, fiercer and more 
 generous : they think even less of taking life than a Greek : 
 ^ The Northern name for Constantinople. 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 215 
 
 in peace, as in war, men are cut down ruthlessly for a trivial 
 slight : and yet, on almost every page, we meet with a tale 
 tike the tale of Vestein,^ who, riding with two friends at his 
 side on a doubtful errand, chances to learn of an ambush 
 ahead, and at once finds a pretext for sending his comrades 
 back to safety, while he rides forward to meet the danger by 
 himself. 
 
 But the likenesses are at least as significant as the 
 diiFerences, and both perhaps are reflected best in their 
 greatest achievement, the saga of Njal. It and its fellows 
 are all written in prose, compact and rough, but through 
 the austerity, even the harshness of the form, it is plain to 
 see how the same elements of life and of passion that 
 appealed to the Greek struck fire from the Icelander as 
 well. 
 
 In drawing out the comparison, it is true, one must be 
 careful not to claim more for the Icelandic than the early 
 beginnings of epic, but the character of that beginning 
 remains of high significance. In the first place, what we 
 find is plainly the stuff for an epic of the Homeric type, 
 not the Virgilian, drawing its inspiration rather from the 
 deeds and adventures of definite individual men than from 
 the vast historic processes that depend upon the multitude. 
 The figures are always persons, never mere generic types, 
 as in Virgil's poem. There iEneas stands for the endur- 
 ance, tenacity, and " piety " of Rome, and Turnus for the 
 stormy forces in opposition ; they are not men we know 
 and love for themselves ; but Odysseus stands for Odysseus, 
 and we feel that we could recognise him as the old nurse 
 did : Gunnar of Lithend stands for Gunnar of Lithend, 
 and we should be indignant if any one else were offered in 
 his place; the tears we give for Skarphedinn are for 
 Skarphedinn, not for heroism in general. The Homeric 
 epic, it is true, has a much vaster sweep than the Icelandic, 
 but it never loses this characteristic note of individualism. 
 
 ' Saga of Gisli. 
 
2i6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 In Homer, as in the sagas, the individual is dominant from 
 first to last ; the nation is in the background. 
 
 It is entirely in accordance with this spirit that both the 
 Homeric bards and the Icelandic sagamen take such delight 
 in the personal encounters between man and man, and it is 
 not surprising that some of the most obvious likenesses 
 between the Homeric and the Icelandic work are to be 
 found in this connection. It is true that the fighting in 
 the sagas is limited to such encounters, while in the Iliad 
 we have the shock of mighty armies, " far on the ringing 
 plains of windy Troy," but within its limits the likeness is 
 remarkable. There is the same passion for personal re- 
 nown, the same desire " if a man must die in any case, to 
 do first some such deed as shall be held aloft for a long 
 time afterwards." This saying of Kjartan's in the Laxdale 
 Saga might almost be a paraphrase of Hector's last resolve, 
 or of Sarpedon's words to Glaucus at the wall. And the 
 joy the narrator feels in describing the battle is the same : 
 it is the satisfaction in the sheer energy of man stamping 
 itself unmistakably upon the world ; the irresistible rush of 
 Hector through the gates, the sudden unveiling of Odysseus 
 before the suitors, these give us the same delight that 
 we feel when Kari strides up the crowded hall of Sigurd 
 the Earl, and cuts down the liar before his face ; the same 
 delight that we get from Skarphedinn's words : " This axe 
 I had in my hand when I leapt twelve ells across Markfleet, 
 and slew Thrain, Sigfus' son, and eight of them stood before 
 me, and none of them could touch me. Never have I 
 aimed weapon at man that I have not smitten him " (Njal, 
 c. 119). 
 
 Above all, the details show that the fighting, in both 
 literatures, is described by men who know how the work is 
 done for the benefit of men who want to hear. Nothing is 
 blurred or shirked : the warrior's craft is felt to be too 
 interesting and too important for that : each movement is 
 so clearly seen that one might almost make a model of 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 217 
 
 the figures in every leading group. Nothing, indeed, is 
 more remarkable in the Homeric battle-pieces than this 
 cool precision of statement in the midst of the poetic glow. 
 The Northern prose lacks the splendour of the Greek 
 poetry, but it has just the same precision. The framework 
 of the structure, so to speak, is the same. 
 
 Take this Homeric passage, chosen almost at haphazard, 
 from the struggle round the wall in Book xii., where Ajax 
 and Teucer come to the rescue against the Lycians under 
 Glaucus and Sarpedon. (I have omitted the brilliant 
 epithets and one parenthesis, but otherwise the translation 
 is nearly literal.) 
 
 "Ajax was the first to kill his man, Sarpedon's friend, 
 the valiant Epicles. He seized a jagged stone that lay 
 inside the wall . . . and hurled it at his head. It shattered 
 the helmet and broke the bones of the skull in pieces, and 
 the man dropped from the tower like a diver into the sea, 
 and the life left him then and there. And Teucer shot at 
 Glaucus as he was climbing on the wall, where he saw that 
 his shoulder was left bare, and so he stopped his rush. 
 Glaucus slipped down quietly from the wall, so that none of 
 the Greeks should know that he was hurt and make a boast 
 of it. Sarpedon saw that he was gone, and his heart sank 
 at the thought, but still he went on with the fight. He 
 thrust at Alcma^on, Thestor's son, and smote him, and 
 then drew back his spear, and Alcmaeon fell face forward 
 on the shaft, and the bronze armour rang as he fell " (II. 
 
 xii- 378-396). 
 
 Put this side by side with Kari's struggle against three 
 men who come at him together : Mord, Sigmund, and 
 Lambi (Njal, c. 145). 
 
 " Lambi ran behind Kari's back and thrust at him with 
 a spear ; Kari caught sight of him and leapt up as the 
 blow fell, and stretched his legs far apart, so the blow spent 
 itself on the ground, and Kari jumped down on the spear- 
 shaft and snapped it in sunder. He had a spear in one 
 
2i8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 hand and a sword in the other, but no shield. He thrust 
 with the right hand at Sigmund and smote him on the 
 breast, and the spear came out between his shoulders, and 
 down he fell and was dead at once. With his left hand he 
 made a cut at Mord, and smote him on the hip, and cut it 
 asunder and his backbone too : he fell flat on his face, and 
 was dead at once. After that Kari turned sharp round on 
 his heel like a whipping-top and made at Lambi, but Lambi 
 took the only way to save himself, and that was by running 
 away as hard as he could." 
 
 It is needless to labour the parallels here : from the 
 careful insistence on the way the weapons did their work, 
 and the keen sense (almost like a sculptor's) for the exact 
 significance of each warrior's position and posture, down to 
 the use of a homely little metaphor to make the scene flash 
 out before us. Even the sequence and arrangement of the 
 sentences is the same : point after point of the action stated 
 simply, without subordination, and yet in such a way as to 
 make us feel the close connection and swiftness of the 
 whole. There is nothing in the Hebrew battle-pieces of 
 this accurate detail : there is none of this simplicity in the 
 Virgilian encounters. Even in Malory spear-play and 
 sword-play are not told of with this familiar zest, this 
 interest in the actual and deadly strokes : compared with 
 Homer and the Sagas, the fighting is but the fighting of a 
 tourney. The likeness throughout is heightened by the 
 similarity of the weapons. The fighting is mostly done on 
 foot, mainly with spear, sword, axe, and shield. Corslets 
 are worn, but not always, and sometimes, as sometimes in 
 Homer, even the shield is discarded. At the same time the 
 greatest chieftains are proud to show their prowess with the 
 bow. 
 
 Gunnar before his foemen, twenty-five in all, with only 
 his brother Kolskegg at his side, is curiously like Odysseus 
 facing the suitors with Telemachus and the herdsmen. 
 " Gunnar strings his bow," says the saga, " and takes his 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 219 
 
 arrows and throws them on the ground before him, and 
 shoots as soon as ever the foemen come within shot. . . . 
 Then Thorgeir spoke and said, ' This is no use : let us 
 make for him as hard as we can.' They did so, and first 
 went Aunund the fair, Thorgeir's kinsman. Gunnar hurled 
 his bill at him and it fell on his shield and clove it in twain, 
 but the bill rushed through Aunund. Augmund Shockhead 
 rushed at Gunnar behind his back. Kolskegg saw that and 
 cut off at once both Augmund's legs from under him and 
 hurled him out into Rangriver, and he was drowned there 
 and then. Then a hard battle arose" (Njal, c. 71). 
 
 Even so Odysseus springs to the great threshold, the 
 bow and quiver in his hand, pours out the arrows at his 
 feet, and shoots Antinous dead. Then Eurymachus cries, 
 " ' This man will have no mercy. He will shoot us down so 
 long as there is one of us left alive. Draw your swords, . . . 
 and let us all set upon him at once.' As he spoke he drew 
 his sword and sprang forward with a cry ; and at the same 
 moment Odysseus shot. The arrow struck him in the 
 breast, and he dropped forward over the table, while the 
 mist of death sank upon his eyes. Then Amphinomus 
 made a rush on the doorway. But Telemachus was too 
 quick for him : he hurled his spear and struck him from 
 behind between the shoulders, and he fell crashing on the 
 floor " (abbreviated from Od. xxii. 69-94). Then the fight 
 grows hard, and Odysseus has need of shield and spear. 
 
 It is worth noting also how well both sagamen and 
 Homeric poets understand the special fascination and ex- 
 citement of a life-and-death struggle inside an ordinary 
 dwelling-house. The hemming-in, the desperate efforts to 
 get out, the horror of the familiar quarters now become a 
 death-trap, the varying fortunes of the fight, due to the 
 seizure by each side of the advantages the building may 
 give to each, the sudden importance that trivial points of 
 domestic arrangement thus assume — all the peculiar features 
 of the situation, and their peculiar value for poetry, are 
 
220 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 brought out to the full, not only by the poet of the 
 vengeance in the hall of Odysseus, but by the sagamen who 
 told of Gunnar's death-fight at Lithend, of Njal and his 
 sons inside the burning house, of Grettir and his brother in 
 their hut. The work on either side bears the stamp of 
 men who know the conditions at first-hand, and to whom 
 the conditions appeal in the same way. 
 
 Only we miss throughout the Icelandic the brilliant 
 decoration of Homer, and throughout the Greek the stern 
 humour of the North. This is not to say that there is 
 no decoration at all in the sagas, any more than it is to 
 deny humour to Iliad or Odyssey. And the way decora- 
 tion appeals to the Icelander may be seen from the first 
 appearance of the noble Kari. One single ship with Njal's 
 sons aboard is defending itself against thirteen Vikings. 
 Kari is sailing by with ten ships of his own. Knowing 
 nothing of the quarrel nor who the men may be, on seeing 
 the fight he rows up with all speed simply out of interest 
 for the weaker side. Njal's sons catch sight of him as the 
 ships draw near (Njal, c. 83). 
 
 "Along their sides were shield on shield, but on the 
 ship that came first stood a man by the mast who was clad 
 in a silken kirtle, and had a gilded helm, and his hair was 
 both fair and thick ; that man had a spear inlaid with gold 
 in his hand." 
 
 This can bear comparison with the entry of any Greek 
 hero, except where the great metaphors are used. And 
 here again every portion of the detail deserves notice, the 
 single figure standing out distinct and clear on the deck, 
 the soft folds of the tunic, the long fair hair, the gleaming 
 helmet, the glittering spear. Homeric phrases and images 
 crowd upon us as we read : fair-haired Menelaus, the long- 
 haired Achaians, the golden helmet of Achilles, the light 
 striking on the gold ring round Hector's spear-shaft, 
 Odysseus on the prow straining his eyes for the monster 
 he is determined to fight. 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 221 
 
 There is true similarity again in the treatment of" Nature 
 as a setting for the adventures of man. This appears 
 strikingly in such a passage as this, one that gives the very 
 romance of sea-faring and might have come straight out 
 of the Odyssey (Njal, c. 152) : — 
 
 " They had quite lost their reckoning, and sailed on and 
 on, and all at once three great waves broke over their ship, 
 one after the other. Then Flosi said they must be near 
 some land, and that this was a ground-swell. A great 
 mist was on them, but the wind rose so that a great gale 
 overtook them, and they scarce knew where they were 
 before they were dashed on shore at dead of night. . . . 
 Then they had to look for shelter and warmth for 
 themselves, and the day after they went up on a 
 height." 
 
 We think of the island off the Cyclops' den, and of 
 Odysseus' tale how " we ran in there on a dark night and 
 some god must have been our guide ; for there was no 
 moon, and the mist lay thick over the sea so that none of 
 us saw the land nor the long rollers on the beach until the 
 ships were aground" (Od. ix. 142-148). We think of his 
 adventure on the raft, from the moment when the huge 
 wave swept over him down to his landing at nightfall when 
 he creeps for shelter under the bush (Od. v.). We think 
 of the time when he and his men " had lost all reckoning 
 of east and west," and came to an unknown shore, and 
 Odysseus went up on a height to spy out the land and 
 found it was an island, as Flosi and his men discover here 
 (Od. X. 140 fF.). Of course the Greek is far more elaborate 
 and polished, but the foundation is the same. These are the 
 rough blocks straight from the quarry : the Greek gives 
 the perfect finished building. But the quarry for both 
 is from the same mountain. We are scarcely surprised 
 to find Flosi's death coming to him from the sea, with the 
 same mystery, the same note of adventure at the end of 
 life, that the poet of the Odyssey knew how to put into 
 
222 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 his lines. Flosi is an Icelandic Ulysses, as Dasent pointed 
 out long ago : — 
 
 " Men say that the end of Flosi's life was, that he fared 
 abroad when he had grown old ; ... and he was in Norway 
 that winter, and the next summer he was late getting ready 
 for sea, and . . . men told him that his ship was not 
 seaworthy. 
 
 " Flosi said she was quite good enough for an old and 
 death-doomed man, and he bore his goods on shipboard 
 and put out to sea. But of that ship no tidings were ever 
 heard" (Njal, c. 158). 
 
 The general conditions of the life are almost purely 
 Homeric, and come before us with Homeric freshness ; the 
 open life in hall and bower, the men and women, though 
 they have thralls to serve them, taking pride to work 
 themselves with their own hands. When we read how 
 Gunnar of Lithend goes down to his field, a corn-sieve 
 in one hand and in the other a battle-axe, and how he lays 
 his axe and his cloak of fine stuff down beside him, and 
 sows his corn himself, as a matter of course (Njal, c. 53), 
 when we rejoice over this union of warrior, farm-labourer, 
 and mighty chieftain in one, we should not fail to remember 
 how Odysseus sets his prowess in fighting and his prowess 
 in reaping and ploughing side by side and claims to be 
 chief in all, and how Laertes is found toiling among the 
 thorns and looking like a king. With the same stately 
 simplicity Bergthora sets meat on the board for her husband 
 Njal and his stalwart sons, and Gudruna goes down to wash 
 the linen as Nausicaa might do. 
 
 The whole position of women, indeed, is much the 
 same, and the spell of a woman for good or evil is felt 
 in the same way. The faithfulness of a wife never had 
 nobler showing than in Bergthora's words when she refuses 
 to leave her husband in the burning house : " I was given 
 away to Njal young, and I have promised him this, that 
 we would both share the same fate" (Njal, c. 128). And 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 223 
 
 on the other hand, like a destroying spirit, Hallgerda moves 
 through the story (as Gudruna does in the Laxdaela), 
 beautiful and baneful, a desire to the noblest men and their 
 destruction. She has a strange likeness to Helen, this 
 fairest of women, with her many husbands and her one 
 fair daughter, but here the Greek is infinitely superior in 
 delicacy and tenderness of drawing : Hallgerda has none 
 of Helen's mysterious charm and none of her softness. 
 
 But if Hallgerda resembles Helen at all, most surely 
 Njal reminds us of Priam, the old man, calm and wise, 
 courteous and large-hearted, surrounded by his sons and 
 their wives, the man who can look before and after, whose 
 word is trusted by all men (Njal, c. 77), who foretells his 
 own death (c. no), and meets it in his own house, whose 
 sons are the pride of his heart, and yet bring ruin on them- 
 selves, and on him, by their headstrong deeds, who knows 
 all that a warrior should do, and all that beseems a man of 
 honour, and yet never lifts the sword himself. Like Priam 
 he is overwhelmed by the tragedy, being himself absolutely 
 blameless in heart and in mind. The storm of wrong and 
 vengeance sweeps round him, and because of his own love 
 and sympathy drags him into its net, but all the influences 
 that issue from him are the influences that make for 
 wisdom and reconciliation. He will not desert his sons, 
 and so he dies in the house with them, but it is always he 
 that offers atonement in their quarrels, if it be consistent 
 with honour. The reverence that Priam wins from Mene- 
 laus and Achilles — the two sworn enemies of his sons — may 
 well be put side by side with the respect and pity that 
 Flosi feels for Njal, even at the very moment when the 
 passion of the strife has led the younger man to the 
 outrage of the Burning. On Greek, as on Icelander, the 
 same impression was made by the peculiar dignity and 
 pathos of a noble ' old-age among a people at perpetual 
 strife. The old mother, too, waiting at home for the 
 warrior son that she will not see again, we find her in Asdis 
 
224 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 the mother of Grettir, as in Anticlela the mother of 
 Odysseus, though Asdis is of a mettle that Anticleia does 
 not show. 
 
 And just as the deeper elements in the Homeric 
 religion well up in that last Book of the Iliad, where the 
 pathos of old-age is at the highest, till the very words of 
 Iris, Thetis, and Priam startle us by their likeness to the 
 language of the Bible, so do the Christian elements in the 
 Icelandic tale come to the fore in that great scene of the 
 Burning, where the horror is lost in our exultation over the 
 valour and endurance. " Keep up your hearts," Njal says 
 to the frightened maids, " and put your faith in God." 
 And when he and his wife lie down calmly in their bed, 
 with their little grandson between them, to wait without a 
 groan for their death, we read how " they signed them- 
 selves and the boy with the cross, and gave over their souls 
 into God's hand, and that was the last word that men heard 
 them utter" (c. 128). 
 
 As in the Greek poem, so in the Icelandic prose, this 
 solemnity is all the more impressive from its rareness. It 
 is with human life, and not with superhuman, that both 
 have their chief concern. In the religious attitude at large, 
 indeed, there are other points of likeness which are well 
 worth drawing out, in spite of the manifest differences. 
 The mythological element, no doubt, gives a fairy charm 
 to the Greek which the Icelandic does not possess. Magic 
 and mythology are kept in the background there. And 
 what does come forward comes with an iron ring that is not 
 heard in the South. Grettir's wrestle with the ghost is a 
 wrestle with a creature that can break men's backs in sunder: 
 when the twelve Valkyries ride to the lonely house before 
 the battle, it is to weave the web of war with swords for the 
 shuttles and men's heads for the weights (Njal, c. 156). 
 And the outlook after death is quite different : the North- 
 men had always looked to Valhalla, that great hall above 
 the sky roofed with golden shields, as the place where the 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 225 
 
 warriors meet : it was only the base and the weak who need 
 fear the dim realm of Hela. But the outlook on life itself 
 is essentially the same. 
 
 Both Homer's heroes and the Icelanders never lose the 
 sense of fate, and both draw a stern comfort from it. 
 Gunnar answers the entreaties of his brother to be on 
 his guard by the quiet words, " Death will come to me 
 when it will come, wherever I may be, if that is my 
 fate" (Njal, c. 67). Just so Hector, Gunnar's brother 
 in soul, would comfort Andromache, " No man can 
 send me to my death before my time, and no man can 
 escape his doom when once the hour has come " (II. vi. 
 487-489). Nor, in either case, is this consciousness of 
 destiny suffered to give any chill to action. Hjort, 
 Gunnar's brother, believes the dream that foretells his own 
 death at Gunnar's side, but he will not listen to Gunnar's 
 entreaty to leave him because of it: "I will not do that," 
 says Hjort ; " though I know my death is sure, I will stand 
 by thee still " (Njal, c. 61). It is the very spirit of Achilles' 
 answer to Thetis, when she foretells his death if he persists 
 in the path of honour : " Let it come at once, since I could 
 not save my friend ! " (II. xviii. 98, 99). 
 
 Though many of them believe in dreams and omens, 
 the heroes, Southern and Northern alike, will not let 
 themselves be bound by them. Just as Hector sweeps 
 aside the omen at the trench — " the best omen is this, 
 to fight for the fatherland !" (II. xii. 243) — so the sons of 
 Yngvillda laugh at her fateful dream before they set out 
 on their disastrous errand ; and say that it should not 
 "stand in the way of their ride to the Thing" (Njal, 
 c. 133). Some of the Icelanders have the second-sight, 
 like Theoclymenus in the Odyssey, and as with Theo- 
 clymenus, it is often a family gift. " Helgi," says Kari, " is 
 like enough to have it, for his father has " (c. 84). There 
 is no divination by sacrifice in the sagas, any more than 
 there is in the Homeric poems, but, on the other hand, as 
 
 p 
 
226 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 in the Homeric poems, birds are noticed and their flight. 
 "Two ravens flew along with them all the way" (Njal, c. 
 78), and the sight gladdens the hearts of the adventurers, 
 much as the omen of the eagle comforts Priam and his 
 people when he is setting out (II. xxiv. 315 £F.). 
 
 But what is perhaps more important to note is the 
 poetic skill, the combined discretion and daring, with which 
 the omens are used in each literature. They are slightly 
 touched on where the interest is slight, and the cool 
 scepticism of the doubters is constantly used to heighten 
 the sense of actuality. Hogni is so distrustful of portents 
 that his friends shrink from telling him the signs at his 
 dead father's cairn (Njal, c. 77). So in the Iliad Nestor is 
 little prepared to accept Agamemnon's dream, and Priam 
 speaks contemptuously of soothsayers. But as the events 
 move towards some great disaster the signs will increase 
 and deepen : prophecy after prophecy comes to Gunnar 
 from Njal, as to Achilles from Thetis, and at last, just 
 before Gunnar's death, the half-human dog who has been 
 his guardian gives his master one strange howl of warning 
 as he gets his own death-blow. The voice of the faithful 
 immortal horse foretelling Achilles' doom, as he goes into 
 the battle, stirs us in the same sort of way, the supernatural 
 portent blending with the natural sympathy between animal 
 and man (Njal, c. 75 ; II. xix. fin.). The omens in the 
 Odyssey, advancing from the first dream of Penelope to the 
 dread vision of Theoclymenus, when the board drips with 
 blood before his eyes and the hall is filled with darkness, 
 and the faces of the suitors seem wet with tears (Od. xx. 
 351 fF.) — these all find their analogues in the dark omens 
 that gather round Njal, his wife, and his sons, as events 
 move towards the Burning. Over the face of Skarphedinn 
 their hero comes an " unlucky " look that man after man 
 can see : misgivings deepen in Njal's foreseeing mind : an 
 old wife at Bergthorsknoll entreats them to burn the vetch- 
 stack behind the house, or it will be set on fire "when Njal 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 227 
 
 my master is burnt, house and all, and Bergthora my 
 foster-child." And last of all, Njal looks up when supper 
 is spread at evening, " and it seems as though the gable 
 wall were thrown down, and the whole board and the meat 
 on it is one gore of blood" (Njal, c. 126). 
 
 The likeness here to the Odyssey has often been noticed, 
 and indeed it is almost verbal, but neither here nor else- 
 where is the likeness of the kind that suggests borrowing. 
 Borrowing indeed is almost precluded by the gap in space 
 and time, even though we might admit that at Constanti- 
 nople an Icelander may have heard Homeric tales. Nor 
 does the likeness seem to imply even a common stock of 
 stories from the distant past. Where there is such a 
 common stock, just as where there is borrowing, we expect 
 one or both of two things : the sequence of events in the 
 tales must be noticeably similar, or similar set phrases must 
 re-occur. But neither condition is present here. The like- 
 nesses are all independent likenesses of spirit. A people of 
 the same general character have worked themselves into the 
 same stage of development, and the same elements in that 
 stage appeal to their poetic sense. How far this may 
 imply racial affinity it is hard to say. To some extent 
 it surely must. It may be that it only shows the unity 
 underlying the diversity in the different branches of the 
 Indo - European family. Followers of Professor Ridge- 
 way will go further and claim that it makes strongly for 
 some form of his theory that the Achaians were really 
 Northerners, markedly different from the Mgxa.n people 
 among whom they came, and with whom they amalgamated, 
 and that the Homeric poems are sprung from the union of 
 the Northern vigour and nobility with the exquisite art of 
 the South. 
 
 But our business now is not with these obscure racial 
 problems. Whatever may be the truth on these points, 
 if the Icelanders were, to any substantial extent, making 
 the same kind of epic out of the same kind of stuff as the 
 
22 8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Homeric poets before them, the characteristic points in the 
 spirit and structure of their work may well throw light on 
 " Homer." 
 
 It is worth noticing, for instance, that the sagas un- 
 doubtedly are woven round an important core of fact. 
 This is proved by their references to historic events which 
 are known and can be dated, and by the cross-references to 
 the characters that reappear in different sagas in such a way 
 as to confirm and elucidate one another. Of course this 
 concern with actual events did not prevent the play of fancy 
 on the part of the individual sagaman, and of course on such 
 play the final greatness of the saga depended. But it shows 
 well how this kind of epic loves a basis of actual fact. 
 
 Again, one of the characteristics that strike us most in 
 their story-telling is the quiet manner in which the points 
 are so often made. One little remark may be slid in un- 
 obtrusively, and, chapters after, it comes into our minds, 
 if we are alert, with a flash : if we are not, we miss it alto- 
 gether. For instance, the story of Njal opens with Hrut 
 noticing " the thief s eyes " in the beautiful face of his 
 niece Hallgerda. No comment is made, then or afterwards, 
 but in the forty-eighth chapter we hear of the theft that 
 brings destruction on her husband, the stainless hero Gunnar. 
 This too is the way that Homer works, and such work is 
 only done by those who have a keen eye for the far-reaching 
 issues of character, and a sense for the inner unity that char- 
 acter gives to a tale. 
 
 Not that it could be claimed for a moment that the 
 Icelandic tales ever show a unity anything like so pro- 
 found and organic as the Homeric. The saga is told as a 
 history, not worked up into one symmetric poem. Char- 
 acters are born, grow up and die, enter into the tale and 
 pass out of it, in a way that would be impossible to the 
 Greek. In no sense could Njala be called " one action," as 
 the Iliad might be called, with all its additions. Aristotle's 
 test of unity for an epic — ^whether it would provide one 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 229 
 
 tragedy or many — might seem to condemn the Icelandic 
 saga out of hand as scarcely more than a string of events. 
 But the condemnation would be hasty. There is a real 
 feeling after unity, though oftfen the result is rather to be 
 compared to the unity of a great biography or a Tolstoyan 
 novel than to the compact themes of the Iliad or the 
 Odyssey, either of which could be told in a couple of 
 sentences. We have in the Icelandic only the beginnings 
 of the great epic style, as I said at first, but just because 
 they are the beginnings, they may be all the more import- 
 ant. They help to illustrate the temper of this type of 
 epic in its youth, and thus it is of high importance to note 
 the love that they show for a long sweep of narrative, for a 
 persistent onward movement until a close is reached that 
 can be felt as really final. The Njala, the Laxdasla, the 
 saga of Gisli, all these indeed carry the tale as far as it will 
 go, to the very death of their chief characters. They do 
 not demand, they are hardly susceptible of, a later " con- 
 clusion " : it is clear that here, at least, what is wanted for 
 further development is not addition, so much as selection 
 and omission. The sagaman's danger now is that he will 
 go on with his story too long, not that he will stop too 
 soon : he cannot be content as a rule until he has come to 
 his hero's grave. Only too often Epic in its childhood will 
 want, like other children, to begin at the beginning and 
 go on to the end, as Horace was not slow to perceive. 
 This tendency should at least be borne in mind when we 
 are asked to believe that it is natural to Epic at this 
 stage to stop with an abrupt, ragged ending, such as that 
 imagined by the critics who would close the original Iliad 
 with the picture of Hector's mangled body lying outraged 
 on the field, with no answer to the question whether ven- 
 geance was ever taken or atonement ever made. 
 
 And the further question, the more interesting question, 
 whether we may take it as likely that the heroic Epic would 
 be content to close on a note of ferocity and cruelty, that 
 
230 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 too may find some answer from a study of the conception 
 that binds together the second division of the Njala. For 
 this is nothing more nor less than the progress of a life-and- 
 death quarrel between brave foes, on through wrong and ven- 
 geance to peace and reconciliation. Flosi, noble-hearted but 
 passionate, is dragged into a truceless strife with the sons of 
 Njal and their kin. When his blood is up he does a shame- 
 ful deed, a deed just as outrageous as the most savage act 
 of Achilles. Flosi never deceives himself about it : he 
 knows quite well what he is doing when he burns Njal and 
 his men in their house. One man gets away, Njal's son-in- 
 law, the dauntless Kari. The case is brought before the 
 Althing and goes against the Burners. Flosi is to pay fines 
 and be banished for a term and make a pilgrimage to Rome. 
 The rest of Njal's kin take the atonement, but Kari will 
 have none of these half-measures : he stands out for his 
 right of private vengeance, his hand against the Burners, 
 and theirs, if they so choose, against him. He cuts them 
 down wherever he meets them, all except Flosi, and always 
 sends Flosi word of what he has done. Flosi never lifts his 
 hand against Kari, never utters a word of anger. When 
 Kari is blamed he answers, " There is no man left in Iceland 
 like him, and I wish my mind were shapen altogether like 
 his." It is he that stands up for Kari in the hall of Sigurd 
 the Earl, when Kari cuts down one of the Burners before 
 Sigurd's face, and the Earl would have vengeance taken on 
 the spot. " Then Flosi spoke and said, ' Kari is in no 
 atonement with us, and he only did what he had a right 
 to do.' " 
 
 Step by step the two noble foes are drawing nearer each 
 other. At last Kari, sailing home to Iceland in the autumn, 
 is wrecked on the coast, on the very land of Swinefell, Flosi's 
 home (Njal, c. 158). 
 
 " Their ship was dashed all in pieces, but the men's 
 lives were saved. Then, too, a gale of wind came on them. 
 
 " Now they ask Kari what counsel was to be taken ; but 
 
HOMER AND THE ICELANDIC SAGAS 231 
 
 he said their best plan was to go to Swinefell and put Flosi's 
 manhood to the proof. 
 
 " So they went right up to Swinefell in the storm. 
 Fiosi was in the hall. He knew Kari as soon as ever he 
 came into the hall, and sprang up to meet him, and kissed 
 him, and sate him down in the high seat by his side. 
 
 " Flosi asked Kari to be there with him that winter, and 
 Kari took his oiFer. Then they were atoned with a full 
 atonement." 
 
 Is not this the same metal, though in the rough ore, as 
 the gold that is worked into the perfect ring of the twenty- 
 fourth Iliad ? And for the Icelandic it could not be suggested 
 that the last chapter is a later addition to the tale, designed 
 to bring it into harmony with the feelings of a more civilised 
 age. Throughout all the sagas indeed, the perpetual union 
 of savagery and chivalry, of fierceness and tenderness, has 
 a direct bearing on the question of the Homeric temper. 
 Skarphedinn, " the most soldier-like of men," stops in mid- 
 fight to give his life to the lad who lives to be his deadliest 
 foe, gives it, though he knows the danger, because the 
 boy's brother is his friend. " I cannot find it in my heart 
 to do both : help Hogni and slay his brother." And the 
 sagaman's exultant sympathy with Skarphedinn's exploits 
 does not prevent his even deeper sympathy with Hauskuld 
 the priest of Whiteness, whom Skarphedinn, misled by 
 slander, killed " for less than no cause," and who " said 
 these words as he fell, ' God help me, and forgive you ! ' " 
 (Njal, cc. 91, no). 
 
 Passion may sweep aside the sense of right and wrong for 
 the time, but in a generous heart that sense will always 
 return, and the sagamen know this well. It is shameful 
 to mutilate the dead, and yet it can be done in the flush of 
 a fierce triumph, as it is done by the slayers of Grettir. 
 Yet they know the greatness of the man they have killed. 
 " We have laid a mighty warrior low," they say, just as 
 Achilles says of Hector, in the very midst of the outrage. 
 
232 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 And the Icelanders would have understood the taunt in the 
 same hour over the fallen hero : " He is softer to handle- 
 now than when he fired the ships" (II. xxii. 373, 374). 
 The saga indeed has almost the same words (though 
 not uttered as a taunt) about the dead Skarphedinn : 
 "All men said that they thought it better to be near 
 Skarphedinn dead than they weened, for no man was 
 afraid of him " (Njal, c 131).^ But if that passage recalls 
 the grimness of the twenty-second Iliad, in the very 
 same chapter we have a picture that brings to mind the 
 peace of the twenty-fourth, where Hector lies at rest, with his 
 wounds closed and the dew of heaven on his limbs, a sign 
 that the gods had watched over him (II. xxiv. 750 fF.). 
 Njal's body is found in death after the Burning, unburnt, 
 and brighter than could be said : " All men praised God 
 for this and thought it a great token." The saga finds no 
 difficulty in combining the two points of view. And we 
 too, when we read the tales, we seem to realise that, at least 
 in the high moods of poetry, the more the heart is fired by 
 the real glory of passion and of battle, the better it can 
 understand the greater glory of generosity, pity, and 
 reconciliation. 
 
 » Noticed by Leaf, " Iliad," ad loc. 
 
APPENDICES 
 
APPENDIX A 
 
 ILIAD 
 
 CONSPECTUS OF THE ORIGINAL AND THE ADDITIONS 
 
 Original. 
 
 {First Part, c. 2,700 lines.) 
 
 Book i. 1-611 end. 
 
 The Quarrel between Achilles 
 
 and Agamemnon. 
 Achilles retires from the War. 
 
 Additions. 
 
 Book ii. 1-92, 455-483, 761-815. Book ii. 93-454, 484-760, 816- 
 
 877 end. 
 The Abortive Assembly. 
 The Catalogue of the Ships. 
 The Trojan Catalogue. 
 
 Agamemnon's Dream. 
 The Arming of the Greeks. 
 The Arming of the Trojans. 
 
 Book iii. 1-461 end. 
 
 Paris and Menelaus, The Oaths. 
 Helen and Priam on the Walls. 
 Helen and Paris in Troy. 
 
 Book iv. 1-544 end. 
 
 The Breaking of the Oaths. 
 The Review by Agamemnon. 
 The Opening of Battle. 
 
 Book V. 1-126,133-329, 471-505. Book v. 127-132, 330-470, 506- 
 
 The Prowess of Diomede. 
 
 Book vi. 2-529 end. 
 
 Hector and Andromache in 
 Troy. 
 
 909 end (and 1. i. of Book vi.). 
 Extension of the " Diomedeia." 
 
236 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Original. 
 
 {Second Part, c. 3,500 lines.) 
 
 Book vii. 1-7. 
 
 Book xi. 62-848 end. 
 
 The Return of Paris and Hector 
 
 to the Field. 
 The Greek Rout. 
 
 Additions. 
 
 Book vii. 8-482 end. 
 
 Abortive Duel between Hector 
 and Ajax. 
 
 Building of the Wall and Abor- 
 tive Proposals about Helen. 
 
 Burial of the Dead. 
 
 Book viii. 1-565 end. 
 Abortive Fight. 
 
 Book ix. 1-7 1 3 end. 
 
 Abortive Embassy to Achilles. 
 
 Book X. 1-579 end. 
 
 Episode of the Doloneia. 
 
 Book xi. 1-61. 
 
 Connecting Prologue to 
 Greek Rout." 
 
 'the 
 
 Book xii. i-6a, 37/5-107, 196-471 
 end. 
 The Fight at the Wall. 
 
 Book XV. 390-746 end. 
 The Fight at the Ships. 
 
 Book xvi. 1-867 end. 
 
 The Appeal of Patroclus to 
 
 Achilles. 
 Patroclus to the Rescue. 
 The Death of Patroclus- 
 
 Book xii. 7^-3712, 108-195. 
 Digression about the Wall. 
 Abortive attack of Asius. 
 
 Book xiii. 1-837 end. 
 
 Book xiv. 1-522 end. 
 
 Book v. 1-389. 
 
 Abortive Rally of the Greeks 
 
 under Poseidon. 
 Abortive Beguiling of Zeus. 
 
 Book xvii. 1-458, 593-761 end. 
 The Fight over Patroclus. 
 
 Book xvii. 459-592. 
 
 Abortive attack on the Horses 
 of Achilles. 
 
APPENDIX A 
 
 237 
 
 Original. 
 
 Book xviii. 1-617 end. 
 Achilles hears the News. 
 The dead Patroclus brought 
 
 in to the Camp. 
 The Making of the Armour. 
 
 {Third Part, c. 2,700 lines.) 
 
 Book xix. 1-139, 270-277, 303- 
 424 end. 
 The Reconciliation between 
 Achilles and Agamemnon. 
 
 i Book XX. 381-503 end. 
 
 < Book xxi. 1-135, 1- 227, 522- 
 
 ( 611 end. 
 
 Achilles comes back to the 
 Field. 
 
 The Trojan Rout. 
 
 The Death of Lycaon. 
 
 Book xxii. 1-515 end. 
 The Death of Hector. 
 
 Book xxiii. 1-797, 884-897 end. 
 The Funeral of Patroclus. 
 
 Additions. 
 
 Book xix. 140-269, 278-302. 
 Additions connected with the 
 Embassy in ix. 
 
 Book XX. 1-380. 
 
 Prologue to the Battle of the 
 
 Gods (xxi.). 
 Abortive Fighting (Achilles and 
 
 .(Eneas). 
 
 Book xxi. 136-521. 
 
 The Death of Asteropaius. 
 The Fight with the River. 
 The Battle of the Gods. 
 
 Book xxiii. 798-883. 
 
 Additional Funeral Games. 
 
 Book xxiv. 1-804 end. 
 The Ransoming of 
 Body. 
 
 Hector's 
 
 Bulk of the Original Iliad, c. 9,000 lines. 
 Bulk of the Additions, c. 6,700 lines. 
 
 For the sake of simplicity I have omitted to note in "the 
 Original " any interpolations that do not amount to a score of lines. 
 
APPENDIX B (i) 
 
 COMPARATIVE ODYSSEAN LINES AND PHRASES FROM 
 A AND a (II. i. and xxiv.) 
 
 " Odyssean " lines, half-lines, and significant phrases from A (II. i.), 
 omitting lines 430(^-489, thus leaving 611-60 lines = 5si lines, loz 
 " Odyssean " instances. (The doubtful instances are bracketed, but 
 included, unless expressly noted, in the enumeration.) 
 
 141. aye v^a /itAatvav ipva-croixiv eis oiAa Slav. 6 34. 
 
 303. ai\pa. TOi (ot) aijia KiXawhv kpus-qcm irepi Sovpl. tt 441. 
 
 512. dXA' oKEwv. V 385, and 4 Other times. 
 
 (116. dAXa Koi m e$eX(i). ^219. But often dA,Aa Kal <3s in Iliad 
 
 and Odyssey.) 
 274. dAXa TTiOecrde ( - a-d' A 259). X 345. 
 (604. a.ji,ii^6p.ivai ml KaXy. to 60. But the Odyssean passage is 
 
 probably an interpolation : "the funeral of Achilles.") 
 312. dva/Jdi/Tts (7r€TrX.iov vypa KeXevda. S 842, o 474. (With ol 
 
 p,ev cVeir' A 312, o 474.) 
 (136. dvTa^iov (Odyssey a^tov) ea-rai. a 318, ^405. But '^ 562 
 
 Original, a^jos eo-rat.) 
 (538, 556. dpyvpoTreCa- QeTK. oj 92, an interpolation. Elsewhere 
 Gens dpyvpoTTi^a, and only in the Original Iliad and I 410.) 
 599. dcr^££rTos S' ap' ivZpro -yeAtos p,a.Ka.pio-(j-i deoia-iv. 6 326. 
 (386. avTiK.' 6y(i)(v). V 272, 6 497.) 
 103-4. dxvvp.ivor /teVeos Se /*eya ^pives d/i^t/ieAaivai | TrifiTrAavr', 
 
 ocrcre SI 01 irvpl Aa/in-erdojVTt cikttjv. S 661—2. 
 430a. ;8iij deKOi/TOs dTrrjvptov. 8 646 (aTr^Hyoa). 
 610. yAvKiis VTTvos iKavoi. i 333, T 49. 
 
 513. StvTcpov aSris. ■ y 161, i 354, t 65, x 69. 
 5. Albs S' ercAettTO (iovXri. A 297. 
 
 (311. ifir] ■n-oXvp.rjTii 'OSv<T(j-evs. ^173. But 7roAi;/MjTis '08i)0-o-£us 
 
 elsewhere in Iliad.) 
 183. cyw cru)/ vrji t' ep-y Kai £/u.ors tTapoicriv. i 173. 
 48. cffT' fTreir' dirdvevOe (veiov). f 236 (/ctiov). Cp. A 35, Ittcit' 
 dTrdveuSe KiOiv. 
 
 33S 
 
APPENDIX B (i) 239 
 
 (524. d S' aye toi. t 37, o) 336. But el S' Aye is probably a 
 characteristic phrase of the Odyssey and the Original Iliad 
 ^ at large. See advoc, Appendix C.) 
 393. el Svvarrai. tt 256. 
 311. cMTEV ayuv. a 130. 
 (541. efxev dirovoa-KJiiv eovra { - Tos). 0-268. But the constructions 
 
 differ.) 
 252. ev IlvX.(f rjyadky. S 599 {cp. A, 257, 459). 
 611. evda KaOevB' ( — 8e). f I, »j 344. KadevSai nowhere else in 
 
 Iliad. 
 610. €v6a irapos Koifxad' ore juiv yXvKVi virvo's iKtivoi. t 49 (see 
 
 above on yKvKVi ktX). 
 (30. evt oiKu. Passim in Odyssey.) 
 
 (6. e^ o5 8^. ^ 379.)^ 
 416. 67ret vv TOi (jh-ol) ataa, o 276. 
 (142, 309. €S S' eperai. tt 349,) 
 576. lo-^X'ijs ecTTerai, ■^8os, ejret Tcl x^/^'ova i/txp. cr 403. (o«8e Tt 
 
 SairSs prefixed in both.) 
 (293. ■^ ya/> Key. i; 3o6-) 
 
 57-8. ■^yepOev ojxrjyepees r' eyivovTO, TOicn 8' ( — crtv 8').^ 5 24-5, 
 0)421/.^ 
 S37. ■^yi'oirjcrev i8oi!o-' ( - o-a). £78. (ouSe /itv prefixed in both.) 
 (194. ^kee8"Ae^vri. 7435.) 
 (339. BeCiv jJMKdpmv. 6 281, t 276, 521.) 
 316, 327. Olv' dXh'S drpvyeTOio. 49, k 179 (with Trapa, A 316, 
 
 327, 34, K 179)-^ 
 300. ^oij irapa vTjt jxeXaivr). o 258 (^. ju 292, y 61, k 332, but 
 
 also T 331). 
 (147. lepa pl^as ( - ^lav, - (ov). u. 61, y 5.) 
 
 31. itrrbv iTTOt^Ojuevijv ( — V7JS, — *'2?)- « 62, k 222. 
 88. Kal lirl xdovl SepKoiJi,evoio. tt 439. The only two cases of 
 the ai>s. use. 
 (217. Kal pAXa irep. 6 316. But koX jjuiXa Teipoftevoc wep Z 85, 
 
 Original.) 
 (269. Kal fxev Toia-iv (rots). ^ 88. But also kol p.iv, with Other 
 pronl. forms, Z 194, 27, '^ 174, all Original, and r 244, 
 « I3-) 
 
 306. Koi vrjas ( — es) ewras ( — tcrat). {271,12 43. 
 321. Kttt orp/Tjpm ( — pot) Oepairovre ( — €s). a 109. 
 426. KOt r&r' eireira. i 438. C^. £ 391, /;i 400, 8 415, ij/ 195, 
 
 (But also A 478.) 
 (606. (ot jU6i/) KttKKctovTes e|8av otKOv8€ eKacTTOs. o 424. And, with 
 ot /lev, V 17, 7 396, 1; 229. But Cp. ^ 58, Original.) 
 
 ' Q 790 can hardly be right, and is absent in many MSS. 
 
240 
 
 (40. 
 598- 
 
 92. 
 
 (388. 
 3o8. 
 (71- 
 
 (47- 
 
 272. 
 (555- 
 
 536- 
 (179- 
 
 353- 
 187. 
 
 139- 
 115- 
 173- 
 
 (534- 
 
 49° 
 (298 
 
 (524. 
 
 273 
 129 
 
 {91 
 245 
 178 
 
 (562 
 
 319 
 279 
 
 540. 
 
 (170. 
 
 179. 
 
 204. 
 
 270 
 (183. 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Kara n-iova /iJj/Ot" exija ( - ev). S 764. But Kara Trtova jxrjpia 
 KotW, O 373.) 
 
 KprjTrjpoi d<fiV(T<Ttov. i 9. 
 
 jxdvTi'S afiviJMV. A 99, 291. 
 
 fivOov, o 8jj. S 777-) 
 
 vrja dofjv a\a,8e ( — 8'). /3 389. 
 
 vTjeo-o-' Tjy^a-aT' ( - crdai), £ 238. But the Odyssean con- 
 struction differs.) 
 
 vvktI eotKuis. A. 606. But the Odyssean passage is probably 
 an interpolation.) 
 
 vvv PpoTol ila-iv. 6222. 
 
 vvv 8' alvws SeiBoiKa Kara <j>peva p,rj. U) 353. But Tavr' atvus 
 SciSoiKa Kara (ppeva juj), I 244.) 
 
 o fliv ivda KaOe^er' eirl Opovov. e 195. 
 
 oiKaS' lojv (lovTo). 13 179, ^ 181, TT 463. But ot/caS' iKca-dai, 
 
 A, i2, Iliad and Odyssey, passim.) 
 
 '0At5|U,Trios kyyvaXi^ai. \p 140 (eyyvaAifjj). 
 6jj,ouadrjp£vtu avTijv. y 120. The only two instances of the 
 verb. 
 
 ov Ktv 'iKuifxai. 345 (iKijTai). 
 ov Se/itts ovSe cf>vr]v. e 2 1 2, rj 210. 
 oijSe (oi'xi) a-' lyo) ye. ^ 474, o 68. 
 ■5. ovSe Tis ctAtj I p-etvai. ^ 269-70. But ovSe Tts erAij, 
 passim, Iliad and Odyssey.) 
 oiiTE ttot' £19 (e'f) dyoprjv { — py). y 127. 
 0VT06 tyojye. i 27. But also ovtoi lyo) ( — ytov), Z 335, 
 
 P 17s, Original.) 
 6<f>pa imroidrj'S ( — ^(o). v 344, OJ 329.) 
 Tret^ovTO Te ju.ij0(j). p 177- 
 TToAtv Tpoojv. A 510. 
 
 TToAAbv dpLCTTO'S. 521.) 
 
 ttotI &€ cTKrJTrrpov fSciXe yalrj. j3 80. 
 — TTOV arol TO y' (rd y') IScukcv ( — /ce). f 190. 
 TTprj^ai S' 6/t7njs oi! Ti Swrjo-eai ( — rat). /3 191, but the line 
 
 may be interpolated.) 
 TpwTov iTTfjTT'qkucr' ( — o-e). V 127. 
 cTKrjinovxoi /SacrtAeus. j8 231, e 9. (But also p/ur. B 86 
 
 (the Menis), 6 41.) 
 537. (rts S^ aS Toi, SoAo/iTjra, 0eo)v) crvp-^pdcrcraro j3ov\di; 
 
 8 462 (rt's vu Tot, 'KTpko<s vti, devv) (rvix<j}pd<T(raTO /iovXds ; 
 crvv vrjvcrl KopU)v'uTiv. t 193. But irapb. v. k. elsewhere Iliad.) 
 <rhv vqv(Ti (viji) re crys (cry) Kal crois fTapoicriv. y 323. 
 TiXficrdai otio. y 226, x 215, a 201, o 173. 
 TijAd^ev «^ airtJjs yatrjs. ij 25. 
 Tijv /u,ev lya>. A 87.) 
 
APPENDIX B (i) 241 
 
 (S44- T^" S' rifi.et./3er' eVeiTa TraT^p. w 280 (rhv S'). But without 
 
 Trar^p, common both in Ihad and Odyssey.) 
 233. —Toi iptoi, Koi iirl jikyav opKov 6fiovp.ai. v 229. 
 76. Totyap iyiav ipkw crii Se (Tvvdio, /cat juoi (/uev). tt 259. (But 
 ^- Z 334, Original.) 
 251. Tpdcj^ev rjS' iyivovTO. 8 723, k 417, ^ 201. 
 (250. TO) S' 77S1J. T 192.) 
 
 531. T(u -y' <Ss ^ovXeucravTe Siexjuayev t) ftei/ cWtra. y 439, 
 592. <l)Cpop,7]v, ctjixa 8' ■)jeAt(f). jit 429. 
 (186. ^eprejods etjUt. <^ 37I-) 
 491. (l>6ivvd€<TKe ( — ^ovo-i) (piXov Krjp. K- 485. 
 
 89. ^^eipas i-n-oicrei, ir 438. 
 567. x"Pas «'^"''« ( - ?;)• a 254 ; ^. V 376, V 29, 39, 386, i/- 37. 
 (244. x'"d/;tevos o t' (oTi). 6 238, A 102, V 342.) 
 414. (0 /xoi, reKvov ip,6v. A 216. 
 211. (lis icTiTai Trip, t 312, </> 212. 
 
 (600. ws i'Sov ( -Sev)"H<^aicrTov. ^286. Perhaps an interpolation 
 in the Odyssey.) 
 32. COS K€ v£7jai ( — rat), u, 205, 87, e 31. 
 (584. <3s ap' €<^ij, /cat. X 465, p 409, 462. But often ws ap' €(^17, 
 
 . . . Se, both in Iliad and Odyssey.) 
 536. als o /xev eV^a. 8 times in Odyssey. 
 
 601. (US TOTE fj,ev TTpOTTCLV '^P'O.p es ijeAtoi/ KaToSij^'Ta. 
 Satv^Ji'T', OTjSe Tt Ovfibi kheutro Satrbs iUrrj'S. 
 T 424. ^ Q5. t 161, 556, K 183, 475, /i. 28. 
 (357. &s 4>dro SoLKpv xEwv. (o 438. But (Ss <^ciTo common both in 
 
 Iliad and Odyssey.) 
 (366. w)(6iJ.e6' es. p 109.) 
 
 " Odyssean " lines, half-lines, and significant phrases 
 from 12 (II. xxiv.). 804 lines. 126 instances. 
 
 227. dyKas eXovr' (eXiav). rj 252. (This is not given by Schmidt.) 
 (283. dyx'-P'oXov Se a-cf)' r/Xde. Odyssey 5 times. But with 01 for 
 <T<f>e, A 529, n 820, 95. n 820 has also pa for Se.) 
 (32. dOavdrouTL fucrrivSa. 031 (with eW prefixed), p. 376.) 
 647. at 8' urav e/c p,eydpoio Sdos pcTo. ^epcrcv 'e)(ovcrai. 8 300, 5J 339, 
 
 ,^X497- 
 (63. ativ ctTTtcTTe (untrustworthy), allv anncTTOi (unbelieving). ^ 150, 
 
 f 72-) ^ ^ 
 407. (TTcicrav) dXr]0eir]v KaraXe^ov. With — Ae^co and — Ae^a 6 
 
 times in Odyssey. (Cp. iracrav dX-qOeirjv, X 507.) 
 (407. aye S17 jttot. 4 times in Odyssey. But also dye Siq ot, ^ 537.) 
 (380, 656. dXX' dye p,oi ToSe etjre Kal aTpeKem's KaTaXe^ov. 12 times 
 
242 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 in Odyssey. But also in K 384, 405. And in A 819 
 (the Minis) dA,X' aye /i*06 rdSe eiire.) 
 (503. aAA' ai'Scto ^£011?. I 269. aA.A' atSeto, <f)ipi(TTi, deovs.) 
 (490. dXX' 5^ Tot K€tv6s y£. A. 118 (/c£iv(ov). And ^. I 701.) 
 
 106. dA,Xa Kot &s ep€0>. r 171, 224. 
 (768, dXAos evt fieydpoLcriv. t 486.) 
 (572. aA.TO Ovpa^e. 4> 388.) 
 189 (266). ap.a^av ivTpo)(OV ij/^toi/eiijv. f 72. 
 
 588. djU^t Se p.iv 4>apOi KaXbv j3dXov rjSe x'"'"'^'"^- 7 4^7) V' ^SS- 
 (fi S87_/. t6v 8' eTrei oSv S/icoal Xowav /cat xpto-av eXaiO), 
 
 ^454/) 
 (302. djxcjiLTroXov rap-Lirjv. ir 152. But yuvjj ra/itij, Z 370, Original.) 
 (213. avTira 'ipya.. p 51, 60. But the reading is highly doubtful. 
 
 There may, however, be a correspondence between 213, 
 
 tpya yevotTO, and T 391, 'ipya- yivoiro.) 
 (369. avSp' a.irap.vvaa-6a.i, ore Tis TTpoTepoi )(aXeTr-qvrj . x 71, <^ 
 
 132. But we have a similar line, only with aTrapecra-aa-Oai,, 
 ., in T 183.) 
 
 (382. avSpas es dAAoSaTrow. f 231, ii 220.) 
 
 8. d.vSp(J)V re TrroXe/iODS dAeyetvd t€ Kvp-a-TO, Trsipwv. 6 183, 
 V 91, 264. 
 (318. dvepos dcjiveLOio. ^ 200.) 
 
 578. ott' dir-qvrj's. ( 90. (err' dir-qvr)?, 12 275, 447, and f 252.) 
 (211. aTrdveu^e TOK'^cov. '36.) 
 (468 (694). ajre/S'iJ ttjOos ptaKpov "OXvpTTOV. u 43. But p-aKphv 
 
 "OAv/xirov elsewhere Iliad.) 
 (609. d?r& Trdvrai oXetraav. t 81, Trdcrav dAeo"(7gs. But also dirS 
 dvp,hv oAecrcrtv, 90, &C.) 
 
 (262. dpvZv 178' epC(j>(iiv. I 220, /o 242, T 398, but with a different 
 use of the genitive. And 11 352 has dpvea-a-iv . . . ^ 
 epi<jiOOiv.) 
 (633. avTap i-irel rdpirrjo-av. 8 47, K 181. But also avrap CTrcl 
 Tdpirrjp.ev, A 780.) 
 (17. aSxis evt. 8 549.) 
 (558. (avTov re) fuetv /cat opdv (^dos ^sAtoto. v 360, tt 388 (8 540, 
 K 498). But the line from J2 is wanting in good MSS., 
 and is very unsatisfactory in sense. Monro brackets it in 
 his text.) 
 (418. awbs £7reA^a>v. (3 246, p 382, (o 506, tt 197, ^ 185.) 
 321. yrj9r)(jav, Kal Trourii' tvi (ftpea-l Ovp.b'i Idvdr). o 164 (ot 6e i'Soi'Tts 
 prefixed in both). 
 26. yAavKC07ri8t Kovp-g. jS 433, co 518. But yAoVKcDxts 'KBijvq 
 often in Iliad, e.^. E 29, B 279. 
 200. (/{(oKucTfv 8e) yiJvrj xat dfifCjStro javSo). o 434, 439- (Q*- 
 fi 424, f 67.) 
 
APPENDIX B (i) 243 
 
 802. (SaivuvT*) ipiKvSia Saira. v 26, y 66, v 280 (k 182). 
 (794. SaKpv irapeiZv. S 198, 223. But SeSd/</juvTat St rrapudi, 
 
 X491.) 
 672. Sewret' ( — CFacr' — ) ivl Ovfxo). t 331. 
 (376. Stjuas Kat eiSos dyrjTos ( — rbv). ^ 177- But <f>vr]v Kal etSos 
 
 dyijTciv, X 370 [the Mem's].) 
 644-647. (See above, at S' icrav ktX) — 
 
 Sejxvi' vtt' aW6v(Trj Oiynvai koX prjyea KaXa 
 vop^vpi' enPaXieiv, crTOpeaai t' effivTrepde raiTTjTas, 
 i^Xatvas t' Iv^e/xevat oiiAas Ka6vTrep0€v tcraadai 
 at S' Lcrav Jk jueydpoto Sdos ju,eTd ^epcrlv e^ovcrai, 
 8 296-300, -q 336-339. (y^ 351.) ^And cp. il 648, Aexe' 
 eyKoviovcrai, and ■)) 340, Xej^os lyKoveovcrai.) 
 22fif. 8{oSe/ca S' dirXoiSas ^Xatvas, tocto-ods Sc rdirijTas, 
 
 Toaora Sc (jidpea KaAd, toctovs S' lirt Totcrt j^tToJvas. w 276_/! 
 (i2 229 ev^ev SoJSeKa jnev . . . )( 1 44.) 
 603. SiuScKa iraJSes tvt fi,€ydpob<TLv ( — pots), €^ fiev ^uyarcpes t^ 8' 
 
 •utee9 ij;8ojovT€s. « 5, 6. 
 (59. eyw avTri. it 170.) 
 
 343. ei'AcTo Se pa^Shv, Ty t' dvSpoiv ofip.ara ^eAytt 
 Sv c^eAei, Toiis 8' ai^oiis Kat {iTrvwoi'Tas eycLpei. 
 € 47, 48 (w 2-4). (But cp. the context under hrh ttoo-ctiv and 
 under TrpcoTov uTnjvijTj/.) This is not given at sufficient 
 length by Schmidt. 
 597* '^C^'^° ^' ^^ kAictjuu). 8 136. 
 (56. e'irj Kev Kal rovro. o 435-) 
 (92. etjut fi^v, ovS'. P 318.) 
 535. €K -yci/ET'^s. o" 6. 
 
 323. 6K 8' e'Aao-e irpodvpoio Kal aWovcrrj's ipiSovTrov. o 146, 191. 
 (426. e/ibs •Trots, eiVot' erjv ye. (o 289 (e'jU&v iratS'). But also eiVor' 
 
 eijv ye, T 180.) 
 568. ev aAyecrt dvjxhv ( — jubs). ^ 88. 
 (281. ev S(o/xacrtv vtprjXoicTiv. (j) 33.) 
 614. €v TTtT/Jijcrtv ( — crt). e t56. 
 
 597. ei'^ev dveo-Trj. e 195, cr 157, <^ 139, 166, i/- 164. 
 124. evrvvovTO apuTTOv. tt 2. 
 765, 766. {eeiKocrrhv) £Tos torrtv, t^ oS Ka^ev e/?ijv { - /3f]) Kal efj/qs 
 
 aTfeXTJXvOa ( - 9e) irdrpf)';. r 222, 223, (u 309, 310. 
 333. 'E/jjueiav, vt&v i^iAov, dvrlov rjvSa, | 'E/3/i.eta. e 28. 
 694. 'Epixeiai p.ev eTretr' dir6;S»j irp&s p-aKpov "OXvp.Trov. k 307. 
 
 C)>. above on direfSri. 
 484. es dAA'^Aous 8e tSovTO. cr 320 (dAAijAas). 
 633. es dAAljAoDS Q/30(0VT£S. V 373- 
 553. es dpovov t^e. 9 469. 
 476. ea-duiv Kal ttivwv. k 272, v 337- 
 
244 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 (575. Irdpcav jxeTo, TldrpoKkov ye ddvovra. w 79. But the 
 Odyssean passage is from an interpolation : the Funeral 
 of Achilles.) 
 
 275,590. eu^EO-Tijs ( - CTTJjv, — CTTij)) ktv' aTT^vijs ( — vqv, —vg). 
 
 (IS- 
 24, 109. iVO-KOTTOv ( — tr/co7r(u) 'Apy£i(j)6vTr]v ( — Tiy). a 38, ■); 137. 
 
 (But SiaKTopos 'Apyeti^dvTijs, also il, 4>, B, and Odyssey.) 
 
 263. e<f>oirXt<T(raLTe (— cotrt) Ta)(icrTa. (o 360. 
 277. ^£v^av 8' rjixiovovi KpaTcpiovvxc-s. f 253. 
 126. rj Si p,aX' a-yx'- C 5^- 
 
 241. ij dvotrao-^' (dvocrat) on /iot (Tot). p 378. 
 (302. ■^ pa Kal dpL(f>iTroXov ( — TrdAotcrti/). f 198. But ^ pa Kal 
 
 d.ji.(^oTkprj(riv. E 416 and p 356.) 
 
 209. rjjJkevoi ( — vai) ev p-eydpoi. a- 316. (t 322, (f> loo.) 
 150. 179. rjp,i,6vovs Kal dpM^av. f 37, 260. 
 
 (788. ^ftos S' -qpiykvtia (fidvr) poSo8dKTv\os 'Hcus. Odyssey passim. 
 But also A 477.) 
 
 (9. 6aX.€phv Kara SdKpvov iljBev (eLJiiiiv). A 391. But Cp. Z 496, 
 daXipov Kara SaKpv xeovaa, with S 556, k 409, 201, 570, 
 A 5, 466, and ju 12.) 
 49. dk(rav dvOpiLwoKriv. A 2 74- 
 382. tVa irep rd8e TOi crda jupLV^. v 364. 
 
 264. Lva Trprjcra-(j>p,iv 080I0 ; "i2s i(j>a6', 01 8' apa. y 476, o 2ig. 
 450. KaOvTrepOev epeipav. "A "^93 {^P^4"'-)- 
 
 38. Kai CTTt KTepea KTfpicraiev ( — (retei'). y 285 (;8 222, ex 291). 
 (36. Ktti T6K£i' (J). S 175.) 
 (429. KttAbv aAetcroK 8 591, \ 9.) 
 (loi. KaAfii' 86?ras. y 63.) 
 
 (379. Kara p.oipav hnrcs' | aAA' aye. /3 251, v 385, x 486. But 
 without dAA' aye, A 286.) 
 
 (458. kAdto, SSipa, and ^417. But kAjjto, revx^a often in Iliad, 
 
 and p 228.) 
 (524. KpvepoLo ydoto. 8 103. But also as a v. 1. in '^ 98.) 
 
 555. Awov, iV 6<j)6a\poi(TLV ffiio. K 387. 
 99. paKapi'i deol aliv eovres. « 7, ^ 306, ju. 371, 377. But also 
 p.dKapes 6eol, A 406 {(ke Metiis), Y 54 {Theomachid), 
 a 23, 422, and f 46, o 372. 
 409. jUcAeio-Ti raptov. i 291, "■ 339 {rdpy(Ti.v). (This is not: given 
 
 by Schmidt.) 
 4/. ~ piv wvos I ^|Ott iravSapdriap. >■ 2>T^f- 
 396. vryCs evepyrjs. p 166, tt 322. 
 (560. voEw 6e Kat ttOTos. (^ 257 voeeis ; but the construction 
 
 differs.) 
 (202. ola-iv dvdcTcreis ( — (rev). S g, fi 234, e 120.) 
 673. ot ptv dp' iv ■!rpo86fj,(f Sopov avTodi Koip'qaavTO. 8 302. 
 
APPENDIX B (i) 245 
 
 284—86. oivov e)(OviT ( — xiov) ev X^'P' fxekiippova Se^iTeprjtfiiv, 
 \pv(re(f ev StTrai' (cv SeTrai.' )(pv(7e(j)), o<f)pa Xiixj/avTe Kiotrrjv 
 CTTTj 8' tirirMV irpoTrdpoiOev ( — de). 
 o 148-150. 
 (662. oicr6a yap (is. ^ 60.) 
 (651. o'i re fioi aUl. 8319.) 
 758. oh dyavoTs ^eXeecroriv kiroiyop.evo's ( — ij) /caT67re<^i'ev. 5 times 
 
 in Odyssey. 
 543. o\p,iov ( - os) thai, p 354, o- 138. 
 
 (73. 6/i(3s vu/cras re koI tip.ap. w 63. But this is in the inter- 
 polation.) 
 29. oT£ ot jxecriTavXov iKovro. k 435. 
 (431. 0(^joa Kev Is. T 17.) 
 (350. o<^pa rrtotev ( — ju.i). '^316.) 
 635, 636. 0<^pa Kev ■ijSrj 
 
 VTTVt^ virh yXvKep<p TapTr(op,t6a Koip.rjdivm ( — re). 
 8 294, '/' 254 (Od. oc^pa Kai). 
 105. TTtv^os aXocTTOv. a 342. 
 
 546. TrXovTif T€ /cat vldxri. ^ 206. (This is not given by Schmidt.) 
 328. TToW 6\o(f)vp6iuvoi (^■-vo'i). v 221. 
 
 348. irpZrov VTrrjvqrrj tov irtp ^(apiitrTdrrj rjjiy). k 278. 
 282, 674. TTVKiva ifipeal fi-fjhe' €)(OVTes ( — ovcra). t 353. 
 (519. TTus eTA.fjs. A, 475.) 
 567. peta /ieTOxA,Krcrei£ ( — £v). 1/' 188. 
 772. OTj (cTTj) t' dyavo(f>pocrvvrj (vt]). X 203. 
 
 (557. o-ijv Is iraTptSa yalav. Passim in Odyssey. But Is irarptBa 
 yaiav common in Iliad.) 
 
 385. 0"6s Tats' ov fi,\v yap n. S 807. 
 33. a-\irXiOL iarre, 6eoi, S7jA^/iov£s. £ 1 18 (fijA^/iovts). 
 153. Toiov yap ot irop.Troi'. 8 826 (towj . . . vro/iTr&s). (C^- ^ ^^^ 
 
 and /8 286.) 
 (256, 494. Tpoti; ev evpeirj. a 62, 5 99, £ 307. But also N 433, 
 
 ft 774j Ivt 'ipol-Q evpei-g, X 499, /* 189.) 
 492. (aTTo) Tpotrjdev bovra. y 257, 276, 8 488, i 38. 
 340^ (Ittei^') vtto 7rocro"6v fSijo-aro KaA,a irlStXa 
 
 ap,j8pocrta, xpvcreia, ra fiiv <f>epov -qfi-ev ecj>' vyprqv 
 ijS' £7r' direipova ydiav djxa Trvotgs avep.oio. 
 o 550, a 96, £ 44, P 2 (#)• 
 353. <^aTO <:t)<i)vr](Tev re. 8 370. But (^div-qaev re, both Iliad and 
 
 Odyssey very frequently. 
 309. (jyiXov eXOeiv -^8' eXeeivov. f 327. 
 
 (749. <jf)tA.os ■^crOa deoi(TLv. (li 92, but this is from the Odyssean 
 interpolation.) 
 
 40. (ppeves eicrlv evai<Tip,oi oiire ( — Se) vorjjjka. a- 220. 
 197. <f>pe<rlv eiSerai elvai. t 11 (Iv <f)peo-lv, Odyssey). 
 
246 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 304. (rj Be wapecrrrj) 
 
 y^epvi^ov a/iii^MroA.os Trpoxooi' ^' «)"'tt xepcrlv £)(oviTa. Ex- 
 panded and altered in Odyssey : — 
 e.g. \kpvilia 8' a/!i<^t7roXos Trpo)(6oi iTre)(eve <fiepovcra 
 Ka\y ■)^pv<Teir], &c. 
 
 ■y) 172-76, K 368-72, &c., and in 4 other places. 
 460. S> yepov, ri Toi. y 331. Cp. fl 683, 411. P 40, ft) 244, 7 226. 
 335. <(i k' kdkX-QcrOa,. or 270. {fi 128, 4> 280.) 
 200. &? <f>dTo, KcuKuo-cv 8e. /S 361. But ois (fxiro common all 
 through both Iliad and Odyssey. 
 
 507. i>S <f>aTO, TO) 8' apa Trarpos vcf>' ificpov wpcrc 70010. 8 1 13. 
 
 (But &s (jiaTo, T(^ 8' dpoi, A 804, (ke Merits.) 
 
APPENDIX B (2) 
 
 * 
 
 B(i). 
 
 COMPARATIVE LIST OF ODYSSEAN WORDS 
 
 IN 
 
 Iliad xxii. X 1-404 {the Menis) 
 (26 words) 
 
 AND IN 
 
 Iliad xxiv. S2 1-804 
 (46, or 50, words) 
 
 Words occurring in the " Odyssean " lines already quoted (Appendix 
 
 386. 
 
 386. 
 
 310. 
 373- 
 
 255- 
 
 //. xxii. 1-404. 
 a^ttTTTOs. \ 54, 72. 
 
 axXauTOs. A, 54, 72. (S 494 
 
 act.) 
 a/iaAos. u 14. 
 o/i.(^a<^a(o. 6 times in Od. 
 
 apuovirj. f 348, 361 (lit. in 
 Od., metaph. in II.). 
 
 94. ^i^puia-KCo. X 403. ^ 303- 
 
 //. xxiv. 1-804. 
 
 *772. dyavo(f>po(rvvr]. (But dya- 
 vocfipaiv in Y 467, tke 
 Menis.) \ 203. 
 464. dyaTrd^w. 5 times in Od. 
 
 19. deiKCLif]. V 308. 
 529. dva[iicrytD. (But v. 1. Kafj.- 
 
 fti^as.) K 255. 
 365. dvapcrios. k 459, ^ 85, A 
 401, 408, (0 HI. 
 *230. (XTrAot's. (1) 276. 
 388. ctTroT/ios. u 140, a 219. 
 621. apyv<f>os. K85. (Buta/jyv- 
 ijbeos, 2 506 and "^ 230, 
 « 543-) 
 *S3S- yf^T^- <^ 6. 
 539. yovrj. 8 755. 
 ♦647. 8dos (in a set formula). 
 
 ^ 8 300, 17 339, X 497- 
 ♦644. Sfp-viov (in a set formula). 
 Od. passim. 
 
248 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 //. xxii. 1-404. 
 
 44. evvis. 
 
 339- 
 
 288. 
 
 293- 
 
 247. 
 152. 
 
 524- 
 
 318. ecnrepo? (adj.). p 191. 
 
 (eo-jrepos is also used as 
 noun, "Evening," in the 
 Od. alone.) 
 
 151. Oepoi. rj 118, fj. 76, X 192. 221 
 
 KaTaSdirTO), with Kvve9, as in 
 y 259 (it 92 metaphorl.). 
 
 KaraKpvTma. 5 times in 
 Od. I 329, o 469, ^ 372, 
 S 247, 17 205. 
 
 KaTa<fid(.(a. 5 times in Od. 
 
 KaTr]<f>e(i>. •"" 342. 
 
 KepSoa-vvT]. 6 251, ^ 31. 
 
 K/3ira-TaAA,os. ^477- 
 
 358. iJ.-qvtiM. X 73. 
 
 139, 308. ot/iao). 0) 538. (Re- 
 peats the Iliadic phrase 
 in X 308.) 
 
 27. oTTiJiprj. X. 192, /bi 76,^ 384. 
 
 93. 6pkcTTepO%. K 212. 
 
 II. xxiv. 1-804. 
 
 *33- ^Xy\p.ovei. <J 85, 116, <^ 
 308. 
 *648. kyKovkovcrai. r] 340, >p 291. 
 
 *765. eEtKOCTTOS. T 222, ^ 102, 
 
 170. ^ 17s. p 327. 
 
 fi7o- 
 582. eKKaXeo). k. 471, '^ I- 
 
 270. ivvea.Trrj'xy'S. A. 311. 
 235. €^((717). (j) 20. 
 525. eTriKXddw. a 17, tt 64, 
 y 208, S 208, V 196, 
 
 ^ 579- 
 *24, log. €ixr/co7ros (as a fixed 
 epithet of Hermes). 
 
 a 38, V 137- 
 223. ea-SepKO/juii,. i 146 (T476). 
 *l89, 266, 268. rjULOveios (of the 
 waggon). C 72. 
 Ovoa-Koo?. ff> 145, X 318, 
 
 321.^ 
 i7nri,o-)(a.pfjLr]^. X 259. 
 KaTa(TTopkvvojj,i. p 32. And 
 twice in tmesi, v 73, v 2. 
 
 257- 
 798. 
 
 717. KXaOvjw<s. 6 times in Od. 
 
 655. Xv(TL% vcKpov. I 421 dav- 
 drov Xvms (slightly dif- 
 ferent use). 
 *409. fxeXcuTTL (with Tajuiov). 
 ' 291, a- 339. 
 
 567. ixeTOxXicrcTeie. ip 188. 
 
 543. oX^LO's. Often in Od. (But 
 also oA./3to6at;u.(uv in T 
 182.) 
 
 ^5. TravSa[j.a.T(ap (with iSjri'os). 
 
 - 373- 
 
APPENDIX B (2) 
 
 249 
 
 //. xxii. 1-404. 
 153. irkvv6<s. f 40, 86. 
 
 155. ttXvvo). 5 times in Od. 
 221. TrpoTrpoKvXiv86iJ.evoi. p 525 
 (slightly different sense). 
 
 X 26 in 404 lines. 
 
 476. 
 
 190. 
 
 527- 
 
 620. 
 
 356. 
 
 ■rrpoTio(T<Top.ai. 17 31. (Q>. 
 e 389, i 129.) 
 
 524- 
 
 213. 
 *304- 
 
 755' 
 
 396. 
 
 TtTpatVIO. <: 247, ip 198. 
 
 453 
 324. 
 
 19. 
 
 Tiirts. fi 76, a 40, V 144. 
 
 487, 
 *348. 
 
 270. 
 
 viraXv^ii. t/" 287. 
 
 *344' 
 785. 
 
 162. 
 
 //. xxiv. 1-804. 
 
 TrapaKtifMi. ^ 521, x ^Si 
 
 4> 416. 
 acc. Tiipivda. o 131. 
 ■n-ido'S. P 340, i/' 305. 
 
 TToXvSaKpVTOS. (But TToXv- 
 
 SaKpvs, r 132, and else- 
 where in II.) T 213, 
 
 251, <^S7- 
 Trpjj^is. K 202, 568. 
 
 Trpo(T<f>vu>. p. 433. 
 
 7rpo)(oov (in a set formula). 
 6 times in Od. 
 
 pvcrra^b). tt 109, v 319. 
 
 crravpos. ^ II. 
 
 TCTpaKvicXos (of the wag- 
 gon). I 242. 
 
 •njXtKos. 4 times in Od. 
 
 vwrjvfiTrjs (in the set de- 
 scription of Hermes). 
 I*. 279. 
 
 v7rv(ati) as above, e 48, o> 4. 
 
 (^at(Tip,f3poTO<s. K 198, 138. 
 
 </)i!pa). 5 times in Od. 
 
 12 46 in 804 lines, or 50 if we 
 add the next 4. 
 
 (i) €i'crt(/i.t occurs fi 463, and cr 184, x 47°- 
 
 But the usages differ somewhat markedly, as the instances show : — 
 
 il 463. oi58' 'AxiA.ijos I 6(f>daXixovi fUTiipi. 
 
 o" 184. OVK eureipi ficr' dvepas. 
 
 X 470. aSXtl' i(TlijXtVaL. 
 
 (2) davoiw occurs i2 700, and twice in the Odyssey, but both times 
 in the interpolation to the Nekuia, A. 572, 601. 
 
 (3) avm (12 544) is from the same interpolation, X 596. 
 
 (4) dprjvedi (12 722) is also in an interpolation to the Odyssey — the 
 Funeral of Achilles, (u 61. 
 
 The following five words from 12 are also included by Monro as 
 purely Odyssean. But I do not, for various reasons, consider their 
 inclusion justified : — 
 
 12 347. aia-vjivi)r-f]p. 
 
250 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 Against this there are three considerations : — 
 (i) Some of the best MSS. read ata-vrjTrjpi (see Monro's own note, 
 ad loc). 
 
 (2) awvfivqTTjp does not occur in the Odyssey. The form is 
 a'uTVfivrJTai (0 258), as if from dto-v/ii/^TTjs. 
 
 (3) The meaning of the words in the Iliad and in the Odyssey 
 can hardly be the same, for " prince " is appropriate in the Iliad and 
 " stewards " in the Odyssey. 
 
 fi 213. avTiTo. ipya. 
 
 Here again the reading is highly doubtful. Monro himself prints 
 in his text : — 
 
 TOT^ av TtTa fpya yevoiTO. 
 This certainly gives a far more natural construction. 
 
 Si 227. ayKos, as in dyKas eXuv. 
 
 The word re-occurs elsewhere in the Iliad, e.g. xiv. S 346, 353. 
 For ^his. phrase, see the first instance in my list (Appendix B (i)). 
 
 fl 325. Saicfipdv in the sense of "prudent" (rather than "skilled 
 in war"). 
 
 But SaL<f>pu)v is naturally taken as "clever," "crafty," rather than 
 " skilled in war " when it is used of the wily Antimachus in II. xi. A, 
 123, 138 (part of fhe Menis). (See Ebeling's Lexicon, advoc.) Thus 
 to confine it to the meaning "warlike" for the earlier part of the Iliad 
 is to make a needless difficulty. It is much simpler to suppose that it 
 always means "clever," "capable" in general. (It is used several 
 times in the Odyssey, but only once of a woman : Anticleia — o 356.) 
 
 fl 228. <^u)pia/ids (o 104). 
 
 But the word was also read by AristarChus in Z 288. (See Ebeling, 
 ad voc.) 
 
APPENDIX C 
 
 ILIAD AND ODYSSEY. GRAMMAR 
 
 See Monro, "Homeric Grammar" (ed. 1891) 
 
 § I. edev. 
 
 " The form idev is only found in tlie Iliad " (H. G., § 109). 
 Monro, apparently, has overlooked one instance in the Odyssey. 
 The form is rare in any case, the instances being : — 
 
 Original Jliad- 
 
 Additions- 
 
 Odyssey- 
 
 E V. 56, 96. 
 Z vi. 6z. 
 M xii. 205. 
 
 K X. 465. 
 P xvii. 407. 
 Y XX. 278, 305. 
 
 T xix. 481. 
 
 § 2. a{i<^i with &aX. = concerning, after verbs meaning to sjieak, think, 
 &c. " Odyssean " (H. G., § 182). 
 
 This is true, but only if we omit the " &c." and confine ourselves 
 strictly to actual verbs of speaking and thinking. Further, we must 
 note — 
 
 (i) The use with these verbs is not common in the Odyssey. If 
 the Iliad has only one instance the Odyssey has only seven, viz. : — 
 
 Odyssey — / 
 
 iv. S 1 5 1-2. ixefivq/ievos dix<f>' 'OSvcrrjt, \ ii.vdt6jiy)V, ocra kcivos ktX. 
 
 V. e 287. [/.ere^ovXivcrav . . . a/Li<^' 'OSvcriji,. 
 
 xiv. ^ 337-8. TOio-tv Se KaKTj <f>pi(rlv ■l]vSave ^ovXt] \ d/icji' kjiol. 
 
 xix. ^ 364. eiTTuiv d/i(^' 'Ohvarji. 
 
 XviL p 555. /x€ToA,Xijcra£ dfit^l irocrei. 
 
 xix. T 95. d.iJ,<f)l ir6(r£i e'ipeaOai. 
 
 xxiv. 0) 263. kpkuvov I a/i<^t ^e'i'<{' '/*f- 
 
 251 
 
252 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [2- 
 
 (2) The one Iliadic instance is from thx Menis itself: — 
 
 n xvi. 647. a/iqf)l (^ovtf HarpoKkov nepixrjpi^OiV. 
 
 (3) There are instances elsewhere in Homer of a/Li^t with dat. = con- 
 cerning^, after verbs other than those of speaking and thinking, viz. verbs 
 oi fighting, quarrelling, &c. And these instances bear a close analogy 
 to the preceding : — 
 
 e.g. Origi?tal Iliad — 
 
 M xii. 412. a/x<^' ovpOLo-i SrjpidairOov. 
 
 Compare with the second Odyssean instance cited above : — 
 
 € V. 287. jiiTijiovXiva-av djjbc^' 'OSwr^i. 
 
 The difference of the verbs may be admitted to involve a difference 
 in the colour of the prepositional phrase — as in EngKsh the word 
 "about" in the phrase "talking aiout a woman" has a different colour 
 from that which it has in the phrase "fighting adout a woman." But 
 this very comparison may serve to show how slight the difference is. 
 I give the relevant instances below. If we add them to the instances 
 with verbs of speaking and thinking we get the following interesting 
 results : — 
 
 Odyssey — 7 +4=11. 
 
 Original Iliad — r + 8 = 9 (or, adding 4 repetitions, i + 12 = 13). 
 
 Additions — Only 3 (or, adding 2 very doubtful cases, 5).^ 
 
 These figures strongly suggest 4:he conclusion that the use of a.p,^i 
 with the dat. in the sense of concerning is actually a trait characteristic 
 at once of the Original Iliad and of the Odyssey, only in the Odyssey 
 it is more common with verbs of speaking and thinking, in the Iliad 
 with verbs ol fighting and quarrelling — a change which, considering 
 the difference of subject-matter, cannot be called surprising. 
 
 (Ebeling: d/i<^i, iii. A, b, c, vol. i. pp. 101-2.) 
 Iliad, Original — 
 
 M xii. 412. d\i,(^ oupowrt &ii]pida(T6ov. 
 
 r iii. 70 
 
 (91 
 
 (254 
 
 '57 
 
 A xi. 672 
 
 XV. 633 
 
 a/i<^' '^Xivy K. KTrjjxajcri iracrt fid^^ecrd ai. 
 d.[uf>' EAevj; K. KTi^[w.(Ti TraiTi ixd-^ecrdai.) 
 PM)(t^(tovt' a. yvvaiKi.) 
 a. yvvaiKl aXyta Tr6.(T\eiv, 
 vtiKos frv\6r] a. PorfXao'irj. 
 fxayifracrOai eXiKO's ;8o&s d. <f}Ovgcriv. 
 
 • N.B. — Here and in what follows repetitions are not included in the 
 enumeration without notice. 
 
-3] APPENDIX C 253 
 
 XV. 587- °S re Kvva Kreivas d. ^Soecrcrt. 
 
 n xvi. 526. d. ViKVL KaTaTfdvrjWTL jOidiT(a>/jiat. 
 
 (565. d. viKvi KaTaTeOvqtaTi fi.d)(ea-9ai.) 
 
 ^ xxiii. 88. d/i<^' da-TpaydXouri ;^oA(o0eis. 
 " xxiv. 108. vetKos . : . opoipev 
 
 "EkTO^OS d. VfKVl K. 'A^lAA'^t. 
 
 TAe Additions — 
 
 (E V. 451. dp.1^1 S' df> €t8wA({) Sgoiii/. 
 
 Given by Ebeling, but very doubtful. It is 
 more naturally taken as local.) 
 
 I ix. 547-8. d/;t<^' ttOTw Qr^KZ KeAaSoi' , . . 
 
 a/t^t (rubs Ke<fM\rj k. Sepnari. 
 (S xiv. 447. d/i^t S' d/3 ai5T(j> 
 
 . . . (Twayov v(Tp,i,vqv. 
 
 Most probably local.) 
 
 N xiii. 382. arvviajxeda dp(f>l ydp,<a. 
 H vii. 408. d. Se veK/3oto-ti/ (without a verb). 
 (B. ii. 782 is certainly local.) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 xxii. X 228. oV dp<f>' 'EXivy Ifiapvao. 
 xi. A 545—6. viKYja-a StKafo|Uevos :rajoa vrjvcri 
 
 iv. S 153. ocra Ktivo^ . . . ipoyrjcrev | d. ejuot. 
 
 i. a 48. dAAd poi, dp,(j>' 'OSvcrrji Sai'cjypovi Saierai ^Top. 
 
 It may be added that this use of dp(j)i (with either type of verb) is 
 not followed up in Attic prose. It only " survives in the poetical style 
 and in Herodotus" (H. G., § 182). Therefore its frequency in the 
 Odyssey would, ^ro tanto, cut against the theory of a late date for that 
 poem. It does not occur in Iliad x. ; it is found once in ix., once in 
 xxiii., and once in xxiv. 
 
 What seems like a curious experiment with dp^i, c. gen. = concerning, 
 is found once in the Menis, II. IT xvi. 825, pdy^aOov ttiSuko's dp.^' 
 oAtyijs, and also once in the Odyssey, 9 viii. 267, deiSetv dp<f>' "Apeos 
 (fiiXoTrjTos (but this last may be an interpolation). 
 
 § 3. Similar results follow for ire/jj, c. gen. = concerning, with verbs of 
 speaking, hearing, and knowing, &c. (the common Attic use) (H. G., 
 § 188). It is true that there is no instance with these special verbs in the 
 Original Iliad, and only one instance in the Additions: II. xx. Y 17, 
 ire/)4 Tjowcov peppepi^eis. The Iliad, including xxiv. (e.g. 1. 390), uses the 
 simple gen. or ace. And there are 9 instances in the Odyssey (ex- 
 cluding I repetition). 
 
254 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [3- 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 i- <* 135 
 
 (lii. y 77 
 
 i. a 405 
 
 vii. t\ 190-1 
 
 XV. o 347 
 
 xix. T 270, 
 
 xvi. TT 234 
 
 xvii. jO 370-1 
 
 xvii. /> 571 
 
 xvii. p 563 
 
 TTtpi Trarpbs epoiTO. 
 
 ■Kept Trarptii epoiro.^ 
 
 Trepl ^eivoio epecrdai. 
 
 ■K. ■KopfKr^'i I p.viYT6p,e.Ba.. 
 
 ttV aye poi ir. p-qrpbs. 
 
 ir. vooTTOv aKOvira. 
 
 (jiovov Trepl j3ov\ev(Tti)p,£V. 
 
 TovSe TT. ^eivov /ce/cXiiTe /xev. 
 
 etpecrdoi ttoo-los iripi vocrTijJLOv ■qp.ap. 
 
 olSa yap iv it. Ktlvov, 
 
 But if we include ofker verbs we get in all, excluding repetitions, 
 24 cases (possibly 28) from the Original Iliad, 17 from the Odyssey 
 (9 + 8), and only 7 (1+6) from the Additions. 
 
 As with d/i^t, so here, the notion of the tAing fought for is upper- 
 most in the Iliad, that of the subject-matter of discourse in the Odyssey. 
 There is thus a slight change in colour, but the instances show how 
 close the two usages are, and the statistics the nearness of the Original 
 Iliad to the Odyssey as compared with the Additions. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 (v. Ebeling, :re/3t. A, c, vol. ii. p. 168.) 
 
 n xvi. 476. crvviTrjv ipiSos Trepi dvp.ol36poio (the Menis\ 
 IT. UaT/aoKAoto I o'TreviTop.ev. 
 
 IJM)(^arOVTai IT, (TEtO. 
 
 P xvii. 1 20-1. 
 r iii. 137. 
 
 M xii. 216. 
 
 (n xvi. I. 
 
 nxvi. 757. 
 
 P xvii. 147. 
 
 (2 xviii. 265. 
 
 2 xviii. 279. 
 
 M xii. 243. 
 
 M xii. 227. 
 
 (O XV. 496. 
 
 P xvii. 182. 
 
 2 xviii. 173. 
 
 (fi xxiv. 500. 
 
 P xvii. 157. 
 
 M xii. 423. 
 A xi. 700-1. 
 ^ xxiii. 718. 
 
 vrjuiv. 
 
 vrjhs.) 
 
 eXdcjiOio. 
 
 ITToXlOS. 
 
 TTToAios "qSe yvvaiKiijv.) 
 
 Tei)(€OS. 
 
 dp,vvicr0ai. ir. Trd.Tprj's. 
 a.iJ,vv6p,evoi it. vrjOiv. 
 dpvvop,eviff TT. jraTjOTjs.) 
 dixvvififvai it. HaTpOKkoio. 
 dp,vvip,tvai veKvoi jript,. 
 dpvv€p,ivai IT. TraTprjs-) 
 IT. Trarprjs Srjpiv edevTO. 
 ipi.^i)Tov IT. icrrji. 
 IT. TpiTToSoi . . . Oiva-icrOai. 
 
 VLKT)^ ItCrd'qV TjOtiroSoS TT. TTOtlJTOlO. 
 
-3] APPENDIX C 255 
 
 X xxii. i6i. dWa TT. ^v)(rjs Okov {the Mienis). 
 2 xviii. 195. Srqioiav tt. UaTpoKXoio. 
 n xvi. 756. TT. Ke^ptovdo Sr)piv9i^rr]v {the Menis). 
 (759 repeated.) 
 
 P xvii. 397- Tupi 8' avrov jUcSXos opupei. 
 
 P xvii. 734. TT. veKpov Srjpida(T9ai. 
 ^ xxiii. 437, 496. eiretyo/ievos tt. vUrji. 
 ^ xxiii. 639. dya(Tcrd[/,evoi ir. viK-qq. 
 ■^ xxiii. 553. T^/O' 8' a-uTiJs TreiprjOiQTiii. 
 ^ xxiii. 659-60. irepi Tui'Se , . . 7re7rA^ye|U,ei'. 
 
 To this list might perhaps be added — 
 
 n xvi. 497. ip-fv iripi pdpvao. 
 P xvii. 240. veKvoi vipi SeiSia. 
 
 (Usually taken as part of the Menis.) 
 And also — 
 
 O XV. 416. Trejoi vqh'S ex"" '"^ovov. 
 
 XV. 707. irepl vYjhs Syovv {the Menis). 
 
 These two may be local. If so, it should be noted that this is 
 a very rare use, and also Odyssean, viz. : — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 e V. 68. TeTavu<7T0 ■mpl ctttcious ■y\a<f)vpolo. 
 130. Trepl Tpoirioi jSe^acoTa. 
 
 These seem to be the only certain instances (Ebeling, irtpl, A, b). 
 
 Additions — 
 
 O XV. 284. epta-aeiav Trepl p.vdo>v. 
 
 M xii. 142. dp^vvtcrdai ir. vr/uv. 
 
 M xii. 170. dpvvovra.s tt. tckvojv. 
 
 H vii. 301. ejxapvdcrdrjv eptSos trkpi dvpofiopoio, 
 
 (T XX. 253. )(oXwcrdpevai epiSo^ iripi OvpojiopoLO.) 
 
 "^ xxiii. 802-4. ""^P' ToivSe . . . TreifyrjBrjvai. 
 
 B viii. 476. {6t' Slv p,dxij}VTaL) 
 
 irepl UarpoKXoio ^avovTos. 
 
 Note that this use does not occur at all in II. ix. and x,, while it 
 does occur in xxiii. and xxiv. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 xi. A, 403. Trepl TTtoXios p,a\covp,evov lySJ yvvaiKdv. 
 xxii. X 245. Trepi re \pv\iiov ip.d^QVTO. 
 xxiv. (0 39. fiapvafifvoi Trepl crtio. (Probably an interpolation.) 
 
256 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [S- 
 
 (xxiv. ft) 113. TCjOt iTToAtos /taxeovjuevot ijSe yvvaiKiav.) 
 
 viii. 6 225. ddavdroia-iv ipt^ecTKOv it. ro^iov. 
 
 xviii. cr 403. TT. TTTOJXftJV ipiSaivoiJ.eV. 
 
 xxi. <^ 249. a^os TT. t' avrov k.. tt. iravToiv. 
 
 ix. t 423. (OS TC TT. l/'UX'JS. 
 
 xxiv. ft) 515. d/aeTijs ir. 8ij/d6v exova-i. 
 
 It may be added that the Odyssey keeps the old use of the simple 
 gen. = about, e.g.— 
 
 j3 ii. 220. et Se K£ Te^VJjwTos (xkoucto). 
 
 8 iv. 317. ^' Ttva /iot Kki^Sova irarphs evtcTTTots. 
 
 § 4. juera, c. gen. = among (the later prose usage). " Odyssean " 
 (H. G., § 196). 
 
 There are only 2 instances in the Odyssey (which we shall discuss 
 in a moment). 
 
 As a matter of fact there are certainly 2 in the Additions — 
 
 N xiii. 700, 
 * xxi. 458, 
 
 and possibly 3 : for in A xi. 51, the reading juey' hnzr^iav gives no sense. 
 (See Leaf, ad loc, who reads |ue6''.) 
 
 There is possibly one instance in the Original Iliad — 
 
 Ji xxiv. 400. Twv ixkra. jraXXo/iei/os KX-qpi^ Xd^ov. 
 
 But here we should probably read /t«Ta7raA.A.d/u,evos, and take tuv as 
 partitive (v. H. G., § 196). 
 
 However, the important points to notice are (i) that this use of 
 /x€Ta is colloquial (which indeed is the reason why it is usually avoided 
 in the high style, as it is by ^schylus, v. H. G., § 221, note); (2) that 
 both the Odyssean instances occur where colloquialism happens to be 
 peculiarly in place. 
 
 The first is in Circe's scornful dismissal of the man she thinks she 
 has turned into a beast — 
 
 K. X. 330. "E/^x^o •'!'•' (TvcfiiovSe, p,eT' aXXiav Xe^ov eraiptav. 
 We instinctively translate : " Off to the sty ! " &c. 
 The second is in a speech of the swineherd's — 
 
 TT. xvi. 140. iMera Spunav t' Ivt oikij) irtve Kal — 
 
 a speech, too, that is specially marked by the homeliness and simplicity 
 so characteristic of Eumseus ^ — the homeliness that Homer knows so 
 
 ' E.g. TT 136. yiyvccKTKOi, (l>pov4a>' rd ye Si) vofovTi KfXfvets : "I know, I 
 
 know ! You needn't teach a man who has his wits," 
 
o)pTo €7?' avTov^. \The Menis. 
 
 deetv eir' AlaKiSrjv. 
 err' Atavra irpotu. 
 kU IIoDXiiSajoiavT' kirl. 
 
 -6] APPENDIX C 257 
 
 well how to weave into the stately Epic diction when he chooses. He 
 does it by these subtle touches, which are then, alas ! liable to be 
 classified by our grammarians as " changes of language." 
 
 Monro appears to recognise the colloquial character of the usage 
 (H. G., § 196, note), but not to draw the obvious inference. 
 
 § 5. ejrt, c. ace. oi persons = in quest i?/" (motion towards). 
 
 Said to be "almost confined to the Iliad" (H. G., § 199). But note 
 that (i) in any case the use is rare; (2) there are only 5 instances in 
 the Original — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 B ii. 18. yS'^ 8' ap Itt' 'ArpetSijv. 
 
 -A. xi. 343 
 
 A xi. 805 
 
 M xii. 342 
 
 n xvi. 535 
 
 And there are at least 3 in the Odyssey — 
 
 e V. 149. eir' 'OSuo-iJa rjii. 
 
 a i. 183. 7rA.eu)v . . . ejr' dXXodpoovs dvOpiaTTOVS. 
 1. ix. 129. avSpes Itt' dWi^Xovs vrjvcrlv ■jrepobicn 6dX.a<T<Tav. 
 
 The difference is certainly small. 
 
 (The other Iliadic instances are 10 in number, and of these as 
 many as 4 happen to come from Book x. K 18, 54, 85, 150 ; ». Ebeling, 
 OTi, B, c, 5, a.) 
 
 But further, there are two other instances in the Odyssey of e^ri, 
 c. ace. — "in quest of" where, though the object of the quest is an animal 
 and not a man, the usage is exactly the same — 
 
 •y iii. 421. TreStovSe hn, fiovv iroi. 
 
 p xvii. 295 (of the dog Argus), (rhv dywea-Kov) afyag Itt' dyporepas, 
 ktX.. 
 
 If we add these to the Odyssean list, and the similar case in Iliad 
 xxiv. fl 43 (eio-' iirl fifjXa) to the Iliadic, we get 5 for the Odyssey as 
 against 6 for the Original Iliad, and the small difference now becomes 
 microscopic. 
 
 § 6. Again, it is said that eirl, c. ace, to imply extent, without any 
 verb of motion, is "Odyssean" (H. G., § 199). 
 
 But we find in the Original Iliad this phrase (describing the horses 
 of Admetus) — 
 
 B ii. 765. a-Ta<f>vkrj eirl viarov e'icras, "equal along the back {i.e. in 
 height) by the level." 
 
 R 
 
258 HOMER AND THE ILIAD Ce- 
 
 lt is really impossible to supply a verb of motion here. 
 And compare B ii. 308 (from a part of the Iliad which, though not 
 
 part of the Original, is usually considered to be very early) — 
 
 SpaKov eirl viaTa Sat^oivos. 
 
 Further, it seems a little perverse to class "looking" among verbs 
 of motion. (See H. G., § 199, 3.) 
 And we find in the Menis itself — 
 
 A i. 350. OjodfDV Eir' dffetpova ttovtov. 
 
 Finally, the Odyssean instances, though many in number, are, all 
 but one, variants of two phrases, and two only, and these two are akin, 
 viz. — 
 
 (1) €7rt yaiav (^apovpav, ^Oova, aiav). 
 
 E.g. y iii. 3. <f>aeLvoi eirt fttStopov apovpav. 
 
 (2) (iravTas) eir' avOpiInrovs, 
 
 The first Odyssean instance, by the way, clearly shows how the 
 phrase begins and how naturally it grows up out of the common use 
 of kirl, c. ace. with verbs of motion. (It may be observed that, as a 
 matter of fact, it would be easier to make out a case for a real idea of 
 motion here than in the instance from the Menis, A i. 350.) 
 
 These two particular phrases become, no doubt, favourite Odyssean 
 " turns " (and, be it observed, this holds of the Odyssey from first to 
 last). But the syntactical usage never grows outside these limits. 
 Thus the evidence may suggest unity of authorship for the Odyssey ; 
 but it can no more suggest a change in syntax as compared with the 
 Iliad than the use of the set phrase " over all the world " could suggest 
 that English had begun to employ the word "over" as an equivalent 
 for the word "in." 
 
 {v. Ebeling, Ittj, B, c, 4 a fin., 5 b, vol. i. p. 448-9.) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 (i) €7ri yaiav and variants — 
 y iii. 3. 
 
 S iv. 417. p xvii. 386. 
 
 ij vii. 332. T xix. 107, 593. 
 
 p. xii. 386. u) xxiv. 509. 
 
 (2) (TTai/Tos) eir' a.v6pu>tT0v<s — 
 
 a. i. 299. T xix. 334. 
 
 y iii. 252. ^ xxiii. 125. 
 
 £ xiv. 403. 0) xxiv. 201. 
 
 (o) xxiv. 94 is from an 
 interpolation.) 
 
 (3) f v. 158. TTOVTOV eir' . , . ScpKiO'Kero — 
 
-9] APPENDIX C 259 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A i. 350. 6/3oa)v tTTi irovTov {the Menis). 
 
 B ii. 765. kiii voiTov etcras. 
 
 '^ xxiii. 143. ISiav i. TTOi'Tov. 
 
 ^ xxiii. 742. KaXXet iviKa Tracrav eir' a?av. 
 
 il xxiv. 202. eVAc' £7r' dvdpiiiTrovs. 
 
 il xxiv. 535. TravTtts . . . eir' dvdpioirov? tKe/cao-TO. 
 
 Additions — 
 
 B ii. 308. SpaKbiv IttI vtoTa Sa(j>oiv6s. 
 
 H vii. 446. '^ pa Tt9 ecTTt fSpoTwv ktr' aireipova yaiav ktX. 
 
 I ix. 506. <f>ddv€i , . . Tracrav Itt' a?av | fSXaTTTOvaa. 
 K X. 212—213. kAeos eii; 
 
 TravTos eir' dvOpunrovs. 
 
 E V. 771. Aevtro-tov e. ttovtov. 
 
 N xiii. 4. i(f>' . . . QprjKtav KaOoptip.evo's aiav. 
 
 {Once in I ix., K x. ; Iwice in '^ xxiii. and fl xxiv.) 
 
 § 7. Itti with forms in - <^t. " Odyssean " (H. G., § 157). 
 But apparently there are only 3 cases, one of which is from the 
 interpolation to the Nekuia — 
 
 iir' k(r\ap6<\iiv, iw' iKpi6(f>iv, {irri vevpfjtfii,v). (Od. V. e 59, xiii. v 74, 
 xi. A 607.) 
 
 § 8. Trpos, with the dat., meaning besides. " Odyssean " (H. G., 
 
 § 206). 
 
 But this only occurs once in the Odyssey, as Monro himself 
 observes — 
 
 K X. 68. dacrdv p.' frapoi re KaKol ■rrphs Toicrt t£ wvos. 
 
 And the closely similar advbl. use of ■n-p6's = besides, is common in 
 the Iliad, e.g. E v. 307 (the Original Iliad) : — 
 
 dXdtrcri Se ot KorvXrjv, Trpbs 8' apcfxa prj^e revovre. 
 
 § 9. dvd c. gen. "Odyssean" (H. G., § 209). 
 
 But there are only 3 instances, all told, in the Odyssey {v. H. G., 
 loc. a'/.), and all are in the set phrase of " going on board." And of 
 these 3, 2 are doubtful. Ebeling (v. Lexicon, dvd, t i) takes ^ ii. 416 
 and o XV. 284 as instances of tmesis for dva^aivo} : — 
 
 av S' dpa TrjXep,a-)(0'S vrj&s ^aive, 
 
 av Se Kot avrhi vrj&s t^iqiTfro TrovToirxipoio. 
 
26o 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [9- 
 
 The run of the lines certainly favours this. And, in the Original 
 Iliad, we find ava^aivm used absolutely to mean "going on board," 
 which shows that the meaning is familiar : — 
 
 A i. 312. ol fthf eTretr' dva/3d,vTe'S CTreTrAeov vypa KeXevda. 
 
 There remains one soUtary Odyssean instance — 
 
 t ix. 177. am vrjbs e/Brjv. 
 
 We cannot conclude much from one solitary instance ; and if we 
 could venture to conclude anything, it would be, I think, that we had 
 here a technical phrase (just like our own "going on board"') used for 
 the sake of "local colour." It may be added that the use with the 
 gen. never appears at all in later Greek. 
 
 §10. ava, c. ace. with collective nouns = lArougk, "seems to be 
 peculiar to the Iliad" (H. G., § 210). 
 
 (By " collective Nouns " I presume Monro means abstract collective 
 nouns.) 
 
 No doubt this is more common in the Iliad, both in the Original 
 (20 cases) and in the Additions (15) ; but it does occur in the Odyssey 
 (6 times). (Repetitions are included in the numbers for all these.) 
 
 In the Odyssey the phrase is limited to the word S^/oios. In the 
 Iliad (except for xxiii.) the words are all connected with warfare. 
 
 The use does not occur in II. ix. or xxiv., but it does occur in 
 X. (four times) and also in xxiii. (twice). 
 
 Ebeling, ava, iii. 3, b, c. 
 
 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 
 
 T xix 
 
 ■73- 
 
 a.vh. SrjfM 
 
 
 273- 
 
 if a 
 
 ^ii. 
 
 291. 
 
 11 »] 
 
 7 iii. 
 
 215. 
 
 )> )] 
 
 IT XVI 
 
 .96. 
 
 ij a 
 
 S iv. 
 
 666. 
 
 )i )i 
 
 (6 viii. 
 
 377- 
 
 av' I6vv 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 
 
 A i. 10. 
 
 ava 
 
 (TTparov. 
 
 53- 
 
 1; 
 
 ji 
 
 384- 
 
 j» 
 
 )) 
 
 A IV. 209, 436. 
 
 » 
 
 » 
 
 XV. 657. 
 
 jj 
 
 jj 
 
 r iii. 449. 
 
 av' 
 
 o/xtAov. 
 
 A xi. 247, 259, 324. 
 
 >) 
 
 n 
 
 M xii. 49. 
 
 >) 
 
 >i 
 
-12] APPENDIX C 261 
 
 (A iv. 251, 273. dva ovkafiov. 
 
 E V. 167. av re /ia)()jv Kai dva kXovov. 
 
 n xvi. 726. djx irovov. 
 
 P xvii. 82. ctjU irovov. 
 
 O XV. 584. dva SrjiOTTJra. 
 
 P xvii. 257. , „ „ 
 
 "^ xxiii. 321. a vet Spofwv. 
 
 617. av' dytova.) 
 
 The last 9 instances appear to be on a somewhat different footing. 
 They are abstract, but scarcely collective. 
 
 Additions — 
 
 K X. 66. ava crrpaTov. 
 
 82, 141. „ 
 
 N xiii. 117. „ ^ „ 
 
 E V. 528. dv' ofiikov. 
 
 H vii. 183, 186. „^ „ 
 
 Y XX. 113. dva ovXa/iov. 
 E V. 824. /ndx^jv dva. 
 
 S xiv. 155. ^ „ „ 
 
 Y XX. 319. dv T£ jud;^ijv Kat dvd kXovov. 
 9 viii. 89, 158. dv' l(ii-)(^fi6v . 
 
 K X. 298. dfi (fiovov, dv veKi;as. 
 
 N xiii. 239. d/i TTOvov. 
 
 § II. Kara, c. acc. with {abstract) collective nouns "chiefly in the 
 Iliad" (H. G., § 212). Certainly it is common in the Iliad, both in 
 the Original (throughout) and in the Additions. 
 
 E.g. Original — 
 
 A i. 229, 318 (the Menis). Kara a-Tpdrov. 
 ^ xxiii. 285. „ „ 
 
 ft xxiv. 691. „ ,, 
 
 Additions — 
 
 I ix. 521. KO-TO, Xabv. 
 
 (Apparently, however, there is no instance in K x.) 
 But in the Odyssey we have Kara SrJ/xov close on a score of times, 
 and k.o.t' dyuvas ( - a) twice (Q viii. 259, 380). (Ebeling, xard, iii. b. y.) 
 
 § 12. Kara, c. a.cc. = " for," '^ in quest of." " Odyssean '' (H. G., 
 § 212 (3)). 
 
262 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [12- 
 
 This occurs thrice in the Odyssey (excluding one repetition) — 
 y iii. 72. ij Tt Kara Trp^^iv . . . d,kd\r)(T0e. 
 
 (Cp. h. Ap. 453. Kara Ttprf^iv.) 
 (t ix. 253. Repeated.) 
 y iii. 106. TrXa^oiievoi Kara XrjiSa. 
 
 A xi. 479. ^X.6ov Teipea-iao Kara xpeos (^ = Teipe<rtao xpi]- 
 crop^vos). 
 
 Now we have a phrase exactly similar to the second of these in t/ie 
 Menis (and nowhere else in Homer) — 
 
 A i. 424. e/3)j Kara Satra. 
 
 Leaf (fld loc.\ translating the phrase "in the matter of a banquet," 
 refers to Monro (H. G.,§2i2 (3)) — the very place where the " Odyssean " 
 use is catalogued. 
 
 (». Ebeling, Kara, iii. y, c, ^.) 
 
 There is another usage of Kara, c. ace, which appears closely 
 analogous to the preceding, and is also confined to the Odyssey and 
 the Original Iliad, viz. KaTa = "up to" with verbs of motion. (The 
 likeness of the phrasing and versification in the instances should be 
 noted.) 
 
 Iliad — 
 
 A i. 484. iKOVTO Kara (TTparov. 
 A xi. 806-7. o.\X' ore S^ Kara vrjas . . . | t^e detov (the Menis). 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 e V. 441-2. dXX' oT£ S^ ■tTOTO.p.oXo Kara (TTop-a . . . | ?^£ V€(uv. 
 0) xxiv. 13. IKOVTO Kar' a.cr<jioSeXhv X.€ip,(j)va. 
 
 § 13. The phrase Sta vvKTa. This occurs "chiefly in the Odyssey 
 and Books x. and xxiv. of the Iliad" (H. G., § 215). 
 
 But the identical phrase occurs also in tAe Menis itself. 
 
 B ii. 56-57. ^kOtv oveipoi | dp^pocri-qv 8ia vvKTa. 
 
 And next to it in the same Book there is another very like it — 
 
 39-40. drjO-sLV yap eV epeXXev ctt' aXyea . . . Sia Kparepai icrjatvas. 
 
 (The two phrases are quoted under the same heading by Monro, 
 H. G.,§2i5.) 
 
 The Odyssey, fl xxiv., and K x., may show a peculiar fondness for 
 the phrase, but it is not a new one in any of these Books. It does not 
 occur, curiously enough, in Book I ix., where we might well expect it. 
 
-14] APPENDIX C 263 
 
 But it is certainly a marked trick of K x., where it is repeated almost 
 ad nauseam (9 times, 41, 83, loi, 142, 276, 297, 386, 394, 468). It 
 occurs 3 times in fl xxiv. 
 
 The only other instance in the Iliad is from the Additions, 9 viii. 
 510. (Ebeling, 6ta, 2, b.) 
 
 Further, the use of Sta with the ace. to denote the space through 
 which motion takes place is " distinctively Homeric " (Monro, loc. cit.). 
 And an investigation of the instances in the Odyssey and the Original 
 Iliad will show how close together lie the ideas of space and time in 
 the use of the phrase. This is indeed abundantly clear from the first 
 example in the Odyssey — 
 
 I ix. 141. iv6a KaT«7r\€0j«.ev Kai Tts d^Siv ijy€ju.dv£ve 
 
 vvKTa SI' 6p<l)valr]V, ouSe TrpovtjxiiviT' ISiirdai,. 
 
 "We sailed in (to the harbour) and some god led us through the 
 dark night, for we could not see our way." " Through " here plainly 
 does not mean " during" 
 
 The spatial sense is uppermost also in 3 out of the remaining 
 5 instances. 
 
 t ix. 404. TtVre . . , f/Sorjcras 
 vvKTa Si' djj./3po(rirjv ; 
 
 o XV. 50. ov! irojs 'icrriv — • 
 
 V. 8, 8vocl)eprjv lAaav. 
 
 A xii. 284. dW atJTCos S. V. Oorjv dXdX'qa'Bai, 
 
 o XV. 8. TijAe/zaxov . . . 
 
 V. Si' d.p,pp. fieXeST^jxaTa Trarpbs eytipcv, 
 (The only purely temporal case.) 
 
 T xix. 66. Sto, vvKTa 
 
 SiV€V(i)V Kara olkov. 
 
 The spatial sense is also unmistakable in — 
 
 il xxiv. 363. TTjj, Trdrep, 58' iTnrovs . ■ . Idvveis 
 V. S. dp.Ppoo'ir^v, 
 And again— 
 
 366. ei' Tis <re iSolto dorjv 8, v. fiiXaivav 
 
 TotrcraS' ovtiar' ayovra. 
 
 But the phrase is repeated without the verb in — 
 
 653. Tool' €(.' Ti% ere lSolto 6, S. v. jj,€\aiva,v. 
 
 § 14. £v with plurs. oi persons { = among) and with abstract words. 
 {" Odyssean.") 
 
 "This occurs in II., but almost exclusively in ix., x., xxiii., and 
 xxiv. " Qebb, " Homer," Appendix, N. 3). 
 
264 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [14- 
 
 " These two uses are nearly confined in the Iliad to Books ix., x., 
 xxiii., and xxiv. " (H. G., § 220). 
 
 For the first usage, («v with plurs. denoting persons), these dicta 
 do not appear to be borne out by the statistics. On the contrary, 
 Ebeling's exhaustive lexicon gives only 34 instances for the Odyssey (in- 
 cluding repetitions), and actually as many as 64 for the Iliad, excluding 
 Books ix., X., xxiii., and xxiv. (Or, if we omit repetitions, 19 for all 
 the twenty-four books of the Odyssey, and 16 for the twenty Iliadic 
 books selected.) 
 
 Nor is there even any increase in Iliad ix., x., xxiii., or xxiv., as 
 compared with individual Books of the Menis. The following tables 
 will show this. At first sight it might be thought that II. xxiii. '^ 
 formed an exception; but the numbers there are only swelled by 
 counting the repetitions. And in this instance it is peculiarly un- 
 scientific to include the repetitions without notice, as 5 of them occur 
 in a regular refrain where Achilles sets out the prizes for each of the 
 five contests, and 2 are from an interpolation. With the repetitions 
 and the interpolations we have 12 cases, without them no more than 3. 
 
 kv ■•niXh. plurs. As.x\o'ivt\^ persons — 
 A xi. (the Menis) — 
 
 xi. 188. SvVOVt' kv ■!rpO[Mi)(OUTLV. 
 
 (203. Bvvovt' ev irpoft.a.^ouTiv .) 
 
 470. evt T/3a)€0"(rt. 
 
 296. iV irptOTOltTl,. 
 
 (675. ev TrpdroKTi.) 
 
 (61. kv TTpUITOUTL.) 
 
 65. kv irvpATOUTi. 
 
 A i. (the Menis)- 
 
 4 or 7. 
 
 .520. tv auavarouTi I 
 
 398. 6V a.6ava.Toi(Ti. 
 
 109. ev AavaoKTC. 
 
 (575. ev Se OeouTi.) 
 
 The Additions — 
 
 (IHad ix. I) 
 
 34 
 680 
 
 (647 
 709 
 121 
 
 (528 
 
 3 or4- 
 
 ev Aavaoicre.. 
 ev 'Apyei'otcrtv. 
 
 ev ' Apyuoicriv.) 
 
 evt TTplIiTOUTl. 
 
 v/jbiv S' ev irdvTfiTcrL. 
 kv S' vp,iv 5ravTeo"(rt.) 
 
 4 or 6, 
 
-14] 
 
 xK. 
 
 207. 
 
 (314- 
 445- 
 435- 
 127. 
 
 (180. 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 6vt Tpioecro'i,. 
 iv Tpuccrcri.) 
 
 iV VjUV. 
 
 ev <ftvXdKt<T(ri,. 
 
 (f>vXa,Kfcr(riv ev aypOjiievoKriv.) 
 
 265 
 
 4 or 6. 
 
 Original Iliad- 
 
 ^ xxiii. 
 
 271. 
 
 (456- 
 (657- 
 (706. 
 
 (752- 
 
 (TT^ S' opdh's KOI fivOov iv 'ApyeiouTiv leiTrev. 
 do. do. ) 
 
 do. do. ) 
 
 do. do. ) 
 
 do. do. ) 
 
 801 and 803 should not be counted at all, as they belong to what 
 is always considered an interpolation. For the phrase itself cp. the 
 Menis : — 
 
 X xxii. 377. 
 
 (TTcis ev 'A)(aioi(riv e'irea irTepoevr' dyopevev, 
 
 a line almost verbally echoed by the next instance from Book xxiii. 
 
 (S3S- 
 (620. 
 
 o-ras 8' dp kv 'Apyewis eirea TTTepoevr' dyopevev.) 
 ov ydp eV avrhv o\j/rj iv 'ApyeLoccri.) 
 
 703- 
 (786. 
 
 134- 
 
 evl <r<f>i(Ti. 
 
 fivdov ev 'Apyeioia-LV eenrev.) 
 
 iv Se fi.k<T(TOi(ri ^tpov TLdrpoKXov. 
 
 
 3 or 12. 
 
 fl xxiv. — 
 
 
 62. 
 
 iV Sc (TV TOIITIV. 
 
 84. 
 
 ivl [lecTcrys | KkaU. 
 
 107. 
 
 vetKOS iv ddavaTOicriv opiopev. 
 
 (162. 
 684. 
 
 6 S' iv fj,i(r(roLcri yepaio's.) 
 etSSets dvSpdcriv ev SrjioicrLV. 
 
 4 or 5. 
 
 I give the remaining instances I have found in the Iliad and the 
 Odyssey. 
 
 (See Ebeling, ev, iii. A, b, c, /3), g, h. 
 
 C, a. 
 
 D, b, c, d. 
 
2 66 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [14- 
 
 Original Iliad. 
 
 M xii. 41. 'iv T6 KvvariTi k. 
 dvSpdcri. 
 2 xviii. 494- tv 8' apa. toutiv. 
 (IT xvi. 166. ev S' apa Totcriv.) 
 
 Additions. 
 
 X xxii. 377 
 (T xix. 6 
 
 (E V. 9 
 
 (11 xvi. 750, 
 
 (r iii. 209 
 
 (2 xviii. 194. 
 
 (r iii. 31. 
 
 B ii. 483. 
 
 (P. xvii. 26. 
 (P. xvii. 753. 
 
 (T xix. 424. 
 (M xii. 306. 
 (M xii. 324. 
 (0 XV. 643. 
 (P xvii. 506. 
 (A iv. 212. 
 
 (M xii. 209. 
 (T xix. 77. 
 
 (T xix. 364. 
 (2 xviii. 569. 
 
 (2xviii.So7. 
 r iii. 230. 
 
 o-Ttts hv 'Axatoto-tv. 
 iv TOicri wapuTTaTO.) 
 
 ^v Se Tts Iv Tptaecrcri.) 
 
 iv Tpiae<T(Ti,) 
 
 TpoyerrcTiv iv dypo- 
 fiivoimv.) 
 
 ivl TTptoTouriv.) 
 
 iv wpajxaxouTi.) 
 
 iv iraXXoicriv k. 
 €^0)(0V -qpiiecTO-iv. 
 
 iv Aavaotcri.) 
 
 iv TOKTl.) 
 
 iv irpmroLS.) 
 
 iv TTpOJTOlS.) 
 ivl irplOTOKTl!) 
 
 iv TTputrouTi.) 
 
 ivl TTpWTOUTlV.) 
 
 iv jaeo"(roto"i.) 
 iv juecrcroicrt.) 
 
 iv IJ,i(T(TOl(TLV.) 
 
 iv Se /xccroMTj.) 
 iv /iOTO-oiat.) 
 
 iv fiecnroKTi.) 
 fvl Kpiyrecrcrt. 
 
 B ii. 783. 
 
 (6 viii. 148. 
 (S xiv. 45. 
 
 (N xiii. 689. 
 E v. 397. 
 
 (* xxi. 385. 
 
 ■yatav tjuatrcrr; tiv 
 'KpifLoi.'s. 
 
 ivl Tpdecra'' dyo- 
 
 p£vo)V.) 
 ivl Tpuctrtr' dyo- 
 
 pevo)v.) 
 
 iv S' apa TOicriv.) 
 iv veKve(T(Ti. 
 
 iv . . . dioio'tv €jOt9 
 
 Y XX. 55. iv 8' avTois. 
 
 (H vii. 384. 
 (H vii. 417. 
 
 (6 viii. 337. 
 (0 viii. 536. 
 
 iv p.io'tTOKnv.') 
 iv p,i(y(Toi(rLV .) 
 
 iv TrputTOitri.) 
 iv TrpwTOUTiv.) 
 
 (Y XX. 15. iv fi&r<To lai.) 
 
 (B ii. 274. iv 'ApyiioLcriv epc- 
 ^ev.) 
 
 (T xix. 175. ev 'Apyeiouriv dva<r- 
 Tas.) 
 
 (4> xxi. 476. iv ddavdroKTi, dto- 
 icriv.) 
 
 (0 XV. 342. iv irpoixd^oicri.) 
 
-14] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 267 
 
 (A iv. 253. 
 (0 XV. 522. 
 (2xviii.456. 
 (T xix. 414. 
 
 Original Iliad. 
 
 evl ■7rpo[j,d')(OLS.) 
 evl irpo/Lia)(ot(rt.) 
 Ivi Trpoju-axotcrt.) 
 evl TTpo/x.axo'o''-) 
 
 (Sxviii.ss6. 
 
 (P xvii. 16. 
 
 (A iy. 458- 
 
 (P xvii. 590. 
 
 Z vi. 7. 
 
 ev TOtcri.) 
 ivl Tpwecro-iv.) 
 Ivj TTpofia^ioio'i.) 
 Ivt Trpofj.a,)(OLcn.) 
 Ivt 0pijKecr<rt. 
 
 Additions. 
 
 (N xiii. 156. kv Tolcri.) 
 (E V. 395. Iv TOtO-l.) 
 (0 XV. 107. ev dOavarouri 
 deoLcri.) 
 
 Odyssey- 
 
 (iii. 7 
 
 xxu. X 13- 
 
 i. a 114. 
 
 xii. /i 383. 
 
 xiv. ^ 382. 
 
 xxii. X 234- 
 
 (xx. II 287. 
 
 xviii. "■379. 
 
 vii. r] 62. 
 
 xix. T no. 
 
 ii. /3 194. 
 
 xix. T II. 
 
 (xvi. IT 292. 
 
 iv. 8 725. 
 
 (iv. 5 815. 
 
 xiii. V 298. 
 
 iv. S 281. 
 
 (xxiv. 0) 441. 
 
 iii. 7 379. 
 
 V. e 3. 
 
 (ii. P 46. 
 
 xxiii. 1/' 144. 
 
 xiv. ^205. 
 
 i. a 95. 
 
 78. i. a 391. 
 
 (xvi. TV 378. 
 
 xvii. p 265. 
 
 (xvii. /> 354- 
 
 (xviii. o- 138. 
 
 xxii. X 217. 
 
 Ivt TrAedvecrcrt. 
 
 ■^(TTo ev p.vq<Trrip(Ti.v. 
 
 Iv veKi;£0"a-i ^aelvo). 
 
 — p,iv ev K/D7jT£crcrt iSicrdai,. 
 
 ev avSpacri Svo^p,£vee(Ta^l. 
 
 Iv /ytvr/cTTij/oo-iv.) 
 
 TTpuiTOimv Iv 7rpop.a,\OL<Tiv. 
 
 Iv ^acfj^Lv avao"0"e. 
 
 avSpatrtv Iv iroA,Aoto"t. 
 
 Iv Tracrtv 
 
 Iv ijUlV. 
 
 Iv lu/xiv.) 
 
 Iv Aavaoicrt. 
 
 Iv Aavaoicrt.) 
 
 Iv Trao-t deolcri,. 
 
 Iv )xi(T<TOia-i. 
 
 Iv /xlcro-ottri.) 
 
 Iv 'ApyelouTi. 
 
 Iv 8' apa Totcrt. 
 
 Iv VfUV.) 
 
 Iv 81 cr<j>i(Tiv. 
 
 ivl KpijTecrcrt. 
 
 Iv dvOpioiroLCTL. 
 
 iv. 8 710. xvii. p 419. xix. t 
 
 Iv TracTiV.) 
 
 Iv ;roA,Xoiat. 
 
 Iv avSpacri.) 
 
 xiv. ^ 176.) 
 
 Iv Se cri) TOicrtv. 
 
 75-) 
 
268 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [15- 
 
 § 15. As regards the second usage — ev with abstract words — we have 
 in all for the Odyssey 2 1 instances (or, excluding repetitions, 14). But 
 then for the Iliad we have 26 (or, excluding repetitions, 18). And of 
 these Iliadic instances Book xxiii. furnishes only i and Book x. only 
 2. Book xxiv. contains 3, but so does Book xxii., and, of those 3, 2 
 are from the Menis itself. Book ix. has as many as 5 (or, including 
 repetition, 6). 
 
 An examination of the list will show further that, in the Additions, 
 except for Book ix., the character of the phrases is limited, being 
 almost confined to the formula kv (piXorrjTi. On the other hand, xxii. 
 has three distinct types. 
 
 €v with abstracts. (See Ebeling, kv iii. B, c, d.) 
 
 Original Iliad (xxiii. and xxiv.) — 
 
 ^ xxiii. 671. ^v TTo.VTVTfj' fpyoicriv Saijjuova. 
 
 12 xxiv. 130. ev (^tAoTTJTl. 
 
 428. Kai cv davdroLO wep al(7rj. 
 568. ev aXyeai dvfxhv opivys. 
 
 Remaining instances from the Original — 
 XV. 426. ^a^rjs kv (TTelviC T(^Se. 
 
 741- *•' X^P'^'' "^oo'S, <"J i>,uXi\iri TToXifioLO. 
 X xxii. 483. kvl TrkvdeC ActVeis. 
 
 199. kv 6ve.ipif SiuiK^iv {the Menis). 
 61. aicry kv dpyaXky (the Menis). 
 
 Additions (ix. and x.) — 
 
 ix. I 230. iv Solrj 8e {icTfiiv). 
 
 319. kvSk iyrifiy. 
 
 491. ^v vrjTTiejj dXeyeivYj. 
 
 143 (285). Tpk<f>€Tai OaXlrj kv\ rroXXy. 
 
 378. Tio) Se p,iv ev Kapos aicrrj. 
 
 X. K 245 (279). kv TravTeacri ttovoixti,. 
 
 Remaining instances from the Additions — 
 (B ii. 232. kv <^tAoT)jT6.) 
 (S xiv. 237, 314, 331, 360. kv 4>tX6Tr]Tt.) 
 
 (H vii. 302. kv (^tXoTijTi.) 
 
 © viii. 476. (TTiivei, kv aivoTaTip. 
 XV. 195. TpiTarri kvl p^otpr). 
 T xix. 186. kv fioipr) SuK^o. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 xxii. X 54. kv P'Oipy irec^arat. 
 viii. ^313. KadivSeTOv kv (^iXotijti. 
 
 (Perhaps an interpolation.) 
 
-15] APPENDIX C 269 
 
 xxi. <l> 79. fif/j.v'qcricrOai . . . iv inp 6veip(^. 
 {cp. II. X xxii. 199, the Menis.) 
 
 Xix. (t 541. Iv TTip dvci/oci).) 
 
 (t 581. ev trip ovetpo).) 
 
 xiii. V 301. iv iravricra-i TrovoLcn. 
 
 XX. (v 48. ev TravTctrtri jrdi'ois.) 
 vii. IT) 51-2. dapcraXeos yap dvrjp ev iraa-iv dp,uvoiv | 
 fpyouTiv Tekidei. 
 
 iv. S 497. Iv vocrrui aTroAovTo. 
 
 (xi. A 384. iv vooTTO) dirokovro.) 
 
 (v. £ Io8. €V vdcTTfj) dAtVoVTO.) 
 (xxiv. <U 96. EV vdtTTfJ) dXlTOVTO.) 
 
 V. £ 395. OS «v i/dvao) KTJrai: 
 
 X. K 465. ^iJjubs €v eitjipoa-vvrj. 
 
 xi. A 603. ripirerai iv Oakiys. 
 
 vii. 17 212, iv aXyea-iv. 
 
 XX. V 23. ev iretcrj;. 
 
 xiii. V 292. €v Tra.vTex7(7t, SdAot(7t. 
 
 XV. o 357- t" <ij^<i) yiypat. 
 
 xix. T 360. iv KaKoT-qri. 
 
 (xxi. <^ 88. iv aAyeo-6.) 
 
 I add a list of " temporal " usages with «v, because it is interesting 
 to note that 4 cases occur in the Odyssey and 4 in the Original Iliad 
 (3, perhaps all 4, being from the Menis itself), while none occur 
 elsewhere. (Repetitions are included.) 
 
 " Temporal " use. 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 ii. B 471. &pri iv flapivT) (the Menis). 
 
 xvi. n 643. mpy iv dapivy (possibly the Menis). 
 
 xviii. 2 251. 117 S' iv vvKxl (the Menis). 
 
 xi. A 173. iv i/vKT&s djuoAy^ (the Menis). 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 X xxii. 301. &prQ iv elapivy. 
 
 a- xviii. 367. apy iv dapCvri. 
 
 p. xii. 76. oiir' iv dipei ovt' iv OTTiopy. 
 
 p xvii. 176. iv upy SeiiTvov e\i(r6ai. 
 
 To these might be added iv <^d£i, "in daylight," occurring in the 
 Odyssey, <t> xxi. 429, and also in the Original Iliad, P xvii. 647, and 
 nowhere else. 
 
 iv 6vfi<p and iv <f)pe(rl are common both in the Iliad and the 
 Odyssey. ' But these phrases should not be included ; they are 
 
270 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [15- 
 
 obviously on quite a different footing from such a phrase as evl irkvOei 
 AeiVeis (II. xxii. X 483). They are rather to be classed with such 
 quasi-anatomical expressions as ev KpaS'iy or ev a-r-qdea-cn, and the 
 latter should certainly not be called a case of Iv with an abstract word. 
 
 § 16. Ik, c. gen., "in consequence of" "Odyssean" (H. G., § 223). 
 
 This is certainly more common in the Odyssey, though it is not 
 common even there. It occurs 5 times (or possibly 7), including repeti- 
 tions). There seem to be only two clear instances in the whole Iliad. 
 But one of them is from the Menis (the other from the Additions). 
 
 Iliad — 
 
 I ix. 566. 6^ dp€(ov jj.ijTpbs Ke\oX<oiJ,evo's. 
 
 A xi. 308. (T/ie Menis') crKiSvarai 1^ dve/ioio ico'^s. 
 
 (Ebeling, «/< iii. E, c, /8, 7.) 
 Odyssey — 
 
 iii. 7 135- ?roA,ees KaKhv oCtov €Tri(nrov 
 
 jLiijvtos €^ oXo^s yAauKwn-iSos. 
 xviii. o" 224. SSc irddoi pvcrraKTVos e^ dXeyeivrji ; 
 
 xix. T 114. 9a.\a(rcra 8k Trap€)(Tg ixdvi 
 
 e^ eijrjyeo-njs (a somewhat doubtful instance). 
 XV. o 197. ^iivoi Se Siap^wepe? €v\6ixe9' civai 
 
 €K Traripiav (jiiXoTqTO'S. 
 vi. f 29. €K yap Tot TovTiov charts dvdpdTOvs dvajBaiveL. 
 
 ;vn. p 134. I ^ "^ '^' '' 
 
 The last phrase is doubtful. Some trans, "in a match." The 
 phrase re-occurs in Iliad, H vii. in (part of the Additions), where it 
 apparently means " out of enmity." 
 
 In connection with Ik it may be worth noting that the phrase 
 Ik TToXefioio (also found in the Odyssey, y iii. 192, w xxiv. 43) appears 
 to be a favourite phrase of the Original Iliad, occurring there no less 
 than 17 times, while it is only to be found 4 times in the Additions. 
 
 Ebeling {Ik, iii. E, b) notes that the phrase is confined to certain 
 Books of the Iliad, but suggests no explanation. 
 
 The references are — 
 
 Original — 
 
 iii. r 428. vi. Z 480. xi. A 590 (the Menis). xii. M 123. 
 
 xviii. 2 307. xi. A 752 {the Menis) and 811. vi. Z 501. xi. A 597 
 
 {the Menis). xvii. P 700, 735, xi. A 612 {the Menis) and 663. 
 xvii. P 189, 239, 452. xix. T 73. 
 
-18] APPENDIX C 271 
 
 Additions — 
 
 V. E 409. xiii. N 211, 515. xxi. 'I' 422. 
 
 § 17. Inf. after wo-te and rels. (in a consecutive sense). " Odyssean " 
 (H. G, § 235). 
 
 There is a real change here, but a very slight one, as Monro's own 
 instances show. 
 
 The inf. with Sum, so familiar in prose afterwards, occurs once in 
 the Odyssey and once in the Additions (II. I ix.), and nowhere else 
 in Homer. 
 
 Additions — 
 
 ix. I 42. fTTccro-VTai us T£ veecr^at. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 xvii. p 20, oi5 yct^ ETTt (TTadnoicri jxeveiv eVt TrjXiKOi eiju, 
 <us t' OTtTttXa/iEvu) . . . TTLdecrOai,. 
 
 There are also 3 instances, and only 3, of 016s re, all in the Odyssey, 
 and I solitary instance of ocrcrov re, only in the Odyssey. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 T xix. 160. 
 <t>xxi. 117, 173. 
 € V. 484. 
 
 It is possible that this change also is due to a desire for a more 
 colloquial tone. Certainly in the instance with aa-re (xvii. p 20) Odysseus 
 is deliberately imitating the style and language of an old beggar-man, 
 e.g. xvii. 24, atvus . . . KaKa, " terribly shabby " (of his clothes). 
 
 It may be added that in the Original Iliad a consecutive inf., 
 though it does not occur after a ret., does occur frequently after other 
 words, e.g. — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 iv. A 510. _ etril ov ar<^i \iOo<s Xfus orSe crlSrjpos 
 XaX/cbv d.va(r\f(r9a(„ 
 (" so as to withstand," Monro.) 
 
 vi. Z 463. X'?'''*' ToiovS' dvSphs djxvveiv 8ovX.lov ^jjiap. 
 
 (" For need of such a man to save you," i.e. "who 
 was such an one as to save you.") 
 
 § 18. Ace. and Inf., where the ace. has no construction except as the 
 subject of the inf. " Odyssean " (H. G., § 237, 3). 
 
272 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [18- 
 
 The change, if real, is again exceedingly slight. 
 
 Monro admits that the construction occurs in the Iliad after im- 
 personal verbs, and after ■n-plv and irdpos. He only claims as peculiar 
 to the Odyssey the use after other words ; and for such a use he only 
 gives 3 instances. Comparison will show how near these are to the 
 Iliadic usage. 
 
 (i) Odyssey — 
 
 S iv. 2IO. (OS vvv Ne(rTO/oi S(3/c€ Siafxirepe^ ^^yucara jrai/ra 
 avrbv fxiv Xixapla's yr^pa.(TKtp,ev . 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A iv. 341. (TcjiZCv pAv t' kwioiKC pcTO, TTpuiTOUTi eovTas 
 
 (H. G., I St edition, § 240.) 
 
 We might also compare with this Odyssean instance the use of the 
 ace. and inf after Sds — a use found in the Original Iliad as well as in 
 the Odyssey. This use is classed by Monro under the inf. of wish 
 (H. G., § 361. Cp. Goodwin, G, M, and T, § 785 fin.). But that 
 does not prevent it from being analogous to the Odyssean instance in 
 question. 
 
 The following instances will show the analogy : — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 r iii. 118. S&s Se T£ p.' avSpa fXelv. 
 fi xxiv. 309. Sbs p' es 'Aj(tXA,^os <f>lX.ov f\deiv ijS' eketivov. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 I ix. 530. Sbs pfj 'OSvcrarrja . . . otKaS' iKEcrdai. 
 
 (2) Odyssey — 
 
 K X. 530-533. S^ tot' IffEi^' erdpouTiv liroTpvvai Kal dvui^ai 
 
 jUTjAa, Tol Sr] KaraKeir' l(T(f)aypeva vrjX.ii j^aX/ci^, 
 Selpavras KaraKTJai. 
 
 Original Iliad {Menis) — 
 
 A i. 313. Aaovs S' 'ArpitSr]? dTrokvp,div€<T6ai avtaye. 
 
 This Iliadic instance is classed by Monro, no doubt rightly, among 
 the cases where the ace. has also " a grammatical construction with the 
 governing verb" (§ 237, i). But as avtuya nearly always takes the ace. 
 of the person commanded and not the dat., it is natural to supply an 
 ace. in the Odyssean instance also, understanding a^Tovs, i.e. irdpovs, 
 after dvoi^ai. 
 
-20] APPENDIX C 273 
 
 (3) Odyssey — 
 
 ^ xiv. 193-195. C41J \)Xv vvv vSiiv kiii yjtovov r\fikv iSaiSrj 
 
 TjSe jxedv yXvKiphv /cAtcrtijs evrotrdev eovcri, 
 SaivvcrOai aKeovr' (for aKeovrt). 
 
 aKeovre may be the nom. and not the ace. at all. In any case the 
 confusion of case and number (vwti', eoiVt, aKeovre) shows how loose 
 and inchoate the construction is. Moreover, the inf. here is plainly 
 the datival inf., and we have in the early Additions to the Iliad a clear 
 case of a datival inf. with the ace. 
 
 I ix. 230. kv SoLYj 8k aaiuaefxev rj aTroAecr^at | vrjas. 
 
 (H. G.,§23i.) 
 
 (There are no instances of the construction in II. xxiii. and xxiv. 
 (^ and Si), that is, if we follow Monro in excluding the cases introduced 
 by irpiv, irdpos, impersonal verbs, and 80s.) 
 
 § 19. Gen. Abs. — The sole difference claimed in this respect is that 
 the aor. partic. is rarer in the Odyssey, occurring there only 3 times. 
 But out of the 16 Iliadic instances given by Monro (H. G., § 246), only 
 7 come from the Original Iliad. And in 3 out of the 7, it may be 
 added, the pres. would not make sense, viz. — 
 
 Original Iliad (the Menis) — 
 
 X xxii. 47. T(0(o(ov ets acrrv dXevrcov. 
 
 (Spoken by Priam when the'gates are shut.) 
 
 288. (reio KaTa(^9ip,ivoio. 
 383. TouSe Treo-oi/TOs. 
 
 The other 4 instances are — 
 
 A xi. 509 {the Menis). 11 xvi. 306. T xix. 62, 75. 
 
 In any case the rarity of the aor. in the gen. abs. could not make 
 for the later origin of the Odyssey ; rather, if any stress were to be laid 
 on it at all, it would tell just the other way, the aor. being quite as 
 common in later Greek as the pres., and, if anything, implying a more 
 developed stage of the construction. (See H. G., § 246, note.) 
 
 § 20. Tt's combined with oSe, "peculiar to the Odyssey." (H. G., 
 § 248.) 
 
 This may be granted, but it cannot be said that the peculiarity is 
 
 S 
 
274 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [20- 
 
 marked, for apparently there are only 2 instances in the whole of 
 the poem (both of them, necessarily, in speeches) — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 f vi. 276. Tis S' o8e Nancrt/caa iT^erai-, 
 V XX. 351. Ti kAkov ToSe wdcr\cTe ; 
 
 § 21. €o as z. pure reflexive. 
 
 " Excluding infinitival and subordinate clauses, there are 43 examples 
 in the Iliad, against 18 in the Odyssey . . . the use is mainly preserved 
 in fixed combinations, dirb €0, irpo-ri o'i, &c." (H. G., § 253.) 
 
 These numbers tally with those given by Ebeling, omitting the 
 cases where the plur. o-t/jcis is followed by alnoi. But of the 43 Iliadic 
 cases only 18 are from the Original, so that the fall in the Odyssey is 
 very slight. And the proportion of fixed prepositional phrases is 
 actually higher in the Original Iliad than it is in the Odyssey (13 out of 
 18 as against 12). It is to be noted that there are 5 instances from 
 Iliad xxiii. and xxiv. {^ and i2). (Repetitions are included.) 
 
 Ebeling oB, ii. B (p. 106, vol. ii.) o-<^ets B. 
 
 Original Iliad — ■ 
 
 Sing.— 
 
 A iv. 497. djit^' e jraTTTryvas. 
 O XV. 574. djii(^6 e iraTmjvas. 
 
 ^ xxiii. 203. KoXiOV T£ JUIV eiS £ tKaCTTOS. 
 
 ii xxiv. 134. (<^»jcri) £6 KV)toXu>(TQa.i.. 
 
 T xix. 385. el oT efpapfiocrcreie. 
 
 Y XX. 418. TTpoTi of S' eAa/3' evTepa. 
 
 n xvi. 47. ep^Wev I oT avTM ddvarov X.iTecr6ai. 
 
 ^ xxiii. 126. (^^dcrcraTO IlaTpoKAo) . . . rjpiov -qSi ot avT(2. 
 
 E V. 96. TTph edev K^oveovra (^dXayyas. 
 
 Z vi. 62. dirh Wiv &(Taro, 
 
 M Xii. 205. OTTO WiV ?JKe. 
 
 T xix. 384. TruprjO-q 8' eo avTOV ev eVTfcrt. 
 
 Plur.— 
 
 i. A 368. Tol joi£V Sdcro-avTO joiETot (T<fiicriv. 
 
 iv. A 535. 0? £ w(7av mrb crc^ttriv. 
 
 xi. 'A 413. iJ,€Ta <T(j}icnv Tr^jua Tt^£i'T£S. 
 
 XXii. X 474. at £ liCTO. (TcflLdlV €l)(OV. 
 
 xxiii. ^ 698. (ot fxiv) . . . ixcTo. a-<f)L(Tiv tT<rav. 
 xxiii. ^ 703. ^bv Se ivl cr(j>[(Ti tIov, 
 
-21] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 275 
 
 Additions 
 
 — 
 
 
 Sing.- 
 
 241. 
 S 162. 
 Y171. 
 
 1 306. 
 I 392. 
 
 *S°7- 
 K307. 
 
 N495- 
 E 343- 
 N163. 
 Y261. 
 K465. 
 N803. 
 Y278. 
 E 800. 
 
 
 Odyssey (Sing.) — 
 
 
 
 xvii. p 
 
 387- 
 
 
 xxii. X 
 
 436. 
 
 
 xxiv. (1) 
 
 347- 
 
 
 xxii. 
 
 K 19- 
 
 
 xxi. (^ 
 
 3°4- 
 
 
 xxi. <^ 
 
 136. 
 
 
 xxi. <i> 
 
 163. 
 
 
 XV. 
 
 285. 
 
 
 xvii. p 330. 
 
 
 xvii. p 342. 
 
 
 xvii. p 507. 
 
 
 xix. -^ 
 
 481. 
 
 
 vii. ij 
 
 217. 
 
 
 v. e 
 
 459- 
 
 
 ix. I 
 
 398. 
 
 
 ix. I 
 
 461. 
 
 
 xi. A 
 
 433- 
 
 
 viii. 9 
 
 211. 
 
 Plur.- 
 
 K 208. 
 K311. 
 
 K398. 
 K 409. 
 B 366. 
 E 626. 
 N 148. 
 N 688. 
 M 148. 
 
 '7rTu>')(hv TpvovTo, £ avTov. 
 
 {i.e. the speaker, not the beggar.) 
 
 ets e KaXeo"crix/iei/os. 
 
 rhv St TTpOTl oT I €ikiV. 
 
 OTTO eu) TpaTri^av 3o"€. 
 
 oi, 8' avT<a KaKbv evpcTO. 
 
 d.-!rh €0 6i)Ke. 
 
 ixTrb eo drJKi. 
 
 Trap St oT aiJTC}) tSre. 
 
 tTTt oi KaXecras. 
 
 tTTt of KaXfcras. 
 
 IttI ol KaAtcratra. 
 
 t^tv acrcrov epvcraaro. 
 
 ij t' tKtAtvcrtv to pvri<Tacrda.L. 
 
 aTrS to A{!cre. 
 
 €ppl\l'eV (XTTO to. 
 
 diro to Trip,ire. 
 
 rj St 0? Tt /car' aMr^os ^'x^'^^- 
 
 to S' airov rravra KoXovei. 
 
 Apparently there are no cases of the 
 P/ur. (without avToi). 
 
276 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [22- 
 
 § 22. Uses of the Article 
 [H. G., 259, a (2); 261 (i, 3).J 
 
 It is widely held that the Article is used more freely in the Odyssey 
 than in the Iliad ; and, within the Iliad itself, more freely in Books 
 I ix., K X., ■^ xxiii., and 12 xxiv., than elsewhere. But I think it can be 
 shown that the increased freedom supposed is extremely slight in the 
 Odyssey, and non-existent in '^ xxiii. and S2 xxiv. To explain my 
 statistics I must go over familiar ground, adding some comments of 
 my own. 
 
 Within certain limitations Homer uses the Article, not as a 
 Demonstr. pronoun, but in the Attributive or quasi- Attributive sense 
 found in Attic — in short, almost like our English "the." It is such 
 usages that we must classify for comparison, and we may divide them 
 as follows, noting those that may be called exceptional : — 
 
 1. The use with adversative particles : avrap, ^ev, SI, dAXa, &c., e.g. 
 ot Se 0601. 
 
 2. With numerals or quasi-numerals where an adversative sense is 
 unmistakable, e.g. o TrpwTos, 6 ap/.a-ro's, ot aXAoi, ot TrXcoves, to rrplv, 
 rh TrdpO'S. 
 
 It seems to me a great mistake to stretch this class so widely as to 
 include to Kprjyvov and to, KaKo, in Iliad i. A 107. If we can find a 
 contrast in these cases, we can find one in any. 
 
 3. With possessives, or as a quasi-possessive^ e.g. t5v iphv xoAov, toG 
 
 ■JTO.TpO'i. 
 
 4. With words half-way between noun and adjective, as yiptav, 
 ycpaLOi, ^elvos. 
 
 £eivo9, I think, ought to be included here ; for in view of later 
 usage it is perverse to deny it an adjectival force, when that force is 
 natural, as in i2 xxiv. 202, dvdpunrovs ^ttvovs. Therefore the prevalence 
 of the collocation 6 ^etvos in the Odyssey implies no development in the 
 use of the Article. And that the word ^eivos should prevail is only 
 natural, considering the subject-matter. 
 
 5. With ava^ and i/pcus, "where, however, the Pronoun is the 
 important word, the Noun being subjoined as a kind of title " (H. G., 
 261, .3 a). 
 
 6. The use before relative clauses, where the Article precedes the 
 noun, e.g. rrj's yap tol yeveijs ■^s ktA, "from that race from which." I 
 cannot feel it satisfactory to include here the cases where the Article 
 
 follows the noun, e.g. T]p.aTL t<^ ore, because there the Article is in 
 apposition to the noun, retaining its pronominal force, and the use is 
 dropped in later Greek. 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 277 
 
 7. (a) W\'Ca. patronymics, e.g. t(^ NtjAiciSj;. 
 (6) With genitives, e.g. ti/^ivjs t^s lipia^ov. 
 {c) With participles, e.g. toJ viKTjo-avTi. 
 
 Note that these three usages, though comparatively rare, do not 
 imply a lessening in the demonstrative and pronominal force of the 
 Article. On the contrary, tyjv avrov, with the omission of aXoxov, is 
 only possible where t^v is still felt a.s = /ier. (Cp. in English a phrase 
 such as " him of Antioch," where " the of Antioch " would be quite 
 impossible.) 
 
 8. Other usages, esp. the simple defining use, e.g. Iirei tov ilvQov 
 OKODO-e, [i,6y\o%, -rh to^ov. 
 
 I propose to mark only those cases which fall under (7) and (8) as 
 exceptional. I may add that, as Homer possesses oStos and oSe, we 
 ought not to insist on a deictic force for the Article unless the context 
 plainly demands it (as it does, e.g., in Iliad x. K 330, rots iWoto-tv, 
 "■those horses"; i. A 340, tov fiaa-iX.fjo's dir-qveos, " tAat mthless king"). 
 
 Proceeding on this basis we obtain the following statistics, which 
 may appear surprising. In the Books of the Odyssey the proportion 
 of Attributive usages, taken as a whole, never rises above an average 
 of 3 per cent., and only reaches this 3 times (in xi. X, xiv. |, and 
 xviii. 0-). The proportion of exceptional usages never reaches an 
 average of 2 per cent., and in only one Book (xviii. cr) is it above i per 
 cent. And sometimes there are no exceptional usages at all. 
 
 Now in the first Book of the Menis (A i.) the proportion of 
 Attributive usages in general is fully 3 per cent. (18 cases in 
 c. 550 lines, excluding repetitions), while the proportion of exceptional 
 usages is also high (8 cases). 
 
 In the next Book, A xi., the proportion of general cases is actually 
 above 3 per cent., 22 cases in less than 700 lines, and of these 4 are 
 exceptional. Nor does the average appear to drop appreciably in 
 other parts of the Menis, or to drop below the Odyssey in other parts 
 of the Iliad. 
 
 On the other hand, the comparison of the Iliadic and Odyssean 
 instances in the list given below will make it clear that one class of 
 exceptional usages is more frequent in the Odyssey, and exhibits greater 
 variety. This is the simple defining use with common nouns (8), 
 where no distinguishing adjectives and no adversative particles precede 
 the noun. This fact does not appear in my figures. But it is of con- 
 siderable importance, because this usage is among the most highly 
 developed of all the " exceptional " types. Allowing due weight, then, 
 to this fact on the one hand, and to the lowness of the Odyssean per- 
 centages on the other, we conclude that the increased freedom claimed 
 for the Odyssey is real, but exceedingly slight. 
 
 Turning to the two last Books of the Iliad, we find that xxiv. fi 
 actually shows a lower proportion both of Attributive usages in general 
 
2 78 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [22- 
 
 and exceptional usages in particular than either of the first two Books 
 of the Menis (i. A or xi. A). It has only 14 cases in 804 lines, and of 
 these only 3 are exceptional. 
 
 Book xxiii. ^, it is true, has a higher percentage for the general 
 usages than the Menis, but the increase is very slight. It does not 
 amount to a gain of even i per cent., the figures being : — 30 instances 
 in about 810 lines. Of these not more than 8 are exceptional. And 
 the increase, such as it is, can easily be accounted for. Most of the 
 instances occur in "The Games," and " The Games " call for a constant 
 use of the Article in enumerating the prizes and distinguishing the 
 competitors, e.g. ti^ ir/DtoTcp, tuJ Sevrepoi, to} TpnaTia, Tti> Se TerdpTi^, all in 
 5 lines (265-269) ; tov Se^tov iirTrov, rots aXXouriv (336, 342). 
 
 As my results differ so widely from the conclusions usually accepted, 
 I have given in full for the Original Iliad, the Odyssey, and the bulk 
 of the Additions, all the instances of the Article that appear to me to 
 bear the Attributive sense. It will be observed that Iliad x. K really 
 does show a high percentage both of the usages in general and of the 
 exceptional usages, and also a great variety of type. For this Book, 
 therefore, I think the ordinary view is justified. 
 
 There remain three small points connected with the Odyssey : — 
 
 (i) The use with 8e, avrdp, &c., is claimed by Monro as "Iliadic" 
 (H. G., § 259 a) ; but the difference here does not seem sufficient to 
 justify the claim. 
 
 (2) On the other hand, it may be admitted that the use with p-^v is 
 "Iliadic" (§ 259 d); although to Monro's one Odyssean instance, 
 iii. 7 270 ("seemingly the only instance in the Odyssey"), we must 
 add 7 more. (See the list below.) 
 
 This " Iliadic " usage occurs twice in II. xxiii. '^ and twice in xxiv. fl. 
 
 (3) The use with relative clauses where the Article precedes the 
 noun is, as Monro states, "commoner in the Odyssey" (§ 261). 
 Indeed there are only 4 cases in the Original Iliad. Now these 4 
 do not occur in xxiii. ^ or xxiv. fi, but in v. E, vi. Z, xviii. 2, and 
 xix. T. 
 
 Original Iliad — 1 
 
 i. A (omitting 430(^-489). The Menis — 
 
 6. TO, ■Kprnra,, 
 
 II. ovveKa TOV Xpvo'r/i' rjTipirjCT' dprjTrjpa. 
 
 20. TO. 8' otTTOtva S€)(e(T9ai. 
 
 33. eSSeio-ev 6' o yepiav. (380, 462.) 
 
 ^ Repetitions are indicated in brackets, but not included in the enumera- 
 tion. 
 
 The references for the " exceptional " usages are italicised. 
 The usages with liiv and with the rei. are marked with a cross. 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 
 
 279 
 
 35- oyepaios. 
 
 54. Ty SeKOTJJ 8'. 
 
 yo. TO, t" iovra. 
 
 yo. TO, t' ktra-ofitva. 
 
 TOO. ov WO) TTOTe fioi to Kprqyvov ejTras. 
 
 loy. aiet Tot Tci Kax' IcrTt (fiiXa. 
 
 X 165. T& /iev TrXeiov. 
 
 zd/. croi TO yepas 7roA,v jxei^ov. 
 
 185. Tb crbv yepas. 
 
 198. T(oi/ S' aXA.(i)v ou Tis. (300.) 
 
 207. rh (Tov /xevos. 
 
 342. TO(s aAAois (465. ToiXAa. 597. tois aWouri). 
 
 ^£2. ■Koiov rbv fivdov. 
 
 Sy6. TO. )(ipilOVa VIK^, 
 
 18 in 551 lines (611 - 60). 8 exceptional. 
 
 Rate for general usages — 3 per cent. 
 
 Rate for exceptional usages — Above i per cent. 
 
 (43o«-489. 
 462. 
 
 Suspected as Odyssean. 
 
 yepcuv.) 
 
 ii. B— 
 
 
 16. 
 
 80. 
 
 Thv iMvdov. 
 Tov oVetpov. 
 
 iii. r— 
 
 
 54- 
 55- 
 73- 
 
 TCt Te Swp' 'At^poSlTIJS. 
 
 ^ T« Ko/xr] TO T€ etSos (possessive), 
 ot S' aXA.oj. (94, 256.) 
 
 109. 
 138. 
 
 yipiav. (181, 259.) 
 
 TO) Se K€ viK^o-avTt. (255.) 
 
 225. 
 
 TO TpiTOV. 
 
 225. 
 
 6 yepatos. 
 
 
 9 in (461 +c. 170). 4 exceptional. 
 
 iv. A— 
 
 
 I. 
 
 01 8e 0eot. 
 
 25- 
 
 42. 
 
 260. 
 
 ■troiov Tov p,v6ov. 
 Tov epiiv xoAoi/. 
 'Apyeiwv ot apicTTOi, 
 
 267. 
 
 308. 
 
 TO irpuiTov. 
 ol TrpoTtpoi. 
 
 310. 
 
 399- 
 429. 
 
 yepcov. 
 
 aXAa Tbv vtov | yet'vaTO do xepeta (possessive). 
 
 ot 8' ciAXoi. 
 
 
 9 in 544. I exceptional. 
 
28o 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [22- 
 
 V. E— 
 
 54- 
 
 X i4S> 6- 
 150. 
 
 X 271. 
 272. 
 308. 
 
 X265. 
 
 vi. Z— 
 41 
 
 125 
 166 
 186 
 201. 
 
 X 292 
 
 391 
 
 407 
 
 435 
 467 
 
 489 
 490 
 
 523 
 
 TO irpiv. 
 
 t6v juev . . . T&v S' erepov. 
 
 6 ytptiiv. 
 
 Tois piv Ticrcrapai. 
 
 TO) Se Sv'. 
 
 avrap y' -qpu)?. (327.) 
 
 TTJ's yap TOt yeverj'i . . . •^s ktX. 
 
 8 in c. 360. None exceptional. 
 
 ot aAXot. (402,) 
 
 T& irpiv. 
 
 Tov Se avaKTa. 
 
 TO rpiTOv. 
 
 ircStov T& 'AX^toy. 
 
 T5JV 080V r;i/. 
 
 TIJV aiJT^v 680V. 
 
 TO o"ov fievoi. 
 
 ol apiCTTOl. 
 
 a\p S' 6 TTats. 
 
 Tci irpQ>ra, 
 
 TO. cr' avTTji ^Py-- 
 
 rh S' ejjiibv Krjp. 
 
 13 in 529. 2 exceptional. 
 
 6g. TO, &€ Spdyfiara, 
 
 : 103. c5 jxiv V060S. 
 
 142. TOV TTttTpOS . . . 
 
 156. ol 8e re 6a,p,voi. 
 
 174. Tjj 8e t' t^. 
 
 178. TOV OTTtCTTaTOV. 
 
 189. T^v 8' aXXov Xahv avu))(^di, 
 
 264. Tuv aXA.Mi' dvSpwv. (540.) 
 
 2(57. «7re6 TO jixev eAkos erepaero. 
 
 The /xei/ goes with krepo-tTo in 267, but with 
 eXxos in 848. 
 
 406. ToiJS 8' aXAoiJS Aavaous. 
 
 483. avrap o y'fjpm'i. 
 
 524. 01 8e 8:^ aXXot. (367.) 
 
 560. 01 8e T£ TratSfS. 
 
 571. Toi Sc 8o{!pa. 
 
 608. rif €p,iti Kf)^api,(Tp,eve dvjxif. 
 
 61 J. rd y' oTTLdde. 
 
 Tto-£T£ X(o/3i]v (possessive). 
 
 (204.) 
 (848.) 
 
-n] APPENDIX C 281 
 
 632. 6 -yepaios. (645.) 
 
 637. 6 yepdiv. (790.) 
 
 658. ot yap apicTTOi. 
 
 660. TuSeiSrjs Kpanpos Ato/xijSijs. 
 
 [Lines 670-760 suspected by the Separatists — 
 
 691. Tuv irpoTepuiv Irioyv. 
 
 693. 01 8' otAXot. 
 
 696. 6 ycjowv. (703.) 
 
 702. Tov 8' eXarrjpa. 
 
 704. TO, 8' aXAa. 
 
 70^. TO, c/cao-Ta.] 
 
 763. 'A^iXXeiis I oios TJjs aperijs dirov-qa-eTai (possessive). 
 Omitting suspected portion — 22 in c. 697 lines. 
 4 exceptional. (Or 28 in c. 780 lines. 5 ex- 
 ceptional.) 
 xii. M — 
 
 40. 
 
 Tc> Trp6iT$ev. 
 
 93- 
 
 Ttav 8' iTepmv. 
 
 94. 
 
 98. J 
 
 104. 
 
 - Ttav Se TpiTOiv. 
 
 TUIV 8e TETapTtOV. 
 
 TUIV aXXtov. 
 
 280. 
 
 xa a K-qXa. 
 
 289. 
 346. 
 420. 
 
 TO Se Tet;^os. 
 
 TO Trapos trep. (359.) 
 
 TO. TrpmTa TreXacrdev. 
 
 
 9 in c. 370. None exceptional. 
 
 XV. 390 
 
 -746— 
 
 656. 
 
 TUV TTpbiTibiV. 
 
 
 I in c. 357. 
 
 xvi. n ((Ae Menis) — 
 
 2^. ^k^Xr]Ta.i p.\v o TvSctSijs KpaTeph? Ato/x-)j8rys. 
 
 40. TO, (TO, T«i5j(ea. 
 
 jj. TOV bjiolov (generic). 
 
 X 173. I TIJS p^V tlJS O-Tt'x"*- 
 
 179. J T17S 6' kTip-q's. 
 191. 6 y€pu)v. 
 193. ) Tijs Se TpiTrjs. 
 196. J T1JS 8e TeTapTTji. 
 
2 82 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 440. iroiov rhv jxvdov. 
 573. TO Trpiv. 
 697. ot 6' ctAAoi. (763.) 
 705. T& TerapTov. (786.) 
 
 13 in 867. 4 exceptional. 
 
 [22- 
 
 xvu, 
 
 p— 
 
 80 
 
 122 
 127 
 
 260 
 612 
 
 720, 
 
 Tp(u(ov Toy apuTTOv. 
 
 drap TO. ye Tev)(e'. (693.) 
 
 Tov Se veKvv. 
 
 Ta a. 
 
 Tuv S' dXA.a)v. (370, 280.) 
 
 TO, wplaTa. 
 
 rhv v€Kp6v. 
 
 TO TrapOS TTEp. 
 
 509 and 587 are from an interpolation. 
 8 in c. 754 -c. 100 = 8 in c. 654. 
 ceptional. 
 
 2— 
 
 10. 
 
 21. 
 
 103. 
 
 451- 
 
 457- 
 
 x4^S- 
 
 486. 
 
 495- 
 503- 
 509- 
 574. 
 583- 
 
 xix. T — 
 
 X 21 
 
 42 
 
 X 105 
 117 
 322 
 345 
 
 Mvp^tSol'tUV TOV apKTTOV. 
 
 drap rd ye Ttvyea.. 
 
 erdpoKTt I Tois oiXXots. 
 
 Ta a Tev\ea. 
 
 TO. era yovvad'. 
 
 TO, re'ipea iravra, rd t ovpavos e(rTe(f)dv(iiTai. 
 
 TO TE o-^evos QKeavolo. 
 
 at Se yvvaiKe's. (559-) 
 
 oi Se yepovre?. 
 
 T1JV S' ereprjv ttoXiv. 
 
 at St /Soei. 
 
 01 Se vojjbrjei. 
 
 12 in 617. 2 exceptional. 
 
 Tci [iiv OTrXa. 
 TO wdpos ye. 
 T<Dv avSptov . . . o'i 6' . . . et<Ti. (in.) 
 
 S' e^So/iOs . . . ju.6ts. 
 
 TOV TTOTpbs (possessive). 
 
 01 Se Srf dWoi, 
 
 6 in c. 350. None exceptional. 
 
 172, 176, and 331 are from the interpolations. 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 283 
 
 XX. Y 381-503 (the Menis)— 
 
 447. T& TiTapTOV. 
 
 454. Tovs aWovi. 
 
 S02. at t' air' eiria(TU>Tpu>v (sc. /5a6a/tiyyes). 
 
 3 in c. 180. I exceptional. 
 
 xxi. <l> 1-138 (the Menis) — 
 5. rjixari t<^ irporkprn. 
 17. avrap 6 Stoyev^s. 
 X 71. )Ty Irepg p.hv. 
 72. JT-fjS' hepy. 
 
 4 in 138. 
 522-611 end — 
 
 526. 6 ykptov Jlpiaixos. 
 554. ot aWoL, 
 
 2 in c. 90. None exceptional. 
 
 xxii. X 1-404 (the Menis) — 
 
 25. o yepmv Jlpiap.o<s. (33, 37.) 
 
 SP- f/*« TOV SvCTTYjVOV. 
 
 Cp. Od. vii. ij 223. 
 151. 57 5' ereprj. 
 156. TO jrpjv. 
 208. TO TerapTOv. 
 233. TO wdpo'S. (250.) 
 280. TOV 6JUOV p.6pov. 
 380. ot aA.Aoi. 
 
 8 in c. 400. I exceptional. 
 
 459. TO ov p.ivo<s. 
 
 I in c. 100 (latter part). None exceptional. 
 
 xxiii. ^ 1-25 7a. Funeral of Patroclus — 
 
 35. Avrap TOV ye avaKra TroSmKea UiqXeiiiiva. 
 
 In line 173, rf ye dvaKTi, the T(p is deictic — 
 " that chief," i.e. Patroclus, as distinguished from 
 Achilles, the subject of the sentence before. 
 Lang, Leaf, and Myers translate "the dead chief." 
 Cp. A i. 340. 
 75. Ty\v xelpa (possessive). 
 149. o yepoiv. 
 229. ol S' dvep.01. 
 2J^a. \evavrei Se rh (rrjijui. 
 
2 84 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [22- 
 
 257^ to end, 897 (omitting 798-883). "The Games" — 
 
 265. 1 T<^ TTpdrO) . . . T(J) SevTipip. 
 267. y TO) TptTClTCj). 
 
 269. J T<j) Se Terdprcf. (Counted as 4.) 
 
 275. TO Tpira. ^ (523, 538.) 
 
 295. AWrivTrjv'AyaiJ,e[j.vov€r]v,Tovi6vTeIl6Sapyov. (525.) 
 
 (Possessive.) Counted as 2 cases. 
 
 JOJ. Tov xiTjXrjidSao, 
 
 Cp. xi. 614. Ta ' Aa-KXijTndSri (the Menis). 
 324. TO 7r/)a)T0v. (523,538.) 
 22^. TOV ■Kpov\ovTa. 
 
 cp. i. 70. ra. T iovra (the Menis). 
 
 336. TOV Se^tov iinvov. 
 
 342. rots aXXouTiv. (399.) 
 
 ^48. Tous Aao/ieSovros. 
 
 J7(5. at ^■qprjridSao 7ro8wKe£s €K(pepov Ittttoi.. 
 
 X 454. TO p.€V aXXo. 
 
 46J. TOV rjvioxov. 
 
 480. t6 Trapos TTtp. (782.) 
 
 572. Tois (ToilS. 
 
 583. Tb TTpocrdev. 
 
 585. Tb l/ibv 8dX(j> dpp,a. 
 
 640. Ta fieyiXTTa. 
 
 6j6. TO) S' apa VLKYjOevTi. (663.) 
 
 X 702. T<j! ;u,6V vtKijaavTt. 
 
 733. Th TptTOV. 
 
 896. o y' i7pa)s. 
 
 30 in c. 810 lines. 8 exceptional, 
 xxiv. fi — 
 
 201. Tci irdpos Trep. 
 
 236. o 7V(ov-^ (326, 424, 571, 689, 777.) 
 
 242. TratS' o^EO"ai tov dpunov. 
 
 252. o yepaios. (279, 302, 322.) 
 
 338. T(Dv aA.Au)v Aavaojv. (456.) 
 
 _J<?c?. TOV otTOv diroTfiov ?rai8os. 
 
 497. TOi)S 8' aXXous. 
 
 X 498. T(Lv ^£V TTOA-Aoiv. 
 
 JJJ^. T(ov XvypSiv. 
 
 X 543. TO Trplv p.iv. 
 
 598. Tot'^ou TOV eTepov. 
 
 612. Tjj SeKciTjj. (665.) 
 
 667. Tj; 8e SvoiSeKar-g. 
 
 801, )(ivavTi<s Sc TO crrjpxi. 
 
 14 in 804 lines. 3 exceptional. 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 285 
 
 Additions — 
 
 ii. B, 93-454, 484-760. 816-877— 
 2^8. o TTTokiTTopdoi 'OSvcr<Tevi. 
 
 281. Ot TTptDTOl T6 Koi VQ-TaTOt UtCS 'A)(aiO)V. 
 
 329. T(f) SeKaro) Se. 
 
 428. ToiAXa. (665.) 
 
 576. tG)V l/caT&v vijcoi/. 
 
 _5'9_5'. Qd/xvpiv rhv Qprj'iKa. 
 
 623. T(UV Se TiTapTIOV. 
 
 685. ToJv aS TrevTijKovra vccDv. 
 
 8 in c. 700. 2 exceptional. 
 
 V. E, 127-132, 330-905 end— 
 
 131. T069 aXkoi's. 
 
 414. rhv S.puTTOv'A)(ai,(ov. 
 
 ^IS- ''■o" P'^dov. 
 
 794. Tov ye ava/CTa. 
 
 806. (is T& Trapos irep. 
 
 5 in c. 470. I exceptional. 
 
 vii. H, 8-end — 
 
 84. T&V Se V6KVV. 
 
 91. rh S' ephv kX^os. 
 
 161. yeptav. (324.) 
 
 248. Trj S' ejSSopaTri. 
 
 370. ois TO Trapos Trep. 
 
 ^12. t5 a-KTjTTTpOV. 
 
 443. ot Se 6eoi. 
 
 7 in c. 476. I exceptional, 
 viii. 6 — 
 
 X 73. al piv'A)(ai.o}v K'^pe'i. 
 87. 6 yepojv. (90.) 
 
 136. TO) S' i'TTTTCU. 
 
 X 186. rrjv Kop,l8rjv . . . rjv. 
 
 200. TToToV T&V p.v6ov. 
 
 211. T0U9 oiAAonS. 
 
 268. avTap o y rjpiji<s. 
 
 342. xbv oTrioTTarov (generic). 
 
 360. ■TraTTjp ovp.O'S. 
 
 430. TO, a. 
 
 4^8. TO, vei'ara ircipad^. 
 
 J32. o TvSei&Tj'S Kparephs Ato/i?jSijs. 
 
 12 in 565. 3 exceptional. 
 
2 86 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [22- 
 
 I— 
 
 
 X I. 
 
 ojs ot /ici/ TpaJts. 
 
 55- 
 
 rbv ixvOov. (309.) 
 
 93- 
 
 y€p(i)v. (259, 662, 690.) 
 
 133- 
 
 Tijs e^v^s eTTtJS^/ievai (possessive). 
 
 204. 
 
 01 -yap <piX.Ta.TOi avSpes. 
 
 219. 
 
 Toixov Tov eripoLO. 
 
 320. 
 
 t' depyh^ o-v^Pt o Tc iroAAa eopyu)S. 
 
 342. 
 
 TTjV aVTOV. 
 
 403- 
 
 Th irpiv. 
 
 417. 
 
 Tois aWoia-i. (684.) 
 
 5°5- 
 
 IJ S'"At7J. 
 
 524- 
 
 tZv irpoa-dev . . . avSpoiv. 
 
 559- 
 
 dvSplOV 1 tZv TOTi. 
 
 X579- 
 
 Th jiev ■qp.t.iTV. 
 
 654- 
 
 Ty ifiy Kkia-iy. 
 
 
 16 in 713. 5 exceptional. 
 
 K— 
 
 
 II. 
 
 €S TTcSlOV rb TpbJlKOV. 
 
 77- 
 
 yepaihs. 
 
 97- 
 
 « Tovs (pvXaKa^ KaTafi-qofiev. 
 
 154- 
 
 avTap y' Tjpws. 
 
 190. 
 
 Toil's S' yepiuv. 
 
 231. 
 
 ■ijdeXe 8' 6 TXyixoiv 'OSva-evs. (498.) 
 
 X23S- 
 
 Tbv p.h Srj eTapov y' aipjjcrfat. 
 
 236. 
 
 <l>aivofJi,eviDV rbv apia-TOv. 
 
 253- 
 
 T<3v Svo fi,oipa.<j>v. 
 
 256. 
 
 t}> 6' iOV. 
 
 277. 
 
 TO) opvidi. 
 
 309- 
 
 <5s Th Trapos TTep. (396.) 
 
 321. 
 
 Th a-KrjTTTpov. 
 
 X322. 
 
 TOVS LTrnovs . . . 01. 
 
 363- 
 
 6 TTToXiTTOpdos 'OSva-crevs. 
 
 408. 
 
 TToJs 8' at Ttav S.W<ov Tpuxov ^vXaKai. 
 
 506. 
 
 Toiv TrXeoviav QpjJKOiv. 
 
 53(>- 
 
 KpaTCpOS AlO/X^S7J9. 
 
 539- 
 
 'Apyeitov ol apio-Toi. 
 
 561. 
 
 Thv Tpia-KaiSeKaTOv. 
 
 
 20 in 579. 8 exceptional. 
 
 . N— 
 
 
 20. 
 
 Th Se TerpoTOv. 
 
 53- 
 
 y' Xvcra-iaSrjs. 
 
 X83. 
 
 TOVS OTTLdtV . . . oi. 
 
 lOI. 
 
 Th irdpos Trip. (228.) 
 
 (Counted as 2.) 
 
 (2 cases.) 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 287 
 
 105. rb Trpiv. 
 (128. ot yap apuTTot, but very likely oi.' yap dpUTToi.) 
 164. avTap o y' ■^pws. 
 169. ot S' aWoi. (540.) 
 2^S. 6 Te SetAbs dvijp. 
 X 279. 1 Tov /A«v yap Te KaKov. 
 284. J TOV S' aya^oiJ. 
 368. o ykpuiv Hpiap^os. 
 433. av^p (SptoTos. 
 564, 5. t5 /iev avroi; /xeiv' . . Tb S' yp-urv. 
 X 640. Ta jU,ev evTc'. 
 679. Tol TTpOiTa, 
 
 X 689. oJ /i«v ' K6i)va.iuiv irpoXeXey fxevoL. 
 
 698. avrap 6 'IcpiKXoio irais. 
 X 719. ) ot p.lv Trpoirde. 
 
 721. j ot S' omdev. 
 
 745- "^^ X^'Xoi'- 
 
 20 or 21 in 837. 3 exceptional. 
 
 xiv. S — 
 
 20. o •ytjocuv. 
 
 31. ras yap irpdrais. 
 
 131. Tb Trdpos irep. 
 
 189. Tui' ctAAcov dirav«t)6e ^eojv. 
 
 2ZJ. Zrjvos yap tov dpicrrov. 
 
 X 270. ) X^'P' ^^ ''"3 ^' ^^/'l? h'^^- • • • 
 271. ) Trj S' iTepy. 
 27^. ot evepOe deol. 
 2/S. deovs aTravrai Tovs VTrorapTapiovs. 
 
 280. T6AeiJT5JO-€l/ T£ Tbv opKOV. 
 
 3^0. TTOiov Thv pv6ov hiTTes. 
 
 t }8. ot oiAAot. 
 
 j73- ■''" pLanpoTar' iyx^' e'AovTes. 
 
 460. Tw TeXap.oiViaSy. 
 
 JOJ. ovSk yap rj Upopa-xoi^o Sapxip. 
 
 15 in 522, 8 exceptional. 
 
 XV. O, 1-389— 
 
 J^. rh Kareij36p,evov STvybs vSmp. 
 
 58 
 67 
 72 
 
 134 
 
 TO, a irpbs 8ci)/xaTa. 
 
 TOVS aAAovs. 
 
 TO Trptv. 
 
 rb IIijAetSao . . . eeAStop. 
 
 Tots aAAoto"t. 
 
 ■fj ttAijWs. 
 
 7 in 389. 3 exceptional. 
 
288 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [22- 
 
 XX. Y 1-380 — 
 
 23. ol Se S^ aAAoi. 
 X 75. ois 01 /iev deoi. 
 123. TO irdpoi Trip. 
 
 147. TO KT^TOS. 
 
 181. TLfMrji Trj'; UpLixfJLOv. 
 
 271. ) Tois 8vo )(a.\K€M';. 
 
 272. J TTjv Se fitav. 
 
 J20. o Kkvrbi ^iv 'Aj^tXAtils. 
 352. Ttuv aXkmv Tpdoiv. 
 
 9 in 380. 3 exceptional. 
 
 xxi. <E> 139-521 — 
 
 166. T<f 8' krepui. 
 
 IT]. TO Se TCTpaTOV. 
 
 207. rhv apLiTTOv. 
 
 2J2. Tov OrjprjTrjpo's. 
 
 262. TOV ayovTa. 
 
 305. TO ov p.evo's. 
 
 JI/. TO. T£ij;^ea KaXd. 
 
 371. 01 aAAot 7ravT£S. (518.) 
 
 412. Ti;s p,riTpoi (possessive). 
 
 421. rj Kvva.p.vta. 
 478. TO Trplv. 
 
 II in c. 400. 4 exceptional. 
 
 Odyssey- 
 
 26 
 
 257 
 322 
 
 X35r 
 356 
 
 ii. ^- 
 21. 
 
 X51. 
 58. 
 97- 
 
 134- 
 
 206. 
 
 277. 
 
 305- 
 312. 
 
 (I57-) 
 
 7j Tts vetoTaTij. 
 
 04 8£ 8^ aWoi. 
 
 TO. TTptOTa. 
 
 TO ir6.poi.6iv. 
 TTjv yap doiSrjv 
 TO. a^' avrrji ipyo-. 
 
 5 in 444. None exceptional. 
 
 ol dXXoi. 
 
 Twv dvSpojv . . . o'L 
 
 TO, St TToXXa.. 
 
 TOV ip.hv ydpov. 
 
 TOV iraT/oos (possessive, "her father"). 
 
 e'ivtKa rrjs dper-iji (possessive). 
 
 01 TrXeovcs. 
 
 (US TO TTtipos Trep. 
 
 ojs TO irapoidtv. 
 
-22] APPENDIX C 
 
 35^- K-WIOV TOV Ka/xixopov. 
 378. TOV OpKOV. 
 403. TTjV tTrjv 6pjj/qv. 
 
 12 in 434. 2 exceptional. 
 
 289 
 
 I. 7— 
 92 
 
 X265 
 X 270 
 ^99 
 ''319 
 39°' 
 363 
 462 
 
 374 
 
 '. S— 
 
 13- 
 32- 
 
 70. 
 
 71- 
 
 X98. 
 
 III. 
 
 322. 
 
 688. 
 
 X 694, 
 
 V. e- 
 
 VI. 
 
 3- 
 29. 
 
 ss- 
 
 98. 
 
 X 106. 
 t8s. 
 266. 
 
 384. 
 
 c- 
 63- 
 
 X 165. 
 176. 
 
 TO. era, yovvaO' Ivdvta. 
 
 tos TOV 'A^tjvatijs Seivfiv ^O'^oi' f^a-Kio-aiTO. 
 
 TO Trptv /xev. 
 
 TOV /j.fv dotSov. 
 
 dxap TOis irevTe v«as. 
 
 £K TWV dvOpiaVLOV O0€V OVK eATTOlTO. 
 
 y^po)v. (393, 459.) 
 
 01 8' aWoi. (427.) 
 TciAAa. 
 
 o yepaios. 
 
 10 in 497. 
 
 exceptional. 
 
 TO TrpwTov. (159, 509.) 
 
 TO Trpiv. (518.) 
 
 iva p,r) irevdolvd' 01 a.kX.01. (166.) 
 
 T<{) £/xa) Kf)(apicrij,eve Oiap,^. 
 
 ol S' avSjOes . . . ot. 
 
 oyepiov. (191. 45°. 45 S. 46o.) 
 
 TO. (TO. yovvaO' iKavo/iat. 
 
 TO TrpocrOev. 
 
 6 fxev vixertpoi dv/j,6s. 
 
 9 in 847 lines. None exceptional. 
 
 ot Se 6eo[. 
 
 TO t' aAAa. 
 
 T^v vrjcrov. 
 
 rhv fivOov. (183.) 
 
 TtUv avS/3c3v ot . . . p-d^OVTO. 
 
 Koi TO KaTecl36p,fVov STuyos vSwp. 
 
 TOV iTtpOV. 
 
 tQv aAA(ov dvfpMV. 
 
 8 in 493. 3 exceptional. 
 
 ot Svb), 
 
 T^v 6S&V y 6^ (p,fX.Xev. 
 TUV S' oiAAwv. 
 
 3 in 331. None exceptional. 
 
290 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [22- 
 
 vu. rj — 
 
 X 54-55- \ 
 192. 
 201. 
 223. 
 326. 
 
 d— 
 
 31 
 
 40, 
 
 lOI 
 
 108 
 
 204 
 268 
 57° 
 
 £K St TOKT^IOV. . . . 
 
 tCiv avruiv o'i Trep TtKOv. 
 
 6 ^fivoi. (227.) 
 
 rh Trdpo's ye. 
 
 fixf T&v SvoTTivov. (248.) 
 
 ^juart ry avrif. 
 
 5 in 347. 2 exceptional. 
 
 UIS TO TTO/JOS Trep. 
 
 avrap 01 aXXoi. (^loj.) 
 
 o^^ctvos. (133, 251, 388, 402, 541.) 
 
 01 apLcrroL. 
 
 TO (Tr]p,a. 
 tS>v S' aX.Xo)v. 
 TO. TTplaTa. 
 o yepbiv. 
 
 8 in 586 
 
 (212, 221.^ 
 
 (553) 
 
 exceptional. 
 
 61. 
 X65. 
 146. 
 181. 
 238. 
 250. 
 266. 
 375- 
 43°- 
 461. 
 464. 
 
 29. 
 
 34- 
 112. 
 117. 
 132. 
 240. 
 354- 
 356- 
 358. 
 436. 
 520. 
 
 01^8' aXXoL. ^ (100, 193, 331, 370.) 
 Ttov 6e(A,uv erdpmv . . . ot ddvov, ktX.. 
 
 T^ Wo"°''- (543-) 
 
 Tov xiapov. 
 
 TO o apcreva. 
 
 Taaepya. (310,343.) 
 
 TO, (TO, yovva. 
 
 rhv px>\Xhv, (378.) 
 
 TO) S' erepu). 
 
 TOV KpLOV. 
 
 TO. firjXa TavavTToSa. 
 
 II in 567. 5 exceptional. 
 
 Trj SeKaTr). 
 
 01 erapoL. 
 
 Tijv St yvvaiKa. 
 
 Toi St Svo. 
 
 al aAAat. (250, 42 1, 449.) 
 
 (is TO Trdpoi Trep. 
 
 rj ereprj. 
 
 rj ot TptTTj. 
 rj St TfTdpTTj. 
 
 6 OpdxTvs ei.VtT' 'OSviTO'evs. 
 
 Th TpLTOV. 
 
 j^ II in 530. I exceptional. 
 
-22] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 291 
 
 XI. 
 
 4- 
 
 hi Se Ta jjirjXa. (20, 35.) 
 
 28. 
 
 t6 TjOlTOV. 
 
 66. 
 
 TUl/ OTTt^ev. 
 
 168. 
 
 Ta irpuni^rra. 
 
 225. 
 
 at Sc yuvaiKes. 
 
 258. 
 
 Toiis S' kripovi. 
 
 2g8. 
 
 Trjv TrivSaptov TrapaKOtTiv. 
 
 339- 
 
 /uijSe TO. SoJjOa . . . KoXovere. 
 
 376- 
 
 TCI (rd K^Sea. 
 
 424. 
 
 17 8e KwoJiris. 
 
 452. 
 
 'j/ f/*^- 
 
 470. 
 
 T(jv olAAcov AavatSv. (S5I> 541) 567.) 
 
 492. 
 
 Tou TratSbs dyavov (possessive). 
 
 515- 
 
 Tb OV /JLtVOI. 
 
 519- 
 
 rbv Tr]Xt(f>i&i]v, 
 
 524- 
 
 'Ajoyewov ot apurroi. 
 
 629. 
 
 rh irpotrdiv. 
 
 
 17 in c. 580. 5 exceptional. 
 
 xii. /i — 
 
 
 16 
 
 Ta e/caora. (165.) 
 
 49 
 
 ToJv aWoiv. 
 
 73 
 
 ol Se Svo) (TKOTreAot. 
 
 lOI. 
 
 Tbv S' erepov crKoireXov, 
 
 125 
 
 T^s 2Ki!AA.ijs. 
 
 201 
 
 T^v vijtrov. (276, 403.) 
 
 252 
 
 l)(6va-L TOis dXiyoto-i. 
 
 304 
 
 Tbv OpKOV. 
 
 321 
 
 T(3v Se /3o)uv. 
 
 365 
 
 raXXa. 
 
 373 
 
 06 6' erapoi. 
 
 428 
 
 TTjv oAo^v Xap'ujSStv. 
 
 12 in 453. 4 exceptional (or 5, if we count 252). 
 
 xui. V — 
 
 48. rhv ^£6vov. (52.) 
 
 68. j T^v S' erepTjv. 
 
 69. \ ^ S' aAATy. 
 178. o ykpmv. 
 2ZS- Tot X/O^/^aT"- 
 
 2d2. Tijs AijiSos. 
 358. ri> Trapos 'irep. ' 
 
 7 in 440. 2 exceptional. 
 
292 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [22- 
 
 xiv. ^ — 
 12. 
 19. 
 24. 
 26. 
 26. 
 61. 
 
 173- 
 185. 
 
 X235- 
 241. 
 
 375- 
 43°- 
 X435- 
 436- 
 467. 
 
 512- 
 
 XV. o — 
 
 200. 
 218. 
 395- 
 43S- 
 542- 
 
 Xvi. IT — 
 
 5°- 
 
 70. 
 
 133- 
 149. 
 
 334- 
 
 xvii. ft — 
 
 10 
 
 171 
 
 218. 
 
 273 
 34S. 
 3SS. 
 
 415 
 416 
 
 rb fxiXav SjOuds. 
 
 rbv apicrrov. (108, 414.) 
 
 ot 8e S^ aAAot. (430.) 
 
 {06 Tpcts. . . . 
 rbv 8e TerapTov. 
 ol veot. 
 6 ykpiav. 
 
 Tot 0-' awoC KijSea. 
 Tqv (TTvytpriv oShv . . . '^. 
 T(J) SfKaT^ Sc. 
 TO (Koxrra. 
 TaXXa. 
 
 TTjv jxiv idv. . . . 
 Tos 8' aAA.as. 
 t6 Trp&rov. 
 TO. era paKea. 
 
 16 in 533. 2 exceptional. 
 
 o ytpuv. 
 
 J-y/cotr/ittTe to, Tivx^o- 
 
 Tiov 8' aXAui'. (540.) 
 
 T&V OpKOV, 
 
 rhv ^elvov. 
 
 5 in 557. 2 exceptional. 
 
 Tj; irporepy. 
 
 rbv ^etvov. (78.) 
 
 T(Cv 8' OlAAlDV. 
 
 ToC TTarphs. 
 
 rrjs avTijs eVex' ayycAtiys. 
 
 5 in 481. I exceptional. 
 
 rhv ^ttvoi/. (14, 345, 398, 508, 544, 586.) 
 
 tJI TTOpOS TTtp. 
 
 rhv ofwiov (twice). 
 
 rd t' aAAa. (411, 592.) 
 
 rhv iJi.v6ov. (551,574-) 
 
 o t' dotSds. (But the reading is doubtful.) 
 
 {6 KaKMTTOs 'Axatcov. . . . 
 oAA' &purros. 
 
 8 in 6o5. 3 (or 2) exceptional. 
 
-22] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 293 
 
 26. 6 jjLoXo/Bph^. 
 
 38. o ^ftvos. (222, 401, 416, 420.) 
 
 jp. rhv opKov. 
 
 62. T(LV S' aXXtov. 
 
 74. 6 yipiav. 
 
 114. Tovrov Thv avaXrov. 
 
 22g. Kal TO. xiprja. 
 
 254. rhv ep,hv /3i6v. 
 
 275. rh Trdpoide. 
 
 333- "^^v a\riTr)v. (393.) 
 
 380. T^v yacrrepa (possessive). 
 
 J(?5'. TO dvperpa. 
 
 404.. TO, )(epeiova. 
 
 13 in 427. 7 exceptional. 
 
 xix. T — 
 
 94. rbv ^ttvov. (99.) 
 
 X 115. TO. [liv aX\a. (196.) 
 
 137. rhv ip.hv jiiov. 
 
 142. Tov eiuoi/ y6.p,ov. 
 
 166. TOV 6/;tOV yoi/ov. 
 
 202. rrj TpifTKaiSeKaTt]. 
 
 232. T&v Si ^iToiva. 
 
 340. TO TrapOS TTSjO. 
 
 ^7-2. at Ki!ve9 al'Se. 
 
 481. ry S' eripyj. 
 
 483. T(j) o-(u cTTt /uafo). 
 
 504. Ttt yap TTporepa. 
 
 X 573. Toiis ireAeKeas, tous . . ?OTao";!(t. 
 13 in 604. I exceptional. 
 
 _^2. rh (fivXaxraeiv. 
 
 yj. Tas Kovpas. 
 
 X 109. at jxev ap' aXXai. (122.) 
 
 no. 1) §€ jUta. 
 
 129. t5v ^avov. (305, 324, 382.) 
 
 133. rhv Se t' dpeCova. 
 
 X 158. ai p,ev eeiKO(Ti. 
 
 167. t5 irapo9 Tf/D. 
 
 22^. T&f SvcTTrji'ov. 
 
 JJO. TO. xeprja. 
 
 10 in 394. 4 exceptional. 
 
294 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [22- 
 
 xxi. 4' — 
 
 
 32- 
 113- 
 
 rh TTpiv. 
 
 TOV TO^OV. (305.) 
 
 128. 
 
 rh TtTapTov. 
 
 X 142. 
 210. 
 
 TOV \tOpOV . . . odtV. 
 
 Ttov S' aXXmv. 
 
 244. 
 314- 
 
 Koi TO) 8jLia)£. 
 
 ^eivos. (424.) 
 
 3S°- 
 378- 
 
 Toi 8' avrrji kpya. 
 TO, 8e TO^a. 
 
 425- 
 
 TOV CTKOirOV. 
 
 
 10 in 434. 2 exceptional 
 
 xxii. X— 
 
 
 104. 
 114- 
 
 Kal T(j) /3ovk6X<p. 
 TG) Bfitae. 
 
 X183. 
 184. 
 220. 
 
 \ry S' hipij. ^ 
 Ta t' evSo6i, Kai Ta 0vpri<f>i.. 
 
 254- 
 
 Tftjv 6' akXiov. 
 
 446. 
 
 at Se yvvaiKes. 
 
 8 in 501. 4 exceptional. 
 
 xxiii. ^ — 
 
 
 28. 
 
 ^ElVOS. 
 
 90. 
 209. 
 
 ToG erepov. 
 TO. wep aXXa. 
 
 214. 
 
 X 223. 
 
 261. 
 
 TO wpmov. 
 
 rffv 8' arijv . . . i^ ■^s. 
 
 t5v ae^Xov. 
 
 306. 
 
 d^ToijO Sioyevrjs 'OSucrcreiis. 
 
 7 in 372. 3 exceptional. 
 
 xxiv. 0) — 
 
 
 18. 
 
 Twv aXAcov AavadJv. (79.) 
 
 132. 
 
 387- 
 486. 
 498. 
 
 TOV 6fi&v ydjiov. 
 6 yepiDV AdXctfS. 
 Tb TToijOos. (508.) 
 Dieis ot AoXioto. 
 
 
 5 in 548. I exceptional. 
 
 § 23. TO, n., ace. rel. ( = «'« regard to which., wherefore). "Iliadic" 
 (H. G., § 262 (3)). 
 
 Certainly there is only one instance in the Odyssey, and that may 
 be in an interpolation (the Song of Demodocus, Od. viii. 6 332). 
 
-24] APPENDIX C 295 
 
 But, to begin with, the use is very rare. Both Monro and Ebeling 
 (vol. ii. p. 11) give only 6 instances for the whole of the Iliad. Further, 
 of these 6 only 3 could be claimed, by any stretch, for the Original 
 Iliad J and, finally, the 3 should, in all probability, be reduced to i, 
 and I alone — 
 
 iii. r 176. TO KOI KXaCovtra TCTijKa. 
 
 Of the other two, the first is almost certainly part of an interpola- 
 tion — 
 
 xvii. P 404—405. TO /Jbiv ovTTore eXireTO Svju,(^ | TiOva/iev. 
 
 For the statement hinges on a prophecy of Thetis that not even 
 Achilles and Patroclus together could take Troy (404-411), a prophecy 
 of which Achilles shows no knowledge elsewhere, and which it is very 
 hard to reconcile with his own expectation in xvi. (91 £f.) that Patroclus 
 might attack the town. 
 
 In the second instance it is very doubtful whether to is the right 
 reading. But in any case, it cannot mean "where/ore." The passage 
 is (xxiii. ■^ 546-7) — 
 
 dXX (lli^eAei/ ddavaTOKTtv 
 ev)(e(Tdai' t(j) k' (to kev?) ovti, ■Travuo'TaTos ^A.^£. 
 
 It must mean " in that case " (supposititious), and most editors read 
 T<j). This is what Monro does in his text (ed. 188 1), though in his 
 H. G. (loc. cit.) he classes it as an instance of to. (If this instance 
 were admitted, it would show that xxiii. ^ follows the Iliadic and not 
 the Odyssean example.) 
 
 § 24. OS " is sometimes demonstr. in Iliad, never in Odyssey " (Jebb, 
 op. cit). 
 
 This result can only be obtained by refusing to allow a demonstr. 
 meaning to os whenever a relative sense can be made to appear 
 possible. 
 
 But this is perverse, for it is most natural to suppose that the rel. 
 sense grew gradually out of the demonstr. Monro in his 2nd edition 
 (H. G., § 265) seems to throw some doubt on this; but the parallel 
 growth of the rel. out of the demonstr. in the case of the Art. is strong 
 evidence for it (H. G., § 262). Moreover, even in Attic the demonstr. 
 use of OS survived in certain set phrases (^ 8' os, koI os). 
 
 However, if we do insist on classing as demonstr. only those cases 
 of OS where the rel. sense is actually impossible, we shall discover that 
 there are only 3 such cases in the whole of the Original Iliad, viz. — 
 
 Z vi. 59. /^»?8' OS (fivyoi. 
 X xxii. 201. {T/ie Menis) ws o tov ou SiSvaTo fidpipai ttoo-Iv, ovS' 
 OS dX.v^ai. 
 ^ xxiii. 319. dXX' OS jJ-iv 6' hnroKji. . . . 
 
296 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [24- 
 
 (Let it be noted that one of these is from Book xxiii.) But 3 
 instances will not take us very far. (There is i instance, and only 1, 
 in the Additions — 
 
 $ xxi. 198. dAAa Kol Ss SftSoiKf.) 
 
 But if we may adopt a less arbitrary method and class as demonstr. 
 all cases where the demonstr. force is natural, then we shall find, I 
 think, several such instances in the Odyssey. 
 
 Monro denies the cases with yap, holding that there ydp = ye apa 
 (H. G., ^ 265, 348) ; but analysis will show how hard it is to justify the 
 denial. The natural meaning of ydp in the following instance is cer- 
 tainly for, since the line where it occurs clearly gives the reason why 
 Telemachus should apply to Menelaus for news. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 a i. 284-286 — 
 
 TrpStra fxtv ts IIijA.oi' iX6t Kol eipeo NicrTopa Stoi/, 
 Keidev Sk SxaprijvSf Trapd ^avdbv McycXaov* 
 OS ydp SevTaros ^X.dev 'A'^aLwv )(aX.Ko)^t.Ttivo>v. 
 
 The resolution of ydp into its primitive elements — ye dpa — ^is rather 
 a two-edged argument, by the way, for those who insist on the lateness 
 of the Odyssey. In the next instance the actual presence of pa makes 
 this explanation seem more far-fetched than ever — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 p xvii. 172-173 — 
 
 KOI Tore Srj crcfAv eaire M.eS(av' os ydp pa p.d\u7Ta 
 ■ijvSave KrjpvKwv. 
 
 Again, in connection with the Iliadic passage from ^ xxiii. 9, 
 o yap yepas ecrrl davovTuyv, 
 
 Dr. Leaf (ad lot:.) points out that " the phrase occurs five times with 
 TO, and it is difficult not to believe that was here meant to be iden- 
 tical with TO." 
 
 The form with o re-occurs in the Odyssey lu xxiv. 190. 
 
 There is another case with yap in the Original Iliad where the 
 demonstr. force seems to me very hard to deny — 
 
 M xii. 344 (357)— 
 
 o/icjboTepo) ph' /xaA,A.ov b yap k' o^' dpuTTOv (XTravrwv 
 
 I think, moreover, that, even where yap does not occur, a good 
 case might be made out for the demonstr. force of os in several passages 
 from the Odyssey, e.g. — 
 
-26] APPENDIX C 297 
 
 t V. 474-481 
 
 Soiovs S' ap' wrriX.vOf ^ajuvons, 
 
 Tovs jxiv ap' ovT dvifjLwv Sidrj jxivoi . . . 
 
 (US dpa TTVKVol 
 
 aAAijAoj(rtv e(f>vv £7ra;Uot/Sa8ts' ovs vir' 'OSva-aev's 
 SwrtTo. 
 
 Here the preceding demonstr. clause, tovs p.\v ktX, strongly suggests 
 that oiis is demonstr. also. 
 
 Ebeling gives a large number of such instances from both Iliad and 
 Odyssey, where, for one reason or another, he considers the demonstr. 
 sense the most natural. But, omitting all such cases as too doubtful 
 in a controverted question, and only adding to the list for both Iliad 
 and Odyssey those cases for which I have argued, we have for the 
 Odyssey 3 instances of os demonstr., and for the Original Iliad only 
 5 (or, including repetition, 6). Once more, therefore, the change, if 
 real, is very slight. 
 
 § 25. oi!veKa= " ikat" after a verb oi saying (H. G., § 268). 
 
 This is certainly a little trait of the Odyssey. The word occurs 
 there in that sense 6 times, and only once in the Iliad (in the Addi- 
 tions). (Ebeling, oiSvexa (3), vol. ii. p. in.) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 « V. 216. 57 vii. 300. V xiii. 309. 
 
 o XV. 42. ^ xvi. 330, 379. 
 
 Iliad Additions — A xi. 21. 
 
 § 26. On the other hand, oti=" that" occurs 13 times in the 
 Original Iliad, and only 4 times in the Odyssey. See Ebeling, on (i), 
 vol. ii. p. 99. (H. G., § 268 (2).) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 V xiii. 314. T xvi. 131. 
 
 p xvii. 269. "" xviii. 11. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A i. 537. (The Menis) iSoCtr'. 
 
 Z vi. 231. yi'dJO'ti'. 
 
 A xi. 408. {The Menis) olSa. 
 
 P xvii. 630. yvoi'r). 
 
 P xvii. 642. ireTrvaOai. 
 
298 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [26- 
 
 P xvii. 688 
 
 yiyvuxTKiiv. 
 
 tp xxiii. 
 
 152. 
 
 (l>) T xix. 
 
 465- 
 
 4> xxi. 
 
 209. 
 
 P xvii. 655. ctjreiv. 
 Y XX. 434. olSa. 
 X xxii. 439. rjyyetXe. 
 
 ■?' xxiii. 670. ovx aA,is. 
 ■?^ xxiii. 545. <j)poveii>v. 
 
 fl Xxiv. 538. KaKOV. 
 
 fl xxiv. 564. yiyviiKTKUi. 
 
 But here again the change, such as it is, cannot be made an argu- 
 ment for lateness. On the contrary, on, the Iliadic word, is the regular 
 word in later Greek, oiii/c/ca only a rare poetic exception. It is interest- 
 ing to note that Iliad xxiii. and xxiv. follow in this respect the usage, 
 not of the Odyssey, but of the Menis. Iliad ix. and x., on the other 
 hand, have no instance of oVt. 
 
 The Odyssey seems also to show a special fondness for d)s = (a) 
 how, or (b) that, and it shows this fondness throughout, e.g. — 
 
 (a) y iii. 194. ('ATpetSrjv . . . aKoven) cos t' ^XO' m f' Aiy ur6os 
 tji,rj(TaTO. 
 TOL 8' ovK tcrov (OS erervKTO. 
 (KareAe^ev) dis fJ-iv . . . eXaa-ev crvs. 
 ytyviicTKb) S' (OS cr<^(oiv eeXdofiivoKTiv tKai'(o. 
 
 Ebeling gives two-score of such instances (not including the ii 
 cases that come together in the summary of Odysseus' adventures, 
 \p xxiii. 310-343, which is probably an interpolation). Against this 
 there are only 10 instances from the Original Iliad. But they are 
 such as to show that the use is thoroughly well established in all parts 
 of that poem (including the Menis). There are also 10 instances in 
 the Additions. 
 
 Ebeling, (os, A. d. (2), vol. ii. p. 496. 
 Original Iliad — 
 (a) m^"howr 
 
 n xvi. 17. (^The Menis) 'Apyetcoi/ 6Xo<f>vpiat, (os oXcKOvrai. 
 ^ xxiii. 787. ljO£(o (OS dOdvaroi Tifiwriv. 
 
 Ebeling, (os, B. ii. i, vol. ii. p. 500. 
 {b) &s="that." 
 
 A i. no. {The Menis) dyopevei^ | (Ls Stj tovS'. 
 A iv. 360. oTSa yap ws TOi dvp.os. 
 il xxiv. 662. olcrOa yap iLs Kara S.(ttv iiXp,eda. 
 ^ xviii. 125. (The Menis) yvoUv S' (os Srj S-qphv eyi) iroXijioio 
 TTtTrdvp.ai. 
 X xxii. 10. {The Menis) eyvtos (os deoi elp.i. 
 
-28] APPENDIX C 299 
 
 '^ xxiii. 610. iva yvdoxTi Kal otSt | ws. 
 ■^ xxiii. 648. xaipti Si fjioi ^Top 
 
 P xvii. 450. ov)( aXis (as Kal reu^e' e'l^tt ; 
 
 § 27. Indirect Discourse. (H. G., § 270.*) 
 
 Clauses after verbs of saying introduced by on, us, oiii/EKa, &c. 
 (called by Monro examples of true Indirect Discourse). These are 
 said to be commoner in the Odyssey (Odyssey, 16; Iliad, 3). 
 
 But this only shows that reported conversations are more common 
 in the Odyssey, which we could have inferred already from the subject- 
 matter. It does not show a more developed syntax. ot6 may mean 
 "that" (and not "because") after a verb of knowing as well as after 
 a verb of saying. It seems irrational, for instance, to separate the 
 following examples : — 
 
 Iliad — 
 
 P xvii. 641—642. ovSi TTiTrvtrOai 
 
 Xvypfji ayyeXirjs, 0T( ol <^iAos &Xed' Ixatpos. 
 P xvii. 655. etireiv otti pd ol ttoXv (^tAraros &\e6' kroXpos. 
 
 But the second instance alone contains a verb of saying, and is 
 alone included by Monro. For the Other two Iliadic instances Monro 
 gives — 
 
 X xxii. 439. (^Original) ■^'yyecA.' otti pa ot ttoo-is f KTo^t |U.t/i.ve TnjXauv, 
 and " 16 : 131," which must, I think, be a misprint for "17 : 411," i.e. — 
 
 P xvii. 410-11. (^Additions) ov ol eenre KaKov too-ov ocrcrov itv^Oi], 
 p,rjrr]p, ottl pd ol ttoXv (^tAraros uiXed' eraipo?. 
 
 But Monro might have added, I think, another one from the 
 Menis : — 
 
 Ai. 109-IIO. dyopevci's 
 
 cus Sij TovS' evcKa, ktX. 
 
 No instances of the usage, so limited, occur in ^ or fl. 
 
 § 28. Attraction of the Rel. "Odyssean" (H. G., § 271, i). 
 
 Monro gives 7 instances from the Odyssey, of which 2 are repeti- 
 tions. These are all from speeches, and I believe here again we have 
 colloquialism designedly introduced, for it is plain that the construc- 
 tion is both lively and illogical. It is significant also that the only 
 parallel given from the Iliad is drawn, not from xxiii. or xxiv., but from 
 the Menis, and that here again the instance occurs in a speech : — 
 
K X. 
 
 113- 
 
 I, ix. 
 
 322. 
 
 I ix. 
 
 325- 
 
 (k X. 
 
 167. 
 
 K X. 
 
 517- 
 
 (X xi. 25. 
 
 T xix. 
 
 233- 
 
 300 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [28- 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A i. 262. {The Menis) ov yap ttio tolovs iSov . . . ohv Hftpidoov, 
 ktX.. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 rrjv 6e yvvaiKa 
 €^pov otrrjv r' opeos Kopv(f>r]v. 
 
 TO pkv eidKifxtv 
 ocrcrov 6' 'iarov vrjbs. 
 
 Tov fx,\v ocrov t' opyviav . . . OTreKotpa. 
 TTflo-jjba, ocTOF t' opyviav . . . TrXe^d[i.evo^.) 
 fiodpov opv^ai o(Tov tc Trvyova-iov. 
 /366pov opv^' oacrov re irvyo'vcriov.) 
 rhv Se T^tTOJv' cvoTjtra . . . 
 oiov re Kp6p,voi,o Xoirov. 
 
 § 29. Final Rel. Clauses (Rel. of purpose), with the Siibj. 
 " Odyssean " (H. G., §282). 
 
 Doubtless these clauses are " much commoner " in the Odyssey. 
 But, once more, this could not argue a later date for the Odyssey, 
 because the idiom does not survive in Attic except in a few isolated 
 phrases, the place of the Subj. being taken by the Fut. Ind. (H. G., 
 § 282 fin.; Goodwin, Gk. M. and T., §§ 565-574). And once more, the 
 main reason for the difference between the two poems lies in the greater 
 prevalence of speech in the Odyssey. For the idiom, involving, as it 
 does, "primary sequence," is suited not to narrative, but to speech, 
 and all the instances, so far as I can discover, without one exception, 
 occur in speeches. Finally, it is to be noted that this "Odyssean" 
 idiom is much commoner in the Original Iliad, including ■*?, 42, and the 
 Menis, than in the Additions. 
 
 But the classification is not easy, for in many cases it is difficult 
 to decide whether " purpose " or " emphatic prediction " is upper- 
 most, e.g. — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 xi. A. 135. ^avaros . . . k\iV(ma,i os «£ uf- Trce^vg. 
 
 I have tried, however, to include all the borderland cases, following 
 the suggestion of Monro that those sentences should be classed as 
 Final " where the time of the (subordinate) Clause is fixed by that of 
 the governing Verb" (H. G., § 289 (i) U). 
 
 The instances are mostly drawn from Delbriick, Synt. Forsch., 
 pp. 129-132. But his list is not quite exhaustive, and I have added 
 two cases from Ebeling's Lexicon. My results give — 
 
-S9] APPENDIX C 301 
 
 18 from the Odyssey (of which 2 are doubtful). 
 12 „ „ Original Iliad (of which 6 are doubtful). 
 3 „ „ Additions (of which 2 are doubtful). 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 A. — Positive Sentences — 
 
 o- xviii. 334-336. ftij Tis . . . avaoTTjj 
 OS Tts cr' . . . 
 S(u/iaT09 €Ki7eiJ.tj/Tq<Ti. 
 T xix. 403. avTos vvv ovofj,' evpeo otti kc drjai 
 
 iraiScJs TraiSi (j>iX.<j}. 
 o XV. 311. 5jy€/idv' ecrdkbv oiracrcrov 
 OS Ke jUE Kel(T' dydyy. 
 S iv. 29. ^ aXAov TreixTTOtniv iKave/jLev os Ke (f>i\rj(Trj. 
 /8 ii. 213. Sore . . . eiKcxr' cTaijOovs 
 
 oi' Ke fjLOL 'ivOa. koi evda ^iwirprqcTfTtiXTi KiXivdov. 
 f vi. 37. (aAA,' ci-y' eiroTpvvov irarepa , . .) 
 
 ttjUa^av 6<^07rXicrat ij Kfv dy-QCTL. 
 «■ X. 288. T'ij, To8e <f>dpfiaKov ecr6X.ov e'xwv 
 
 ep\ev, 6 Kev Tot . . . aAaAxgenv. (C^. II. iv. 191.) 
 TT xvi. 349. eperai dyeipojxev o'i kc Td\i(TTa. 
 Keivoii dyyeiXwa-i. 
 I ix. 356. iva Toi Sm ^elviov, <j) kc (tv X"'/°!/S- 
 
 (Cp. II. fi xxiv. 119.) 
 /S ii. 192. Ooifjv kindrf<Toix.ev rjv k' evl dvfiif 
 Tivotv d(r)(dWyi. 
 
 (Not given by Delbriick.) 
 V xiii. 400 (?). d;Li<^t Se Xatc^os 
 
 60-<rto, o /ce (TTvyiyiTLV tSojv dvdpuyiro's k-)(ovra,. 
 
 It is doubtful if there is any trace of "purpose" to be discovered 
 here. The natural meaning is surely not " I will give you a cloak for 
 men to hate when they see it," but simply " a cloak of the kind that 
 men hate." It is more naturally taken as a limiting descriptive clause 
 of the kind that is common throughout Homer. (H. G., § 283.) 
 I proceed with the list : — 
 
 xviii. o- 84-86. TTE/ii/'a) a' ■qp.eipovSe 
 ets"Ex«Tov . . . 
 OS k' aTrh piva, rdixycri, 
 xvii. jO 383-385 (?). (In the speech of Eumaeus.) 
 (tjs yap 8fj ^tivov /caAei) 
 ciAAov y\ el p-xi Tiuv o'i Srjfiioepyol eatri,. . . . 
 ■fj Kai dfcnrtv doiShv, o Ktv repTrrjcriv deiSmv. 
 
 This too is probably purely descriptive, as the analogy with 1. 383 
 
302 HOMER AND THE ILIAD |29- 
 
 suggests : " one of those that are craftsmen — or even a god-like 
 minstrel who can delight all with his song" (B. and L.). 
 
 K X. 539. (Speech of Circe.) ev6a /xwrts iXtvcrtTai. 
 3s Kev Toi eiirrjcriv. 
 
 (Perhaps repeated 8 iv. 389. But there the 
 OS may be demonstr.) 
 A xi. 135. ^avaros . . . ekfvrerai, 6s ke ere ttcc^vj;. 
 
 (Repeated ^ xxiii. 282.) 
 6 iv. 756. (ov yap Old)) . . . 
 
 'i^diird' , akX' eri ttov tjs eirecrareTai os Kev t}(jy(rt 
 Sio/juxra. 
 
 B. — Negative Sentences — 
 
 jS ii. 42. oiire Tiv" dyyeXirjv . . . eKXvov 
 ■S^v \' vfj.iv (rd,(f)a etiroj. 
 
 fvi. 20-1. (Speech of Nausicaa.) 
 
 OVK (crd' ovTOS OLvrjp , . . ovhk yevrjTai 
 OS Kev . . . iKTjrai. 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A. — Positive Sentences — 
 
 $ xxi. 126. {The Menis.) (Speech of Achilles.) 
 <j)pi)(^ virat^ei 
 i\6v<s OS K£ (^aygcrt. 
 $2 xxiv. 119. (i47j 196.) (Speech of Zeus, Iris, Priam.) 
 S(o/}a 8' ' h.'^^iXXrji <f)tpefj.ev, ra, Ke dvpibv tJjvj/. 
 r iii. 287 (459). (Speech of Agamemnon.) 
 
 Tip.'qv . . . 
 
 ■q re /cat arcroiiivoicri /xer' dvdpunrouTi TreAijrai. 
 A iv. 191. (Speech of Agamemnon.) 
 
 iiridiqcrit 
 <pdpijux.)^' , d Kev Travcrrjo'i fieXaivdwv oSvvdoyv. 
 
 (This is not given by Delbriick, but cp. 
 Od. K X. 288, which is.) 
 
 B. — Negative Sentences — 
 
 $ xxi. 113. {The Menis.) (Speech of Achilles.) 
 vvv OVK ecrd' os Tts Sdvwrov cfyvyji. 
 '^ xxiii. 345. OVK etrO' os Ke o^ eXytri, 
 
 It is to be noticed that the Menis (xxi. #113) agrees at once with 
 Iliad iii. V 287, 459, and with the Odyssey, xviii. or 334 (the first 
 instance given above), in furnishing a case of the Subj. without Ke in 
 such sentences. And these 3 cases appear to be the only certain 
 examples. 
 
-30] APPENDIX C 303 
 
 Monro adds, apparently, (§ 282) — 
 E V. 33. {Original Iliad.) 
 
 ovK av Srj Tjotuas . . . iaa-atfjiev 
 
 Ixdpvaa-O' OTnrorepoLcn . . . Zeiis k{!Sos opt^. 
 
 But it seems to me that this is more naturally taken as an indirect 
 question. He also suggests — 
 
 2 xviii. 466. rev)(ea Trapicra-erat. 
 
 Ota T6S . . . vaMp.axyueTa.1 
 (also from the Original Iliad). 
 
 But the mood may be Fut. Ind., as Monro observes. 
 It is more likely that we ought to include 4 cases where clauses 
 with the Subj. follow the Rel. Adverbs ore, oVore, all of which Monro 
 classes among Final or Quasi-Final sentences (H. G., § 289), viz. — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A iv. 164. (Speech of Agamemnon.) 
 
 ?o-<r£Tat rjp,o.p or' av ttot' dA.a)X3 "lAtos Ipij. 
 (Repeated Z vi. 448 by Hector.) 
 Z vi. 454. ocriTov a-ev (/ieXet) ore 
 
 Kev Tts SaKpvoecrarav ayrjrai. 
 T xix. 336. {ip'rjv TrpoTiSiynevov . . .) dyyeXirjv, or' dTTOKJjOijxivoio 
 
 TTvOrjTai. 
 4> xxi. III. {The Menis.) 
 
 ecrcreTai ^ rjwi rj . . . 
 oinroTi Tts Kai i/ieio . . . dvphv eXrjrai. 
 Additions — 
 
 I iX. 166. kA^TOI/S OTpVVOfllCV, o'i KC TtX^j^tCTTa 
 
 eA,&ii)cr' es KX.i(Tirjv. 
 Delbriick and Monro include — 
 
 H vii. 171. K\rip<ff vvv TTEwaAax^t SiajiTtpiS os Ke Aa;(ijcrti/. 
 
 But it seems to me that this, (like E v. 33), is more naturally taken 
 as an indirect question — " draw lots to see who shall be chosen." 
 
 There is also i instance in the Additions of the Rel. Adverb with 
 the quasi-final force — 
 
 © viii. 373. eoTai p,a.v or' av aSrc <^tAijv yXavKUTrtSa eiTrrj. 
 
 § 30. Ke (v), c. Subj. in Conditional Rel. Clauses where the refer- 
 ence is general, not limited to particular circumstances. " Odyssean " 
 (H. G.,§283). 
 
 The fine-spun argument here seems to me based on a distinction 
 
304 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [80- 
 
 which cannot be maintained and on emendations whicii cannot be 
 justified. 
 
 Monro holds, apparently, that the limitation to particular circum- 
 stances which ought to be suggested by kcv is only applicable " (with 
 few exceptions) when the governing Verb is a Future or implies futurity " 
 (§ 283, i>). But surely, Present or Future, wherever a condition is con- 
 ceived, there the conception of limitation to particular circumstances is 
 in place. It just depends on the poet's point of view whether he adopts 
 that conception or not. Secondly, Monro admits 35 instances in both 
 Iliad and Odyssey where ««(>'), c. Subj., occurs without any clear 
 reference to the future. Most of these, then, he proposes to get rid 
 of by emending «« to tc, a proceeding which appears to me perfectly 
 arbitrary. Where k£v occurs, however, this expedient cannot be used. 
 Now 6 out of the 35 cases have kcv, and all 6 happen to come from 
 the Odyssey. It is then suggested that the Odyssey has lost the 
 delicate distinction between Future-and-Particular on the one hand 
 and Present-and-General on the other, which was apparent in the Iliad. 
 But if this distinction is illusory, or if the emendations are unjusti- 
 fiable, the whole argument falls to the ground. 
 
 I give the 6 instances in question from the Odyssey side by side 
 with 4 instances from the Iliad (Original) and i from the Odyssey, all 
 of which happen to be chosen by Monro himself as typical of the strict 
 usage. The comparison is instructive. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 (1) Q viii. 586. hrki ov fxev tl Kaa-iyvrjTOio )(fpeitov 
 
 yiyvcTai, os Kev Iratpos eoiv TTCTrvvfj^eva eiSrj. 
 Cp. Iliad— 
 
 r iii. 65. ovrroi aTO^XrjT' €(ttI deiov ipiKvSea Sftjpa, 
 otrcra kev avrol SciJcrtv. 
 
 I cannot myself see any more reference to the future in the Iliadic 
 than in the Odyssean instance. Paris is referring to his gift of beauty. 
 
 (2) o XV. 21. Kiivov fiovXtrai oiKov 6(f>e\XeLV os Kev oirvty, 
 
 Cp.— 
 
 f vi. 158. Ketvos 6' aB trepl KTjpi p-aKapraTOi . . . 
 
 OS Ke <t' iiSvouTi /SpiVas oiKOvS' dya.yqTai. 
 
 (3) XV. 55. Tov yap T£ ^€ivoi p.ip.vrj(rKiTai . . . 
 
 dvSphi ^tivoSoKov, OS Kcv <^tA.dTijTa Trapa<T\'(j. 
 Cp. Iliad— 
 
 A i. 316. (Menis) ov yap (p,hv TraXivayperov . . . 
 
 ovS? aTcXcuTijTov, Ti Ktv Ke(f>aXij Karavevo-w. 
 
-31] APPENDIX C 305 
 
 (4) o XV. 345- KaKot K'qSe' €\ovcn,v 
 
 avepes, Sv Kev iKijrat aXr) Kal Trrjfi.a koX aXyo's. 
 Cp. Iliad — 
 
 A i. 139. (Menis) 6 Se kev Ke;(oAt6creTa{, ov Ktv iKOJixai. 
 
 (5) and (6) v xx. 295. (Repeated 1^ xxi. 313.) 
 
 ... 01) yap KaAbv d.TeiJ,j3€i,v ovSi SiKaiov 
 ^etVovs TrjK€iJ,a.)(ov, 09 Kev TaSe 8d>p.a0' iK-qrai. 
 
 Cp. the instance just given from the Menis, and note that Monro 
 himself suggests that " with the change of Number we seem to pass 
 from a general description to a particular instance." 
 
 § 31. Opt. with Kev of unfulfilled conditions (referring to " what would 
 have followed on an event which did not occur"). (H. G., § 300 (f).) 
 
 E V. 311. tat vv Kev ev6' aTrokono . . . AiveCas, 
 ei jx-q ap o^v voTjo-e ktX. 
 "Iliadic"(H. G., loc. cit). 
 
 This may be granted, and indeed it appears also to be character- 
 istic of the Original Iliad as against the Additions. 
 
 Monro gives 12 instances ' from the Original,^ excluding one repeti- 
 tion (fl xxiv. 220-223), ^nd only 3 from the Additions, 2 of which are 
 repetitions. He gives 3 from the Odyssey (2 of which seem doubtful). 
 
 Now the construction, although it may add a certain livehness to 
 narrative, is not a very good one, for it obliterates the useful distinction 
 between what can and what cannot happen. That is why it is not 
 followed up in later Greek, and I believe that is why Our original 
 " Homer," after experimenting with it for some time, gave it up himself. 
 
 The instances given by Monro are — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 Bii. 81. {^Menis) 
 
 el fiev Tis rhv oveipov 'A^atwv oAAos evunre, 
 ^eiJSos Kev <f>aip.ev Koi vo(T^i^olp,e6a p,S,X\ov. 
 r iii. 220. (jiaiTjs T£ ^aKOTOv re riv' e/xfievai. 
 A iv. 223. "Ei/^' ovK dv jSpi^ovra tSots 'Aya/xtjuvova. 
 A iv. 429, 539. 
 E v. 85, 311. 
 M xii. 58. 
 XV. 697. 
 P xvii. 70, 366, 398. 
 
 (fl xxiv. 220-223. Cp. B ii. 81.) 
 
 ' One of these, however (r iii. 220), is without nev or m. 
 
 U 
 
3o6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [31- 
 
 Additions — 
 
 (E V. 388. The same as E V. 311.) 
 (Sxiii. 127. The same as P xvii. 398.) 
 S xiii. 343. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 (e V. 73. ivOa. k' iireira Koi dOdvaToi irep eTreXOiov 
 ^TjijcratTo lS<x)v. 
 
 Doubtful. Might refer to the future.) 
 (rj vii. 293. 17 S' ov Tt vcrq/xaTos r|jUy8poT€v fcrOXov, 
 (1)9 ovK av iXiroco veuiTcpov avTcdxravTo, 
 ep^eixev. 
 
 Doubtful. Might refer to the future.) 
 ^ xiii. 86. rj Sk jxak' dcr<f>a.keias Oiev l/iTreSov avSe kcv iprq^ 
 
 KipKO? 6fMpTT]CreifV. 
 
 § 32. Ojif. of Concession. — The use of the Opt. in the first pers. 
 followed by av or k^v, to indicate willingness to act on the part of the 
 speaker, and not simply the mere possibility of a result. " Odyssean " 
 (H. G., § 300 {d) {a)). 
 
 This is true, but the reason is clear. Here again the increased 
 frequency in the usage is due to the greater prevalence of speech in the 
 Odyssey, for obviously the construction can only occur in speeches. 
 And though it is much commoner in the Odyssey (over 40 instances), 
 it is thoroughly well established in the Original Iliad, including the 
 Menis (20 instances). I give the instances for the latter, and refer- 
 ences to Ebeling for the former. 
 
 In drawing up a list, three points should be borne in mind : — 
 
 (i) Any list must be more or less tentative, because it is very 
 seldom that the meaning of will is undeniable. This is because the 
 significance of the Opt. " ranges from the expression of a wish ... to 
 the admission of possibility" (H. G., § 299), while dv (kcv) merely 
 indicates that the statement is made in view of certain circumstances. 
 Thus it comes about that the instances almost always lie "on the 
 border between the two meanings" of will a.nd result, as Monro himself 
 points out. Critics may well differ as to whether a given passage 
 implies a willingness to act or merely states the possibility of the action 
 resulting. 
 
 (2) Sentences with an et-clause must not necessarily be excluded, 
 because a condition may be fully stated, and yet the notion of will in 
 the " apodosis " may be quite unmistakable, e.g. — 
 
 Hiad— 
 
 Z vi. 128, 129. tl Se Tts ddavdruiv ye Kar' ovpavov elXiq\ovda.s, 
 OVK av 'iytoye deotcriv eirovpavioia-i p.i-)^OLjjLriv. 
 
-32] APPENDIX C 307 
 
 This is not a mere statement of result, but an expression of what 
 Diomede's will would be under the circumstances. 
 
 (3) On the other hand, sentences with a verb of will (w eScAotjui, 
 jSovAot/i' av) ought to be excluded. For here the idea of will is given 
 by the meaning of the verb itself, and there is no reason to assume 
 that the mood also expresses it. 
 
 There are 5 instances from II. xxiv., including one repetition, but, on 
 the other hand, none from II. xxiii. 
 
 Delbriick, Synt. Forsch., i. pp. 200-245. 
 
 Ebeling, i., av 11 ; k£(v) vol. i. pp. 711 ff. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 (i) Without an et-clause — 
 
 E v. 32. QVK oil' S'^ T^was jLiev k6.(Ta.i\t.€V ; 
 
 T xix. 415. {Menis) vZ'C Se Kai kcv a/xa Trvoiji Zi<fivpoio Oioiiiw. 
 
 T xix. 91. {Menis) aXKa. rl kcv pe^aifjn ; 
 
 Y XX. 426. (Menis) ovS' ap' cVt Sijv 
 
 (iAX'^Aous 7rTiij(rcro6jU.ev. 
 
 X xxii. 253. {Menis) 'i\oip.i Ktv, rj Kev aXoi-qv. 
 
 xxiv. 437. CO' 5' "1^ ^y'^ TTOjXTr'b'i Kai ke KXvThv"Apyo'S iKoi.p.'qv. 
 
 n xvi. 16. (Menis) rmv Ke fxaX' dp.'poTepoiv dKa^^oLjicOa. 
 
 (2) With an et-clause (or its equivalent understood) — 
 X xxii. 20. (Menis) ij a' dv Tt(rai/.ijjv, ei jxat Svvafj.i'i ye irapur). 
 <l> xxi. 561. (Menis.) 
 
 (556. ei S' av l-yo) . . . lacrio . . .) 
 
 IcTTTepjos 8' av . . . dTroveoiiJ,rjv. 
 Z vi. 129. e' Se T6S a^avartov . . . elXr/XovOas, 
 ovK av eyioye Oeoiaiv . . . iJ,a\oip.y]v. 
 B ii. 81. (Menis) el jJ-ev rts t6v oveipoy . . . ctAAos eviane, 
 j/evSos Kev <^alp,ev, Kai vo<T<^L^o!,fx,eOa p.dXXov. 
 (Repeated 
 
 xxiv. 222. el yap Tts . . . eKeXevev 
 
 \j/evS6s Kev <^alfx,ev ktX.) 
 12 xxiv. 297. el Be TOi oi Swcrei, . . . 
 
 OVK dv eyioye . . . KeXoip/rjv. 
 J2 xxiv. 370. aAA' eyi) ovSev ere pe^ui KaKa Kai Se Kev dXXov 
 
 erev dwaXe^rjcraifii,. 
 12 xxiv. 664. kvvr)p.ap p.ev k' avrbv . . . yoaoi/xev ktA. 
 (See 1. 660. el fiev hrj p.' eOeXeii reXecrai ra^ov'EKTopt Slii).) 
 M xii. 324. (el fiev yap . . . alel S^ fxeXXoip.ev) 
 ovre Kev . . . p.axotp.rjv 
 ovTe Ke (re o"Tf AAotjUt. 
 A i. 100. (Menis) Tore Kev /xiv lAacrcra/tevoi TreTrWoip,ev. 
 
3o8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [32- 
 
 P xvii. I02. el si TTOv . . . TTvOoifi'qv, 
 
 afiK^Oi k' aSns tovrcs eiriixvrjcraCiJi^da ^apjirfs. 
 P xvii. 159. el yap . . . evetrj, 
 
 aiij/d Ke TlaTpoKXov ipvcraCfieda lAtov etcro). 
 P xvii. 162. (el S' ovTos . . . ekOoi) 
 
 alipd Kev 'Apyetoi . . . 
 
 Xv(Teiav, Kai k' avrbv ayo'ifieda . . . 
 
 § 33. el and Opt. {Conditional Protasis) after a Present, i.e. a Pres. 
 Indie. "Odyssean"(H. G., § 311). 
 
 " The instances ... are nearly all in the Odyssey — 
 
 a i. 414. ovr' oSi/ dyyeXCy en Treldopjxi, e'i Trodev eXdoi." 
 
 But there appear to be only 4 in the Odyssey, all told. (See Lange, 
 Horn. Gebrauch der Partikel ti). There are as many as 3 in the Iliad 
 (2 from the Additions). And in any case a certain increase in the 
 Odyssey is only to be expected here, for the Odyssey shows a general 
 increase in Conditional Protasis clauses {el and the Opt.) after any 
 Mood. This general increase is perfectly natural also, because a Con- 
 ditional Opt. is far more likely to occur in speeches than in narrative, 
 expressing, as it does, a supposition that may or may not be fulfilled. 
 
 It will be seen that all the instances are from speeches. There are 
 none from II. xxiii. and xxiv. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 a i. 414. orT oSv dyyeXiTj en TreCOopai, ei TTodev eXOoi. 
 ■q vii. 52. (Speech of Athena.) 
 
 . . . da.pira.Xeo'i yap dvrjp ev Tracriv dfieivtav 
 epyoicnv reXidei, el Kal irodev aXXodev eXdoi. 
 ^ xiv. 56. ^etv', ov poi, Oejxis ecrr', ovS' el KaKimv creOev eX6ot, 
 ^etvov dnprjcrai. 
 6 viii. 138. ov yap eyw ye n <^p.i KaKwrepov dXXo daXdcrcrrj's 
 avSpa ye crvyxevat,, el nal p.dXa Kapreph^ ei-q. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 X xxii. 348. (Menis.) With ei Kev. 
 
 (lis ovK ecrd' OS . . . diraXdXKOi, 
 
 oiS' ei Kev <t' avrbv \pviT(f epva'ao'dai dvtayoi 
 AapSavi&TjS Tlpiafjios. 
 Additions — 
 
 I ix. 388. Kovp-qv S' ov yajiieci) . . . 
 
 ov&' el )(fiv(7eiy 'A<jipoSiTy KaWos epi^oi. 
 I ix. 318. lirri fioipa pAvovn, Koi el p.dXa Tts TroXe/ii^OL. 
 (Speech of Achilles.) 
 
-34] APPENDIX C 309 
 
 § _34- Opt. with d, to express a/M. " Iliadic." " In the Odyssey 
 wish is not expressed by d except in the combinations £6 ydp and dde " 
 (H. G., § 312). This can only be maintained if we rule out all those 
 cases with d which are followed by an " apodosis." But in several of 
 these the idea of wish is distinctly present in the et-clause^ so that a 
 point would be missed if it were not expressed in the translation, e.g.— 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 "■ ix. 455- (Polyphemus to his ram.) 
 
 et Sij ofxo<^povioi^, TTOTK^ojvijets re yivoio, 
 eiirdv oTTTTiJ Keivo'i ifi.hv fievoi rjXatTKd^ei, 
 T(^ Ke 01 eyKe<fiaX6s ye Sia cnreos dXXvSn aXXy 
 Buvojiivov paioiTO irphs ovSu, ktX. 
 
 "Ah, if thou couldst feel as I, and be endued 
 with speech," &c. (B. and L.). 
 
 (TXvili. 371-375* '' ^' "■^ ''"' /8o€s dev IXavvifLCV 
 
 T(j) /ce /i' iSoiSj ktX. 
 
 " Or would again that there were oxen to drive," 
 &c. (B. and L.). 
 
 Cp. just above, o- 366 — 
 
 ^vpvfj,a)(J, d yap vZiv epts epyoio yevotro. 
 
 Lange gives also xviii. o- 376, xi. X 501, xx. v 381, xi. X 356, making 
 6 in all from the Odyssey, as against 3 such from the Iliad : xv. 49, 
 vii. H 38, xvii. P 102 {Homerische Gebrauch der Partikel d, i. chap. 2 
 (i), pp. 49 ff., see also pp. 19 ff.). 
 
 It is true that there is no case in the Odyssey where some kind of 
 apodosis is not definitely expressed in this way. But then there are 
 only 4 such cases in the Iliad — 3 from the Original, and i from the 
 Additions. And in the 3 from the Original, it may be observed, an 
 apodosis is instinctively supplied in thought, while the omission of its 
 definite expression in words adds greatly (I believe adds designedly) 
 to the verisimilitude of the utterance. In the two first instances the 
 speakers are warriors in the very thick of the fight. It is fitting that 
 what they say should be brief and even abrupt. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 Menelaus, in the desperate fight over Patroclus, speaks three 
 lines — 
 
 XV. 569. "'AvTiAox', ov Tis crcto veuiTepo's aXXo'S 'A)(ai(tiv, 
 oiire TTOcrlv 6axr(Tmv out' aXKijMs <os crv p.dyeo'Bai' 
 £(.' Tivd. TTOV Tptatav e^dXp,evos dvSpa ^dXaicrdo,." 
 
3IO HOMER AND THE ILIAD [34- 
 
 Patroclus, in the struggle over Sarpedon, speaks six lines ; I give 
 the last four : — 
 
 n xvi. 558. " Kurai. dv^p 69 irpuTos ecnjAaro tei^os 'Ax<"ti>i', 
 2ap7r»)Sa)V dkX' ei fiiv deiK«rcraiju,e9' eXovres, 
 Teu;^£a t' iayLoiiv d(j>i\oi[J,e6a, Kat tiv' eraiprnv 
 avTOV djj,vvop,iV(av SaiMuraifitOa vrjXcL )(a\K(^." 
 
 In the third instance Zeus is making a tentative suggestion for 
 reconciliation between Achilles and Priam, and he does not wish to 
 irritate Hera by pressing a definite conclusion, though it is abundantly 
 clear what conclusion he has in mind — 
 
 il xxiv. 74. dXy ci Tts KaXeaeie ^eui/ 0eTtv ao-crov kp-iio, 
 
 6<}>pa, ri oi eitrui irvKivhv oros, iSs k«v 'AxtXAevs 
 Swpiov CK Hpidjioio Xd)(ri a^ro 6' "ExTopa Xwy. 
 
 The solitary instance from the Additions looks like a reminiscence 
 of the phrase in the passage from Q — 
 
 K X. III. dW ei' Tts Kol TOvtrSe fiiToiyop-iVOi KaXecrenv. 
 
 § 35. d ydp, ddt. " Odyssean " (H. G., § 312). 
 
 As regards the use of dde (aWe), there is actually a similarity 
 between the Odyssey and the Original Iliad which may well be 
 significant. In each poem it occurs nine times (excluding one repetition 
 apiece), while it only occurs twice in the Additions (Lange, op. cit., 
 pp. 33 ff.; pp. 47 ff. for the cases with the Opt; Ebeling, s.v. aWe, for 
 the cases with oc^eXov). 
 
 The Iliadic list includes at once the Menis and Books xxiii. and 
 xxiv., while it excludes ix. and x. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A iv. 313. £t^' . . . <5s TOi: yovvad' ewoLTO. 
 
 A xi. 670. etO' &s ■q^iooifj.i, pit] 8e p,oi, (jXTrtSos eurj. 
 
 (^ xxiii. 629. Repeated.) 
 
 A iv. 178. aW ovToi's iwl iraxri yoXov reXiffti' 'Aya/u,e/xv(ov, 
 n xvi. 722. a.W o(Tov rja-<T(DV eip,l, rSaov crto (^ipTtpo% e'itjv, 
 
 T<^ Ke . . . dirtpuTjtreias. 
 X xxii. 41. (TAe Menis.) aWe dioitri (j>iXos rocrcrovSe ykvono, 
 ocrcrov lp.oi,' rdya Kiv I /cuvfs . . . iBoitv. 
 A i. 415. {^The Menis.) aW o^eA^s irapa vrjvcrlv dSaKpvTOS . . . 
 
 V iii. 40. d. 0. dyovos t' 'ifievai, ktX. 
 2 xviii. 86. (The Menis.) d. 6. . . . /xer' ddavdrijs dXiya-t 
 
 12 xxiv. 253. aW' dfia Trdi/res 
 
 "Ekto/30s wfjieXiT' avTi , . , Trecj>dcrdai. 
 
-36] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 311 
 
 The Additions — 
 
 H vii. 157. £1^' (OS y\^istoiix,t,, pitj §€ fioi e/iTTtSos iirj. 
 
 (The same as xi. 670.) ■ 
 i3j XIV. 84. aW (0(f){X,X.t^ . . . (TTparov aWov | frrjiiaivtiv. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 /? ii- 33- 
 I xiv. 468. 
 
 i xiv. 440. 
 
 p xvu. 494. 
 <T xviii. 202. 
 
 V XX. 61. 
 
 V vii. 331- 
 
 V xiu. 204. 
 xviii. cr 401. 
 
 iWe ... I Zevs TsXeo-etev. 
 
 fW ols rj/Stiotiit, l3!/q T( jjLOi e|«rc8os f'if]. 
 
 (Cp. the Iliadic verse, A xi. 670.) 
 aW OUTUS . . . tfiiXos Ad Trarpl yevoio 
 tos ifioi. 
 
 (Repeated xv. o 341, and cj>. X xxii. 41.) 
 at^' ouTt09 . . . cr£ ^akoi, . . . 'AttoXXcov. 
 aWi fioi MS . . . ^avaTov iropoi, "Aprepti. 
 
 aide jttot rjSij 
 . . . EK Ovpov eXoio. 
 . . . aW otra ewre TtXtTJTi^o-Etei/ airavra 
 'AXkivovs, tov pkv KtV . . , 
 SxT^fCTTOV kXcos ei'ij, ktX. 
 aW oc^eXov pxlvai. 
 aW ole^eXX' 6 ^£tvos . . . oXXo^' oXecr^at. 
 
 § 36. On the other hand, d (at) yap, with the Opt., the favourite 
 Odyssean turn, is well established in the Iliad (except ^ and fi) to intro- 
 duce a wish : 6 clear cases in the Original (including the Menis) and 4 in 
 the Additions, against 13 in the Odyssey (see Lange, i. (2), pp. 21 ff.). 
 
 For the purposes of comparison here I have left out those inter- 
 mediate cases where the clause introduced by d yap, though it Still 
 expresses a wish, has a/so the character of a protasis : — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 Additions- 
 
 (The Menis) 
 (The Menis) 
 
 n xvi. 97. (The Menis) 
 
 S xviii. 464. 
 
 X xxii. 346. 
 
 S xviii. 272. 
 
 X xxii. 454. 
 
 A iv. 189. 
 
 H vii. 132. 
 viii. 538. 
 N xiii. 825. 
 K X. 536. 
 
312 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [36- 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 pxvii. 251, 513. 
 
 XV. 156. 
 
 o- xviii. 235, 366. 
 f vi. 244. 
 6 iv. 697. 
 
 1 ix. 523. 
 T xix. 22. 
 <^ xxi. 402. 
 y iii. 205. 
 V XX. 169. 
 Q viii. 339. 
 
 § 37. Object-clauses with d and Opt. " Odyssean " (H. G., 
 
 § 314)- 
 
 " Object-clauses with d after verbs of telling, knowing, seeing, think- 
 ing, &c., as Od. xii. 112, evt(r?r£s | d irtos . . . v'7reKwpo(f>vyoiiJ,i. This 
 is frequent in Odyssey, but extremely rare in Iliad" (Jebb, op. at., 
 Appendix, Note 3). 
 
 The idiom, no doubt, is more frequent in the Odyssey, but to nothing 
 like the extent suggested. The fact is that a fully-developed Object- 
 clause of this kind is not really frequent in either poem. 
 
 There are only 3 unmistakable instances with the Opt. in the whole 
 of the Odyssey, while there is i in the Iliad, and that i happens to 
 be from the Menis itself, viz. — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A xi. 792. Ti's 8' otS' el Kcv 01 trvv Saifxovi difwv oplvais ; 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 /x xii. 112. flS' a-ye S-q fwi tovto, did, vajfLepres evKTires, 
 
 et TTios T^v oXorjv jiev VTriKirpot^vyoiiii y^dpvpSiv 
 Trjv Se k' dfivvalp/qv. 
 ^ xiv. 119. Zeus . . . olSev . . . €1 Ke jxiv dyyeiXaifii tScui/. 
 o- xviii. 375- ti]! ke p.' HSois, ti . . . irpOTapolprjv. 
 
 (Lange, op. at, vol. i. p. 115, gives 3 more — 
 
 xiii. V 415. 
 XV. 304. 
 xxii. X 381- 
 
 But in xiii. v 415 Merry reads 1; ""ov cV drjs : in xv. o 304-305 he reads 
 p.iTiUTTe . . . 1; /itv . . . (jiiXeoi: and xxii. x 381 is classed by Monro 
 
-37] APPENDIX C 313 
 
 (quite rightly) among the cases after verbs of seeking — xaTrrijvei/ S' 
 'OSvcrevs . . . et ti<s €t' dvSpwv fto&s viroKXoireoiTO.) 
 
 It is most misleading to group together all cases of d with the Opt. 
 after "verbs of telling, knowing, seeing, thinking" indiscriminately, as 
 though they were all on the same footing. 
 
 The four cases quoted above are true Object-clauses. Here the 
 structure is closely knit, and we can easily supply tovto as an object to 
 the governing verb (in app. to the et-clause) ; while d is to be translated 
 " whether." 
 
 But in other cases the ei-clause is only loosely attached to the 
 sentence, often retaining a final or quasi-final character : tovto cannot 
 be supplied as an object in strict app. to the tt-clause ; and d is natu- 
 rally translated " in the hope that," " in case that," e.g. — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 v. t 439- i''^X^ """P^^j ^5 yatai/ optoftf I'os, d irov icj)tvpot 
 
 These cases should be classed with the use after verbs of seeking, 
 trying, and desiring; and this use is common in the Iliad, e.g. — 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A iv. 88. IlavSapov . . . Si^rjiiivt], d ttou e<f>e'upoi. 
 (See H. G., § 314.) 
 
 To this class the following 3 instances appear to me to belong : — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 (1) jS ii. 351. OLVOV . . . ov cru (^vXacrcrets. 
 
 Kgtvov oiofiivr) tov /ca^/xopov, d ir60ev kXaoi 
 Sioyevfj^ OSvcrevs. 
 
 The nurse is keeping the wine thinking of Odysseus, in case he 
 might come back, in the hope that he might. 
 
 (2) i ix. 317. Xiiroii/qv KaKO. /SvcrcroSoiXivav, 
 
 d TTios TLcraiiJLrjv, ktX. 
 
 This should be compared with — 
 
 P xvii. 104. (Original Iliad) kTni.vqa-aLii(.6a x^pl^'']^ • 
 . . . d Trios epvcraip^Oa veKpov. 
 
 (3) I ix. 421. avrap Jyd) fiovXevov owmq d;^' apwna ya/oiTo, 
 
 d Tiv' eraipoicriv davarov Xvcriv . . . 
 i.vpoip,y]v. 
 
 (Similar to the preceding.) 
 
314 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [37- 
 
 There remain a few intermediate cases, which, it may be admitted, 
 appear to be more common in the Odyssey than the Iliad, e.g. — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 "S- 
 
 V XX. 224. 
 ip xxiii. 91. 
 
 (Narrative) do-o-o/it^os ira.rkp' ka-OXhv Jvt (f>p((Ttv, i'l! 
 
 TTodiV eXduiv 
 [j,vr](TT'qpu)v Tcov jiiv crxeSacrtv Kara SiDfjara Oiir). 
 aW 'in rhv Svo-rrjvov oto/iat, ei.' Trodev . . . 6iir). 
 (Narrative) fja-ro Kara opowv, TrortScy/itvos ei' tj /iiv 
 
 t'moi 
 l<^6i,fi,i] TrapaKOiTis. 
 
 It may be added that the allied uses of d, c. sulij. or ind., for 
 Object-clauses after verbs of speaking, thinking, and seeing is also 
 established in the Original Iliad, but more common in the Odyssey. 
 It should be noticed that all the following instances, and nearly all the 
 preceding, are from speeches ; and I believe that here again the pre- 
 valence of speech in the Odyssey has much to do with the increase in 
 the statistics. For speech and dialogue give more opportunity for 
 expressions of doubt and inquiry than pure narrative can do. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 XV. 403. TtS S' OtS' . . . €t KtV . . . OpLVU) ; 
 
 n xvi. 860. (Tke Jlfenis) rk 8' otS' . . . d k' 'Axi.Xevs . . . <j>6i^ji ; 
 
 A i. 83. {Tke Menis) cru St <^pao-ai tl p,e a-awcrus. 
 A iv. 249. 6(j>p' iStjt' at k' v/A/itv vTripcTxy X'V"' ^povioiv. 
 E V. 183. crdcfia 8' ovk oiS' ei deo'S ka-riv. 
 Z vi. 367. ov yap t' 018' ii en cr<]f)tv . . . t^oynat avns, 
 ^ ^8rj kt\. 
 X xxii. 244. {Tke Menis) iva. dSopev t? k£v 'A\ik\ivi, 
 vwi KaraKTCLvas evapa . . . cfxprjrai 
 . . . ij K£v . . . Sa/iTjg. 
 
 7- 
 
 Odyssey- 
 
 - 
 
 
 X xi. 
 
 458- 
 
 (^KaTaXi^ov) 
 t'i TTOv . . . aKoveTe. 
 
 A xi. 
 
 37I' 
 
 (KarciAe^ov) 
 ii Ttvas . . . i'Scs. 
 
 ft) xxiv. 
 
 259- 
 
 {6<f>p' etSdJ) . . . el . . . iKOfied'. 
 
 p xvii. 
 
 510. 
 
 (■)j8' epeinfiai) . . . el . . . ireirvcrTai 
 
 XV. 
 
 524- 
 
 (Ztiis otSev) . . . e'i Ke TtAfVTTjcret. 
 
 ^.!i- 
 
 332- 
 
 Ti's 068' £t K€ . . . diToArjTat. 
 
 7 iii. 
 
 216. 
 
 Tt's OtS' £t Ke . , . OLTTOTiCreTaL. 
 
 xix. T 
 
 325' 
 
 TTCos . . . 8a^<r£ai £t Tt ywaiKwv 
 dAAaov Trtpieip.1, . . . 
 
-39] APPENDIX C 315 
 
 i. a. 207. (Kardki^ov) el Srj . . . jrais eh. 
 viii. 6 133. epiifieOa el . . . olSe. 
 xiii. V 328. eiwe fwi el . . . iKavo). 
 
 X. K 192. f^pa^tajxeOa. . , . £t tis er' ecrrai. {Cp. II. A i. 83.) 
 xvii. p 307. ToSe y' ou (Td<f>a olSa 
 
 el Srj Kal rd^vs edKe . . . 
 rj ktX. 
 xviii. a- 265. Ttj) ouK oi'S' et kev ju.' dvea-ei deos, 17 Kev aXaJw. 
 
 There are no instances of this "Odyssean" idiom in II. ix., x., 
 xxiii., or xxiv. 
 
 § 38. Tvvq, thou, the emphatic Nom., "in the Iliad only.'' (H. G., 
 
 § 339-) 
 
 But only, it must be added, m the Origmal Iliad, including xxiv. 
 
 The use in any case is rare, the word occurring not more than 5 times. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 B V. 485. Tvvt] S' eV-nj/cas (Sarpedon to Hector). 
 M xii. 237. Tvvf) . . . KeXeuets (Hector to Polydamas). 
 Z vi. 262. us Tvvfi KeKfjurjKas (Hecuba to Hector). 
 11 xvi. 64. TVVT] . . . ejj.a Ttvxea Svdi (Achilles to Patrocliis). 
 fl xxiv. 465. Tvvq 8' elaeXdoiv Xafte yovvara UrjXetwvo? (Hermes to 
 Priam). 
 
 § 39. fidv and /xijv. " Iliadic " (H. G., § 342). 
 True for both words (and note that both occur in xxiii., and one of 
 them in xxiv.). 
 
 (i) fidv (usually in negative sentences). 
 
 Odyssey, 2 instances — 
 
 X xi. 344. 
 p xvii. 470. 
 
 Original Iliad, 11 instances — 
 
 A iv. 512. 
 
 M xii. 318. 
 
 XV. 508. 
 
 P xvii. 41. 
 
 P xvii. 415. 
 
 P xvii. 448. 
 
 ■*P xxiii. 441. 
 
 X xxii. 304. (The Mems.) 
 
 XV. 476. 
 
3i6 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [39- 
 
 Affirmative — 
 
 P xvii. 429. ■^ P-O.V. 
 n xvi. 14. 
 
 The Additions have 11 instances also. (None from Books ix. 
 and X.) 
 
 (2) [i.r]V. 
 
 Original Iliad, 4 instances — 
 
 T xix. 45. (Menis) koI /t^i/. 
 ■^ xxiii. 410. Kal firiv. 
 
 A i. 302. {Menis) el 8' aye fjiriv. 
 fl xxiv. 52. ov fifjv. 
 
 Additions, 3 instances — 
 
 H vii. 393. 
 B ii. 291. 
 I ix. 57. 
 
 Odyssey, i or 3 instances — 
 
 (xi. X 582, 593. 
 But these are in the interpolation to the Nexuta.) 
 xvi. TT 440 (as in ^ xxiii. 410). 
 
 § 40. [uv ovv. (H. G., § 349.) 
 
 No doubt an "Odyssean" collocation. 5 times in the Odyssey 
 and only once in the lUad, and then not in xxiii. or xxiv., but in the 
 
 Additions — 
 Odyssey — 
 
 <■ IX. 5S°- 
 
 8 iv. 780. 
 
 V xiii. 122. 
 
 o XV. 361. 
 
 X xxii. 448. ^ 
 
 ^ xxiii. 142. 
 
 §41. ^ft^ . . .; =num. (H. G., § 358 (4) 
 Apparently also a purely "Odyssean" collocation. But Ebeling 
 (like Monro) gives only 2 instances, so we cannot build much on this. 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 f vi. 200. 
 
 t ix. 405, 406, 
 
-43] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 317 
 
 Metre 
 
 § 42. Neglect of Position. — " Neglect of Position is perceptibly com- 
 moner in the Odyssey than in the Iliad. ... It will be seen too that 
 some marked instances occur in Books xxiii. and xxiv. of the Iliad." 
 (H. G., § 370 fin.) 
 
 I have no wish to deny that Neglect of Position is commoner in 
 the Odyssey. But the "marked instances" in ■*" and fl are surely no 
 more marked than many in the Menis itself. The comparative table 
 that follows for ■*?■ , fl, and two books of the Menis — viz. i. A and xi. A 
 (omitting the suspected portions) — will, I think, suffice to prove this. 
 The instances are taken from La Roche (with some additions of my 
 own), Homerische Untersuchungen, pp. 2-40. (See over leaf.) 
 
 § 43. Hiatus after short syllables. 
 
 " Hiatus in the Bucolic Diaeresis is commoner in the Odyssey than 
 in the Iliad, in the proportion 2:1. Hiatus after the vowel e is also 
 comparatively rare in the Iliad : Knos reckons 22 instances (many of 
 them doubtful) against 40 in the Odyssey. It is worth notice that in 
 both these points Books xxiii. and xxiv. of the Iliad agree with the 
 Odyssey." (H. G., § 382.) 
 
 (a) As regards Hiatus in the Bucolic Diaeresis {i.e. after the fourth 
 foot), the first point to note is that Monro, following Knos, only includes 
 the cases of Hiatus after syllables that are naturally short. Now Knos 
 was quite right to do this for his purpose (an investigation into the 
 Digamma), but it is most misleading to take so narrow a basis on the 
 present occasion. For Hiatus at the Bucolic Diaeresis occurs after 
 long syllables as well as after short, and since the long syllable is 
 shortened by the Hiatus, the rhythmical effect of the two types is almost 
 exactly the same. It seems irrational, therefore, when we are inquiring 
 into possible changes of rhythm, to separate from one another such 
 instances as the following : — 
 
 Iliad — 
 
 and 
 
 or 
 
 and 
 
 xxiii. '^ 465-6. <j}vyov I Tjvia, \\ ov8' iSwdcrdrj 
 
 xxiii. ^ 622—3. €o" I Bvcreai, |{ ovSe iroSecrcrt 
 devcrtai, 
 
 xxiii. 'V 222. o I Svperai, \\ ocrrea Kalmv, 
 
 xxiii. '^ 224. o I 8v/)eTO, II ocTTta Ka,l(ov. 
 
[42- 
 
 tn.ti u 
 
 
 X eg . j-i » ■" — __ . ■ii " ^ rtrt So, 3- ■" o 'sa!; 00 01., 
 
 ^^'^"^w^'^iCl. -i; ^3- S *S ^ tu ^ *^ ^ ^^ XJ •-'*-»*- 
 
 S c 
 
 
 ^ 5:- lA f< 
 
 ^1 :^ I- n i ^ I A 
 
 a ' 9-G' ° — -fc -o 
 
 ^ =1(2 s. t- 
 
 .<5. 
 
 b 6 
 
 ^ -^1 - 1 ^ 11- 1-1:7-1, -o.T. 7g .3 
 
 c^ en }-i \o o\\D rn m 
 
 Lo in ro >-' -^ "^vo 
 
 
 
 < s 
 
 tj 
 
 
 -^ 
 
 Q. . 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 11 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 i 
 
 -3- fg- ^ 
 
 f-S 2 3 Q. 
 
 
 5" ^ 
 
 In few 
 
 0^ O O f^ 
 
 \0 N 10 
 
-43] APPENDIX C 319 
 
 Now the proportion of cases where a naturally short syllable pre- 
 cedes this Hiatus to the total number of instances is exceedingly low 
 in both Iliad and Odyssey, not as much as 6 per cent, in either poem. 
 For the whole Iliad it will be found there are about 34 cases in a total 
 of 970 instances (round numbers) ; for the Odyssey, 47 in a total of 860 
 (round numbers). It is plain that to confine ourselves to the handful 
 of instances where a short syllable precedes may enormously increase 
 the appearance of proportionate difference between the poems. It is 
 far safer to compare the complete totals for the Hiatus in both poems, 
 "longs" and "shorts" included, and then note separately the average 
 proportion of " shorts " to the total in each. 
 
 Now, the IHad has about 15,700 lines, the Odyssey about 12,000. 
 Therefore the Iliadic instances, all told, give us an average of about 6 
 per cent., the Odyssean an average of about 7 . Increase, i per cent. The 
 proportion of " shorts " to all the cases is : — in the Iliad, between 3 and 
 4 per cent. ; in the Odyssey, between 5 and 6 per cent. Increase, 2 per 
 cent. The real increase in both percentages is therefore very small, much 
 smaller than a cursory examination of Monro's figures would suggest. 
 And the general increase is explained at once by the preponderance of 
 speech in the Odyssey. For an examination of the instances will show 
 that the vast majority occur in speeches, and gives the clue to the real 
 reason for the use of Hiatus at all in this part of the verse. It is to 
 break the long smooth roll of the hexameter when a lively or abrupt 
 effect is required, and thus it is constantly used to represent the broken 
 manner of ordinary parlance, e.g. — 
 
 Iliad — 
 i. A 173. {Menis) cfievye /iaX', ei'Toi dv/xhs iTritra-vrac | ovSt cr' eyuiye 
 Xi<TCrofj,ai, ktA. 
 
 (In the Catalogue, it may be noted, the rate sinks to 2 per cent.) 
 
 There remains the special increase shown throughout the Odyssey 
 in the proportion of the short-syllabled type to the long. This is not 
 explained by the preponderance of speech, so far as I can see, and it 
 may certainly suggest a greater liking for "lighter endings" on the part 
 of the poet. But that increase only amounts to 2 per cent. 
 
 II. xxiii. and xxiv. (^ and 0) show no increase in the general rate 
 as against the Menis. In both Books the rate may be high as com- 
 pared with the Iliad at large, being 8 per cent, in xxiii. (65 instances 
 in c. 810 lines, according to my enumeration), and 7 per cent, in xxiv. 
 (S7 instances in 804 lines). But Book i. A of the Menis has also an 
 average of 8 per cent. (43 instances in 550 lines), and so has Book 
 xi. A (55 instances in under 700 lines, omitting the suspected portions). 
 
 As regards the short-syllabled cases, it is true that both ^ and fi 
 have each 3 examples, but Book xi. A in the Menis has 4. The 
 
320 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [43- 
 
 references are : '^ 195, 224, 465 ; fl 72, 207, 508 (the last, apparently, 
 is not given by Knos) ; A xi. 76, 84, 461, 791. If, therefore, a taste 
 for lighter endings is held to be manifest in '^ and fl, it must be 
 admitted to be also manifest in the Menis. But it seems to me the 
 statistics are quite inadequate to support either conclusion. 
 
 (6) Hiatus after the vowel e in general if commoner in the Odyssey, 
 the figures being 40 to 22, as Monro states (Original, 14 ; Additions, 8), 
 and 5 of the Iliadic instances are from xxiv. fl. ^, however, has only 
 I case, and at the beginning of ii. B we find a couple of instances in 
 less than loo lines (both from the Original, one from the Menis). 
 The appearance of change in J2 may therefore be accidental. 
 
 I cannot understand why Monro should have suspected the Iliadic 
 instances. It seems to me that the doubtful cases are in the Odyssean 
 list (see below). 
 
 Hiatus after the vowel e. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 xxiv. 12 207. 
 
 xxiii. ■^^ 71. 
 
 ii. B 8. 
 
 ii. B 90. 
 
 iii. r 46. 
 
 V. E 310. 
 
 xvii. P 392. 
 
 xxiv. fi 528. 
 
 V. E 12. 
 
 xviii. 2 385 (424). 
 
 xxiv. S2 264. 
 
 xxiv. ii 637. 
 
 xxiv. J2 784. 
 
 Additions — 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 XX. Y 152. 
 
 ix. I 319. 
 xix. T 288. 
 
 ii. B 216. 
 
 ii. B 528. 
 vii. H 306. 
 
 XX. Y 20. 
 
 V. E 542. 
 
 iii. 7 480. 
 
 vi. f 296. 
 
 i. a 225. 
 
 iii. -y 160. 
 
 a.v'qp ye, ov (r' iXerjcrei,. (Bucolic.) 
 
 6a.irre fx,e oTTt Tai^icrTa. 
 
 {The Menis) ovX^'Oveipe.. 
 
 a.l St T€ ev6a. 
 
 Tj ToidtrSe €0)1/. 
 
 djuc^t Se 0(T(Te. 
 
 acjjap Si T€ tK/xas. 
 
 erepoi 6e ediov. 
 
 aTTOKpivOkvre ivavTio). 
 
 TavvTrcTrXe, iKaveis. 
 
 iTTldilTe, iva. 
 0(rO-€ UTTO. 
 
 ... ye ay'iveov. 
 dp.<pl cri, ^te ^oi^e. 
 
 «V 0£ l-Q. 
 
 f(u&v juev <r€ eAetirov. 
 a4(rX'O"T0s Si o,vr)p. 
 Tocros ye oeros. 
 SiaKpivdivre 6 //.ev. 
 evvoa-Lyale, ip.rjv. 
 KpiqOiavd T£ 'OpariXo\6v re. 
 
 o\j/a TE oiix. 
 acrrvSe eXOoiixiv. 
 Tts Sk ofiiXos. 
 OLKaSc tifjtfvoi. 
 
-44] 
 
 APPENDIX C 
 
 ? V. £ 135 
 
 321 
 
 ijSc e(j>a.<TKov. 
 
 (Probably rjSe "F" = Fe = l See 
 
 H.G.,§39iO 
 
 vi. f 151. 'AjOTe/tiSt (re lycu ye. 
 
 vii. rj 256. ^Se ec^acTKe. 
 
 ? viii. ^ 524. OS re 1%. 
 
 (But the Digamma accounts for this.) 
 
 X. K 68. Trpos Toicrt re liirvos. 
 
 xvi. TT 142. crv y€ (jixw. 
 
 xxi. <f) 211. i[j.e aSrtg. 
 
 xxi. <j) 216. re ecrecrOov. 
 
 xxiv. 0) 2og. ijSe tWov. 
 
 ? xxiii. i/* 335. ■^Sc i<f>a<TKe. (Probably ijSe f e<^acrK£.) 
 
 ii. ;8 120. re IvcTTec^avos. 
 
 viii. ^361. avaL^dvTe o fi€V. 
 
 ix. I. 286. o-uv ToicrSe {i7r€K<^i>yov. 
 
 x. K 41. aSre o/x^v. 
 
 xi. A 144. TTWS Kev [Me dvayvoit]. 
 
 ? xii. /x 78. X^'P^* ■''^ kuKOtri. 
 
 (Digamma possibly.) 
 
 xiii. V 14. aSre a.yeip6[Jt.evoi. 
 
 XV. o 378. Tn,efJ.ev re, iiireLTa. 
 
 xvii. p 497- ToiJTcov ye kvdpovov. 
 
 X. )i 404. ireXacrcraTe oirXa. (Bucolic.) 
 
 XV. o 500. KepSvro re aWoira. ,, 
 
 xvii. (0 536. 7rtvo{)cr6 re aWoTra. ,j 
 
 XX. t) 24. kXicro-ero 'ivda Kal evda. „ 
 
 xxiv. 10 215. lepeva-a-re os rts. „ 
 
 xix. T 407. eycoye dSvo-cra/ievos. 
 
 XX. V 356. "^pe/36crSe V7rh (6<j)ov. 
 
 xxi. <^ 244. TO) SyltCUe LTTjV. 
 
 ? xxiv. (D 63. SeKtt /xev o-e o/xws. 
 
 (Interpolation re burial of Achilles.) 
 
 xxiv. (D 374- /Aeye^ds re ap-eivova. 
 
 X. K 425. OTpvvea-Oe, epoi. 
 
 i. a 60. 'OXvpirie. oii vv r' OSi;o-(rei>9. (Bucolic.) 
 
 ii. ;S 1:7. TTLVOvari T€ aWoira. ,, 
 
 m. y 293. atTreta re ets. » 
 
 iv. S 831. deoto re eVAues. >) 
 
 vii. ij 6. kijdrJTd, re e(r<f>£pov. 
 
 X. /c 403. epvo-trare -qTreipovi 
 
 § 44. Digamma neglected in apva and epSto. 
 § 39°)- 
 
 Se. 
 
 " Odyssean " (H. G., 
 
322 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [44- 
 
 Any argument from the traces of the Digamma must be quite 
 inconclusive from the very nature of the facts. For it is plain that in 
 any case " the Homeric observance of F is more or less inconstant " 
 (J ebb, op. cit., Note 4) — inconstant, we may add, throughout both Iliad 
 and Odyssey (see e.g. the exceptions in the Menis to the observance 
 of the F in £tK(o and l/cas, II. i. A 294, 21; xxii. X 15, 302). 
 
 A glance down the list given by Monro (H. G., § 390) will show 
 that in almost all the words instances can be cited both for and against 
 the F from both the poems. Some of the instances against may be 
 removed by emendation, but this in itself is an arbitrary proceeding, 
 and it will not avail in all cases. 
 
 Evidently it was possible for all the poets to observe or neglect the 
 Digamma more or less at will, much as Chaucer could shift the accent 
 from countre to countrS. 
 
 And what, after all, is the actual evidence, whatever its worth, for a 
 greater neglect of the Digamma in the Odyssey ? Monro mentions only 
 two words in his index : apva. and e/oSo). But he only gives one clear 
 instance in the Iliad of hiatus before epSa) (S xiv. 261), and this 
 can be matched by one in the Odyssey (o xv. 360). And hiatus is 
 not always conclusive. It seems quite possible, therefore, that the 
 Digamma was always liable to be neglected in e/)8u. 
 
 For apva (apves, &c.) Monro gives 5 instances from the Iliad in 
 support of the F. But he also gives 3 Iliadic instances against it, i of 
 them from the Menis itself (X xxii. 263), and he notes that "the 
 derivative dpveios shows no trace of it." Indeed in 2 cases where 
 apvecos occurs in the Iliad — iii. T 197 and ii. B 550, Tavp \ ouri Koi | 
 apvel I ois — the Digamma is impossible. 
 
 Characteristics of II. '^ xxiii. and fl xxiv. (Supposed). 
 
 Most of these have been dealt with already. There remain four 
 points : — 
 
 §45. Opt. in Iterative sense. (H. G., §311.) 
 
 But Monro himself states that there is only one instance — fl xxiv. 
 768. 
 
 § 46. Se of the Apodosis. 
 
 " It has been observed that when the Protasis is a Relative Clause, 
 Se of the Apodosis is generally found after a Demonstrative. The only 
 exceptions to this rule are — 
 
-48] APPENDIX C 323 
 
 Iliad-T- 
 
 ix. I 510. OS Se K dvT^vrjrai . . . 
 
 Xiorarovrai S' apa rat ye ktX. 
 and 
 
 xxiii. ■^ 319-321. dXX' OS /xev 6' tWoio-t . . . 
 liriroi Se trXavowvTai." 
 
 (H. G., § 334, 4 fin.) 
 
 But Monro's own excellent note on the supposed instance from 
 xxiii. (ed. of the Iliad, ad loc.) shows that it is very unsatisfactory to 
 take this Se as the Se of the Apodosis at all, for the line in question 
 " merely carries on the description of the unskilful driver." " Probably, 
 therefore, the Apodosis is intentionally left to be understood from the 
 context." 
 
 It cannot be said, therefore, that there is any similarity on this 
 score between II. ix. and xxiii. 
 
 § 47. vCv (short) in the temporal sense. (H. G., § 351, note.) 
 Nothing can be based on this, for there are only 2 instances in 
 Homer, and neither are certain. The least doubtful is — 
 
 II. K x. 105. ocra irov vvv kkXTrerai, 
 
 when the temporal sense is clear, but there is some "slight MS. 
 support " (Leaf) for vvv 'iXimai.. 
 The second instance is from — 
 
 II. ''¥ xxiii. 485. ^ivpo vvv, rj TpiTroSos, ktX, 
 
 But the temporal sense is not obvious, and moreover there is a variant — 
 
 Sevpo ye vvv TpiTToSos. 
 
 § 48. ovSev. 
 
 "In the Iliad is often an adverb, 'not at all,' or a subst., 'nothing,' 
 but in the Odyssey it is also an adj. {ovSev eVos, 4, 350, &c.)." (Jebb, 
 op. at., Note 3, iv.) 
 
 In the Index to Monro's first edition, H. G., ovSev was classed 
 among the differences between the Iliad and the Odyssey, but this is 
 withdrawn in the edition of 189 1. The word, however, still has a place 
 under the heading " Characteristics of Particular Books." 
 
 Now it appears that there is only one phrase in the Odyssey where 
 a fair case can be made out for the adjvl. use of ovSiv, and this occurs 
 in the line quoted by Jebb as though it stood for a large class — 
 
324 HOMER AND THE ILIAD [48- 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 S iv. 350. (Repeated verbatim, p xvii. 140, 141.) 
 
 oXka, TO. ^li.v fioi hiTTi yipiav aXioi vij/iepTJjs, 
 Twv ouSev roi lyoi Kpv^(i> eVos ovS' cTrtKCVcro). 
 
 It is possible, though I admit less likely, that ov&iv may be adverbial 
 here ( = " in no respect"). But in any case, for this instance, such as it 
 is, we have a parallel from the Original Iliad — 
 
 X xxii. 513. o^Scv <Toi y' 6(j)eXos, 
 
 This too may be adverbial, as Monro suggests. (H. G., § 356.) 
 
 On the other hand, the adverbial use of ovSev is certainly 
 characteristic both of the Odyssey and the Original Iliad (including 
 the Menis and xxiv.), while it is absent from the Additions. There 
 are 3 instances in the Original Iliad (excluding repetitions) and 4 in 
 the Odyssey. 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A i. 244. {TTie Menis) o t' apiarov 'A^aiQv ovSlv eVtcas. 
 (Repeated A i. 412 and 11 xvi. 274.) 
 X xxii. 332. (Menis) e/xe 8' ov8(v oiri^eo vocr<^tv eovra. 
 fi xxiv. 370. dW eya> o^Sev ere pe^fc) KaKa. 
 
 (The variant /ca/cov in some MSS. is plainly the 
 "easier reading," and should not be accepted.) 
 
 On the other hand, x. has the only really certain instance in Homer 
 of ovSev as an ad/. — 
 
 X. K 216. Trj jxev KTepas ouSev ojuotov. 
 Odyssey — 
 
 X xxii. 370. ere Se vq-Kioi. ov8\v eriov. 
 8 iv. 195. ve[ie(Tcr(i)fX,ai ye [msv ov8ev. 
 
 (Repeated t xix. 264.) 
 8 iv. 248. OS oi58€v Toios eiQV. 
 V XX. 366. voos ov8ev deiK^s. 
 
 And these 4 from the Odyssey ought to be increased to 5 if we 
 include, as doubtless we should include (following Ebeling and 
 Monro) — 
 
 I ix. 287. (A. xi. 563) 6 6e fj,' ov8€v d/t£i/3£To. 
 
 ovSev occurs 3 times as a subst. in the Odyssey — 
 
 t ix. 34. cr xviii. 130. X ^xii. 318. 
 
 (v. H. G., § 356.) 
 
-49] APPENDIX C 325 
 
 Finally, the only other Homeric instance of ovSek at all (in any 
 case or gender) is to be found in the phrase, to ov jucvos ovSevl eiKiav, 
 and this occurs only in the Odyssey (A xi. 515) and the Original Iliad 
 (X xxii. 459). 
 
 Therefore the use of ovSels, so far from being different in the 
 Original Iliad and in the Odyssey, is markedly similar. 
 
 Additional Notes 
 
 § 49. (a) (OS el, c. Opt. (pure) in comparisons is found on/y in the 
 Odyssey and the Original Iliad (4 times in each), {v. Lange, op. cit., 
 vol. ii. pp. 135 ff.) 
 
 Original Iliad — 
 
 A xi. 466. (The Afem's) d[ji.<f>i fx' 'OSva-cnjos . . . ik€t' avTrj 
 
 T<j) iKeXr) d)S £1 e fSiiiaro, ktA. 
 A xi. 389. (The Menis) ovk dAeyw, ws et jue yvvrj ^dXoi. 
 X xxii. 410. T(j) . . . dp' erjv IvaXiyKiOV, its el 
 
 "lAlOS . . . ■TTVpl (Tfll,V)(OlTO. 
 
 B ii. 780. ot 8' ap' ttrav a)S et re Trvpl x^mv irao-a vifWiTO. 
 (On the other hand, I ix. 481 has us d, c. subj.) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 K X. 416. <Ss efitv (i)S el TrarpiS tKoiaro. 
 K X. 419. <Ss exdpt]p.ev 
 
 ws el t' CIS 'WaKrjv d(^iKoip,tda. 
 I ix. 314. dip eireOrjx (os e'i re <f>apeTpri TrCsp.' eiriOeLH]. 
 p xvii. 366. irdvToa-e X^V' opeyiav, m el 7rT(0)(bs iraXai, eirj. 
 
 {b) el 8' dye el S' dyere (where ei is probably purely interjectional ; 
 
 cp. Lat. eia). , x • . 
 
 There are only 2 instances of the phrase (smg. or plur.) in the 
 Additions. But there are 9 in the Original, occurring both in the 
 Menis and in xxiii., and 9 in the Odyssey, occurring both in the first 
 and last Books. (Lange, op. cit.; Ebeling, el, i. i, c; Monro, H. G., 
 § 320.) 
 
 Original Iliad- 
 
 A i. 302, 524. {The Menis) 
 Zvi. 376. 
 II xvi. 667. 
 T xix. 108. 
 ■*■ xxiii. 579. 
 
326 
 
 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 [49 
 
 The Additions- 
 
 P xvii. 685. 
 ^ xxiii. 581. 
 X xxii. 381. 
 
 e viii. 18. 
 I ix. 167. 
 
 {The Menis) d 5' otycr'. 
 
 (The instances of d Se without oiye or ayere in ix. 46, 262, may be 
 ellipses. In any case the absence of the verb puts these cases in a class 
 by themselves.) 
 
 Odyssey — 
 
 a 1. 271. 
 o- iv. 832. 
 ' ix. 37. 
 jj. xii. 112. 
 ^ xxi. 217. 
 ^ xxiii. 35. 
 0) xxiv. 336. 
 P ii. 178. 
 X xxii. 391. 
 
APPENDIX D 
 
 ODYSSEY XI. 235-327 
 
 There are several small points which, though slight in themselves, 
 when taken together confirm the belief that this "Catalogue" is by 
 the same hand as the rest of the Odyssey, and also, we may add, by 
 the same hand as the Original Iliad. It looks as though the poet's 
 fancy were playing round the same figures, the same kinsfolk, the same 
 districts, which is just what we might expect when family history has 
 become the living, brilliant thing we find it here. The point cannot be 
 proved, but the following list of correspondences is certainly a long 
 one for so short a passage (under 100 lines). (The shortness of the 
 passage, by the way, would cut against any theory that assumes it was 
 composed to be sung alone.) It will be noticed that in many cases 
 the name occurs only in the Odyssey and the Original Iliad. The 
 correspondences are the more noteworthy in view of the known dis- 
 crepancies that appear in the legends when treated by different hands. 
 
 Line 237. Aiolides. This title recurs in II. vi. 154 of Sisyphus, and 
 nowhere else. 
 
 Line 259. Aison is the father of Jason who is mentioned in Od. 
 xii. 72, and whose son Euneos appears in the Original II. xxiii. 747, 
 xxi. 41 (but also in the Additions vii. 469). 
 
 Line 259. Amyihaon is the father of Melampus (Odyssey, loc. at.) 
 and Bias. And a Bias (of course of a younger generation) follows 
 Nestor (II. iv. 296). So does a Chromios (II. iv. 295, Od. xi. 286). 
 
 Line 262. Zethus is only once referred to again, and that is in 
 Od. xix. 99. (Amphion, however, is mentioned in the Additions, 
 II. xiii. 622.) 
 
 Line 263. The tale of Thebes is common property, but the 
 Original Iliad seems to have a peculiar love for it. Diomede and 
 Sthenelus are always thinking of their exploits there, and of their 
 fathers' efforts, e.g. II. iv. 378 ff. And in II. xxiii. 679 we find the only 
 other Homeric mention of CEdipus by name (Od. xi. 271). 
 
 Line 266. Heracles, too, is common property ; but the tale of his 
 birth is told with much detail in II. xix. 99 ff, (But it is also alluded 
 to in the Additions xiv. 323. And the name of Amphitryon recurs in 
 II. v. 392.) 
 
 Line 283. lasides. This patronymic only recurs in Od. xvii. 443. 
 
 Line 290. Iphicks. The name recurs in II, xxiii. 636, where Nestor 
 
32 8 HOMER AND THE ILIAD 
 
 tells how he could outrun him in their youth (but also in the Addi- 
 tions, xiii. 698, and the Catalogue ii. 705.) 
 
 Line 290. Phylace. Od. xv. 236. (But also in the Additions xiii. 
 696, repeated xv. 335, and in the Catalogue ii. 695, 700.) 
 
 Line 298. Tyndareos. Only in the Od. xxiv. 199 ("the second 
 Nekuia "), in a scene designed to recall this one. 
 
 Line 300. Castor and Polydeukes. Only in II. iii. 237. For the 
 accuracy of the correspondence here (which has been doubted) see 
 above, Chapter x. p. 113. 
 
 Line 310. Orion. Again in Od. v. 121, where he is spoken of as 
 beloved by the Dawn, an allusion which harmonises both with the 
 mention of his beauty here (and not with the description of him as 
 ■n-cXwptos in the interpolation, 1. 572) and with the conception of him 
 in the Original Iliad as half star, half hunter (II. xxii. 29; the Menis, 
 II. xviii. 458, 486. Cp. Od. v. 274. The only other references). 
 
 Line 316. Pelion. Except for the Catalogue (II. ii. 744, 756) this 
 mountain is only mentioned again twice, and each time in the Original 
 Iliad (II. xvi. 144, and xix. 391). 
 
 Line 323. Crete is common property, but the Odyssey is particu- 
 larly fond of it. (Odysseus almost always brings it into his romances.) 
 
 And Ariadne is only mentioned again in the Original Iliad xviii. 592. 
 
 Line 323. Athens. (The earthly home of Odysseus' guardian 
 goddess.) The name recurs in Od. iii. 278, 307; vii. 80. Except for 
 the Catalogue (II. ii. 546, 549) the name of the city is not found in 
 the Iliad ; but Menestheus, her king, plays a gallant part in II. xii. ; and 
 in iv. 325 ff. he and his men are found side by side with Odysseus. 
 
 Line 325. Dionysus. II. vi. 135. (But also in the Additions xiv. 
 325, and in the interpolation to the second Nekuia in the Od. 
 xxiv. 74.) 
 
 [On the other hand, 1. 305, Aloeus and the young giants, Otus and 
 Ephialtes, recur in the Additions to the Iliad, and only there (II. v. 
 
 385 ff-)-] 
 
 There are also some points of diction : — 
 
 Line 297. At&s S' ireXeieTO ^ovXr). 
 
 " And the purpose of Zeus began to be fulfilled " (II. i. 5, the Menis). 
 
 Line 311. ivvkwpoi. 
 
 "Nine years old," usually implying "in the first prime" (Od. x. 
 19, 390; xix. 179. II. xviii. 301 ; v. Leaf, ad loc). Nowhere else in 
 Homer. 
 
 Line 322. 6\o6(^pmv, of persons in rather a good sense "terrible- 
 minded." Again in Od. i. 52 ; xx. 37. 
 
 (In the Original Iliad it occurs once of a boar (xvii. 21), to whom 
 Menelaus is compared.) 
 
INDEX 
 
 Achilles, outline of his story, i, 2 ; 
 his quarrel with Agamemnon, 13 ff. ; 
 his character, 22 ff.; watches the 
 Greek rout, 50 ff. ; relents at the 
 prayerof Patroclus, 60; his armour 
 and the making of it, 60-70, 197- 
 202 ; he returns to the field, 7 1 ff. ; 
 his fight with the River, 73, 74 ; 
 his slaughter of Lycaon, 74 ; of 
 Hector, 76 ff. ; his passion after 
 Hector's death, 82 ; his presidency 
 at the Funeral Games, 83 ff. ; his 
 reconciliation to Priam, 92 ; and 
 wretchedness in the under-world, 
 164-166. 
 
 Aeschylus, 29, 87, 132, 150. 
 
 ^^a;«e;««(7«,his quarrel with Achilles, 
 13, 22 ff. ; his dream, 17 ff. ; his 
 cruelty, 28 ; his assent to the duel, 
 38 ; reviews the army, 42 ff. ; is 
 wounded, 45 ; how received by 
 Achilles in the Games, 89 ; the 
 connection of his story with the 
 Odyssey, 133, 163 ff. ; referred to 
 in the " Telemachia," 140; his last 
 appearance in the under-world, 
 187 ; his shield, 196. 
 
 Ajax, first mentioned, 19 ; in the 
 Review, 42 ; to the rescue in the 
 Greek rout, 45 ff. ; fighting at the 
 ships, 59 ; fighting for Patroclus, 
 65 ; in the Funeral Games, 84 ff. ; 
 his armour, 194-196. 
 
 Ajax, son of Oileus, 65 ff., 84 ff. 
 
 Andromache, 29, 34, 43, 76, 77, 82, 92. 
 
 Anticleia, 157 ff, 224. 
 
 Antilochus, 66, 84 ff., 164. 
 
 Antinous. See under Suitors. 
 
 Aphrodite, 34 ff., 1 10 ff. 
 
 Armour, in general, 190 ff. ; of par- 
 ticular heroes, see under their 
 names. 
 
 Athena, symbolism in her concep- 
 tion, 14 ; her prompting of Pan- 
 darus, 79 ; her aid to Achilles, 79, 
 80; in the Odyssey, no; gives 
 help to Telemachus, 170, 171 ; to 
 Odysseus at the close, 182 ; her 
 part in the reconciliation, 186. 
 
 Bergk, 20. 
 Bradley, 49, 107. 
 Briseis, 24-26. 
 Butler, Samuel, 95, 129. 
 
 Calypso, 146 ff., 161. 
 
 Catalogue, of the Greek ships, 19 ; 
 of the Trojans, 19, 20 ; of the 
 Heroines in the Odyssey, 159 ff. 
 
 Circe, no, 130, 144, 146 ff., 157, 158, 
 161. 
 
 Corslet, 61, 62, 202 ff. 
 
 Croiset, 3, 25, -JT. 
 
 Death, the conception of, 154 ff. ' 
 
 De Quincey, 81. 
 
 Diomede, 34 ff., 42, 45 ff , 84 ff., 209- 
 
 211. 
 Dog Argus, 117 ff., 174 ; dogs in the 
 
 Iliad, 119; Gunnar's dog, 226. 
 
 Ebeling, 94 ff., and Appendix C 
 (251 ff.). 
 
 Epic, its width of sweep, 123, 124, 
 165 ; its treatment of character, 
 130-133; use of repetition, 146-148; 
 of allegory, 149-1 5 1 ; of genealogy, 
 159; itsloveof prophecy, 187-189; 
 Y 
 
330 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Homeric compared with Icelandic 
 saga, 213 ff. ; early stages, 228 ff. 
 
 Eumcetts, 174, 179 ff. 
 
 Eumehis, 19, 84 ff. 
 
 Eurydeia, 128, 137, 173, 177, 179. 
 
 Eurypylus, 47, 51, 58. 
 
 Pick, 141, 142. 
 
 Games at Patroclus' funeral, 83 ff. 
 Gardner, 197, 198, 204. 
 Geddes, 60. 
 Go^, 14, 39.40,79, 109, "O- 
 
 Harrison, 125. 
 
 Hector, in the traditional Iliad, I, 2 ; 
 in the Menis, 8, 9 ; his character, 
 33 ff. ; his success at the wall, 
 53 ff. ; defeats Patroclus, 5i ff. ; 
 in the flush of victory, 68 ; his 
 thoughts when facing Achilles, 
 76 ff. ; the poet's conception of his 
 last fight, 78 ff., 82 ; the ransom- 
 ing of his body, 90, 92 ; compared 
 with Gunnar, 225. 
 
 Hecuba, 43, 75, 76, 92. 
 
 Heleti, 33, 34, 37,92, 115 ff- 
 
 Hephcestics, 68, 69, 1 10 ff. 
 
 Hera, 16, 17, 39, 40, 64. 
 
 Heroi?ies in the Odyssey, 159 ff. 
 
 Horses, of Achilles, 19, 72, 88, 1 17 ff., 
 226; of Eumelus, 19, 88. 
 
 Iceland, the Sagas of, 213 ff. 
 Idomeneus, 42, 47, 65, 84, 85. 
 
 Jebb, 7, 93, 96 ff., 104, 107, no, 114, 
 120, 176-178, 182, and in Appen- 
 dix C (251 ff.). 
 
 Ker, 123, 151. 
 
 Kirchhoff, on the Odyssey in general, 
 121 ; the relation of Telemachus 
 to the suitors, 138; the farewell 
 of Nausicaa, 141 ; Odysseus in 
 Scheria, 143 ; the narrative of 
 Odysseus, 145 ; the Return, 169 ; 
 the position of Telemachus at 
 Sparta, 171. 
 
 Laertes, 129, 137, 158, 185. 
 
 Lang, on the Iliad, 3 ; on the Em- 
 bassy, 26 ; on Telemachus and 
 the suitors, 134; on the narrative 
 of Odysseus, 140, 144; on the 
 armour, 190, 202, 206. 
 
 Leaf, his general theory, 7, 8 ; on 
 the Assembly, 18 ; the Catalogues, 
 19 ; the Embassy to Achilles, 
 22 ff. ; the two duels, 32, 33 ; 
 the character of Agamemnon, 38 ; 
 the opening of II. xi. and the rout, 
 44, 45 ; the question of the wall, 
 53, 59 ; the armour of Achilles, 60, 
 63, 67 ; the death of Sarpedon, 64 ; 
 the hours of the fighting-day, 69 ; 
 the delay after Achilles' return, 72, 
 73 ; the fight with the River, &c., 
 74 ; the death of Hector, 75 ; the 
 "un warlike" character of II. xxiv., 
 103 ; the unity of the Odyssey, 
 121, 140; the world of shades, 
 156; the corslet, 210, 211; the 
 taunt over Hector, 232. 
 
 Machaon, 42, 45 ff., 207. 
 
 Menelaus, his duel with Paris, 32 ; 
 wounded by Pandarus, 41 ff. ; his 
 position during the rout, 45 ff. ; in 
 the fight over Patroclus, 65 ff. ; in 
 the Games, 84 ff. ; his character, 
 90 ; in the Odyssey, 141 ; his 
 armour, 206-209. 
 
 Menestheus, 42, 55, 328. 
 
 Menis, general theory, 7, 8, ^.ixsx- 
 ■wa.rds passim. 
 
 Meriones, 66, 67, 84 ff. 
 
 Merry, 13, 113 ff, 140, 180, 184. 
 
 Monro, 51, 53, 96 ff., and Appendix 
 C (251 ff). 
 
 Murray, 7, 30-33, 83, 126. 
 
 Myres, 176, 177. 
 
 Nausicaa, 130, 141, 161, 222. 
 
 Nestor, his character, 42, 45 ff. ; his 
 reminiscence in II. xi., 51, 52; in 
 the Games, 88 ; in the Odyssey, 160. 
 
 Odysseus, his first appearance, 38 ; 
 in the Review, 42 ; wounded in 
 the rout, 45 "" ' ' 
 
 m the Review, 42 ; wounded in 
 ' ' — ff. ; his position in the 
 
INDEX 
 
 331 
 
 Games, 84, 88 ; his change of 
 plan in the Odyssey, 121, 122 ; his 
 "miraculous" disguise, 122 ; his 
 relation to Penelope, 128 fif. ; at 
 the Phaeacian court, 141 ff. ; his 
 adventures, 149 fif. ; in the House 
 of Death, 153 ff. ; the prophecy 
 about the end of his life, 153, 187- 
 189; the break in his narrative, 
 163 ; his return to Ithaca, 169 ff. ; 
 his endurance of outrage, 172 ; 
 discovered by Eurycleia, 173; his 
 fight in the hall, 174 ff. ; his meet- 
 ing with Laertes, 185 ; final 
 triumph, 186; compared with the 
 Icelandic heroes, 213 ff. 
 Odyssey, its affinity to the Iliad, 85, 
 105 ff., 1 54 ff. ; possible differences 
 in grammar, diction, and metre, 
 95 ff., 105 ff., 251 ff. (Appendix C); 
 relation to II. xxiii. and xxiv., 93 ff. ; 
 general characteristics of unity, 
 121 ff. ; analogies with other tales, 
 125, 126 ; rhythmic movement, 169, 
 170; objections brought against 
 the last Book, 183 ff. 
 
 ^andarus, 41, 79. 
 
 °aris, 32, 34, 37, 47 ff. 
 
 ^atroclus, his mission to Nestor, 
 50 ff. ; in the hut of Eurypylus, 
 58 ; his appeal to Achilles, 60 ; 
 his wearing of the armour, 61-64 ; 
 his death, 65; his character, 71, 
 85 ; how disabled by Apollo, 79 ; 
 in the under-world with Achilles, 
 164 ; his corslet, 208. 
 
 °enelope, 127 ff., 171-174. 
 
 °olydamas, 54, 56, 68. 
 
 ^oseidon, 57, 162. 
 
 ^riam, his character, 37, 92 ; his 
 love for his sons, 74-76; his re- 
 concihation with Achilles, 92 ; his 
 
 likeness to the Icelandic Njal, 
 223. 
 
 Reichel, 191 ff. 
 Ridgeway, 227. 
 
 Saga. See under Iceland. 
 Sarpedon, first appearance, 35, 36 ; 
 
 his attack on the wall, 53 ff. ; 
 
 friendship with Glaucus, 56, 57 ; 
 
 and death, 64; his shield, 195, 
 
 196. 
 Shields, Homeric and Mycenasan, 
 
 190 ff. ; of Achilles, 69, 70, 197 ff. 
 Suitors, of Penelope, introduced, 
 
 126; their leader Antinous, 128; 
 
 their relation to Telemachus, 1 33 ff., 
 
 141 ; their outrages on Odysseus, 
 
 172; their last fight, 177 ff. ; in 
 
 the world of shades, 187. 
 
 Teiresias. See under Odysseus. 
 
 Telemachus, Sit Sparta, 121, 170-172 ; 
 his character and difficulty with 
 his mother, 133 ff. ; his search for 
 his father, 140; in the last fight, 
 177 ff. 
 
 Thetis, her first visit to Achilles, 
 15; her prayer to Zeus, 16; appeal 
 to Hephaestus, 26, 69 ; second visit 
 to Achilles, 60, 67 ; last visit, 90. 
 
 Wila^nowiiz, 121; on Od. i., 137; 
 on repetition, 146-148; on Tele- 
 machus at Sparta, 171 ; on the 
 recognition of Odysseus, 174. 
 
 Zeus, his "will" concerning Troy, 
 1 1 ff. ; his answer to Thetis, 16 ; 
 attitude after the duel, 39; diffi- 
 culties in the poet's conception, 
 40 ; sorrow for Sarpedon, 64 ; for 
 Patroclus, 65 ; for Hector, 80. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson if Co. 
 Edinburgh if London 
 

 n^*v.' 
 
.J^''' 
 

4^^