Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew, And, all collected, on Achilles flew. So Jove's bold bird,* high balanced in the air, Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare. Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares: Before his breast the flaming shield he bears Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun, Nodding at every step (Vulcanian frame!): And as he moved, his figure seem'd on flame. As radiant Hesper* shines with keener light, Far-beaming o'er the silver host of night, When all the starry train emblaze the sphere: So shone the point of great Achilles' spear. In his right hand he waves the weapon round, Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound; But the rich mail Patroclus* lately wore Securely cased the warrior's body o'er. One space at length he spies, to let in fate, Where 'twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate Gave entrance: through that penetrable part Furious he drove the well-directed dart: Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour. Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies, While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:

*[Footnote: The eagle was sacred to Jove.] *[Footnote: Hesper was the old name for Venus, the evening star, the brightest of the planets.] *[Footnote: Patroclus was the friend of Achilles, whom Hector had killed. Hector had, after the usual custom, taken possession of the armor of Patroclus, which had originally belonged to Achilles.]

"At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain, Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slain: Then, prince! you should have fear'd what now you feel; Achilles absent was Achilles still: Yet a short space the great avenger stayed, Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid. Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn'd, Forever honor'd, and forever mourn'd: While cast to all the rage of hostile power, Thee birds shall mangle, and the dogs' devour."

Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death: By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath! By all the sacred prevalence of prayer; Oh, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear! The common rites of sepulture bestow, To soothe a father's and a mother's woe: Yet their large gifts procure an urn at least, And Hector's ashes in his county rest."

"No, wretch accursed!" relentless he replies (Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes); "Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare, For all the sacred prevalence of prayer, Would I myself the bloody banquet join! So—to the dogs that carcase I resign. Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store, And giving thousands, offer thousands more; Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame, Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame: Their Hector on the pile they should not see. Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee."

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew: "Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew: The Furies* that relentless breast have steel'd, And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield. Yet think, a day will come, when fate's decree And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee; Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate, And stretch thee here before the Scaean gate."

*[Footnote: The Furies were three hideous sisters who sometimes drove people mad with rage and remorse.]

He ceased. The Fates suppress'd his laboring breath, And his eyes stiffen'd at the hand of death; To the dark realm the spirit wings its way (The manly body left a load of clay), And plaintive glides along the dreary coast, A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Achilles, musing as he roll'd his eyes O'er the dead hero, thus unheard, replies. "Die thou the first! When Jove and heaven ordain, I follow thee."—He said, and stripp'd the slain. Then forcing backward from the gaping wound The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground. The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes His manly beauty and superior size; While some, ignobler, the great dead deface With wounds ungenerous, or with taunts disgrace.

"How changed that Hector, who like Jove of late Sent lightning on our fleets, and scatter'd fate!"

High o'er the slain the great Achilles stands, Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands; And thus aloud, while all the host attends: "Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends! Since now at length the powerful will of heaven The dire destroyer to our arm has given, Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers! See, if already their deserted towers Are left unmann'd; or if they yet retain The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain. But what is Troy, or glory what to me? Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee, Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal'd his eyes; Unwept, unhonor'd, uninterr'd he lies! Can his dear image from my soul depart, Long as the vital spirit moves my heart? If in the melancholy shades below, The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow, Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay'd, Burn on through death, and animate my shade. Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing. Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore, Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more."

Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred (Unworthy of himself, and of the dead); The nervous* ancles bored, his feet he bound With thongs inserted through the double wound; These fix'd up high behind the rolling wain, His graceful head was trail'd along the plain. Proud on his car the insulting victor stood, And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood. He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies; The sudden clouds of circling dust arise. Now lost is all that formidable air; The face divine, and long-descending hair, Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand; Deform'd, dishonor'd, in his native land, Given to the rage of an insulting throng, And, in his parents' sight, now dragg'd along!

*[Footnote: Nervous here means strong, sinewy.]

The mother first beheld with sad survey; She rent her tresses, venerable gray, And cast, far off, the regal veils away. With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans, While the sad father answers groans with groans. Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o'erflow, And the whole city wears one face of woe: No less than if the rage of hostile fires, From her foundations curling to her spires, O'er the proud citadel at length should rise, And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.



THE WOODEN HORSE

From VERGIL'S AENEID

NOTE.—As the Iliad is the greatest of Greek poems, so the Aeneid is the greatest of Latin poems. It was written by Vergil, who lived in the first century B. C., and is one of the classics which every one who studies Latin takes up. References to it are almost as frequent in literature as are references to the Iliad, to which it is closely related. The translation from which this selection of the Wooden Horse is taken is by John Conington.

The Iliad deals with the Trojan War (see introductory note to Death of Hector), while the Aeneid deals with the wanderings of a Trojan hero after the fall of his city. Aeneas, from whom the Aeneid takes its name, was the son of Anchises and Venus, goddess of love, and was one of the bravest of the Trojan heroes; indeed, he was second only to Hector.

When Troy was taken by the stratagem which Aeneas describes in this selection, he set sail with numerous followers for Italy, where fate had ordained that he should found a great nation. Juno, however, who hated the Trojans, drove the hero from his course, and brought upon him many sufferings. At last in his wanderings he came to the northern shore of Africa, where he found a great city, Carthage. Dido, queen of the Carthaginians, received Aeneas hospitably, and had prepared for him a great feast, at the conclusion of which she besought him to relate to her the story of the fall of Troy. Aeneas objected at first, as he feared he could not endure the pain which the recital would give him, but in the end he complied with her request.

The following selection gives the account of the stratagem by which the Greeks, after thirteen years' siege, finally took Troy.

Torn down by wars, Long beating 'gainst Fate's dungeon-bars, As year kept chasing year,* The Danaan* chiefs, with cunning given. By Pallas,* mountain-high to heaven A giant horse uprear, And with compacted beams of pine The texture of its ribs entwine, A vow for their return they feign: So runs the tale, and spreads amain. There in the monster's cavernous side Huge frames of chosen chiefs they hide, And steel-clad soldiery finds room Within that death-producing womb.

*[Footnote: The Greeks besieged Troy, or Ilium, for nine years without making much head against it, and in the tenth year succeeded in taking the city only by fraud, which Aeneas here describes.] *[Footnote: Danaans is a poetical name for the Greeks.] *[Footnote: Pallas was Minerva, daughter of Jupiter, and one of the most powerful of the goddesses. She favored the Greeks, and longed to take their part against the Trojans, but was forbidden by Jupiter to aid them in any way except by advising them.]

An isle there lies in Ilium's sight, And Tenedos its name, While Priam's fortune yet was bright, Known for its wealth to fame: Now all has dwindled to a bay, Where ships in treacherous shelter stay.



Thither they sail, and hide their host Along its desolated coast. We thought them to Mycenae* flown And rescued Troy forgets to groan. Wide stand the gates: what joy to go The Dorian camp to see, The land disburthened of the foe, The shore from vessels free! There pitched Thessalia's squadron, there Achilles' tent was set: There, drawn on land, their navies were, And there the battle met. Some on Minerva's offering gaze, And view its bulk with strange amaze: And first Thymoetes loudly calls To drag the steed within our walls, Or by suggestion from the foe, Or Troy's ill fate had willed it so. But Capys and the wiser kind Surmised the snare that lurked behind: To drown it in the whelming tide, Or set the fire-brand to its side, Their sentence is: or else to bore Its caverns, and their depths explore. In wild confusion sways the crowd: Each takes his side and all are loud.

*[Footnote: Mycenae was the capital city of Agamemnon, the leader of the Greeks in the Trojan War.]

Girt with a throng of Ilium's sons, Down from the tower Laocoon runs, And, "Wretched countrymen," he cries, "What monstrous madness blinds your eyes? Think you your enemies removed? Come presents without wrong From Danaans? have you thus approved Ulysses,* known so long? Perchance—who knows?—the bulk we see Conceals a Grecian enemy, Or 'tis a pile to o'erlook the town, And pour from high invaders down, Or fraud lurks somewhere to destroy: Mistrust, mistrust it, men of Troy! Whate'er it be, a Greek I fear, Though presents in his hand he bear." He spoke, and with his arm's full force Straight at the belly of the horse His mighty spear he cast: Quivering it stood: the sharp rebound Shook the huge monster; and a sound Through all its caverns passed. And then, had fate our weal designed Nor given us a perverted mind, Then had he moved us to deface The Greeks' accursed lurking-place, And Troy had been abiding still, And Priam's tower yet crowned the hill.

*[Footnote: Ulysses was the craftiest of the Greeks, the man to whom they appealed when in need of wise advice.]

Now Dardan* swains before the king With clamorous demonstration bring, His hands fast bound, a youth unknown, Across their casual pathway thrown By cunning purpose of his own, If so his simulated speech For Greece the walls of Troy might breach, Nerved by strong courage to defy The worst, and gain his end or die. The curious Trojans round him flock, With rival zeal a foe to mock. Now listen while my tongue declares The tale you ask of Danaan snares, And gather from a single charge Their catalogue of crimes at large. There as he stands, confused, unarmed, Like helpless innocence alarmed, His wistful eyes on all sides throws, And sees that all around are foes, "What land," he cries, "what sea is left, To hold a wretch of country reft, Driven out from Greece while savage Troy Demands my blood with clamorous joy?" That anguish put our rage to flight, And stayed each hand in act to smite: We bid him name and race declare, And say why Troy her prize should spare. Then by degrees he laid aside His fear, and presently replied:

*[Footnote: The Trojans were called Dardans, from Dardanus, the founder of Troy.]

"Truth, gracious king, is all I speak, And first I own my nation Greek: No; Sinon may be Fortune's slave; She shall not make him liar or knave, If haply to your ears e'er came Belidan Palamedes'* name, Borne by the tearful voice of Fame, Whom erst, by false impeachment sped, Maligned because for peace he pled, Greece gave to death, now mourns him dead,— His kinsman I, while yet a boy, Sent by a needy sire to Troy. While he yet stood in kingly state, 'Mid brother kings in council great, I too had power: but when he died, By false Ulysses' spite belied (The tale is known), from that proud height I sank to wretchedness and night, And brooded in my dolorous gloom On that my guiltless kinsman's doom. Not all in silence; no, I swore, Should Fortune bring me home once more, My vengeance should redress his fate, And speech engendered cankerous hate. Thence dates my fall: Ulysses thence Still scared me with some fresh pretence, With chance-dropt words the people fired, Sought means of hurt, intrigued, conspired. Nor did the glow of hatred cool, Till, wielding Calchas* as his tool— But why a tedious tale repeat, To stay you from your morsel sweet? If all are equal, Greek and Greek, Enough: your tardy vengeance wreak. My death will Ithacus* delights, And Atreus'* sons the boon requite."

*[Footnote: It was Palamedes who induced Ulysses to join in the expedition against Troy. Preferring to remain at home with his wife Penelope and his infant son Telemachus, Ulysses pretended madness, and Palamedes, when he came to beg for his aid, found him plowing up the seashore and sowing it with salt. Palamedes was quite certain that the madness was feigned, and to test it, set Telemachus in front of the plow. By turning aside his plow, Ulysses showed that he was really sane. Later Palamedes lost favor with Grecian leaders because he urged them to give up the struggle and return home.] *[Footnote: Calchas was the most famous of the Grecian sooth-sayers or prophets. They never began any important operations until Calchas had first been consulted and had told them what the gods willed.] *[Footnote: Ithacus is a name given to Ulysses, who was from Ithaca.] *[Footnote: The sons of Atreus were Agamemnon, leader of the Grecians, and Menelaus, King of Sparta, the theft of whose wife, Helen, was cause of the Trojan War.]

We press, we yearn the truth to know, Nor dream how doubly base our foe: He, faltering still and overawed, Takes up the unfinished web of fraud. "Oft had we planned to leave your shore, Nor tempt the weary conflict more. O, had we done it! sea and sky Scared us as oft, in act to fly: But chiefly when completed stood This horse, compact of maple wood, Fierce thunders, pealing in our ears, Proclaimed the turmoil of the spheres. Perplexed, Eurypylus we send To question what the fates portend, And he from Phoebus'* awful shrine Brings back the words of doom divine: 'With blood ye pacified the gales, E'en with a virgin slain,* When first ye Danaans spread your sails, The shores of Troy to gain: With blood ye your return must buy: A Greek must at the altar die.' That sentence reached the public ear, And bred the dull amaze of fear: Through every heart a shudder ran, 'Apollo's victim—who the man?' Ulysses, turbulent and loud, Drags Calchas forth before the crowd. And questions what the immortals mean, Which way these dubious beckonings lean: E'en then were some discerned my foe, And silent watch the coming blow. Ten days the seer, with bated breath, Restrained the utterance big with death: O'erborne at last, the word agreed He speaks, and destines me to bleed. All gave a sigh, as men set free, And hailed the doom, content to see The bolt that threatened each alike One solitary victim strike. The death-day came: the priests prepare Salt cakes, and fillets for my hair; I fled, I own it, from the knife, I broke my bands and ran for life, And in a marish lay that night, While they should sail, if sail they might. No longer have I hope, ah me! My ancient fatherland to see, Or look on those my eyes desire, My darling sons, my gray-haired sire: Perhaps my butchers may requite On their dear heads my traitorous flight, And make their wretched lives atone For this, the single crime I own. O, by the gods, who all things view, And know the false man from the true, By sacred Faith, if Faith remain With mortal men preserved from stain, Show grace to innocence forlorn, Show grace to woes unduly borne!"

*[Footnote: Phoebus Apollo, god of the sun and of prophecy.] *[Footnote: When the Greeks set out for Troy, their ships were becalmed at Aulis, in Boeotia. Calchas consulted the signs and declared that the delay was caused by the huntress-goddess Diana, who was angry at Agamemnon for killing one of her sacred stags. Only by the death of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, could the wrathful goddess be placated. The maiden was sent for, but on her arrival at Aulis she was slain by the priest at Diana's altar. According to another version of the story, Iphigenia was not put to death, but was conveyed by Diana to Tauris, where she served as priestess in Diana's temple.]

Moved by his tears, we let him live, And pity crowns the boon we give: King Priam bids unloose his cords, And soothes the wretch with kindly words. "Whoe'er you are, henceforth resign All thought of Greece: be Troy's and mine: Now tell me truth, for what intent This fabric of the horse was meant; An offering to your heavenly liege? An engine for assault or siege?" Then, schooled in all Pelasgian* shifts, His unbound hands to heaven he lifts: "Ye slumberless, inviolate fires, And the dread awe your name inspires! Ye murderous altars, which I fled! Ye fillets that adorned my head! Bear witness, and behold me free To break my Grecian fealty; To hate the Greeks, and bring to light The counsels they would hide in night, Unchecked by all that once could bind, All claims of country or of kind. Thou, Troy, remember ne'er to swerve, Preserved thyself, thy faith preserve, If true the story I relate, If these, my prompt returns, be great.

*[Footnote: Pelasgian means Grecian. The name is derived from that of Pelasgus, an early Greek hero. By their neighbors the Greeks were regarded as a deceitful, double-dealing nation.]

"The warlike hopes of Greece were stayed, E'en from the first, on Pallas' aid: But since Tydides,* impious man, And foul Ulysses, born to plan, Dragged with red hands, the sentry slain, Her fateful image* from your fane, Her chaste locks touched, and stained with gore The virgin coronal she wore, Thenceforth the tide of fortune changed, And Greece grew weak, her queen* estranged Nor dubious were the sig'ns of ill That showed the goddess' altered will. The image scarce in camp was set, Out burst big drops of saltest sweat O'er all her limbs: her eyes upraised With minatory lightnings blazed; And thrice untouched from earth she sprang With quivering spear and buckler's clang. 'Back o'er the ocean!' Calchas cries: 'We shall not make Troy's town our prize, Unless at Argos' sacred seat Our former omens we repeat, And bring once more the grace we brought When first these shores our navy sought.' So now for Greece they cross the wave, Fresh blessings on their arms to crave, Thence to return, so Calchas rules, Unlocked for, ere your wonder cools. Premonished first, this frame they planned In your Palladium's stead to stand, An image for an image given To pacify offended Heaven. But Calchas bade them rear it high With timbers mounting to the sky, That none might drag within the gate This new Palladium of your state. For, said he, if your hands profaned The gift for Pallas' self ordained, Dire havoc—grant, ye powers, that first That fate be his!—on Troy should burst: But if, in glad procession haled By those your hands, your walls it scaled, Then Asia should our homes invade, And unborn captives mourn the raid."

*[Footnote: Tydides was Diomedes, son of Tydeus. The termination -ides means son of; thus Pelides is Achilles, son of Peleus.] *[Footnote: There was in a temple of Troy an image of Minerva, or Pallas, called the palladium, which was supposed to have fallen from the sky. The Greeks learned of a prophecy which declared that Troy could never be taken while the palladium remained within its walls, and Ulysses and Diomedes were entrusted with the task of stealing it. In disguise they entered the city one night, procured the sacred image and bore it off to the Grecian camp.] *[Footnote: Minerva, supposedly angered at the desecration of her statue.]

Such tale of pity, aptly feigned, Our credence for the perjurer gained, And tears, wrung out from fraudful eyes, Made us, e'en us, a villain's prize, 'Gainst whom not valiant Diomede, Nor Peleus' Larissaean* seed, Nor ten years' fighting could prevail, Nor navies of a thousand sail.

*[Footnote: Achilles. Larissa was a town in Thessaly, of which Peleus, the father of Achilles, was king.]



But ghastlier portents lay behind, Our unprophetic souls to bind. Laocoon, named as Neptune's priest, Was offering up the victim beast, When lo! from Tenedos—I quail, E'en now, at telling of the tale— Two monstrous serpents stem the tide, And shoreward through the stillness glide. Amid the waves they rear their breasts, And toss on high their sanguine crests: The hind part coils along the deep, And undulates with sinuous sweep. The lashed spray echoes: now they reach The inland belted by the beach, And rolling bloodshot eyes of fire, Dart their forked tongues, and hiss for ire. We fly distraught: unswerving they Toward Laocoon hold their way; First round his two young sons they wreathe, And grind their limbs with savage teeth: Then, as with arms he comes to aid, The wretched father they invade And twine in giant folds: twice round His stalwart waist their spires are wound, Twice round his neck, while over all Their heads and crests tower high and tall. He strains his strength their knots to tear,* While gore and slime his fillets smear, And to the unregardful skies Sends up his agonizing cries: A wounded bull such moaning makes, When from his neck the axe he shakes, Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks. The twin destroyers take their flight To Pallas' temple on the height; There by the goddess' feet concealed They lie, and nestle 'neath her shield. At once through Ilium's hapless sons A shock of feverous horror runs: All in Laocoon's death-pangs read The just requital of his deed, Who dared to harm with impious stroke Those ribs of consecrated oak. "The image to its fane!" they cry: "So soothe the offended deity." Each in the labour claims his share: The walls are breached, the town laid bare: Wheels 'neath its feet are fixed to glide, And round its neck stout ropes are tied: So climbs our wall that shape of doom, With battle quickening in its womb, While youths and maidens sing glad songs, And joy to touch the harness-thongs. It comes, and, glancing terror down, Sweeps through the bosom of the town. O Ilium, city of my love! O warlike home of powers above! Four times 'twas on the threshold stayed: Four times the armour clashed and brayed. Yet on we press with passion blind, All forethought blotted from our mind, Till the dread monster we install Within the temple's tower-built wall. E'en then Cassandra's* prescient voice Forewarned us of our fatal choice— That prescient voice, which Heaven decreed No son of Troy should hear and heed. We, careless souls, the city through, With festal boughs the fanes bestrew, And in such revelry employ The last, last day should shine on Troy.

*[Footnote: The death of Laocoon and his sons has always been a favorite subject in art and in poetry. (See illustration.)] *[Footnote: Cassandra was a daughter of Priam, king of Troy. She had been loved by Apollo, who bestowed on her the gift of prophecy; but she had angered him by failing to return his love, and he, unable to take back the gift, decreed that her prophecies should never be believed. All through the siege she had uttered her predictions and always they proved true; but no one ever paid heed to her warnings.]

Meantime Heaven shifts from light to gloom, And night ascends from Ocean's womb, Involving in her shadow broad Earth, sky, and Myrmidonian* fraud: And through the city, stretched at will, Sleep the tired Trojans, and are still.

*[Footnote: Here Myrmidonian means simply Grecian.]

And now from Tenedos set free The Greeks are sailing on the sea, Bound for the shore where erst they lay, Beneath the still moon's friendly ray: When in a moment leaps to sight On the king's ship the signal light, And Sinon, screened by partial fate, Unlocks the pine-wood prison's gate. The horse its charge to air restores, And forth the armed invasion pours. Thessander,* Sthenelus, the first, Slide down the rope: Ulysses curst, Thoas and Acamas are there, And great Pelides' youthful heir, Machaon, Menelaus, last Epeus, who the plot forecast. They seize the city, buried deep In floods of revelry and sleep, Cut down the warders of the gates, And introduce their banded mates.*

*[Footnote: These are all Grecian heroes.] *[Footnote: After the Greeks entered the gates the chief Trojan citizens were put to death, and the city was set on fire, Aeneas, with his little son and his aged father, escaped and took ship for Italy, accompanied by a band of followers.]



ULYSSES

Adapted From THE ODYSSEY

NOTE.—The Odyssey is one of the most famous of the old Greek poems, one that is still read and enjoyed by students of the Greek language, and one that in its translations has given pleasure to many English and American readers. Its influence on the works of our best writers has been remarkable, and everybody wishes to know something about it.

It is in twenty-four books or parts, and tells of the wanderings and adventures of the Greek hero, Ulysses, king of Ithaca, after the Trojan War. His wanderings lasted for ten years, but most of the Odyssey is taken up with the events that happened in the last few weeks of this time, during which period, at intervals, Ulysses himself tells the story of his wanderings, winning everywhere the sympathy and admiration of those to whom he tells it.

It is customary to speak of the Odyssey as one of Homer's poems, but the probability is that it was written at different times by different people, and at a date later than that at which the Iliad was written. One of the standard translations of the Odyssey is that of Alexander Pope, which is followed in this story. The tale has of necessity been very much abridged; the details of the journeyings of Ulysses are omitted entirely, and the emphasis is placed on his return home.

* * * * *

When Ulysses departed to join in the Trojan War, he left his wife Penelope and his young son Telemachus at home. He was one of the foremost of the Greek chieftains in the Trojan War, and his deeds are a prominent part of the story in the Iliad.

After Ulysses had been many years absent, he was thought by most of his friends to be dead, and many disorders grew up in his kingdom. Most disturbing of all was the fact that many wicked and treacherous men came about Penelope as suitors for her hand, claiming that there was no reason why she should not marry, as her husband had not been heard of since the Trojan War, and had undoubtedly long since died. Both Penelope and Telemachus still clung to the thought that Ulysses might be living, and the mother would by no means consent to taking another husband.

At this time the gods in council decided that Ulysses should be brought back home, and accordingly Telemachus was inspired to travel in search of his father. Hoping that his journey might be successful, Telemachus, guided by Minerva in the shape of the wise old Mentor, set out on his long and trying journey. In time he learned that his father was still living, and had been held for many years in the Island of Calypso. During the absence of Telemachus, the suitors of Penelope planned to destroy him on his voyage home, but failed to accomplish their purpose.

After much persuasion by the gods, Calypso was induced to release Ulysses, and he, building a boat with his own hands, set out on his homeward journey, but in a terrible tempest was shipwrecked and barely escaped with his life, being rescued by a princess to whom he tells the story of his journeyings.

He told how at one time he was in a ship driven by a tempest far from shore, and finally landed upon the flowery coast of the land of Lotus, where he found a hospitable race who lived a lazy, happy life, eating and drinking the things which nature provided them. So divinely sweet were the lotus leaves that whosoever ate them were willing to quit his house, his country and his friends, and wish for no other home than the enchanting land where the lotus plant flourished.

Denying themselves the pleasure of tasting the lotus leaves, Ulysses and his men sailed from the coast to the land of Cyclops, where they were appalled by the sight of a shepherd, enormous in size, unlike any human being, for he had but one eye, and that a huge one in the center of his forehead. Ulysses with a few of his men landed upon the shore and visited the giant's cavern home. While they were inspecting this strange place, the monster returned, bearing on his back half a forest which he cast down at the door, where it thundered as it fell. After building a huge fire, the giant entered the cavern, and in a voice of thunder asked Ulysses who he was, and why he came to this shore. Ulysses explained, and for an answer the huge Cyclops seized two of the followers of Ulysses, dashed them against the stony floor, and like a mountain beast devoured them utterly, draining the blood from their bodies and sucking the marrow from their bones.



After satisfying his hunger, the monster slept upon the ground, and all night long Ulysses and his followers lay in deadly terror. The next day Ulysses gave the giant wine, and when he was sleeping in a drunken stupor, the Greek hero took a green stick, and heating it until it burnt and sparkled a fiery red, thrust its flaming point into the only eye the Cyclops had.

Raging with pain, the monster stumbled about the cave trying without success to find Ulysses and his followers, though he did discover the door, and stationed himself there to prevent their escape. In the cave were the great sheep that made the herd of the Cyclops, and throwing themselves beneath the animals and clinging to their wool, Ulysses and his followers escaped through the door, while the blind giant was touching his sheep one by one to see that nothing but sheep passed out. Soon the hero and his men were safe on board the ship, though they narrowly escaped destruction from a big boulder that the giant threw into the sea when he discovered that his victims had made their escape.

Aeolus, ruler of the winds, anxious to aid Ulysses, gave him prosperous winds and tied the treacherous winds up in a bag, but some of the curious mariners untied the bag, and the conflicting winds escaping, destroyed several of the ships and threw Ulysses and the survivors upon the island of Circe.

This famed enchantress, following her usual custom, turned the followers of Ulysses into swine, but he, aided by Mercury, released them from their enchantment.

After a year's stay on this island, he was urged by Circe to make a descent into the Infernal Regions, where he saw the tortures inflicted upon the wicked who had died before him. On his return he was sent upon another voyage, where he met the Sirens, who lured some of his men to destruction by their charming songs; but Ulysses himself escaped by having himself chained to the mast. He sailed between Scylla and Charybdis safely, though he lost some of his men in the terrible passage.

After Ulysses told in full his story, the kindly princess put him on board a magic ship and sent him to Ithaca, where he was placed on shore with all his treasures, though he did not at first know where he was.

However, he finally learned that he was home again, and visited the house of a favorite servant, who gave him a full account of what had happened during his absence.

In the meantime Telemachus returned home, having learned that his father was still living; and, directed by the gods, he went to the house of the same old servant with whom Ulysses had taken refuge. That night the father and son recognized each other, and after a joyful reunion they lay down to rest, having decided that in the morning Telemachus should repair to the palace and tell Penelope that her husband was still alive, but leave her in ignorance of the fact that he was near at hand.

In the rosy light of the morning the young prince hastened across the dewy lawn on his way to his mother. When he reached the palace he propped his spear against the wall, leaped like a lion over the threshold, hastened with running steps across the hall, and threw himself into the arms of his loving mother. The passionate joy of their meeting was shadowed only by the story that Telemachus had to tell, yet the story was lightened somewhat by the knowledge that Ulysses still lived, though under enchantment, and might in time be able to return to his kingdom.

Penelope, knowing that her husband was still living, became more than ever incensed at the outrageous conduct of the suitors, who had quartered themselves in her palace and were living in luxury and vice. However, even with Telemachus at her side, it was impossible to drive out the powerful men, so that she felt compelled still to endure their unwelcome presence.

According to the plans made by Ulysses and his son, the former about this time started for the palace, clothed like a beggar, with a scrip flung over his shoulders around his patched and ragged gown. Leaning upon a rude staff which his old servant had given him, Ulysses and his servant passed along the road and descended into the town.

On the way they met a most wicked and treacherous former servant of Ulysses, who, now risen to power, insulted the beggared chief by word and blow. It was with difficulty that Ulysses restrained himself, for all his mighty rage was roused, and he swung his staff as though to strike his insulter dead. However, remembering what was at stake, he conquered himself and endured the insults.

As they drew near the gates of the city, they saw lying in the filth of the gutter an old, decrepit dog, who had been the pet and joy of Ulysses before he left for war. Argus was now grown old and feeble, and had been kicked from the palace by the cruel servants and left to starve in the street. No sooner, however, had the chieftain approached than Argus knew his master, and dragged himself, panting, to kiss the feet of the returned hero.

Ulysses, recognizing the dog, exclaimed, "See this noble beast lying abandoned in the gutter! Once he was vigorous, bold and young; swift as a stag, and strong as a lion. Now he lies dying from hunger. Surely his age deserves some care. Was he merely a worthless beauty, and is he despised for that reason?"

"No," replied the servant, "he once belonged to Ulysses, but since the chieftain left his home, nothing restrains the servants; and where riot reigns there can be no humanity.

"Whenever man makes himself a slave, half his worth is taken away."

While they were speaking, Argus raised his head, took one last look at his master, and closed his eyes forever.

A moment later, Ulysses, a despicable figure, old and poor, in ragged clothing, trembling and leaning on his staff, rested against the pillar of his own gate. Telemachus was the first to see his father, and ordered that food should be given the poor beggar, and that he should be invited to enter the hall and share the comforts of the palace. The experiences of the poor old mendicant in the palace were more trying than any that he had had, for he met with nothing but insults and abuse from the assembled suitors, in spite of the fact that Telemachus more than once urged them to be generous, and himself set the example repeatedly.

Once only did Ulysses give way to his rage, and that was when another beggar insulted him and challenged him to fight. Then Ulysses spread his broad shoulders, braced his limbs, expanded his ample chest, and struck but once with his powerful right arm. Although he expended but half his strength, the blow crushed the jaw-bone of the beggar, and felled him, stunned and quivering, to the ground, while from his mouth and nostrils poured a stream of purple blood.

This happened in the street before the palace, and Ulysses, taking no notice of his fallen foe, flung his tattered scrip across his shoulder, knotted the thong around his waist, and returned to the palace, where the nobles joined in sarcastic compliments on his strength.

While Ulysses hung about the palace in beggar's garb, only one person recognized him, and that was his old nurse Euryclea, who saw upon his knee a scar, that came from a wound which he had received when a youth in hunting a wild boar. Then the old nurse had tended the wound, and now she knew at once her fallen master. With difficulty Ulysses restrained her joy, and urged her to keep his secret till the time came to disclose it.

While these things were happening, the suitors grew more and more insistent, and at a great banquet in the palace they became so riotous that both Penelope and Telemachus knew that something must be done.

Ulysses was subjected to continual insult, and the suitors, quarreling among themselves, insisted that Penelope should give them some definite answer.

Finally the queen and her son perfected a plan and announced to the suitors that at a certain time after the feast the queen would decide which she would accept. Penelope then went to the inmost room of the palace and unlocked the door where the royal treasures lay, and taking from among them the great bow which Ulysses had carried, and the quiver that contained his arrows, she brought them down to the hall. This bow was a gift to Ulysses in his youth, and the warrior had used it in many a fierce combat, but so powerful was it that none but himself could bend it.

Taking the bow before the assembled suitors, the majestic queen spoke as follows: "You make vain pretense that you love me; you speak of me as a prize, and you say you seek me as a wife. Now hear the conditions under which I will decide, and commence the trial. Whichever one of you shall first bend the bow of Ulysses, and send a fleet arrow through the eyes of twelve axes truly arranged, him will I follow, leaving this home which has been my delight and which now has come to be but a torture to me."

She spoke carefully, and at the same time showed the rings and the bow. But as she touched the powerful weapon, thoughts of her lost king filled her eyes with tears.

The suitors did not like the plan Penelope proposed, but saw no other way to gratify their hopes. Although they objected, Telemachus insisted that Ulysses should be present at the trial, and that he himself should be the first to make the attempt, for he said, "If I win, then will my mother go with me."

Three times Telemachus twanged the bow, and three times his arrows sped along the hall, each time missing by a narrower margin the difficult mark. As he was about to make the fourth attempt, Ulysses signaled him to stop, feeling sure that on this trial the young man would succeed.

Disappointed and grieving, Telemachus obeyed, saying, "I have failed, but it is because of my youth and not my weakness. So let the suitors try."

The first to make the attempt was Leiodes, a blameless priest, the best of all the suitors, the only one in the throng who was a decent man, and who detested the conduct of the wretches who hung about the queen. However strong his heart, his feeble fingers were not able to bend the bow, and in despair he passed it on to the next. One after another the suitors tried and failed, till only two remained; but they were the mightiest and the best.

At this point Ulysses, still in disguise, summoned two of his old servants, the masters of his herds and flocks, and with them passed out of the banquet hall. Once by themselves, the king made himself known, and in a moment both the men were at his feet, embracing his knees and shedding tears of joy and gratitude.

Without delay, Ulysses spoke, "We have no time now to indulge in unseemly joy. Our foes are too numerous and too fierce, and almost before we know it some one may betray us. Let us return to the banquet separately; I first, and you following me a few moments later. Tell no one who I am, but when the remaining suitors refuse to allow me to make the attempt with the bow, you, Eumaeus, bring the instrument at once. In the meantime lock every gate of the palace, and set some woman to lock each door within and leave it locked, no matter what sound of arms, or shouts, or dying groans they hear. You, Philaetius, guard the main gate to the palace; guard it faithfully with your life!"

When Ulysses was within, he spoke to the two powerful suitors as follows: "Take my advice, noble lords, let the bow rest in peace this day, and tomorrow dispute for the prize. But as you delay the contest, let me take the bow for one moment and prove to you that I whom you despise may yet have in my feeble arm some of its ancient force."

Antinous, with lightning flashing from his eyes, yet with some terror at the bold carriage of the beggar, cried, "Is it not enough, O miserable guest, that you should sit in our presence, should be admitted among princes? Remember how the Centaur was treated; dragged from the hall, his nose shortened and his ears slit. Such a fate may be yours."

But the queen interfered, saying, "It is impious to shame this stranger guest who comes at the request of our son Telemachus. Who knows but that he may have strength to draw the bow? Virtue is the path to praise; wrong and oppression can bring no renown. From his bearing, and from his face and his stature, we know our guest can have descended from no vulgar race. Let him try the bow, and if he wins he shall have a new sword, a spear, a rich cloak, fine embroidered sandals, and a safe conveyance to his home."

"O royal mother," interrupted Telemachus, "grant me a son's just right! No one but a Grecian prince has power to grant or deny the use of this bow. My father's arms have descended to me alone. I beg you, O queen, return to your household tasks and leave us here together. The bow and the arms of chivalry belong to man alone, and most of all these belong to me."

With admiration for her manly son, Penelope left the banquet hall and returned to her chamber, where she sat revolving in her mind her son's words, while thoughts of his noble father brought abundant tears to her eyes.

In the hall was riot, noise, and wild uproar as Euinaeus started to place the bow in the hand of Ulysses.

"Go back to thy den, far away from the society of men, or we will throw you to your dogs!" cried the crowd of disappointed suitors to the trembling servant.

"Slight their empty words, listen not to them," shouted Telemachus. "Are you so foolish as to think you can please so many lords? If you give not the bow to the suppliant, my hands shall drive you from the land, and if I were strong enough I would expel this whole shoal of lawless men." Thus encouraged, Euinaeus handed the great bow to the king.

In the meantime the gates had been closed, and Philaetius secured them with strong cables, after which he returned silent to the banquet room, and took his seat with his eyes upon his lord.

In his hands Ulysses turned the bow on all sides, and viewed it over and over, wondering if time had weakened it, or other injury had come to it during his long absence. Snarling in anger, the suitors spoke derisively, but the chieftain disdained reply, and continued with exact eye to study every inch of his weapon. Then with ease he held the bow aloft in one hand, and with the other tried its strength. It twanged short and sharp like the shrill cry of a swallow. Every face paled, and a general horror ran through all present, for from the skies the lightning burst, and Jove thundered loudly on high.

Then sitting as he was, Ulysses fitted an arrow to the string and drew back, leveling his eye to every ring. Then with a mighty pull, he drew back the bow and gave the arrow wing. Straight it left the string, and straight it passed through every ring and struck the gate behind, piercing even the solid wood through and through.



"I have brought no shame to you," said Ulysses, turning to Telemachus, "nor has my hand proved unfaithful to my aim. I have not lost my ancient vigor, and ill did I deserve the disdain of these haughty peers. Let them go and find comfort among themselves, if they can, in music and banqueting."

Even as Ulysses spoke, Telemachus girded on his shining sword, seized a javelin, and took his stand at his father's side.

From that moment Ulysses ceased to be the beggar, and stripped of his rags he stood forth like a god, full before the faces of the astonished suitors. He lifted his bow, and threw before his feet a rattling shower of darts.

"We have another game to play this day, O coward princes!" he exclaimed. "Another mark we must reach with our arrows. May Phoebus assist us, and our labor not be in vain!"

With the last word, the great chieftain loosed his arrow, and on its wing death rode to Antinous, who at that moment had raised a golden bowl from which to drink. The fateful arrow passed through his neck, and he fell upon the floor, and the wine from the tumbling goblet mingled with his blood.

The rest of the suitors were confounded at what they saw, and thronged the hall tumultously, half in fear and half in anger.

"Do you aim at princes?" they cried. "This is the last of the unhappy games you shall play. Death now awaits you, and vultures shall tear your body."

"Dogs, you have had your day," the Greek warrior spoke. "You thought there was no further fear of Ulysses, and here you have squandered his wealth, made his house your home, and preyed upon his servants. Worse than all, fired by frenzy, you have claimed even the wife of your chieftain. You have known neither shame nor dread of the gods, and now is come the hour of vengeance. Behold your King!"

The confused suitors stood around with pale cheeks and guilty heads before the dreadful words of Ulysses.

Eurymachus alone was bold enough to speak. "If you are indeed Ulysses, great are your wrongs, for your property has been, squandered, and riot and debauchery have filled your palace. But at your feet now lies Antinous, whose wild ambition meant to slay your son and divide your kingdom. Since he is dead, spare the rest of your people. Our gold and treasures shall defray the expense, and the waste of years shall be refunded to you within the day. Until then, your wrath is just."

With high disdain the king thus sternly spoke, "All the treasures that we had before you began your pillage, joined with all your own, would not bring you mercy. I demand your blood and your lives as prizes, and shall not cease till every one of you lies as pale as yonder wretch upon the floor. You have but one choice—to fight or to fly."

All the great assembly trembled with guilty fears excepting Eurymachus alone, who calling upon the others to follow him, drew his traitor sword, and rushed like a lion against his lord.

As they met, Ulysses turned aside the sword of his rushing foe, and forced his own through the traitor's breast. Eurymachus dropped his sword from his weakening hand, and fell prone upon the table, breaking it to the ground, and scattering the rich viands over the marble floor.

Almost at the same moment Amphinomus rushed forward to the attack, but Telemachus drove his brazen spear through the breast of the fierce foe, who fell crashing to the stones.

"Arm! great father, arm!" cried Telemachus. "In haste I run for other arms and missiles, for helmet and shield. Let the two servants stand faithfully by your side till I return."

"Haste!" replied Ulysses, "lest the host come upon us all at once, and we be driven from our post."

Telemachus flew to the room where the royal armor lay, and brought with him four brazen helmets, eight shining spears, and four broad shields. Still among the coward princes the arrows of Ulysses were flying, each carrying death to an enemy. Each placed a helmet upon his head, and buckled on an armor, and thus clothed, the four stood shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the onset, for by this time the surviving princes had remembered the strength that lay in their numbers, and prepared to charge together upon the king and his attendants.

Now Minerva, the wise goddess and friend of Ulysses, appeared again before him as the aged Mentor, and advised him how to fight. Then with change of form, she suddenly perched like a swallow on a rafter high, where, unperceived, she could watch the struggle.

The conflict that followed was a sight worthy of the gods, for again and again the traitor princes charged upon the doughty four, each time losing some of their number; for rarely did it fail that the king and each of his faithful adherents took at least one life from the multitude. Again and again clouds of darts threatened the life of the king and his son, but every time Minerva blew them aside, and they fell harmless upon the floor, or buried themselves in the woodwork behind the struggling heroes. At last but three of the attacking party remained alive. First of these was Leiodes, the priest, who had first tried the bow of Ulysses.

"O gracious king, hear my supplication! I have never dishonored your house by word or deed, and often I tried to check the injustice of the rest, but they never listened to my words. Do not make yourself guilty of insult to my consecrated head."

"Priest you are," returned Ulysses, "but your vows have been made against me, and against me have your daily prayers been said. Moreover, you aspired to the hand of my wife, and as you joined in the common crime against me, you deserve the common fate."

Even as he spoke, he seized a sword from the hand of one of the dead princes, and swung it flashing through the air, and that moment the priest's head rolled muttering on the floor. There remained only Phemius, the reverend minstrel, whose poems had pleased the king in earlier days, and Medon, the faithful friend and servant of Telemachus.

Neither had taken part in the struggle, and both were spared.

"Be bold," Ulysses said to them, "and rely on the friendship of my son. Live, and be to the world an example, to show how much more safe are good than evil deeds. Go out to the open court and leave us here in this room of blood and carnage."

Carefully the rooms were then searched by Ulysses and his followers, but nowhere could they find a single living traitor. The dead lay on the floor in heaps like fish that had been cast from the net upon the sands, and lie stiffening in the air.

Ulysses was not content till he had punished every evil servant and treacherous man and woman about the palace or in the town in proportion to his misdeeds.

Then by the aid of Euryclea, his faithful old nurse, he robed himself in garments fit for the shoulders of a king, and prepared to meet the queen.

During all this time Penelope had remained in her apartments terrified by the confusion and noise of fighting in the palace, but praying always for her son. We can imagine her surprise and delight when she learned how the battle had turned, and that the beggar, who had fought so manfully, was indeed none other than her husband Ulysses.

Once more in possession of the throne, the Greek hero and his son rapidly destroyed every vestige of the unhappy days that had passed, and soon the kingdom was again enjoying a prosperous and happy reign.



JOHN BUNYAN

The father of John Bunyan was a poor tinker, a mender of pots and kettles, working sometimes in his own house and sometimes in the homes of others. His son followed the same occupation and did his work well. Even after he became a popular preacher and a great author he kept on with his humble calling. It was a queer occupation for a man of genius, and scarcely any one would expect the man who followed it to write a book that would be more widely read than anything except the Bible. Evidently Bunyan was no common tinker.

John Bunyan was born at Elstow, a village near Bedford, in 1628, a year famous in English history as that in which the king, Charles I, was forced to grant the Petition of Right presented by the House of Commons. But the commotion in politics produced little effect on father and child, and the latter grew up as most English boys of his time did grow, except that he had the advantage of attending a grammar school in Bedford, a greater advantage than it seems unless we remember that there were then no common schools in England.

The young tinker was a violent and passionate boy, profane, and a leader in all the mischief of his kind. In his own account of his early life written long years afterward he accuses himself of all manner of sins. Yet from what he says in other places we know that he was far from being the worst of boys, and that many things that gave him the greatest concern were curiously exaggerated by his uneasy conscience.

He must have been a strange little fellow, for while he was swearing, lying and leading raids upon his neighbors' fruit orchards he was often terrified by the awfulness of his sin and "trembling at the thoughts of the fearful torments of hell-fire."

To appreciate his feelings fully, we must remember the age in which he lived as the time when everything in the Bible was taken as wholly literal, when people believed that sin was followed by awful punishments in a fiery hell, and when miraculous events were considered common.

The young John must have known such occurrences as the following, related by Froude in his Life of Bunyan:

"A man commonly called 'Old Tod' came one day into court, in the Summer Assizes at Bedford, to demand justice upon himself as a felon. No one had accused him, but God's judgment was not to be escaped, and he was forced to accuse himself. 'My lord,' said Old Tod to the judge, 'I have been a thief from my childhood. I have been a thief ever since. There has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this town, but I have been privy to it.' The judge, after a conference, agreed to indict him for certain felonies which he had acknowledged. He pleaded guilty, implicating his wife along with him, and they were both hanged."

Filled with terror by the fearful things he heard and saw, it is no wonder that so sensitive a child was haunted by such nightmares as are described by one of his biographers.



Once he dreamed that he was in a pleasant place, jovial and rioting, when an earthquake rent the earth, out of which came bloody flames, and the figures of men tossed up in globes of fire, and falling down again with horrible cries and shrieks and execrations, while devils mingled among them, and laughed aloud at their torments. As he stood trembling, the earth sank under him, and a circle of flames embraced him.. But when he fancied he was at the point to perish, one in shining white raiment descended and plucked him out of that dreadful place, while the devils cried after him to take him to the punishment which his sins deserved. Yet he escaped the danger, and leapt for joy when he awoke and found it was a dream.

At seventeen, Bunyan was a tall, active lad still wild and reckless, an inventor of tales, who swore to their truth, a great leader in athletic sports, but free from drunkenness and other coarse vices. The Civil War was nearing its end, and martial deeds drew Bunyan to enlist, but his term of service was short and it is not known on which side he served.

Soon after this he married an excellent girl, an orphan, who had been brought up religiously and who made an excellent wife for the successful tinker. He was now a regular attendant upon the Established Church, though, as he says, still retaining his wicked life.

The story of Bunyan's conversion is one that is difficult for us to understand. To him it was a series of terrifying experiences, a succession of agonizing struggles, which grew only the more terrible after he was convinced of his own sinful ways. He tells the story of his fearful spiritual contest in the plainest, most matter-of-fact way, but scarcely mentions his home life, his daily work, or the growth of his family.

To him, the Devil was a very real person, who came as a tempter and would not be denied, long after Bunyan had completely reformed his ways and was living a life of strict honesty, purity and self-denial. No sooner had his manner of living become perfect, as we should consider it, than mental and spiritual temptations fell upon him. He believed that he had denied and sold his Savior; that he had committed the one sin for which no atonement was possible, and that he stood on the brink of a very real hell in whose sulphurous flames his body would burn forever. We cannot help pitying the poor country workman whose tender conscience and loyal soul tortured him with pains, worse a thousand times than those of physical death. No doubt his mind wavered in the balance, for such agonies lead to insanity, if they are not the evidence of it.

At last, however, his self-tormenting ceased, and his weary soul found rest in a comforting belief in Christ's forgiveness. As a result of his worry his health had given way, and he felt that his end was at hand. But after peace came to him and he joined the Baptist Church his strength came back, and for several years he kept at his business, making good progress and finding himself at twenty-five years of age in a better position in life than that to which he had been born.

There came to him a further call, and ignorant as he was of history, literature and philosophy, he entered the ministry of his church. He knew his Bible thoroughly, he had experienced all the terrors of the lost and all the joys of the redeemed, and he possessed that living enthusiasm that carries conviction to others. So, when he spoke to the people among whom he had passed his life, he caught the imagination of every one and bore them all along on the flood of his eloquence. No such preacher was there in England; and everywhere, in woods, in barns, on the village greens and in the chapels of the towns he preached his religion.

In the height of his fame, the Commonwealth ended, the Puritans lost their control of political affairs, and Charles II was restored to the throne of England. Soon the separate meetings of the Nonconformists were prohibited, and Bunyan was warned that he must cease his preaching. No one could be more firm, however, in following the dictates of his conscience than this reformed tinker*, and so, although he knew arrest and imprisonment faced him, he arranged to meet his people and deliver to them a farewell address in November, 1660. At that meeting the constables found him and took him away without any resistance on his part. The government was anxious to deal liberally with Bunyan, for his fine character and good influence were both recognized, but the sturdy exhorter declined to stop his preaching and would not give the least assurance that he would not continue to spread his faith. As a consequence he was committed to the Bedford jail, where he was not kept, however, in close confinement for any great part of the time. His family were allowed to visit him, and his friends often came in numbers to listen to his addresses.

There was no time when he would not have been liberated if he had merely promised to give up his preaching. At the end of six years he was liberated, but as he began preaching at once, he was rearrested and kept for six years longer, when a general change of governmental policy sent him out into the world at forty-four years of age, free to preach when and where he wished.

Bunyan's imprisonment was of great value to him, in one respect at least, for it gave him time to read, reflect and write. That he availed himself of the privilege, his great works testify. After his release he continued his labors among his congregation, in writing, and in visiting other churches. His little blind child, who visited him so often in the jail, died; but the rest of his family lived and did well, and Bunyan must be considered a very happy man during the sixteen years he stayed in his neat little home in Bedford.

In August, 1688, he received word that a bad quarrel had taken place between a father and son, acquaintances of Bunyan, who lived at Reading. The old peacemaker went at once to the family and after much persuasion succeeded in reconciling the two and persuading the father not to disinherit the son. But this was the last charitable act of the great preacher, for in returning he was drenched to the skin in a heavy shower of wind and rain, and after a brief illness died at the home of one of his friends in London.



THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

INTRODUCTION

The Pilgrim's Progress was written while Bunyan was in the Bedford jail, and as the writer says, was written for his own amusement. Christian is Bunyan himself, and the trials and experiences of the former are but the reflections of the temptations and sufferings of the great preacher set forth in wonderfully dramatic and striking form.

At some time nearly every person reads The Pilgrim's Progress, and to those who do, Christian becomes a very real person. It is a Puritan book, pure and simple, and as such, contains some things that people of other denominations may object to, but there is so much of truth, simplicity and real human nature in it, so much that touches the spiritual experiences of all human beings, that most people, regardless of creed, are helped by it.

The Pilgrim's Progress is a very plain allegory. It describes persons and things as real and material, but always gives to everything a spiritual significance. There is no room for doubt at any time, for the names are all so aptly chosen that the meaning may be seen by any reader. Yet the allegory is so significantly true that while a child may read and enjoy it as a story and be helped by its patent truthfulness and poetry, the maturer mind may find latent truths that compensate for a more careful reading.

"As I walked through the wilderness of this world," the book begins, "I lighted on a certain place where there was a den [Footnote: The Bedford jail.] and I laid me down there to sleep, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man, a man clothed in rags, standing with his face from his own home, with a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I looked and saw him open the book and read therein; and, as he read, he wept and trembled; and not being able longer to contain, he broke out with a lamentable cry, saying, 'What shall I do?'" This man is Christian, the hero of the story.

CHRISTIAN BEGINS HIS JOURNEY

In this plight, therefore, he went home and refrained himself as long as he could, that his wife and children should not perceive his distress; but he could not be silent long, because that his trouble increased. Wherefore at length he brake his mind to his wife and children; and thus he began to talk to them:

"O my dear wife," said he, "and you, my children, I, your dear friend, am in myself undone by reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me; moreover I am for certain informed that this our city will be burned with fire from heaven, in which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee, my wife, and you my sweet babes, shall miserably come to ruin, except (the which yet I see not) some way of escape can be found, whereby we may be delivered."

At this his relations were sore amazed; not for what they believed that what he had said to them, was true, but because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing near night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him to bed.

But the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears. So, when the morning was. come, they would know how he did. He told them, "Worse and worse." He also set talking to them again; but they began to be hardened.

They also thought to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages to him; sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect him. Wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery; he would also walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and sometimes praying: and thus for some days he spent his time.

Now, I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the fields, that he was, as he was wont, reading in his book, and greatly distressed in his mind; and as he read, he burst out, as he had done before, crying, "What shall I do to be saved?"

I saw also that he looked this way and that way, as if he would run; yet he stood still, because, as I perceived, he could not tell which way to go. I looked then, and saw a man named Evangelist coming to him, who asked, "Wherefore dost thou cry?"

He answered, "Sir, I perceive by the book in my hand that I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment, and I find that I am not willing to do the first, nor able to do the second."

Then said Evangelist, "Why not willing to die, since this life is attended with so many evils?" The man answered:

"Because I fear that this burden that is upon my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall into Tophet. And, sir, if I be not fit to go to prison, I am not fit, I am sure, to go to judgment, and from thence to execution; and the thoughts of these things make me cry."

Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy condition, why standest thou still?"

He answered, "Because I know not whither to go."

Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within, "Flee from the wrath to come."

The man therefore read it, and looking upon Evangelist very carefully, said, "Whither must I fly?"

Then said Evangelist, pointing with his finger over a very wide field, "Do you see yonder wicket gate?"

The man said, "No."

"Then," said the other, "Do you see yonder shining light?"

He said, "I think I do."

Then said Evangelist, "Keep that light in your eye, and go up directly thereto: so shalt thou see the Gate; at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do."

So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. Now, he had not run far from his own door; but his wife and children, perceiving it, began to cry after him to return; but the man put his fingers in his ears, and ran on, crying, "Life! life! eternal life!"

So he looked not behind him, but fled toward the middle of the plain. The neighbors also came out to see him run, and, as he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried after him to return; and, among those that did so, there were two that resolved to fetch him back by force. The name of one was Obstinate, and the other Pliable.



Obstinate argues with Christian, but gives him up in despair and returns to his home, but Pliable, thinking after all there may be some good reason in Christian's conduct, decides to accompany him to the wicket gate, and they converse on the way.

THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended this talk they drew near to a very miry slough, that was in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time, being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, because of the burden that was on his back, began to sink in the mire. Then said Pliable, "Ah! neighbor Christian, where are you now?"

"Truly," said Christian, "I do not know."

At this Pliable began to be offended, and angrily said to his fellow, "Is this the happiness you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill-speed at our first setting out, what may we expect betwixt this and our journey's end? May I get out again with my life, you shall possess the brave country alone for me."

And, with that, he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the mire on the side of the slough which was next to his own house; so away he went, and Christian saw him no more.

Wherefore, Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of Despond alone; but still he endeavored to struggle to that side of the slough that was still further from his own house, and next to the wicket gate; the which he did, but he could not get out, because of the burden that was upon his back; but I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him whose name was Help, and asked him what he did there?

"Sir," said Christian, "I was bid go this way by a man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that I might escape the wrath to come; and as I was going thither I fell in here."

Help. "But why did you not look for the steps?"

Chr. "Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way, and fell in."



Help. "Then give me thy hand." So he gave him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon sound ground, and bid him go on his way.

Then I stepped to him that plucked him out and said, "Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not mended, that poor travelers might go thither with more security?"

And he said unto me, "This mire slough is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place. And this is the reason of the badness of the ground.

"It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should remain so bad. His laborers also have, by the direction of His Majesty's surveyors, been for above these sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of ground, if perhaps it might have been mended: yea, and to my knowledge," said he, "here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's dominions, and they that can tell say that they are the best materials to make good ground of the place, if so be it might have been mended; but it is the Slough of Despond still, and so will be when they have done what they can.

"True, there are, by the direction of the Lawgiver, certain good and substantial steps, placed even through the very midst of this slough: but at such time as this place doth much spew out its filth, as it doth against change of weather, these steps are hardly seen; or, if they be, men, through the dizziness of their heads, step beside, and then they are bemired to purpose, notwithstanding the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate."

Now, I saw in my dream, that by this time Pliable was got home to his house again, so that his neighbors came to visit him; and some of them called him wise man for coming back, and some called him fool for hazarding himself with Christian; others again did mock at his cowardliness, saying, "Surely, since you began to venture, I would not have been so base as to have given out for a few difficulties." So Pliable sat sneaking among them. But at last he got more confidence, and then they all turned their tales, and began to deride poor Christian behind his back.

* * * * *

Christian proceeds on his way, meeting many persons and conversing with them, often discouraged, but always persistent in his idea of gaining Mount Zion and the holy city. The perils that he meets do not overwhelm him, and even when he is apparently doomed to certain destruction, some happy turn of events sets him again on his way rejoicing. Friends also appear to help him whenever he most needs them.

THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON

When I saw in my dream that, on the morrow, he got up to go forward, but they desired him to stay till the next day also; and then, said they, we will, if the day be clear, show you the Delectable Mountains, which, they said, would yet further add to his comfort, because they were nearer the desired haven than the place where at present he was; so he consented and stayed.



When the morning was up, they had him to the top of the house, and bid him look south; so he did; and, behold, at a great distance he saw a most pleasant mountainous country, beautified with woods, vineyards, fruits of all sorts, flowers also, with springs and fountains, very delectable to behold. Then he asked the name of the country. They said it was Emmanuel's Land; "and it is as common," said they, "as this hill is, to and for all the pilgrims. And when thou comest there from thence," said they, "thou mayest see to the gate of the Celestial City, as the shepherds that live there will make appear."

Now he bethought himself of setting forward, and they were willing he should. "But first," said they, "let us go again into the armory." So they did; and when they came there, they harnessed him from head to foot with what was of proof, lest, perhaps, he should meet with assaults in the way.

He being, therefore, thus accoutered, walketh out with his friends to the gate, and there he asked the porter if he saw a pilgrim pass by. Then the porter answered, "Yes."

Chr. "Pray, did you know him?"

Por. "I asked him his name, and he told me it was Faithful."

Chr. "Oh, I know him; he is my townsman, my near neighbor; he comes from the place where I was born. How far do you think he may be before?"

Por. "He has got by this time below the hill."

Chr. "Well, good Porter, the Lord be with thee, and add to all thy blessings much increase, for the kindness that thou hast showed to me."

Then he began to go forward; but Discretion, Piety, Charity and Prudence would accompany him down to the foot of the hill. So they went on together, reiterating their former discourses, till they came to go down the hill.

Then said Christian, "As it was difficult coming up, so, so far as I can see, it is dangerous going down." "Yes," said Prudence, "so it is; for it is a hard matter for a man to go down into the Valley of Humiliation, as thou art now, and to catch no slip by the way; therefore, are we come out to accompany thee down the hill." So he began to go down, but very warily; yet he caught a slip or two.

Then I saw in my dream that these good companions, when Christian was gone to the bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a cluster of raisins; and then he went on his way.

But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his ground. But he considered again that he had no armor for his back; and therefore thought that to turn the back to him might give him the greater advantage with ease to pierce him with his darts. Therefore he resolved to venture and stand his ground; for, thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the saving of my life, it would be the best way to stand.

So he went on and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold; he was clothed with scales like a fish, and (they are his pride) he had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him.

Apol. "Whence came you? and whither are you bound?"

Chr. "I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion."

Apol. "By this I perceive thou art one of my subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run away from thy king? Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more service, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to the ground."

Chr. "I was born, indeed, in your dominions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, 'for the wages of sin is death,' therefore, when I was come to years, I did as other considerate persons do, look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself."

Apol. "There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet loose thee; but since thou complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go back: what our country will afford, I do here promise to give thee."

Chr. "But I have let myself to another, even to the King of princes; and how can I, with fairness, go back with thee?"

Apol. "Thou hast done in this, according to the proverb, 'Changed a bad for a worse;' but it is ordinary for those that have professed themselves his servants, after a while to give him the slip and return again to me. Do thou so too, and all shall be well."

Chr. "I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor?"

Apol. "Thou didst the same to me, and yet I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn again and go back."

Chr. "What I promised thee was in my nonage; and beside, I count the Prince under whose banner now I stand is able to absolve me; yea, and to pardon also what I did as to my compliance with thee; and beside, O thou destroying Apollyon! to speak truth, I like his service, his wages, his servants, his government, his company and country better than thine; and, therefore, leave off to persuade me further; I am his servant, and I will follow him."

Apol. "Consider, again, when thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for the most part, his servants come to an ill end, because they are transgressors against me and my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths; and, beside, thou countest his service better than mine, whereas he never came yet from the place where he is to deliver any that served him out of their hands; but, as for me, how many times, as all the world very well knows, have I delivered, either by power or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, from him and his, though taken by them; and so I will deliver thee."

Chr. "His forbearing at present to deliver them is on purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is most glorious in their account; for, for the present deliverance, they do not much expect it, for they stay for their glory, and then they shall have it, when their Prince comes in his and the glory of the angels."

Apol. "Thou hast already been unfaithful in thy service to him; and how dost thou think to receive wages of him?"

Chr. "Wherein, O Apollyon! have I been unfaithful to him?"

Apol. "Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of Despond; thou didst attempt wrong ways to be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldest have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off; thou didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice thing; thou wast, also, almost persuaded to go back, at the sight of the lions; and when thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desirous of vainglory in all that thou sayest or doest."

Chr. "All this is true, and much more which thou hast left out; but the Prince whom I serve and honor is merciful, and ready to forgive; but, besides, these infirmities possessed me in thy country, for there I sucked them in; and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of my Prince."

Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, saying, "I am an enemy to this Prince; I hate his person, his laws, and people; I am come out on purpose to withstand thee."

Chr. "Apollyon, beware what you do; for I am in the king's highway, the way of holiness; therefore take heed to yourself."

Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, "I am void of fear in this matter; prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou shalt go no further; here will I spill thy soul." And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast; but Christian had a shield in his hand, with which he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that.

Then did Christian draw, for he saw it was time to bestir him; and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the which, notwithstanding all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his head, his hand and his foot. This made Christian give a little back; Apollyon, therefore, followed his work amain, and Christian again took courage, and resisted as manfully as he could. This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even till Christian was almost quite spent; for you must know that Christian, by reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker and weaker.

Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall; and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now."

And with that he had almost pressed him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life: but as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good man, Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying, "Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall I shall rise," and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound.

Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying, "Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us." And with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's wings, and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw him no more.

In this combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of the fight—he spake like a dragon; and, on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him all the while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged sword; then, indeed, he did smile, and look upward; but it was the dreadfulest sight that ever I saw.

"A more unequal match can hardly be, Christian must fight an Angel; but you see, The valiant man by handling Sword and Shield, Doth make him, tho' a Dragon, quit the field."

So when the battle was over, Christian said, "I will here give thanks to him that delivered me out of the mouth of the lion, to him that did help me against Apollyon." And so he did, saying—

"Great Beelzebub, the captain of this fiend, Design'd my ruin; therefore to this end He sent him harness'd out: and he with rage, That hellish was, did fiercely me engage. But blessed Michael helped me, and I, By dint of sword, did quickly make him fly. Therefore to him let me give lasting praise, And thank and bless his holy name always."

Then there came to him a hand, with some of the leaves of the tree of life, the which Christian took, and applied to the wounds that he had received in the battle, and was healed immediately. He also sat down in that place to eat bread, and to drink of the bottle that was given him a little before; so, being refreshed, he addressed himself to his journey, with his sword drawn in his hand; for he said, "I know not but some other enemy may be at hand."

But he met with no other affront from Apollyon quite through this valley.

Later Christian meets Faithful, a true pilgrim, but one of a different temperament, so that his trials and other experiences have been different, but the two proceed on their journey together happy in good companionship. They pass through Vanity Fair, and Faithful is stoned to death.

After Christian's escape from Vanity Fair he is joined by Hopeful, and the two travel on as he and Faithful had done. Their trials continue but Christian finds even more help in the cheerful nature of Hopeful than in the gentle disposition of Faithful, and he looks forward without great dread to other trials which he may have to endure.

DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR

Now, I beheld in my dream, that they had not journeyed far, but the river and the way for a time parted; at which they were not a little sorry, yet they durst not go out of the way. Now the way from the river was rough, and their feet tender, by reason of their travels; "so the souls of the pilgrims were much discouraged because of the way."

Wherefore, as still they went on, they wished for a better way. Now, a little before them, there was on the left hand of the road a meadow, and a stile to go over into it; and that meadow is called By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his fellow:

"If this meadow lieth along by our wayside, let us go over into it."

Then he went to the stile to see, and, behold, a path lay along the way, on the other side of the fence.

"It is according to my wish," said Christian. "Here is the easiest going; come, good Hopeful, and let us go over."

Hope. "But how if this path should lead us out of the way?"

Chr. "That is not like. Look, doth it not go along by the wayside?"

So Hopeful, being persuaded by his fellow, went after him over the stile. When they were gone over, and were got into the path, they found it very easy for their feet; and withal, they, looking before them, espied a man walking as they did (and his name was Vain-confidence); so they called after him, and asked him whither that way led. He said to the Celestial Gate.

"Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so? By this you may see we are right."

So they followed and he went before them. But, behold, the night came on, and it grew very dark; so that they that were behind lost the sight of him that went before.

He, therefore, that went before (Vain-confidence by name), not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, which was on purpose there made, by the prince of those grounds, to catch vainglorious fools withal, and was dashed in pieces with his fall.

Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall. So they called to know the matter, but there was none to answer, only they heard a groaning. Then said Hopeful, "Where are we now?"

Then was his fellow silent, as mistrusting that he had led him out of the way; and now it began to rain, and thunder and lightning in a very dreadful manner, and the water rose amain.

Then Hopeful groaned in himself, saying, "Oh, that I had kept on my way!"

Chr. "Who could have thought that this path should have led us out of the way?"

Hope. "I was afraid on it at the very first, and therefore gave you that gentle caution. I would have spoken plainer, but that you are older than I."



Chr. "Good brother, be not offended; I am sorry I have brought thee out of the way, and that I have put thee into such imminent danger. Pray, my brother, forgive me; I did not do it of an evil intent."

Hope. "Be comforted, my brother, for I forgive thee; and believe, too, that this shall be for our good."

Chr. "I am glad I have with me a merciful brother. But we must not stand thus; let us try to go back again."

Hope. "But, good brother, let me go before."

Chr. "No, if you please, let me go first; that, if there be any danger, I may be first therein, because by my means we are both gone out of the way."

Hope. "No, you shall not go first; for your mind being troubled may lead you out of the way again."

Then, for their encouragement, they heard the voice of one saying, "Set thine heart toward the highway, even the way which thou wentest; turn again."

But by this time the waters were greatly risen, by reason of which the way of going back was very dangerous. (Then I thought that it is easier going out of the way, when we are in, than going in when we are out.) Yet they adventured to go back; but it was so dark, and the flood was so high, that in their going back they had like to have been drowned nine or ten times.

Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get again to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last, lighting under a little shelter, they sat down there until the daybreak, but, being weary, they fell asleep.

Now there was not far from the place where they lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair; and it was in his grounds they were now sleeping.

Wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake; and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his grounds.

They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way.

Then said the Giant, "You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me."

So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The Giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty and stinking to the spirits of these two men.

Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did; they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised counsel they were brought into this distress.

"The Pilgrims now, to gratify the flesh, Will seek its ease; but oh! how they afresh Do thereby plunge themselves new griefs into; Who seek to please the flesh, themselves undo."

Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done; to-wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound; and he told her. Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without any mercy.

So, when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws and leaves them, there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress.