A word that seems so typically English as box actually originates in Latin, which also gave its descendants in the Romance languages and, of course, in Spanish.

In Latin there was a plant called buxus. It is easy to see the similarities between these words; also, that the boxes were initially made mostly of wood. In fact, it was common to use boxwood to make boxes, especially for medicines and ointments; these boxes were called buxis or even their Greek version pyxis, from πυξίς.

By the way, here we should talk about Pandora’s box, which is a slip of Erasmus of Rotterdam when he translated Hesiod from Greek into Latin, as he confused πίθος ‘jar, vessel (made of clay, ceramic, etc.)’ with πυξίς ‘box’. Since then, what is properly Pandora’s jar has been perpetuated.

How about Spanish? And caja?

It is now an ancient word in Spanish that is no longer in use, but there was the word bujeta (or buxeta) with exactly this origin and meaning.

Anyway, let’s look at the usual word for this concept: caja. It comes from the Latin capsa, which could have the same meaning, although it referred especially to cylindrical containers (for example, for storing rolls). It is no coincidence that its diminutive gives the English “capsule,” with its prototypically cylindrical shape.

Those who are taking their first steps in learning Latin are often amazed to learn that the Latin carmen, carminis means ‘song, poem’. They quickly connect that word and its meaning with the female name Carmen.

But, however convenient that etymology may be, it is false.

Quite simply, the name Carmen comes from María (del) Carmen, an epithet or invocation of the Virgin Mary on Mount Carmel, in Israel.

Although it is probably impossible to prove, it would be strange if the change from -l to -n was due to the influence of carmen in Latin.

However, since we are here, let’s talk a little about that Latin carmen. Traditionally, it has been explained by dissimilation from a form *canmen (which also appears in *genmen [with the root of gen or generation] > germen, and is similar to the Spanish alma < *anma < anima). In *canmen we have the root of the verb cano ‘to sing,’ so this etymology should be open to little debate.

Following the clue given by Varro, who claims that the ancient form of the word was casmen, it could come from a root meaning ‘to speak solemnly.’

Latin carmen does not seem to have been particularly successful in the Romance languages, but it was in French, where it evolved into charme with the sense of ‘chant, spell’ (with its subsequent semantic evolutions to ‘charm’); English took this word charm with similar meanings: ‘incantation’ as well as ‘grace, attractiveness.’ Meanwhile, Spanish has precisely the word encanto with the meaning of English charm.

The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus changes depending on the sources (including the famous movie Troy with Brad Pitt as Achilles). Let’s answer three questions:

• Were they lovers?

• Were they cousins?

• Which of the two was the older?

Were Achilles and Patroclus Lovers?

In the Homeric poems, nothing is ever known to confirm or deny it; however, in the Iliad the two appear sleeping with women (which does not preclude the possibility that there was something more between them).

Already since the 5th century B.C., the Greeks had been thinking about this relationship in which Achilles was the lover and Patroclus was the beloved, that is, active and passive, respectively.

This would contradict the fact that, despite what is usually thought, Patroclus was older than Achilles, so it would have been his part to be the lover.

Were Achilles and Patroclus Cousins?

In the movie Troy (2004), Patroclus is presented unequivocally as Achilles’s younger cousin. Is this merely a puritanical device?

Achilles, as is well known, is the son of Thetis and Peleus.

Patroclus is the son of Menoetius and a mother that varies according to the sources.

• This Menoetius was the son of Actor and Aegina.

  • This Aegina had previously had Aeacus with Zeus.

    • This Aeacus was the father of Peleus (father of Achilles).

The conclusion is that Aegina was the mother of Menoetius and the grandmother of Peleus, so the bottom line conclusion is that, rather than them being just cousins, Patroclus was Achilles’s cousin-uncle.

Which of the Two Was the Older?

We have already anticipated that indeed Patroclus was older than Achilles. This is made very clear, for example, in Plato’s Symposium, which in turn cites Homer himself as its source:

[Achilles] had not yet grown a beard, so he was much younger, as Homer states.

Plato, Symposium 180a

And we now quote Homer, who says the following explicitly:

My child, in birth is Achilles nobler than thou, but thou art the elder though in might he is the better far. Yet do thou speak to him well a word of wisdom and give him counsel, and direct him; and he will obey thee to his profit.

Homer, Iliad XI (translated by Murray)

The difference between a bearded Patroclus and a beardless Achilles can be clearly seen in the famous kylix usually known as “Achilles tending Patroclus wounded by an arrow”: Achilles (no beard) is the one healing Patroclus (with it).

💡 This is a chapter from The Wanderings of Odysseus, by C. Witt & F. Younghusband ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Odysseus and his men were now approaching the island of Thrinacia. This was the pasture of the flocks of the Sun god, and, while the ship was still far out at sea, they could hear the lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep. There were seven flocks of kine and seven flocks of sheep; they were under the care of two of the daughters of the Sun god and, like their master, were immortal: none of them ever died, neither were there ever any young ones added to their number.

Odysseus remembered the warning of Tiresias that misfortune might overtake his companions and himself whilst they were on the island, and said to his men, “Let us avoid this island and go on our way without landing here, for I have been warned by Tiresias that we here stand in danger of meeting with grievous misfortune.”

In reply, the men looked at him despondingly, for they were weary and exhausted; and Eurylochus said, “Hardly art thou a creature of flesh and blood, Odysseus! Thou seemest rather to be made of iron. Thy spirits never fail, neither are thy limbs weary. But we are faint with long rowing and sick with the remembrance of the horrors we have passed through; wherefore then wilt thou hinder us from landing on this island, where we may prepare for ourselves a good meal and enjoy a peaceful sleep? Night, the friend of no man is at hand — the time when storms are wont to arise. Let us therefore sleep here as is fitting, and then in the early morning we will go on our way refreshed.” All the men sided with Eurylochus and urged Odysseus not to grudge them this short rest.

“Against my will ye constrain me,” he replied, “but at least swear to me that ye will eat nothing but the food with which our ship was stored by Circe, and that, if on the island we meet with any flock of cattle or of sheep, ye will refrain from laying hands on the beasts.”

This they promised readily, and then put into the shore; and after they had partaken of a plentiful meal, they stretched themselves on the sand and went to sleep. But towards morning a violent storm arose, which covered the sea with great billows; and they were obliged to draw up the ship on to the shore and hide it in a deep cave to protect it from the unfavorable weather.

Odysseus was much concerned: he feared that, if the storm should continue, they might be compelled to make a long stay upon the island, and that, during this time, his companions might be tempted to break their promise and attack the flocks of Helios. He therefore reminded them again that these animals were the favorites of the Sun god, who sees and hears everything that takes place on the earth, and that anyone who molested them would have to atone for it with his life. The men were astonished that he should think it necessary to say so much about this — had they not abundance of food in their ship? And was it likely that they would be so foolish as to provoke the wrath of Helios?

But the storm continued for a whole month without ceasing, and at last all the provisions were gone. They now had nothing to depend upon for their support beyond the supplies they were able to procure by hunting and fishing, and it was but little that they could obtain in this way; the storm made it almost impossible to fish, and of wild animals there were but few on the island, so that from day to day the spoils they brought in became less and less, and their hunger became greater and greater.

Odysseus shared in their hunger, but still more did he suffer from anxiety lest the calamity of which Tiresias had warned him should now be close at hand. The only hope of help lay in prayer to the gods, and, going to a lonely spot, he washed his hands, according to the Greek custom, and prayed long and earnestly that the gods would point out to him some way of escape. Then he stretched himself upon the grass and soon fell into a deep sleep, quite exhausted with care and grief.

Meanwhile, his companions were sitting together, sad and despondent, for they could see no end to their misery. Suddenly, Eurylochus rose up and said, “Friends, death is terrible in any form, but of all deaths the worst is that by hunger. Therefore, it is my counsel that we slay and eat some of the cattle of Helios. The god will surely be satisfied if we vow to make him amends, and, when we return to Ithaca, we can build a temple in his honor and adorn it with great magnificence. Even should he, in his anger at this deed, destroy our ship when we put to sea again, I for one would rather perish by drowning than tarry here to await a slow death for lack of food.”

These words went to the hearts of the despairing men; they readily assented to the proposal and, springing up with one accord, betook themselves to the nearest pasture and drove down three fat bulls to the shore.

These they proceeded to sacrifice to the gods, and, as they had no barley with which to bestrew the victims, according to the sacred custom, they plucked leaves from the trees and threw them over their heads and necks whilst the prayer was being said. Then they slaughtered the animals and prepared a meal for gods and men. For the gods the thighbones were always reserved, with the fat and skin belonging to them, and some slices of the flesh besides; this part was laid in the sacrificial fire, and then they fell upon the rest with the eagerness of starving men.

When Odysseus awoke, he hastened back to the camping place, but, even before he reached it, there came to his nostrils the smell of roasted flesh. Nothing more was needed to make him aware of what had taken place, and, sighing deeply, he cried, “Father Zeus and ye other gods, it is for the undoing of us all that ye have caused me to fall into this sleep, during which my companions have burdened themselves with so heavy a crime!” Bitterly he reproached his friends for what they had done, but it was now too late to mend the evil.

The gods immediately manifested their anger by signs that could not be mistaken: the skins of the cattle which had been flayed rose up and walked away as if they were living animals, and the flesh which was being roasted on spits before the fire bellowed and roared. The gods also decided that punishment should quickly overtake the guilty men. One of the daughters of the Sun god, who had charge of the flocks, had ascended to Mount Olympus as soon as the robbery was committed, and told her father of the crime.

The anger of Helios was immediately roused, and he said to the other gods, “The companions of Odysseus have killed my cattle, which it has been my delight to look upon as often as I have driven across the heavens. They one and all deserve death. Promise me that my right shall be upheld, or I will go down to the Lower World and henceforth enlighten the Land of the Dead.”

To which Zeus made answer, “Shine on, Helios, as of yore, in the sight of gods and men; soon will the ship of Odysseus be again in the open sea, and then I will send a flash of lightning to destroy it.”

The storm continued for six days longer, and during that time the companions of Odysseus lived upon the cattle of the Sun god. On the seventh day, the weather cleared, and they pushed out the ship to sea and left the island. But they made little progress, and soon a black angry-looking cloud swept over the sky — the forerunner of a tremendous storm. The ship was tossed up and down upon the waves, which rose as high as mountains; and the wind tore violently at the ropes and sails. Soon the two ropes which held the mast in its place gave way, and it fell upon the helm with a crash, killing the steersman and sweeping him overboard. Then, after a peal of terrific thunder, there came a flash of lightning which struck the ship. It went reeling over onto its side, and then with a violent lurch swung back again, tossing all the companions of Odysseus out into the sea. For a short time, they could be seen on the surface of the water like so many seabirds — then they were engulfed by the waves, never to rise up again.

💡 This is a chapter from Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Before Odysseus could answer, the soul of his mother vanished from his sight. Then, by the sending of Queen Persephone, there came to him the souls of women famed for their beauty in ancient times. He suffered them to come near, one by one, and drink of the blood; and each, when she had drunk, told him her name and story. Thus he saw Alcmena, who bore Heracles to Zeus; and Leda, fairest of all women saving her daughter Helen, and mother also of the great twin brethren Castor and Pollux. Next came the beauteous Iphimedia, whom Poseidon loved; she too was the mother of twin sons, Otus and Ephialtes. Those two even in childhood grew taller and more huge than any mortal man, for at nine years old their height was four-and-fifty feet, and their breadth fifteen. Then in the pride of their giant strength, they boasted that they would root up lofty Mount Pelion, and set it on the top of Mount Ossa, and so climb up to the house of Zeus in heaven. But ere that could be, or the down had grown upon their cheeks, Phoebus Apollo slew them both with his keen arrows… Many other renowned fair ones did Odysseus behold, of whom time fails me to tell. Last of all came Eriphyle, the lovely and false-hearted, who sold her husband’s life for gold.

When all these had come and gone —and by Queen Persephone’s command they vanished swiftly as they came— there drew near a stately form, robed and sceptered like a king. And Odysseus saw it was the soul of King Agamemnon. The spirit groaned aloud as it came — even such a groan had the dying king thrice uttered under the blows of his murderess… But Odysseus, who had last seen him homeward bound with the spoils of Troy, knew nothing of his death, and deeply it grieved him, for he had been Agamemnon’s most trusted friend and counselor throughout the long war.

As soon as the soul of Agamemnon had drunk of the blood, it knew Odysseus and stretched out its arms to embrace him — but in vain, for it was but a shadow without substance.

Struck with pity, Odysseus cried: “Alas, King Agamemnon, once mightiest of all the kings of the earth, is it thus with you now? Tell me, I pray you, how you died. Did Poseidon raise a tempest and wreck your ships on your passage home — or were you killed in some war or foray you made afterward?”

“I perished neither in shipwreck nor battle,” answered Agamemnon, “but by the treachery of my accursed wife. Long had she been false to me with Aegisthus my kinsman, and for love of him she foully murdered me on the very day of my homecoming. Verily, there is nothing on earth so terrible and shameless as a woman, for, ah, how Clytemnestra welcomed me — with fond looks and honeyed speeches, praising my prowess to the skies and forcing on me honors only fit for the gods! Never did wife seem more overjoyed to see her lord come home in triumph. But ’twas all feigning — all part of her plot to destroy me. And I, suspecting nothing, let her unarm me and cover me with a great scarlet robe and lead me to the warm bath prepared for my refreshment… Then, Odysseus, as I lay in the bath, my wife suddenly threw the heavy robe right over me; and before I could free head or limbs, she struck me three mortal blows with an axe. Ay, that was my death — slaughtered as men slay an ox for the sacrifice! Surely this deed of Clytemnestra’s shall be a reproach to all women for evermore, even to the good among them.”

Odysseus shuddered and said: “Truly, Zeus must have ordained that the daughters of Tyndareus should be ministers of Doom on earth, for the one you wedded has destroyed her own husband, and for her sister Helen’s sake thousands of brave men have been slain in battle.”

Then said Agamemnon: “Take warning from me, Odysseus, not to be over gentle with any woman and never to let any know your whole heart and mind. Not that you need fear harm from your wife, for Penelope, I know, is good and wise. But yet — mark well the counsel I now give you. When you go home at last, do not return openly, but in secret. Remember this, I say, for henceforth no man may wholly trust a woman.

“But now tell me — have you heard any tidings of my son Orestes, whether he lives, and how he fares? Ah, how I longed to see my boy again — he was but an infant when I left him — but even that my cruel wife denied me. When I asked where he was, she said she had sent him away to the care of good friends, because there had been tumults and threats of rebellion in the city. Surely he is yet alive — know you aught of him, my friend?”

Odysseus answered: “Do not ask me concerning Orestes, king, for I know not whether he is alive or dead, and to speak to no purpose was never my way.”

Then with a heavy sigh the soul of Agamemnon turned and departed.

Looking after him as he went, Odysseus saw that beyond the dusky grove lay a vast meadow, covered with flowering asphodel, where troops of souls were roaming in a pale light like misty moonshine. And as one troop came swiftly toward him, he saw the familiar faces of heroes who had fought and died at Troy. Achilles was there with Patroclus at his side, and old Nestor’s brave son Antilochus, who laid down his life for his father, and Ajax, the strongest man of all the Greek host after the son of Peleus.

Achilles led the band and, wherever he walked, all the souls made way for him, bowing low as to their king. So he came first to the pit of blood and, soon as he was ‘ware of Odysseus, he said in a lamentable voice: “What marvel is this that thou hast done, son of Laertes, and how couldst thou dare to enter the abode of the dead?”

“I came, oh, Achilles, to seek counsel of Teiresias the seer, how I might return to my home, for, alas, not yet have I set foot on Ithaca nor on any Greek soil, but ever since leaving Troy I have wandered to and fro upon the seas in toils and troubles without end. So evil is the fate allotted me — how different from yours, Achilles! There never was, no, nor ever will be, a happier man than you, for in your lifetime we Greeks paid you such honors as are rendered to the gods, and now in death you are king over all the folk of this wide land.”

But Achilles answered: “Speak not to me, Odysseus, words of comfort concerning death. Far rather would I drudge for hire under some poor man’s roof that has scarce bread for his household, if only I might be alive upon the earth, than reign over all the nations of the dead… But come, give me tidings of my young son. Did he come to lead my Myrmidons at Troy and take my place among the Greek princes? And the old man, my father Peleus — does he yet hold sway among our people, or do they set him at naught because of his age and infirmities? Ah, could I come back to the light of day, such as I was when I slew my thousands before Troy walls, full soon and full dearly should they pay for it if they have robbed the old man of his dues.”

“Of Peleus I have heard nothing,” said Odysseus, “but of your son Neoptolemus I have much to tell you. I myself fetched him from Scyros at the bidding of our chiefs; and youth though he was, he proved equal to the best of us both in council and in fight. As for the warriors he slew, I could not tell you their names, so many they were, but the chiefest was the Mysian prince Eurypylus, the goodliest man that ever I saw save Memnon, son of the Morning. And when we who were chosen by lot lay ambushed in the wooden horse that Epeus devised, to take Troy by stratagem — then, I say, the rest of us trembled and wept for dread of discovery. But your son, he only neither grew pale nor shed a tear; he was all impatience to sally out from the horse. Nay, he kept his hand on his sword hilt the whole time, so intent was he on the coming slaughter of the Trojans. So when we sacked Priam’s town next day, Neoptolemus had a right noble share of the spoil, as well he deserved, and sailed home with it on board ship. And, moreover, he returned from the war not only safe but sound, for he was never once wounded in all his many and desperate combats.”

When Odysseus had thus spoken, the soul of Achilles went away with long strides across the asphodel meadow, joying that his son had won so great renown in war.

The souls of other heroes, once his comrades, spoke each in turn with Odysseus and told their woeful stories. But Ajax stood apart, in sullen silence, for still he nursed bitter wrath against the man who by his wiles and glib speech had defrauded him of the precious arms of Achilles.

Odysseus was fain to soothe him and said: “Are you still angry, great Ajax, because of those accursed golden arms? Surely Zeus sent them for a bane to the Greeks, seeing that the loss of them caused your death, our tower of strength. Believe me, all our host mourned for you even as they mourned for Achilles himself. But Ajax, blame not me for the death you died; rather blame Zeus, who thereby wreaked his wrath upon us all — and come hither now and speak to me”.

But Ajax answered him never a word, nor looked at him, but departed.

And now a daring wish came into the heart of Odysseus that he might traverse the asphodel meadow, even to the house of Hades, god of the dead, and behold Queen Persephone in her beauty. He longed also to see the famous sinners of olden time whose eternal torments the gods had made known to men for their warning: Ixion, bound upon an ever-whirling wheel; Sisyphus, vainly laboring to roll a huge stone to a hilltop; and Tantalus, tormented by hunger and thirst, breast-deep in a pool of water that vanished when he stooped to drink, beneath fruit-laden boughs that the wind forever tossed out of his reach. But at that moment, with a great crying as of seabirds, an innumerable multitude of the souls came rushing towards him over the meadow, and he turned and fled to the beach.

“Queen Persephone is angry,” he thought, “that I linger here when my errand is done. What if she send forth against me the specter of the dread Gorgon, the sight whereof will turn me to stone?”

Then with all speed he and his comrades got to sea again, and, as soon as they had rowed out a little way and hoisted sail, the wind Circe raised for them wafted them swiftly on their course. All day they sailed, and at nightfall once more landed on her isle.

💡 This is a chapter from Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

But Odysseus slept little that night, and at peep of dawn he stole out of Circe’s chamber and went softly through the house and, awaking his comrades, bade them follow him quickly, for still he had misgivings that her mood, as she had said, might change. And the crew, overjoyed, made haste down to the shore and the cave where they had laid up the ship. But for all their speed, the witch had been there before them and returned again to her house — nay, she passed them as she returned, though they saw her not, for she walks invisible when she pleases. And behold, the ship lay on the beach ready for launching, and a black ram and a black ewe were tethered to her side. The men cried out for wonder; then one said: “But what do we want with these two sheep? We can neither kill nor cook them on board.”

“They are for sacrifice,” answered Odysseus, “at the place whither we go.”

And thereupon he told the crew whither they were bound, and all Circe’s bidding. Bitterly they wept, and loudly they protested that it were better for them to die at once than go on that voyage; yet seeing there was no help for it, and being in great fear of the witch’s anger, they presently launched the ship and hoisted sail. And the wind she had promised drove them swiftly westward, till they passed through the gates of the Midland Sea and out into the great ocean stream that girdles the round world.

After the sun had set, they came to a land whereon he never shines, but fog and mist cover it from year’s end to year’s end, and its folk, who are called the Cimmerians, live in perpetual gloom. As the ship drew near that darksome coast, the wind fell suddenly; and Odysseus saw the place Circe had told him of, the willows dry and sere and the poplar grove. There he landed and made two of his comrades bring the black ram and ewe ashore, and set about the rites that she had bidden him perform.

First, going a little way into the poplar grove, he dug with his sword a shallow pit in the earth, a cubit square, and into this he poured a three-fold drink offering to the dead — firstly milk and honey, next wine, lastly pure water. Then with his sword he cut the throats of the two sheep, holding them close to the pit so that their blood flowed into it. Instantly there came a mingled sound like the rustling of leaves and the sighing of wind and the twittering of birds, and ghostly forms were seen thronging near — forms of maidens, and old men, and warriors in bloodstained armor, and many others. At that, the hair of Odysseus and the two men with him rose on their heads and their teeth chattered for fear, but he mastered himself and said: “Quick, comrades, take the carcasses of the sheep and go back to the beach. Make a fire there and burn them, and pray the gods of the dead to accept the sacrifice.” And the two made haste to obey.

Now Circe had told him that the ghosts would come flocking to drink out of the pit —for they are athirst for life, and a draught of warm blood puts life into them a little while— but that he must keep them off with his sword and not suffer any to drink until Teiresias had come and taken his share. So there he stood on guard, waving the gleaming blade this way and that way; and the ghosts drew back, gibbering — for they cannot endure to look on iron or steel. Then suddenly stepped forth one who seemed no phantom but alive; Odysseus knew him and cried: “Elpenor! In the name of wonder, how came you hither, faster than our ship has sailed? In the hurry of departing, no one missed you from amongst us until we had put to sea. But doubtless here is some witch work of Circe’s.”

“Not so, Odysseus,” answered Elpenor in faint, hollow tones — and even as he spoke, the hues of life began to fade from his visage, and his form to grow shadowy like those others. “Not so,” he said again. “I am come to this land of the dead because I am one of them. I died but a few moments after you left the house of the witch. Nay, start not, Odysseus — ’twas by no violence or treachery, but my own heedlessness… Last night, being heated with wine, I went up to the palace roof to sleep there in the cool. I woke suddenly, before it was yet daylight, and heard your voices and footsteps going away. And I leaped up to follow — but forgetting where I was, nor seeing in the dimness the trapdoor and the ladder by which I had gone up, I fell headlong from the roof and broke my neck… But, oh, my captain, I conjure you, as ever you hope to see home and loved ones again, forget me not when you return to Circe’s isle — for return you will, I know. Let me not lie there unburied, unwept for, but burn me and mine arms on a funeral pyre, with dirges due. Then heap a mound over my bones, by the seashore, and set up my oar thereon —the oar I toiled at long among my comrades— that mariners passing by may know ’tis a sailor’s tomb and pity him his death far from home.”

“All this shall be done as you wish, hapless one,” said Odysseus, much moved. Then Elpenor departed, nor looked behind him as he went.

And now among the hovering faces near Odysseus saw that of his mother, whom he had left alive when he sailed for Troy. Sorely he wept at that sight; much he longed to let her come near, but dared not lower the sword till Teiresias should come. Immediately after, a tall, majestic old man drew near, for whom the other souls made way with reverent looks. He held a golden scepter in his hand, and by his white chaplet and seer’s mantle Odysseus knew this was Teiresias at last.

“Son of Laertes,” said the seer, “why hast thou quitted the light of day and come unto this realm of the dead, where no joy is? If it be to hear soothsay of me, stand away from the pit that I may drink of the blood, and put up thy sword into the scabbard.”

Then Odysseus sheathed the sword, and Teiresias stooped down and drank. But the other souls held aloof, reverencing the great seer. He, when he had drunk, began to speak thus:

“Thou art come to inquire of me, Odysseus, concerning thy homecoming, whether it shall be accomplished. Know, then, that much toil and many perils are yet in store for thee, for thou hast a mighty adversary, even Poseidon; yea, hot and quenchless is his wrath against thee for the blinding of the Cyclops, his son. Therefore, he has vexed thee with all his storms and, wert thou not protected by others among the immortals, he had wrecked thy ship ere now. As long as thou sailest the seas, he will be ever on the watch to do thee a mischief. Yet for all this thou mayest come safe home if thou heed the warning I now give thee…

“Thou comest from Circe’s isle — ay, ’twas that powerful enchantress, daughter of the sun god, who sent thee unto me, and to her thou must return. Fear nothing — she will let thee go as soon as she has given thee good store of all things needful for thy homeward voyage. Also, she will tell thee what course to steer, and of three strange perils that await thee thereon, and how to escape them. But now mark heedfully what I shall say…

“Those perils past, thou wilt come to the island called Trinacria, where there are seven herds of kine and seven flocks of sheep that belong to Helios the sun god. If thou and thy comrades lay no hand on these, then shall ye all return safe to Ithaca. But if not, all that have shared in that sacrilege shall perish at sea. And if thou thyself escape that doom, yet shall thy homecoming be long delayed and very grievous unto thee, for thou wilt return alone, in a ship borrowed from strangers, having lost thine own vessel and all thy comrades; and thou shalt find sore trouble at home — even men of violence lording it in thy house, wooing thy wife and devouring thy substance.”

At these words, Odysseus laid his hand on his sword hilt, and his grey eyes kindled.

“And shall I not take swift vengeance on those men,” he asked, “and set my house in order?”

“Ay,” said Teiresias, “that thou wilt do, whether by craft or in open fight. But soon thou wilt weary of dwelling idle in thy petty kingdom — soon the lust of wandering and adventure will possess thee again. Then, oh, sailor, take thine oar upon thy shoulder and fare forth. Travel on and on, till thou come to a country so far inland that its folk know nothing of the sea, nor of ships, nor of oars, that are as it were the wings whereby ships fly, neither have ever tasted salt, the fruit of the sea. And this shall be a clear sign to thee that thou art come to thy goal — another wayfarer shall meet thee on the road and, beholding the oar thou bearest on thy shoulder, shall say: ‘This is some new sort of winnowing fan.’ Then plant thine oar in the ground and do sacrifice to Poseidon, for then will he be reconciled. After that, return thou home again and offer a sacrifice of a hundred oxen to all the gods. But know, lastly, that death shall come to thee at last in gentle wise, and not upon the sea; thou wilt die in a green old age, with thy folk dwelling peaceably about thee.”

Thus the Theban seer ended his prophecy.

Then said Odysseus: “So be it, Teiresias, for all these things the gods have ordained as it seemed good to them. But now tell me one thing more, I pray you. Yonder I see the spirit of my dead mother; look, there she sits nearest, gazing on the pool of blood, but me she neither regards nor speaks to. What can I do to make her recognize her son?”

Teiresias answered: “Those spirits only can hold speech with thee whom thou shalt suffer to drink of the blood.” And with that he departed to his own place.

Then Odysseus beckoned with his hand to the spirit of Anticleia, his mother; and she glided to the pit and drank. And straightway she knew him and cried out: “Oh, my son, what do you here, in the kingdom of Hades? For I see well that you are a living man. Troy fell long since, I know — have you not yet been home?”

Odysseus made answer: “Mother mine, I came hither to seek guidance from Teiresias of Thebes, and not yet have I revisited my home. Of a truth, sorrow, and trouble have been my portion since first I went with King Agamemnon to Troyland. But I left you there alive and hale — tell me, dear mother, how you died. Was it some wasting sickness or a sudden shaft of Artemis, the destroyer of so many women, that laid you low? And my father, and my young son — do they live and prosper, possessing what was mine, or have others despoiled them of it? And Penelope my wife is she true to me all this while or has she given me up for lost and wedded some princely suitor?”

Then said Anticleia: “My son, Penelope is a faithful wife and sits weeping for you day and night. And Telemachus your son holds his due place both in your house and in all assemblies of the folk, with whom he is in high favor. But your father, worn out by age and sorrows, has withdrawn from the city to a poor hut on an outlying farm of yours and lives there in the humblest fashion, evermore mourning for his lost son. As for me, ’twas neither slow disease nor the swift arrows of Artemis that killed me. No, I died of sheer longing for you, child of my heart; so sorely did I miss your loving ways and wise counsel in all household troubles.”

Then fain would Odysseus have embraced and kissed his dear mother. Thrice he sprang forward with outstretched arms and thrice his arms closed upon empty air.

“How is this, my mother?” he cried despairingly. “Nay, sure, you are not my mother, but a phantom that Persephone, queen of the dead, has sent me in her likeness.”

But the soul of Anticleia answered: “Thus it is with us who are dead, my son. We have no longer flesh and bones that may be grasped, for those have been consumed by the funeral fire. That which survives those flames is but the shadowy counterfeit of our living selves. Even such am I now, dear son. And so farewell — but if you will heed your mother’s bidding, return as soon as may be to the light of day and, when you come home, tell all that you have seen and heard to your wife.”

💡 This is a chapter from Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
nor the furious winter’s rages;
thou thine earthly task hast done,
home art gone and ta’en thy wages.

Dirge in Cymbeline

Respice finem

My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;
judge not the play before the play is done:
her plot hath many changes; every day
speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.

Francis Quarles

“But,” said the little boy, when Herodotus had finished his story, “was it not very hard that Pheidippides should die, just when he was so happy? Was that the reward Pan meant?”

“To die when he was so happy,” repeated Herodotus, “happier than he could ever be again if he lived a hundred years… when his heart was throbbing with bliss so intense that it killed him… to pass away in that wonderful moment, with no pain. Yes, that was Pheidippides’s reward, for the gods themselves could give him nothing better. They could do only one thing more — they made him happy forever… Do you understand now, my child?”

“I think I do,” said Linnet thoughtfully. “Athens was saved — and he had helped… and then, to run so splendidly and tell all the people the good news… No, all that could never happen again. But, if Pheidippides had lived, he would always have remembered it, wouldn’t he?”

“And that would have made him happy, you think,” said Herodotus with a sigh. “Ah, child, may you never feel in coming years how truly said some ancient sage: ‘No sharper pain than to remember happier things in hours of misery.’ And those hours come, soon or late, to every man upon this earth. Why, even the heroes of old —men of a mightier race than ours and sprung from the gods— suffered griefs and troubles manifold; even Peleus and Cadmus, renowned above them all for their good fortune. You have heard of those two, I am sure, my Linnet — for nurses sing rhymes about them over children’s cradles.”

“Yes, my nurse used to do that,” said Linnet eagerly. “She sang a song that began:

May you be lucky, my baby dear,
as ever King Peleus and Cadmus were,
for the gods gave each a lovely wife,
health and wealth and a long, long life——

I forget how it went on, but there was nothing about their having any troubles, I know, nor who they were. Will you please tell me that story, sir?”

“Why, I think I had better not,” said Herodotus, smiling pleasantly, “for one thing, a poet named Pindar has told it so well already that when you are a little older you will be glad to hear it for the first time in his great verse. For another thing, though I love storytelling, I make it a rule to relate only what I have myself seen or what I have good testimony for believing to have really happened. Understand me — I do not say the marvelous tales of poets concerning the heroes of past ages are not true. Nay, I devoutly believe them, for my own part. But I will not put them forth to the world on my authority.”

“My friend,” interposed old Cephalus, who had been placidly listening all this time, “you do but bewilder the child when you talk thus. If you must speak of truth, testimony, and the like, address yourself rather to his grandsire. I, simple as I am, can make shift to understand your distinctions between one story and another; but ’tis no task for a boy of nine summers, forward though he is.”

“Your rebuke, my worthy host, is both just and well-timed,” answered Herodotus with unruffled good humor; “I bow to it, and will say no more.”

But thereupon Linnet protested with all the vehemence of a spoiled child:

“No, no, grandfather! I do understand — I want to hear more.”

“More about Peleus and Cadmus, little one?” asked Herodotus, with a laughing eye. “Well, if you must have it — after much tribulation, they were each wedded to a divine bride: Peleus, to Thetis, the sea god’s daughter; and Cadmus, to Harmonia, child of golden Aphrodite. And the gods who live forever sat at both wedding feasts and bestowed gifts upon the happy bridegrooms; and for Peleus on Mount Pelion, and for Cadmus in seven-gated Thebes, the divine Muses sang the marriage lay. And both those heroes, as the nursery rhyme has it, lived healthy and wealthy to a green old age. Yet mark — Peleus saw his only son, Achilles, perish in his flower at the great siege of Troy; Cadmus, through his daughters’ sin against the gods, saw his heir strangely murdered and ended his days in exile. Thus fared those two acclaimed favorites of the gods. Much less, my child, can ordinary mortals expect abiding good fortune.”

Then is nobody really happy?” asked Linnet wistfully.

“Nay, I said not so,” answered Herodotus, and, “The gods forbid!” exclaimed Cephalus, both at once.

“Come, do not look so downcast, little friend,” went on the former. “‘Tis my fault, I see; but you shall have another story to make amends — and the story will answer your question.”

At this, Linnet smiled again, and Herodotus thus began…

I

“There was a time, long ago, when the city of Athens was in great distress and disorder through the feuds and quarrels of her own citizens. The rich oppressed the poor, and the poor hated and envied the rich; the noble families quarreled among themselves, and some of them stirred up the commons to lawlessness, out of spite against their own kinsmen who were in authority. At last, weary of riots and bloodshed, the Athenians agreed to appoint some wise and upright man to frame a set of laws by which rich and poor might have equal justice, and their city be peaceably governed. And with one accord they chose one of their own citizens, whose name was Solon.

“Now Solon, being indeed a wise man, would not undertake this task until the Athenians had bound themselves by a solemn oath not to alter laws he gave them for ten years, except with his consent; which when they did, he forthwith took ship and sailed away to far countries, and there remained until the ten years were over. For he knew their love of change and that, if he stayed at home, they would try to force him to repeal his laws as soon as they grew tired of them. He had, moreover, a great desire to see the world and seek knowledge and wisdom from men of other countries; but nothing but the reason I have told you made him banish himself all those years from his own city.

“Now after traveling far and wide and seeing many wonders, Solon arrived at the court of Croesus, king of Lydia, who was said to be the richest man in the world. A most gorgeous court it was, and much visited by travelers, for Croesus was as hospitable as he was rich. He received Solon courteously and entertained him magnificently for three days; after that, he ordered some attendants to take him around the royal treasury and show him everything that was there. Vaults packed with gold ingots; huge piles of ivory, amber, silver; sacks of rubies, pearls, and emeralds; room after room full of armor, vessels, and ornaments all of pure gold and exquisitely wrought — all this and more was displayed to the Athenian stranger. He looked at it all attentively, but said nothing. And when, having seen everything, he was led back to the king’s presence, still not a word did he say about the splendors that had been shown to him.

“Then Croesus, who loved compliments and was expecting Solon to make him a flattering speech, imagined he was tongue-tied by the sight of such vast riches, and resolved to give him a cue.

“‘My Athenian guest,” he said, smiling graciously, ‘your fame as a great traveler and a great observer has reached Lydia before you. I wish therefore to ask you, who is the happiest man you have ever seen?’

“‘Tellus the Athenian,’ replied Solon, without hesitating an instant.

“‘Indeed?’ said Croesus, with a look of vexation. ‘I should have thought… but no matter. May I know why you consider this Tellus, of whom I never heard, the happiest of men?’

“‘Because, in the first place,’ said Solon, ‘he was citizen of a free and well-governed commonwealth — for such was Athens during his time; also, he had good and brave sons, and lived to see their children growing up full of promise. Above all, after enjoying as much happiness as can be looked for by mere mortals, he made a glorious and happy end, for Tellus died in battle for his country, and in the hour of victory. He was buried at the public cost on the field where he fell, and the highest honors were decreed to his memory.’

“‘Your idea of happiness,’ said Croesus, after a pause, ‘is quite new to me, and very perplexing. Perhaps I might understand it better if you were to tell me whom you reckon the next happiest man to Tellus.’

“But in his vanity, he was thinking: ‘Though this uncourtly Athenian will not put me first, he will surely at least put me second.’

“‘Next after Tellus,’ said Solon, ‘Cleobis and Biton, citizens of Argos, are the two happiest persons within my knowledge. You, king of Lydia, will no more have heard of them than of him; but since you desire to hear me further on this theme, I will relate their story…

“‘Argos, a very ancient city, has ever been under the especial patronage of the goddess Hera, who has a famous temple there. Every year, Argives choose a woman of noble family to serve for twelve months as Hera’s priestess; then a great festival is held, during which the new priestess is brought in a car drawn by oxen to the temple, where she dwells during her year of office.

“‘Now Cleobis and Biton were the sons of a noble Argive lady named Praxilla; these brothers were near of an age, and from their birth until they were some eighteen summers old they lacked nothing to make them completely happy. Well-born, and citizens of no mean city, they had a moderate fortune; they had not only sound health but superb bodily strength — already, indeed, they had won glory for Argos by victories in the Great Games…

“‘Such and so fortunate were these two lads, when it befell that their mother Praxilla was chosen Hera’s priestess. Then the roof and crown was set upon their happiness.’

“‘How was that,’ asked Croesus, ‘if they were as happy as they could be already?’

“‘You shall hear, king,’ answered Solon. ‘The house where Praxilla lived with her sons was on a manor she owned, some leagues out of the city, and still more distant from Hera’s temple, which stood on a hill outside Argos. So, very early on the morning of the festival, she made herself ready for her journey. The car was ready also; but by some mistake or negligence of the farm thralls, the oxen that should have drawn it had been driven to work on an outlying field and were already far away. None others could be got near at hand — and no time must be lost, if the priestess was not to arrive too late for the solemn sacrifice at which she must take the leading part… Praxilla wrung her hands in despair and began to weep, but her sons lovingly bade her trust to them and be of good cheer. Then quick as thought they lifted her to her seat in the car and set their necks under the yoke; and putting forth all their youthful vigor, they drew her the whole way to the temple, in good time for the sacrifice.

“‘Now the assembled folk, seeing Praxilla thus brought among them and hearing what the two lads had done, were moved to great admiration. All the men loudly praised their feat of strength; all the women cried: «How blessed is the mother of such sons!» Then Praxilla, in a transport of joy and pride, hurried within the temple and, standing before Hera’s image, she lifted up her hands and prayed thus aloud: «Oh, holy and heavenly queen, vouchsafe now a boon to thy priestess! Forasmuch as my dear sons have so honored their mother this day in the sight of all Argos, grant them, I pray thee, the greatest blessing that the gods can bestow on mortal men.»

“‘Thus she prayed; and the gods, who see with other and clearer eyes than ours, straightway granted her prayer, for when they had joined in the holy rites of the day and shared the joyous banqueting that followed, Cleobis and Biton laid them down to rest that night in a chamber of the temple, and fell peacefully asleep — to wake no more.

“‘In them was made manifest the truth of the ancient saying: «Those whom the gods love die young.» Yes, in the prime of their youth, the height of their happiness, with such fair prospects opening before them, those two were snatched in a moment out of life. Whereby, oh, Croesus, the divine power that rules over all things signified plainly that death is better than life, for man that is born of woman.’

“Croesus listened with what patience he could to the story of Cleobis and Biton; but when Solon made an end of speaking, he burst forth angrily:

“‘Do you hold me so cheap, then, Athenian stranger, though you have seen my power and riches and glory — I say, am I, Croesus of Lydia, the richest and mightiest monarch alive, of such small account in your eyes that you rate obscure and private persons above me in point of felicity?’

“‘Ah, Croesus,’ answered Solon, ‘remember that you have sought my opinion concerning human happiness. And who am I? One who knows the divine power to be ever jealous, ever working change and confusion. One who knows that time in his course brings to every man many things he would fain neither see happen to others nor endure himself — yet must he both see and endure them. And consider this: a man’s life is threescore years and ten; that is, twenty-six thousand two hundred and fifty days, according to our Greek reckoning of months and years. Yet out of so vast a number, not one day is exactly like another. Neither when any day dawns can we tell what it may bring forth. Thus you see, Croesus, we men are but playthings of Fortune.’

“The king still frowned, ill-pleased. Solon regarded him earnestly, and went on:

“‘Be not offended, my royal host, though I cannot speak as you wish, for, though I see you are lord of vast treasures and a great kingdom, I cannot call you a happy man until I hear that you have made a happy end. Nay, I must tell you this — the richest of men is no happier than he who has enough to live in modest comfort, and many a rich man is miserable. My countryman Tellus, and the two Argive lads, of whom I have told you, had but little wealth, though sufficient for their needs. Their blessings were such as I have said —liberty, health, personal strength and beauty, family honor and affection— and in the case of Tellus, good children. But note, Croesus, that even a man who has all these good gifts I call not happy but fortunate — unless they abide with him till his life’s end. For to many a man the divine power shows as it were a glimpse of happiness for a season, and afterward casts him down into wretchedness. We ought, therefore, to call no man happy until he is dead; and before we pass judgment on a life or on anything else, we must look to the end.’

“This discourse of Solon did not lessen the king’s displeasure. Croesus coldly bade him farewell and dismissed him without the mark of royal favor —a gift of gold or jewels— which he usually bestowed on distinguished strangers, for he said to himself: ‘This reputed sage, I find, is a very ignorant fellow — a mere blockhead. Otherwise, he would not shut his eyes to all my glory and grandeur, and prate to me about looking to the end.’

“But Solon, having answered the king according to his judgment and conscience, tranquilly went his way.”

II

“There came a time, however, when Croesus called to mind the words of the stranger from Athens and, with bitter cause, acknowledged that they were words of wisdom.

“Great and powerful as the king of Lydia was, a more powerful and a far wiser king presently arose in the East, and that was Cyrus, king of Persia. This warlike prince no sooner came to his throne than he set about adding new territories to the Persian realm; and soon his conquests reached almost to the river Halys, which was the eastern boundary of Lydia. Then Croesus, alarmed and jealous of his rising power, resolved to make war on Cyrus. But first, being a religious man, he wished to seek counsel of the gods. And having heard the fame of the ancient oracle at Delphi in Greece, where the god Apollo gave response to inquiries by the mouth of his priestess, he prepared to send envoys thither with magnificent offerings: a golden lion, huge bowls and vases of solid gold and silver, and the most splendid jeweled necklaces and girdles of his queen. And the envoys were to inquire of the god: ‘How will Croesus fare, if he makes war on the Persians?’

“But before he sent this embassy, Croesus thought it well to test the truth of the oracle, and this was the test he devised. He sent trusty messengers to Delphi with orders that on the hundredth day from their leaving his city of Sardis, they should demand of Apollo’s priestess what Croesus, king of Lydia, was doing on that day, and bring back her answer in writing. And the messengers returned, bringing this written answer:

“‘I know the number of the sands and can reckon the drops in the sea. I understand the dumb and hear the voiceless. Lo, I smell the mingled savor of a hard-shelled tortoise and of lamb’s flesh boiling together in a cauldron — bronze is the cauldron, and bronze the cover.’

“Croesus no sooner read this response than he fell down and worshipped the god Apollo, for, having thought of something no human being could guess he would be doing, he had gone to the kitchens on the appointed day, chopped up a tortoise and a lamb with his own hands, and boiled them together in a bronze cauldron with a bronze lid. And being thus convinced that Apollo did verily speak through the Delphic oracle, he straightway sent off the envoys with those rich offerings and the question I have mentioned.

“The answer they brought back was in these words: ‘If he makes war on Persia, Croesus will destroy a great empire.’ Whereupon Croesus was overjoyed and, calling his lords and captains together he commanded that his host should be set in array with all speed and march across the frontier to attack the Persians; ‘For the god at Delphi,’ said he, ‘has promised me the victory.’ So Croesus went forth to battle, exulting.

“Now at that time no nation in all the East was more valiant and warlike than the Lydians: their whole army was cavalry, the finest in the world, superbly mounted and trained, and armed with long lances. Cyrus, like the great soldier he was, at first sight of their array knew that his own force, which was mainly infantry, could not stand before their charge, and swiftly he devised a stratagem. He ordered the train of camels that carried the provisions and baggage of the army to be unloaded; mounted some horse soldiers on them, and drew them up in front of his infantry, keeping his cavalry in the rear.

“On came the Lydians at the charge, but their foremost horses no sooner saw and smelled the camels than they wheeled around, terrified beyond all control, and dashing on the squadrons behind them, threw the whole body into wild confusion. Soon a stampede began, as their riders tried to force rearward squadrons to the charge, and more and more horses winded or caught sight of the camels. Those beasts, you see, were new to the Lydians, so they did not know, as Cyrus did, that the horse is horribly afraid of the camel and cannot endure the very smell of one. But when this now dawned upon them, they leaped from their saddles, letting the maddened horses rush away; and gallantly they fought on foot, shoulder to shoulder, against the advancing Persians. But not for long could they make a stand against such odds. Hundreds fell; the rest, Croesus among them, fled back, a broken army, to his city of Sardis…

“Fourteen days later, the Persian king was master of the city, and Croesus, a captive in his hands. Now the citadel of Sardis was strongly fortified and built on a precipitous rock; Croesus had shut himself up there with great store of treasure and provisions, believing that it could hold out many months against a siege; meanwhile, he had sent prayers and lavish bribes to various allies to come and rescue him. And indeed, all might have fallen out as he hoped, but for an accident.

“When Cyrus had besieged Sardis for a fortnight, he let proclaim a large reward in gold to the first man who made his way into the citadel — for he saw it could not be taken by storm. There was one part of the rock so sheer towards the top that it looked impossible to be scaled, and therefore no guard was posted on the rampart above it. The day before, however, a certain Persian soldier had seen a Lydian who was cleaning his armor let his helmet fall over the rampart. It stuck in a bush at the foot of the precipice — and to his surprise, the Lydian forthwith climbed down after it. Very slowly, very cautiously, he made his way down, and up again, feeling with feet and hands for certain projections and crannies of the rockface, which the Persian carefully noted. And next day, hearing of the reward, this soldier climbed up in the same way, followed by two or three comrades; they let down rope ladders, by which numbers ascended; and the citadel being thus surprised, the whole town was quickly taken and sacked.

“Now Cyrus had given strict commands, both before the battle and when he began the siege, that the king of Lydia should be taken alive. But when the Persian soldiers took the citadel and put all the garrison to death, one of them rushed into his chamber and was about to kill him, not knowing who he was. And Croesus, though he saw the sword pointed at his breast, neither spoke nor stirred, but looked at it with utter indifference — so stunned was his mind by sudden disaster. Another instant, and he would have been a dead man. But then a miracle happened…

“There was with him his favorite son, a lad fair in mind and body, but dumb from his birth. For years Croesus had offered untold gold to any that would heal him, and, when all physicians failed, had consulted the Delphic oracle with no better success, for the response was: ‘Oh, foolish king, desire not to hear thy son’s voice in thy palace halls; better for thee that should never betide, for he will first speak in an unhappy house.’ And Croesus in his disappointment had harbored doubts as to the truth of Apollo’s oracle, until he proved it in the way I have told you. But now he was to have a proof yet more wondrous… In the anguish of seeing the sword raised to slay his father, the dumb boy’s tongue was loosed, and he cried out: ‘Man, kill not Croesus!’

“These were the first words he ever uttered, but thenceforward the power of speech remained with him all his life.”

“The poor boy!” exclaimed Linnet. “I am so glad about him — I like that part of the story best. But did the Persian soldier listen to him?”

“Indeed he did,” said Herodotus, “and was greatly frightened to think how nearly he had killed the Lydian king, for which Cyrus would have punished him with death. So Croesus was led a prisoner out of his city and into the Persian camp and brought before his conqueror.

“Now Cyrus, it is well known, was not a cruel man, but one that loved justice and showed mercy even to his enemies. I therefore believe that he had some special reason for what he now did. He caused a huge pyre to be built of logs and faggots, and had Croesus, bound hand and foot with iron fetters, placed upon it to be burned alive. Perhaps he followed ancestral custom by sacrificing such first fruits of victory to the gods of Persia — or he may have been fulfilling a vow — or else, as I think most likely, he may have heard that Croesus was a very pious man, and wished to see whether any of his gods would deliver him. But be that as it may.

“Meanwhile, Croesus seemed still too dazed with misery to heed what was passing; he was placed unresisting on the pyre and stood there like one in a trance while it was being kindled. Suddenly, then, he came to himself, and that same instant the words flashed through his mind: ‘Call no man happy while he yet lives.’ And now he knew they were words of inspired truth. He uttered a deep groan and thrice called aloud the name of Solon. Cyrus, who sat to watch at a little distance, hearing Croesus, as he thought, invoke some god, bade his interpreters go near and ask who it was he called upon. Croesus would not answer for a while; at last, when they urged him, he said: ‘I named a man whose discourse it would more profit all kings to hear than to own all the riches upon earth.’ The interpreters were none the wiser and pressed him to explain; he shook his head and remained silent. Still, they plied him with questions, till at length, wearied by their importunity, he briefly told them how Solon, an Athenian, had once visited him, surveyed his treasures with quiet scorn, and uttered a discourse on the vanity of mortal things which now, too late, came home to his bosom.

“All this the interpreters repeated to Cyrus. And the great king was much moved, reflecting that he, too, was but a man, and subject to like reverses of fortune with the fellow mortal, so lately his equal in power and glory, whom he was destroying. Croesus had wantonly provoked him — yet who could tell whether the high gods, to whom vengeance belonged, might not be wroth with him for presuming to exact it beyond due measure? So thinking, Cyrus commanded his guards to put out the fire instantly and take Croesus down.

“But by this time the base of the pyre was well alight, and, for all the soldiers could do, the flames kept mounting higher. All the water skins in the camp were emptied, and more water quickly brought from a neighboring stream, yet the sappy pine logs and dry brushwood burned even more fiercely. Then Croesus, perceiving that Cyrus had a favor towards him, no longer wished to die; bursting into tears, he cried with a loud voice: ‘Apollo! Apollo! Save thou me now, if ever my offerings at holy Delphi were acceptable in thy sight.’

“Even as he spoke, the clear sky was darkened with clouds; the next instant a heavy shower of rain extinguished the blazing pyre.

“Convinced by this miracle that Croesus was a man beloved of the gods and truly virtuous, Cyrus had him taken down from the pyre, released from his fetters, and set in a seat of honor at his own right hand. Then, addressing him with the respect due to an equal: ‘Who persuaded you, King Croesus,’ he said, ‘to invade my territories, and to become my enemy, instead of my friend?’

“‘Great king,’ answered Croesus, ‘what I have done has been to my own loss and to your gain. The cause of both was that god of the Greeks whom they call Apollo, by whose counsel I went to war. Of myself, I had never done so, seeing that the veriest fool knows that peace is better than war, for in peace, children bury their fathers; but in war, fathers bury their children. However, I suppose it pleased the gods that my enterprise should end in this manner.’

“Now while they talked thus, Croesus lifted up his eyes and saw troop after troop of the Persian soldiery returning to camp, laden with plunder from his city. He watched them awhile in silence, then said: ‘Does it befit me, King Cyrus, to tell you my present thoughts, or rather to hold my peace?’

“‘I am always best pleased with frankness,’ answered the Persian.

“‘Let me ask you, then,’ said Croesus, ‘what those crowds of your soldiery are so busy about, that we see coming and going yonder.’

“‘They are sacking your city,’ answered Cyrus, ‘and plundering your treasury.’

“‘You mean your city and your treasury, oh, king,’ rejoined his captive dryly.

“Cyrus was struck with the wisdom of this remark. He at once ordered his officers and guards to withdraw out of earshot, then: ‘Wise Lydian,’ he said, ‘I take your meaning, and, since you give me friendly counsel, be assured I will treat you henceforth as a friend. Yonder men, as you well observe, are looting property which is now mine by fortune of war. But how am I to stop them? For by our Persian custom, which I hold sacred, my soldiers have the right to pillage a conquered town. Nay, to forbid them now were to risk mutiny.’

“‘Sire,’ replied Croesus, ‘since the gods have made me your servant, it is my duty to advise you as well as I can. Consider, then, that your Persians are as yet a poor nation, but haughty, fierce, and turbulent; to put wealth into the hands of such men is the surest way to breed rebellion. And there is treasure enough in Sardis to enrich your whole army, if you let them take it. So my advice is this: proclaim forthwith that you intend to dedicate a tenth of the spoils of Sardis to your god, wherefore every man must bring whatever booty he has already taken to an appointed place, that the whole may be reckoned. And as far the greater part remains yet untouched, set guards at each gate of the city with orders to prevent any more plunder being brought out until the royal scribes and overseers have made a survey and rendered you an account of all the wealth they find. When this has been done, and the tenth set apart, you can distribute as much of the spoil as you think proper among the soldiers, reserving the rest for yourself. Thus, sire, you may put a stop to their pillaging without offending them. For, being religious themselves, they will revere your piety; and being ignorant in such matters, they can have no idea what vast wealth Sardis contains.’

“Cyrus was delighted with this plan and ordered it to be carried out immediately. ‘I see, Croesus,’ said he, ‘that you are resolved to keep a kingly mind in your adversity. Your giving me good counsel, instead of bearing me malice, shows you are as magnanimous as you are wise. Henceforth you are no longer my prisoner, but my honored guest. And to requite the service you have just rendered me, name what boon you will, and I will grant it, to the half of my kingdom.’ But Croesus said he desired nothing but leave to send his fetters to the god at Delphi, whom he had honored above all gods, and to upbraid him for deceiving one who had deserved so well of him. Cyrus inquired what the deceit was and, having heard the whole story of Croesus’s dealings with the oracle, he smiled and said: ‘You shall obtain not only this, but whatever else you ask of me at any time.’

“So Croesus sent certain Lydians to Delphi on that errand. When they entered the temple, they laid the fetters before the image of Apollo and delivered this message to the priestess: ‘Croesus presents to Apollo these first fruits of the war with the Persians and asks if he is not ashamed of persuading him to that war by a lying oracle that he should overthrow Cyrus. He asks also if it is the nature of the gods of Greece to be ungrateful.’

“Then the Pythia —so the Delphic priestess is called— silently took her seat on the tripod in the inner shrine, whence she delivers her responses; presently the spirit of the god came upon her, and she answered after this manner:

“‘The gods themselves cannot avert the decrees of the Fates. It was ordained that Sardis should fall in the days of Croesus; Apollo therefore could not save it, yet for the king’s sake he prevailed with the Fates to delay its capture for three years. Let Croesus know that he prospered three years beyond his destined hour by grace of Apollo; let him remember who delivered him from the burning pyre. As touching the oracle he received, let him blame his own folly, and not the god, for Apollo foretold that, if he warred against Persia, he would overthrow a great empire. Had Croesus not been blinded by his own conceit, he would have sent again to inquire whether that empire was the Persian or the Lydian.’

“It is said that, on hearing this reply from his messengers, Croesus acknowledged that the blame rested with himself, and gave thanks to Apollo for his mercies, for this once proud king, who had rejected and despised the lesson of Solon, learned wisdom from the stern teacher, Adversity. He grew so wise, indeed, that he became one of the most trusted counselors of the great Cyrus, at whose court he dwelt highly honored until his death.

💡 This is a chapter from Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Who knows not Circe,
the daughter of the Sun, whose charmèd cup
whoever tasted lost his upright shape
and downward fell into a grovelling swine?

Comus

But I have seen,
pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
and image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,
a drowsy ship of some yet older day;
and, wonder’s breath indrawn,
thought I —who knows, who knows— but in that same
(fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
—stern painted brighter blue—)
that talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
from Troy’s doom-crimson shore,
and with great lies about his Wooden Horse
set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

James Elroy Flecker

“Courage, men,” said the captain of the galley. “Here is land at last, praise the gods. We are close in — now row with a will, for right ahead I spy a wooded cove where the water runs deep inshore. There we can moor the ship and feel the good earth under our feet again.”

The crew answered only with groans, but they bent doggedly to their oars, and soon the black-prowed galley lay alongside a quay of rock in the natural harbor.

The captain stepped first ashore. He was a smallish man of about fifty; lean as a greyhound, deep-chested, with remarkably broad shoulders and arms on which the muscles stood out like whipcord. Flecks of grey showed in his matted hair and beard, his tanned face was deeply lined; but he moved with the springing gait of youth, and the eyes that peered from between his wrinkled eyelids were bright and hungry as a falcon’s. Unkempt, in stained and tattered garments, he had yet the air of one accustomed to command.

His crew, some two dozen in number, were as gaunt and weather-beaten as he. They stumbled ashore like men half dead with weariness; after drinking thirstily from a stream that ran sparkling down to the cove, they dragged themselves to the nearest shade and fell at once into the deep sleep of exhaustion. And the captain, after some peeping and prying into the thick copsewood around about, lay down and slumbered, or seemed to slumber, like the rest.

The sun was rising when that haggard ship’s company made their landfall; all day he journeyed through a clear and windless heaven and went down in splendor to his ocean bed. Night followed, mild and starry — and still they slept on. It was high noon of another cloudless day before they began to wake, one after another, and gather by the ship’s side. Then arose cries of dismay — for the captain was nowhere to be seen. These rough sailors looked at each other with scared faces; some fell to whimpering like lost children; others muttered, “He has deserted us”, and cursed under their breath.

“No, no,” exclaimed a young seaman. “That he never would — fie on you to say it! He must have gone scouting, to find us food and shelter, as he has done many’s the time.”

“Ay, Elpenor, and dear enough we have paid for his scouting,” said another sailor bitterly. “Wherever we put in, ’tis the same story. Instead of filling our water kegs, lifting a few sheep or goats, and making off quietly, nothing will serve Odysseus but to go looking for the folk of the place and try what he can wheedle out of them. Folk, indeed! Ghosts, monsters, devils — they are all the folk we have met or are like to meet, in these accursed seas beyond the world’s end.”

“You forget the gentle lotus eaters,” interrupted Elpenor.

“Not I,” said the other. “Gentle enough they are and made us welcome to share their food. But why? Because they would have others fall under the same spell that has made them more like wraiths and phantoms than living men. They walk in a daydream; wife, children, homeland, are no more to them than an old song of little meaning. Odysseus did wisely, no doubt, to drag aboard by force our shipmates that tasted the lotus. And yet” —with a heavy sigh— “better have dreamed our lives away on that pleasant shore than perish miserably one by one through his foolhardiness and greed.”

“Eurylochus,” said Elpenor, “we all know you for a born grumbler — one that will still be talking and is more for talking than doing. Ever the first at a feast and the last at a fray — there’s the proverb to fit you, comrade. But keep your long tongue off our captain, for I will not hear him slandered so grossly.”

“Slandered, say you?” exclaimed Eurylochus. “By all the gods, I speak mere truth of him, and I dare you to deny it. Ay, for I have witnesses you cannot gainsay — our poor shipmates that the one-eyed giant killed and devoured in his cave. Who took them there? Who would not come away when they begged him, but must needs wait for that savage, to see if he would give him a present? And so six of our best men died horribly, before Odysseus escaped with the rest. He came off safe, mark you! He always does — it is other men’s lives he stakes on his desperate throws, the shrewd fellow!”

“You lie,” retorted Elpenor angrily. “Odysseus ran the same risk as those six hapless ones. Nothing but divine providence kept him from suffering the same doom.”

“Do you tell me that, now?” said Eurylochus, smiling sourly. Then I warrant divine providence made him anchor his own ship outside the harbor of the Laestrygons, and send the rest of the fleet inside — where the crews were speared to a man by those cannibals?”

“Doubtless,” said Elpenor gravely, “and, but for that, you and I and our whole ship’s company would have been butchered too.”

“Ay, that is true enough… We should all have been dead men… speared in the water like porpoises…” chorused the listening crew.

And they shuddered, remembering the glimpse they had had of that horror and the hideous roar of savages, mingled with the death shrieks of their comrades, that rang in their ears as they rowed madly out to sea.

They had been toiling at the oar ever since — for there was a dead calm — through unknown seas. The only food they had left was black bread and a few onions; there was no more water, but Odysseus had unsealed for them the last jar of the noble wine he had looted from Apollo’s priest in Ciconia. And more than the wine, his invincible cheerfulness had kept heart in them until they sighted land once again, and once again could at least feel solid ground under their feet instead of the eternal heaving of the ship. For the moment, that had sufficed. A sort of horror of the great deep possessed these voyagers, so long tossed upon its bosom; it was very heaven to them to be ashore — no matter where. Only let them sleep off their deadly weariness, and the morrow might take thought for the things of itself.

But now the morrow was come, and it seemed they must face its unknown trials without the indomitable leader who had won their confidence — though not their love. Only Elpenor, young and warm-hearted, was attached to him.

And it was Elpenor who now joyously exclaimed: “What did I tell you, comrades? Look, here comes brave Odysseus with our dinner!”

Then even the surly Eurylochus could not forbear to cheer as Odysseus came up, bent almost double under the still warm carcass of a huge stag, which was slung around his neck by a rope of green withes tied to its feet. He threw down his load, drew a long breath, and said cheerily:

“See, my men, what the good fairies hereabouts have given you! Pitying us poor mariners, they sent this monstrous beast across my path as I went foraging through the woods. My spear did the rest — ’twas a good throw, though I say it that should not — right through his spine went the point, and stuck so fast, I could scarce tug it out again. Well, there was he, dead; and there was I, wondering how to bring him away. Dragging him was out of the question, for there are no paths in these woods, I may tell you. However, not to be beaten, I twisted me a rope of green withes, knotted his four feet together, and made shift to hoist him onto my back. So now for a meal of good roast meat, that will put fresh life into us. What, comrades, all’s not lost yet, you see! Let us eat and drink, and forget care till tomorrow.”

The hungry crew needed no urging to light fires of driftwood and to flay and cut up the gigantic stag. Soon, a delicious smell of broiling venison gladdened their hearts; and the meal that followed, washed down with good wine, made the most inveterate grumblers ready to swear for the nonce that Odysseus was the best captain that ever sailed the seas.

💡 This is a chapter from Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Then asked he, if folk that heer be dede
have lyf and dwelling in another place;
and African seyde, “ye, withoute drede,”
and that our present worldes lyves space
nis but a maner death, what wey we trace,
and rightful folk shal go, after they dye,
to heven; and shewed him the galaxye.

Than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is,
at regard of the hevenes quantite;
and after shewed he him the nyne speres,
and after that the melodye herde he
that cometh of thilke speres thryes three,
that welle is of musyke and melodye
in this world heer, and cause of armonye.

Chaucer, proem to The Parlement of Foules

Chaucer here paraphrases Cicero’s Dream of Scipio, to whom his great ancestor Africanus appeared and revealed these things.

“But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness
hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I
to the celestial Sirens’ harmony,
that sit upon the nine infolded spheres
and sing to those that hold the vital shears,
and turn the adamantine spindle round
on which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,
to lull the daughters of Necessity,
and keep unsteady Nature to her law,
and the low world in measured motion draw
after the heavenly tune, which none can hear
of human mould with gross unpurged ear.”

Milton, Arcades, 61

Long, long ago, in the land called Pamphylia, a brave man named Er was killed in battle, fighting for his country. The enemy won the field, and it was ten days before the fellow citizens of Er could take up the bodies of their dead to give them burial. And they buried the rest where they lay, for decay had done its work on them — but when they found Er’s body, behold, it was still fresh. So his friends carried the corpse home and laid it on a pyre of logs to be burned after the custom of the country. But even as they set light to the pyre, the dead man sat up and began to speak. And when he was taken down from the pyre and had fully come to himself, he was urgent to tell them the things he had seen and heard in the other world, for this, he said, was a charge laid upon him there. Those that then heard the tale placed it on record; thus it was preserved, and as Er told it, so it is set down here.

When the soul of Er departed from his body, it journeyed along with a great company of other souls to a certain faery place, where were two rifts, side by side, in the earth; and just above each rift there was an opening in the sky overhead. And between the rifts sat certain judges, who passed sentence on the souls, according to their works. Only the soul of Er was not brought to trial; a mysterious voice bade him stand apart and give earnest heed to what passed, for he must carry a report of it to the land of the living. So he looked and listened. And he saw that the judges placed tokens of acquittal on the breasts of the righteous souls and caused them to ascend through the right-hand opening in the heavens; while tokens of their guilt were hung on the backs of the unrighteous souls, and they were sent down through the left-hand rift in the earth. All who were thus judged were souls of men who had just died, like himself.

Then he saw also that while the newly disembodied souls were passing upwards or downwards from that place, two other companies of spirits were arriving there; one coming down from the second sky opening, and the other rising out of the second rift in the earth. And the place, as Er described it, is a great and grassy meadow, wherein the two companies of arriving souls met and mingled. All alike seemed weary, as from long travel, and gladly laid themselves down to rest in the meadow, like men who have gathered from far to some public festival.

But the souls that had come down from the heavens were arrayed in raiment white and clean, whereas those who arose out of the earth showed all squalid and dust-begrimed. Many greetings passed between souls that recognized each other; infinite the questions and replies exchanged between the comers from heaven and from the underworld. The former spoke of pleasures and glories indescribable; the latter dwelt with tears and lamentations on the terrible things they had seen and suffered during their pilgrimage below, which they said had lasted a thousand years.

It was impossible, Er said, to repeat in full all the tales to which he eagerly listened, but the sum of them came to this — for every crime and misdeed done in the body, each soul paid tenfold retribution after death. And their purgatory lasted a thousand years, because the full measure of human life was reckoned by the supreme judge as a hundred years. In like manner, the souls of those who had done justice and loved mercy while on earth were rewarded tenfold in Paradise.

Er learned that the crimes most heavily punished were impiety, disobedience to parents, and the murder of kinsfolk; while they who had honored the gods and their parents, and cherished their own kindred, were especially rewarded. There was a countryman of his own, he said, among the tormented — and this was what he heard about him…

He heard one of the souls ask another where Ardiaeus the Great was. Now this Ardiaeus had been the despot king of a city of Pamphylia a thousand years before Er’s time, and was said to have murdered his aged father and elder brother, besides doing many other wicked deeds. The soul to whom this question was put gave this answer: “Ardiaeus is not come, nor is he likely to come hither. For as we came, we saw this, among other fearful sights. Just as we drew nigh to the rift in the earth, and were about to mount up, having passed through our purgatory, we suddenly saw Ardiaeus along with some others — I fancy most of them had been tyrants too, though there were certainly a few private persons who had been guilty of enormous crimes. This company, just as they made sure of going up, were driven back by the rift itself, which drew together and gave forth a bellow. This it does whenever souls incurably wicked, or such as have not yet expiated their sins, try to go up. Thereupon certain fierce sentinels —men all aflame they seemed— who understood that signal, dragged away some of the company, seizing them round the waist; but Ardiaeus and others were bound hand and foot, and flung down, and flayed with whips, and carded, like wool, upon thornbushes which are there on the wayside; and a voice cried to those who were then passing by the reasons for these tortures, and that the victims were about to be cast into nethermost hell. All the terrors we had suffered —and they were manifold— were nothing to the dread we then felt lest that bellow should sound forth when we tried to go up. And thankful we were that the rift let us pass through in silence.”

Now when the souls had rested seven days in the meadow, they were commanded to leave it and set forth on their journey. Three days they journeyed, and on the fourth day they came to a place from whence they looked down upon a great belt of light, straight as a pillar, stretched from horizon to horizon. The colors of it were like the rainbow, but more brilliant and pure. After another day’s travel, the souls reached the middle of this belt; then they saw that its ends are fastened to the opposite sides of the sky, which it binds together, and so holds in place the whole revolving heavens. This is what men on Earth call the Milky Way. And now were they come to the center of the universe, where sits enthroned the great goddess Necessity, the holder of the lots, who steers the course of all things. There she sits, ever twirling upon her knees a mighty spindle of adamant; and as she twirls it the seven planets revolve in their orbits. For the whorl of her spindle is not single, like those we know, but eightfold; to imagine it, you must fancy eight shining wheels fitted each inside the other like a Chinese nest of boxes. Each wheel is the orbit of a planet, except the eighth and outermost, which is that of the so-called Fixed Stars. The other seven are the wheels of the Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn.

(In later times, men came to think of these eight divisions of the heavens not as “wheels” but as “spheres”; thus it is that our own poets have spoken of “the music of the spheres,” meaning the same music which now enchanted Er and his companions. But a sphere is a ball, and what they saw, by his account, were not balls, but wheels or circles of light.)

And upon each wheel stands a siren —a weird and beautiful shape, half bird, half woman— uttering one note all the while, as it were the note of a harpstring; and the eight notes uttered by the sirens make up a harmony most divine. Round about the throne of Necessity sit three other goddesses, each likewise on a throne. These are her daughters, the three fates, whose names are Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their robes are white and glistering, and the head of each is crowned with a garland. They are seated at equal distances apart and at equal distances from the throne of their mother. Er beheld their faces, solemn and vast, like the face of the sphinx that is in Egypt. But the face of Necessity was veiled. He saw that Clotho with her right hand guided now and then the outermost rim of the great spindle whorl as it spun; Atropos with her left hand guided the innermost; but Lachesis from time to time laid either hand on both those circles. And the three, with scarce-moving lips, were chanting a song that no man knoweth. After this fashion then is the spinning of the fates.

Now the souls no sooner came to this place than it was required of them to draw near to Lachesis. Beside her stood an interpreter —as such he was named to them— who marshaled them in order before her throne. Then he took from her lap a heap of discs marked with numbers and a heap of inscribed tablets. The numbered discs were lots, and the tablets were plans of lives. For each tablet bore the name and description of a life on earth, set out like the chart of a voyage. The lives were of every kind, no two alike. There were lives of all living things, and of all sorts and conditions of men, from kings to beggars.

But this Er saw by and by. When the interpreter had gathered up these things from the lap of the goddess, he mounted a high pulpit and made proclamation as follows: “The word of Lachesis, the virgin daughter of Necessity. Ye souls, creatures of a day, here beginneth a new cycle of mortal life for you that are subject to mortality. Your earthly fate shall not be chosen for you, but you shall choose it yourselves. Let him who draws the first lot be the first to choose a life, whereunto he shall be bound without recall. But Virtue owns no master; he that honors her shall possess her more abundantly, and he that neglects her shall have less of her. The chooser alone shall be answerable for his choice; it shall not be laid to the charge of heaven.”

When he had thus spoken, the interpreter scattered the lots among the crowd below, and each soul took up the one that fell nearest to him, except Er, who was forbidden to do so. Then the plans of life —which Er could see were many more than enough to go round— were laid out on the ground before the souls, who came forward to make their choice in order, according to the number of the lot each had drawn. As I have said, there were all sorts of lives to choose from, and in each sort there was infinite variety. Among the lives of kings and princes, for instance, there were some that ended in full power and prosperity, and others that met with a sudden and disastrous close murder, or exile and beggary. There were also lives of famous men — some renowned for personal beauty, others for strength and skill which made them great athletes, others again, for noble birth and illustrious homage; and there were lives in plenty of men not distinguished for anything. Lives, too, of celebrated women — and of women without celebrity. But Er saw that unlike health, wealth, poverty, disease, and other such accompaniments, goodness or badness of character was nowhere included in these life plans. This set him thinking, and, as it seemed to him, the reason was that a man’s character is not part of his destiny, nor born with him, but is the outcome of his actions. That, he thought, was what the interpreter meant by saying that Virtue owns no master. For a soul might choose to be a king, but not to be a good king; because Virtue is not bound up with any one kind of life, high or low, rich or poor, but may be sought and won in all — though more hardly in some than in others.

And so thought that wisest teacher of ancient Greece who once told to his disciples this tale of Er — “The messenger from the other world,” as he called him. This teacher, even Socrates, said that as for the spirits in Er’s vision, so also for us upon earth, a great choice is ordained; and that the only knowledge worth a man’s striving after is the knowledge which will enable him, at all times and in all places, to choose between the good and the evil life, counting as good the life which will lead the soul nearer to righteousness, and as evil the life which will draw it towards unrighteousness, and reckoning all besides as dust in the balance. But turn we again to our tale.

As the souls were coming forward to survey the life plans spread before them, the interpreter’s voice was heard again.

“Even for the last comer,” he said, “there remains a life not undesirable and nowise evil, provided he chooses it with prudence, and lives it strenuously. Let not the first chooser be heedless — nor the last discouraged.”

Thereupon the soul who had drawn the first lot advanced, and after some hasty glances at lives of kings, forthwith chose the most absolute and powerful monarchy he could find. But, reckless and greedy that he was, he had not looked to see what else there might be in that life of power and pride, before he chose it; so he never noticed the fearful things it had in store for him, whereof the crowning horror was to banquet unawares on his own children’s flesh — to such revenge would his rule goad his subjects. Therefore, when this soul had taken up the life plan he desired and studied it awhile, he fell to beating his breast and lamenting aloud. And unmindful of the interpreter’s words of warning, he laid the blame of his miseries not upon himself but upon Fortune and Destiny, and indeed upon anybody and everybody rather than himself. What surprised Er not a little was that this rash and misguided soul was one of those who had come from heaven; he heard also that its former life on earth had been that of a virtuous, law-abiding citizen in a well-governed state. “It seems,” thought Er, “that obeying laws, however good they are, is not enough to make a man’s soul good. Or how could this one, being given free choice, have chosen to become a despot?” And as he looked on, he observed that more than half the souls who made hasty and mistaken choices had likewise come from heaven, while most of those that had come from beneath the earth chose with far greater care. This, he was told, was because the former had not known the discipline of pain, which the others had both seen and felt in the Underworld.

It was indeed a wonderful sight, Er said, to watch the souls choosing their lives — a sight to cause at once laughter and tears and astonishment. The choice seemed nearly always to be guided by the happenings of the soul’s former life. Thus he beheld the soul that had lived on earth as Orpheus choosing a swan’s life, because he could not endure to be born again of a woman, so great was the horror of womankind that those savage Thracian women had given him, who tore him to pieces in their frenzy. And the soul of the blind bard Thamyris chose to be reborn as a nightingale, because of the affliction he had known as a man. But Er saw a swan choosing to give up its nature and become a man, and other souls that had been singing birds doing likewise. Now the soul that drew the twentieth lot chose a lion’s life. It was the soul of Ajax, who would have no more to do with the race of men, remembering the baseness and injustice he had seen in them when the armor of Achilles was awarded not to him but to Odysseus. Next came the soul of Agamemnon; his miserable end had so taught him the vanity of human ambition that he chose the life of an eagle.

Not long after, Er saw the soul of Atalanta, still garbed as a huntress; fair and terrible she looked, as when she was wont to run races with her suitors. She had drawn one of the middle lots and, casting her eyes on the life plans that yet remained, she saw an athlete’s life, all full of honors and rich prizes. She paused, then stooped and took it up quickly, like one unable to resist a lure; and Er thought that just so she must have looked when she halted to pick the golden apple that Melanion threw her while they ran together, and thereby lost the race to him.

Then he saw the soul of Epeus — he that made the wooden horse and was said to make up in craftsmanship what he lacked in courage, being no lover of fighting. Epeus did not belie the old report of him, for he chose to live again as a woman skilled in weaving and needlework. And then, among the last, he saw some way off a soul that seemed changing from human form into that of an ape; he heard that this was Thersites the buffoon, and was not surprised at his choosing to become the animal whose nature had been nearest to his own.

The last lot of all, as it chanced, was drawn by the soul of Odysseus. That great adventurer, it seemed, had been purged of all his ambition and love of roving by the memories of his troubled past. For when, last of all, he came forward to make his choice, he went to and fro a long while looking for a quiet, retired life among those that were left over. With some pains he found one, lying where it had been contemptuously thrown aside by the other souls. As soon as he set eyes on it, he eagerly took it up. “This is the life for me,” he said, “and the one I should have taken even if I had drawn the first lot, and had first choice of all.”

Now when all the souls had chosen their lives, they advanced one by one to the throne of Lachesis and saw as it were a cloud of winged shapes, some bright and others dusky, hovering around her. These were fortunes, one of which belonged to each of the lives they had chosen. And Lachesis gave every soul into the keeping of its own fortune, who would thenceforth guide it through its earthly course. This fortune first led the soul to Clotho, making it pass under her outstretched hand that was twirling the great spindle whorl, so that the hand just touched its head in passing; next they came to Atropos, and the soul passed under her hand likewise. For by the touch of these sister fates each soul is bound irrevocably to its chosen life.

After this, the whole multitude passed through a great archway underneath the throne of Necessity; Er was permitted to pass through also, but not until all the rest had done so. And they all journeyed on to the Plain of Forgetfulness; the air of that place is stifling, so terrible is the heat, and there is not a tree or a blade of grass to be seen. A river called Carenought runs through the plain, and no vessel ever made can hold the water of that river, for it bursts whatever it is put into, even vessels of iron. As evening drew on, the host of souls took up quarters for the night on the riverbank; then it was made known to them that all who come thither must drink a certain quantity of that water. Er would gladly have drunk, being athirst, but he alone was somehow held back from doing so. All the other souls drank immediately and at that instant they forgot everything that had ever happened to them. Er saw many drink more than the ordained quantity, and it was told him that this was imprudent; for though the water brings forgetfulness to all for a time, those who drink only their allotted portion may regain on earth vague memories of their past lives, and things seen in other worlds, which will be a spring of wisdom to them and an inward light. When the souls had all laid them down to sleep, and it was about midnight, there came a clap of thunder and an earthquake, and that moment they were carried up to their birth, this way and that through the darkness, like shooting stars. As for Er, how he came back to his body he could not tell; all he knew was that he suddenly opened his eyes in the light of dawn and found himself stretched out on the funeral pyre.

Have you ever wondered if there is a connection between English have, German haben, and Latin habere?

Because they all mean the same and look quite similar…

Is it just a coincidence, or is there more to it?

False cognates & false friends

To be honest, I really don’t like that both terms are generally used interchangeably. For me, they are two different things:

• False cognates are those that seem to have the same root but don’t actually have an etymological connection, even if they have similar meanings. The fact that they look similar and mean something similar is just pure coincidence. The perfect example here, as we will elaborate on quite soon, is have/haben and habere.

• False friends can be either false cognates or true cognates, but, in any case, they mean two different things. An example of false friends from true cognates might be pretend ‘make believe, simulate’ and Spanish pretender ‘have the intention (to do something)’, both from Latin praetendere ‘to spread before / in front’. False friends from false cognates might be sin and Spanish sin ‘without’.

That having been said for my peace, let’s move on to the content you came for: Grimm’s law.

English vs. Latin

It is generally accepted that English is a Germanic language; however, it has received a huge influence from Latin, either directly or (mostly) through (Norman) French.

If you came here looking for Grimm’s law, you definitely know a thing or two about Indo-European linguistics, and that both Germanic languages and Latin have a common ancestor, usually called Proto-Indo-European (PIE).

(A very impressive number of English words —some claim it can be more than 50 or even 60 percent— are Latin borrowings (i.e. they have been borrowed more or less directly from Latin) or were adopted from French in the middle ages. Interesting as these are, they’re not what we came for.)

What we’re here for are those words that have evolved for centuries and millennia, from PIE, and have done so in the Germanic languages and English on the one hand, and in Latin on the other hand. This is where Grimm’s law explains lots of interesting linguistic stuff.

This is the law that explains how it is possible that fish and piscis (cf. piscatorial), or foot and pes, pedis (cf. pedal, pedicure), or hundred and centum (cf. century) are all related and have a common ancestor, despite them being not very similar.

(Please note: the cf. examples are merely illustrative so you can see better the connection between the words. The fact that piscatorial, pedal, and century exist in English is because they’re Latin borrowings.)

Changes between Proto-Indo-European and the Germanic languages

We’re going to explain only one rule (and its addendum), Grimm’s law, that explains many many many of the hard differences between English and Latin words sharing the same PIE root, such as fish and piscis, etc.

The common name for this law has Grimm in it because it was Jacob Grimm, one of the famous Grimm brothers (the ones with the fairy tales), who, based on previous work by other linguists, formulated the law in a very systematic way.

Jacob said that PIE plosive consonants (which in Latin stayed pretty much unchanged) evolved, mutated, in the evolution of the Germanic languages. The changes might have started when the aspirated plosives lost their aspiration:

• */bʰ/ > /b/

• */dʰ/ > /d/

• */gʰ/ > /g/

(In historical linguistics, an asterisk means that a sound, word, etc. is not attested, i.e. there is no actual evidence of it, but it’s what linguists have reconstructed thanks to all the science behind historical linguistics. In our case, the asterisk marks anything Proto-Indo-European.)

Now, if old */bʰ/ has evolved into /b/, old /b/ has a conflict, so old /b/ also has to evolve into something else to avoid being absorbed by new /b/. Then, voiced plosives become voiceless:

• */b/ > /p/

• */d/ > /t/

• */g/ > /k/

And now again, old /p/ has a conflict with new /p/, so it has to evolve into something else. Then, voiceless plosives become fricatives:

• */p/ > /f/

• */t/ > /θ, ð/

• */k/ > /h/

Comparison between Latin and English

With this knowledge, we can see through the differences between Latin and English. Unless specified or said otherwise, the Latin word means the same or pretty much the same or should be obvious to any English-speaking person.

PIE */d/ > /t/

• *déḱm̥ > decem | ten < tehn

• *dn̥ǵʰwéh₂s > lingua1 | tongue

PIE */g/ > /k/

• *gel‑ > gelu2 | cold

PIE */p/ > /f/

• *peysḱ‑ > piscis | fish

• *pl̥h₁(nós) > plenus | full3

• *ped > pes, pedis | foot

PIE */t/ > /θ, ð/4

• *tréyes > tres | three

• *ph₂tḗr > pater | father

• *bʰréh₂tēr > frater | brother

PIE */k/ > /h/5

• *ḱḗrd‑ > cor, cordis | heart

• *ḱwṓn > canis | hound

These last three sections are actually more obvious in English than in Latin, where the evolution is more… unstable. Just trust me.

PIE */bʰ/ > /b/

• *bʰer‑ > fero6 | bear ‘carry’

PIE */dʰ/ > /d/

• *dʰwṓr > foris7 | door

• *(h₁)rewdʰ– > ruber | red

PIE */gʰ/ > /g/8

• *weǵʰ– > veho9 | wagon

So what about have/haben and habere?

We’ve already mentioned that English have, German haben and Latin habere all mean the same: ‘to have’; also, they all happen to look very similar. However, while they are not false friends, they are false cognates…

According to what we already know, English have (and German haben) have a common PIE root *keh₂p-, which exists in Latin capere ‘take, seize, capture’ (capture actually comes from capere; also the [in]famous capisce?), but which is not the one in habere.

So what about habere? Its PIE root seems to be *gʰeh₁bʰ- (we saw that aspirated consonants have weird evolutions in Latin), and this root means ‘take, hold, maintain’. Some linguists claim this is also the same root we have in English give (German geben), but, despite the similarity, it’s really unlikely.

💡 This is a chapter from Once Upon A Time: Children’s Stories From The Classics by Blanche Winder ← Go there to read the full book free online; it is also available in paperback and Kindle editions.

After Odysseus had escaped from the cave of the terrible one-eyed giant, he and his companions went sailing onwards, hoping, yet not knowing, that they were on their way to Greece. But Poseidon was very angry, for the Cyclops whose eye had been put out by “Noman” was the son of the sea king. Odysseus, knowing that Poseidon would do all he could to raise storms about his ship, made his way to the island of Aeolus, the king of the winds, who lived in a fine brazen palace on top of the cliffs, Aeolus was so delighted with the tales of Odysseus’s bravery that he promised to help him; and, in order that no more tempests should trouble him, gave him all the strong and angry winds tied up by force in a big leather bag. Only one wind was left outside; this was Zephyr, the gentle west breeze, which had once been so kind to Psyche, and which was always ready to be nice and gracious to men.

Zephyr, left alone on the sea, filled the sails of the king’s vessel; and, with songs and laughter, the lost Greeks sailed onward over the calm, blue water. Then, one night, they saw their own friendly lighthouse, and, as dawn broke, recognized the mountains of their long-lost country. How delighted they were! Odysseus, for the first time for ten days, left the helm and went below to get an hour’s sleep. But, while he slept, his companions did a shocking and treacherous thing.

They did not know what it was that the king kept so carefully in the leather bag, but they thought it must be a lot of gold and jewels. Wanting to steal some of this treasure, they crept on tip-toe to the cabin where the bag hung on the wall and untied the silver cord which secured it. And, behold, with a shriek and a roar, out rushed all the fierce strong winds in a body!

Round and round spun the ship; then, as all the winds wanted to get home again, they set off for the brazen palace of Aeolus as fast as they could, carrying the vessel with them. Aeolus was so angry that he would do nothing more for Odysseus and refused firmly to shut the winds up in the bag again. Even as Odysseus begged Aeolus to think the better of his determination, the winds blew the ship away from the shore onto an island where lived a giant who was even fiercer and hungrier than the Cyclops. After the giant had eaten a few of them, the remainder of the crew took to the oars and managed to row the vessel away to another island, where in the evening they dropped anchor in a lonely bay, and, quite exhausted, slept soundly until the dawn.

When morning came, the sailors found that the land was covered with thickets, and was as lonely as the waters of the bay; but, far off, they spied a little curling column of smoke rising in the middle of a wood. So Odysseus divided his men into two parties. He himself took command of one party, and the bravest of his crew, called Eurylochus, he made captain of the other party. Then they cast lots which should go to see where the smoke came from, and which should stay and look after the ship, and the lot fell upon Eurylochus and his party.

Off, then, they set through the forest, and presently a gloomy stone palace showed through the glades. Out of the courtyard of this castle, wild animals peered, curiously, at the sound of footsteps. Then, instead of rushing to devour the strangers, these mountain creatures —bears and wolves and lions— came trotting up with a strange and gentle timidity, wagging their tails and licking their visitors’ hands! In great surprise, Eurylochus and his companions walked on, but presently stood still to listen. For, from the inside of the gloomy palace, they heard somebody singing even more sweetly than the sirens sang.

The glorious voice swept up to the roof and out into the courtyard. Peeping through the door, the men saw a lovely maiden with golden hair, and white hands busy with tapestry upon a loom. She looked up from her work and ceased her song as she saw the wondering faces at the entrance. Then, rising to her feet, she went to meet them with an enchanting smile and invited them to come in.

One after another, the crew shyly entered — except Eurylochus. He was suspicious of this beautiful being, and hid himself outside in the courtyard, waiting to see what would happen. The enchantress, whose name was Circe, seemed to be quite alone in the palace. She herself showed her visitors to the fine seats, piled with soft cushions, that were placed all around the hall; and, with her own hands, served them with a feast of delicate white bread, ruby-colored wine, creamy milk, and golden honey. Very hungry and thirsty the men were, and they all ate and drank gladly; but, as time went on, they began, one by one, to nod with drowsiness. Well they might, for Circe had mixed with the wine and the milk magical herbs of which she alone knew the secret. As soon as her guests were half-asleep, she drew out her sorceress’s wand and waved it around and around their nodding heads.

Then what do you think happened? The poor unfortunate sailors, who had been enjoying themselves so thoroughly, felt their noses growing very long, their legs very short, and their bodies very round and coarse. Their hair turned to bristles on their heads, and their ears became like little flaps. Their eyes grew small, round, and cunning; and, when they tried to speak, they could only grunt or squeal! Squealing and grunting, they jumped from their beautiful thrones onto the floor; still squealing and grunting, they ran out of the door as Circe went on waving her wand. She had turned them all into pigs, and, as pigs, she drove them before her into another courtyard behind the palace and locked them up in a big, empty sty. Then, instead of wine and honey, she threw them down a meal of beech nuts and acorns and went disdainfully away.

Eurylochus, who had waited a long time for their return, at last made his way from the home of this beautiful and wicked enchantress, and went back to the bay, tears streaming from his eyes and down his cheeks at the disappearance of his companions. When Odysseus, also in great distress, inquired what had happened, his friend could only say that everybody, save himself, had vanished behind Circe’s doors; and that not a single man had come out to tell the story of their fate. Instantly the king buckled on his sword belt and seized his bow, to set out to rescue the lost crew; although Eurylochus clung round his knees, still weeping, and begging his monarch not to risk his own life, most likely in vain. Sternly and haughtily, Odysseus rebuked his follower for cowardice and set off through the enchanted wood. And enchanted indeed he found it, for, as he stalked down the sunny glades, with brave, proud step, suddenly a light that was not sunlight shone upon the green boughs, a golden wand glittered through the brown twigs, and a beautiful boy, with wings on his feet, appeared, smiling, among the green leafiness of the oaks. It was Hermes himself, sent by the immortals to the rescue.

“Odysseus!” he cried. “Brave Odysseus!” And, taking the monarch’s hand, he informed him of all that had happened. Then he told the king to go on to Circe’s palace, to eat the white bread and honey, and drink the milk and wine that the fair sorceress would set before him. Then, stooping to the ground, Hermes pulled up a little modest-looking plant, with milk-white flowers and a black root like a small, shiny, dark snake — a little plant that was very rare and grew in places known only to the Shining Ones.

“See, this is moly — the plant which makes witchcraft harmless,” said he. “Place it in your bosom, and Circe’s magic poisons will be as powerless to hurt you as Circe’s magic wand.” Then, waving Odysseus onwards, the beautiful immortal sprang into the air on his silver wings and flew back to Olympus.

Odysseus, with the pale moly flowers hidden in his bosom, stepped on. He was greeted by the sad, timid wild beasts, by the sound of the wonderful singing, and, at last, by the enchantress herself, with her golden hair and her white hands, just as his lost friends had been. He sat on a jeweled throne among soft cushions, and he ate and drank the delicious honey and milk and wine. But he remained wide awake and watchful, and, when Circe, thinking that her time had come, waved her wand over him in order to turn him into a beast, he stood before her, brave, strong, and manly, and flashed his sword in her face!

Then the silver-voiced witch lady sank on her knees before him and owned herself conquered. Also, she instantly fell in love with this fearless king. She waved her wand with a new purpose, and nymphs sprang out of all the fountains in the courtyard and from the rivers in the woods. They brought fine cushions and carpets to deck the palace, and even richer food, in silver dishes, than that which had appeared before. But Odysseus would have nothing to do with them, nor with their beautiful mistress. He merely commanded Circe to take her spell from his companions and to set them free.

So Circe, very slowly and disconsolately, went to the sty and let out the poor, bewitched pigs. Then she waved her wand over them as they ran grunting and squealing about, and, behold, they rose up on their hind feet and became men again. Rushing to Odysseus, they greeted him with broken words and cries of joy. Even Circe, her hard heart melted at last, could not help shedding tears at the scene. By order of Odysseus, she turned back all the sad bears and wolves into the princes and nobles they had been in the days of long ago. Then, bidding the king goodbye, and telling him how to avoid many more dangers that would still spring up in his homeward path, the enchantress went back into her stone palace; and, from its open doorway, watched Odysseus and his sailors pass, in a happy group, down the long glades of the forest, on their way back to the vessel that was to bear them once more to Greece.

It’s possible that, once you combine all these words, it gets easier to see a connection, but… are they really connected, or is the similarity just a coincidence?

You very well know the meaning of the word sir, and probably know that ser is an alternative spelling used quite often in fiction, fantasy, etc. (of course, Game of Thrones and all that kind of stuff come to mind).

Now, the word senior is also used in English to refer to elders in a respectful way. This word undoubtedly comes from the Latin senior, which is the comparative form of senex ‘old’. This is why it is also used to oppose Junior and Senior when talking of a son and a father with the same name: it literally means John ‘the Younger’ and John ‘the Older’.

(By the way, from senex we have senate, because the Roman senatus was at first a literal chamber of elders).

The Spanish word señor ‘mister, master’ also comes from senior, although it is not connected with age, but with respect (after all, that semantic transition makes a lot of sense).

So going back to sir and ser, do they have their origin in the Latin senior? Well, yes, they do, specifically through the fuller word sire, through Old French sire, another form of sieur, which you can connect to monsieur (literally my sieur). This sieur is the French evolution from Latin senior.

Well, actually this is not exact 100%, in at least two ways… But let’s start from the beginning.

The English word pumpkin is made up of the root pump‑ and the suffix ‑kin. This suffix, meaning ‘a type of’, is of Germanic origin, but it is still related to the Latin word genus, generis.

Now, the pump‑ part is derived from the Middle French pompon, which is a possible evolution from the Latin peponem (pepo, peponis), meaning ‘large melon’. But Latin itself borrowed it from the Greek πέπων (pépōn), related to the verb πέπτω (péptō ‘ripen’).

So, literally, a pumpkin is ‘a type of large melon’.

By the way, have you ever felt some weird similarity in the taste of melon and cucumber? Somehow, the Spaniards already thought of it, and it is from pepo, peponis that the Spanish pepino ‘cucumber’ comes.