toilers for bread are held unworthy of the minstrel's celebration. Just as in the early romances of Christendom we do not get much lower in the social scale than the knight and the lady, the bishop and the wizard, so in these Homeric lays—even in the more domestic Odyssey, unless we make Eumæus the exception—the tale still clings to the atmosphere of courts and palaces, and ignores almost entirely, unless for the purpose of drawing out a simile or illustration, the life-drama of the great mass of human kind. In both these cycles of fiction we find represented a state of things—whether we call it the "heroic age" or the "age of chivalry"—which could hardly have existed in actual life; and in both the phase of civilisation, and the magnificence of the properties and the scenery, seem far beyond what the narrators could have themselves seen and known.
The character of the hero must not be judged by modern canons of morality. With all the honest purpose and steadfast heart which we willingly concede to him, we cannot but feel there is a shiftiness in his proceedings from first to last which scarcely savours of true heroism. We need not call him, as Thersites does in Shakespeare, "that dog-fox Ulysses," nor even go quite so far as to look upon him as what a modern translator (terms him, "the Scapin of epic poetry;" but we see in him the embodiment of prudence, versatility, and expediency, rather than of the nobler and less selfish virtues. Ulysses, both in the Iliad and in the Odyssey, is the diplomatist of his age; and it is neither his fault nor Homer's that the diplomacy of that date was less refined, and less skilful in veiling its coarser features.
