Book iv. 71, 72.

That with provision meet the dead may pass Down to the realms of night.[69]

Footnote 69:

Geddes, _Problem_, &c., p. 227.

But the motives that crowded upon his fierce soul were probably in truth as multitudinous as the waves of passion which rolled over it. He desired to appease the parted spirit of his friend with a sacrifice matching his own pride and the extent of his bereavement. Still more, he sought to glut his vengeance, and allay, if possible, the intolerable pangs of his grief. He perhaps dimly imaged to himself a pompous funeral throng accompanying the beloved soul even to the gates of Hades, provision for the way being supplied by the flesh of sheep and oxen, an escort by horses and dogs, while an air of gloomy triumph was imparted to the shadowy procession by the hostile presence of outraged and indignant human shades. A similar ceremony was put in practice, by comparison recently, in Lithuania. When the still pagan Grand Duke Gedimin died in 1341, his body was laid on a pyre and burned with two hounds, two falcons, his horse saddled and still living, and a favourite servant.[70] But here the disembodied company was altogether friendly, and may have been thought of as willingly paying a last tribute of homage to their lord.

Footnote 70:

Hehn and Stallybrass, _Wanderings of Plants and Animals_, p. 417.

The information is in any case worth having that Patroclus, like Priam, kept a number of ‘table-dogs,’ whose presence doubtless contributed in some degree to the stateliness of his surroundings. It is, however, given casually, without a word of comment, as if the bard instinctively shrank from dwelling on the intimate personal relations of the animal to man. The son of Menœtius had a gentle soul, and we cannot doubt, although no hint of such affection is communicated, that he loved his dogs, and was loved by them. Of the horses accustomed to his guidance—the immortal pair of Achilles—we indeed hear how they stood, day after day, with drooping heads and silken manes sweeping the ground, in sorrow for his and their lost friend; but no dog is permitted to whine his sense of bereavement beside the body of Patroclus; no dog misses the vanished caress of his master’s hand; no dog crouches beside Achilles in his solitude, or offers to his unsurpassed grief the dumb and wistful consolation of his sympathy. The privilege of sharing the sorrows, as of winning the applause of humanity, is, in the Iliad, reserved exclusively for the equine race.

Turning to the Odyssey, we find ourselves in a changed world. Ships have here become the ‘chariots of the sea’;[71] navigation usurps the honour and interest of charioteering; a favourable breeze imparts the cheering sense of companionship felt by a practised rider with his trusty steed. The scenery on shore leaves this sentiment undisturbed. Rocky Ithaca, Telemachus informs Menelaus,[72] contains neither wide tracks for chariot-driving, nor deep meadows for horse-pasture; it is a goat-feeding land, though more beautiful, to his mind, in its ruggedness than even the ‘spacious plain’ of Sparta, with its rich fields of lotus-grass, its sedgy flats, its waving tracts of ‘white barley,’ wheat, and spelt. A suitable habitat is thus, in his native island, wanting for the horse, who is accordingly relegated to an obscure corner of the stage, while the foreground of animal life is occupied by his less imposing rival in the regard of man. The dog is, in fact, the characteristic and conspicuous animal of the Odyssey, as the horse is of the Iliad. Xanthus and Balius, the wind-begotten steeds bestowed by Poseidon upon the sire of Achilles, who own the sorrowful human gift of tears, and the superhuman gift of prophetic speech, are replaced[73] by the more homely, but not less pathetic, figure of Argus, the dog of Odysseus, whose fidelity through a score of years we feel to be no poetical fiction, but simply a poetical enhancement of a familiar fact. Canine society is, indeed, placed by the author of the Odyssey on a higher level than it occupies, perhaps, in any other work of the imagination. When Telemachus, starting into sudden manhood under the tutelage of Athene, goes forth to lay his wrongs before the first Assembly convened in Ithaca since his father’s ‘hollow ships’ sailed for Troy, we are told that he carried in his hand a brazen spear, and that the goddess poured out upon him a divine radiance of beauty such that the people marvelled as they gazed on him. But the most singular and significant part of the description lies in the statement (thrice repeated on similar occasions[74]) that he went ‘not alone; two swift-footed dogs followed him.’ Alone indeed he was, as far as human companionship was concerned—a helpless youth, isolated and indignant in the midst of a riotous and overbearing crew, intent not less upon wasting his substance than upon wooing his unwidowed mother. Comrade or attendant he had none, but instead of both, a pair of four-footed sympathisers, evidently regarded as adding dignity to his appearance in public, as well as imparting the strengthening consciousness of social support. The conjunction, as Mr. Mahaffy well remarks, shows an intense appreciation of dog-nature.

Footnote 71:

_Odyssey_, iv. 708; cf. Geddes, _Problem, &c._, p. 215.

Footnote 72:

_Odyssey_, iv. 605.

Footnote 73:

Mahaffy, _Social Life in Greece_, pp. 57, 63.

Footnote 74:

_Odyssey_, ii. 11; xvii. 62; xx. 145.

In the cottage of Eumæus the swineherd, Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, weary with long wanderings, a stranger in peril of his life in his own islet-kingdom, finds his first hospitable refuge. Here again we are met by graphic and frequent sketches of canine manners and character. In the office of guarding and governing the 960 porkers composing his herd, Eumæus had the aid of four dogs reared by himself. They were large and fierce, ‘like wild beasts’;[75] but the savage instincts even of these half-reclaimed creatures are discovered to be directed towards duty, to be subdued by affection, nay, to be elevated by a touch of supersensual awe. If they erred, it was by excess of zeal in the cause of law and order. For when Odysseus (it must be remembered, in extremely disreputable guise) approached the thorn-hedged enclosure, they set upon him together, barking furiously, and threatening to tear him to pieces on the spot. He had not, however, edged his way between Scylla and Charybdis to perish thus ingloriously. With unfailing presence of mind he instantly took up an attitude of non-resistance, stood still and laid aside his staff. This passivity doubtless produced some hesitation on the part of his assailants, for when the swineherd hurried out to the rescue, he was still unhurt. No small amount of compulsion, both moral and physical—exerted by means of objurgatory remonstrance, coupled with plentiful stone-pelting—was, however, required to calm the ardour of such impetuous allies.

Footnote 75:

_Odyssey_, xiv. 21.

Nevertheless, their ferocity is represented as far from undiscriminating. It is, in fact, strictly limited by their official responsibilities. They know how to suit their address to their company, from an Olympian denizen to a homeless tramp, and get unexpected opportunities of displaying these social accomplishments. For the rustic dwelling of Eumæus becomes a rendezvous for the principal personages of the story, and the demeanour of the four dogs is a leading incident, carefully recorded, connected with the arrival of each. We have just seen what an obstreperous reception they gave to the disguised king of Ithaca. Telemachus, on the other hand, they rushed to welcome, fawning and wagging their tails _without barking_,[76] as that quick-witted vagrant, whose arrival had preceded his, was the first to observe. But when Athene visited the farm for the purpose of bringing about the recognition of the father by the son, which was the first step towards retribution upon their common enemies, while Telemachus remained unconscious of her presence—’for not to all do the gods manifest themselves openly’—it is said, with a very remarkable coupling of man and beast, that ‘Odysseus and the dogs saw her’;[77] and the mysterious sense of the supernatural attributed in much folk-lore to the canine species found vent in whimperings of fear and panic-stricken withdrawal.

Footnote 76:

_Odyssey_, xvi. 4-10.

Footnote 77:

_Odyssey_, xvi. 162.

We are next transported to the scene of the revellings of the Suitors, and the fortitude of Penelope. The sight of the once familiar turreted enclosure of his palace, and the sound of the well-remembered voice and lyre of the minstrel Phemius, proclaiming the progress of the festivities, all but overturned the equanimity of the counterfeit mendicant. His practised powers of dissimulation, however, came to his aid; and grasping the hand of his unsuspecting retainer, he brought, with a cunningly devised speech, his tell-tale emotion into harmony with his assumed character. They advanced to the threshold, and there, on a dung-heap, half devoured with insect parasites, lay a dog—the dog Argus. But we must allow the poet to tell the story in his own way.

Thus as they spake, a dog that lay apart, Lifted his head, and pricked his list’ning ears, Argus, whom erst Odysseus patient bred, But use of him had none; for ere that day, He sailed for sacred Troy; and other men Had trained and led him forth o’er field and fell, To chase wild goats, hares, and the pricket deer. But now, his master gone, in foul neglect, On dung of ox and mule he made his couch; Fattening manure, heaped at the palace-gate, Till spread to enrich Odysseus’ wide domain; Thus stretched, with vermin swarming, Argus lay. But when he saw Odysseus close approach, He knew, and wagged his tail, and dropped his ears, Yet could not rise to fawn upon his lord, Who paused, and stood, and brushed aside a tear, Hiding his grief. Then thus with crafty speech: ‘Eumæus, sure ‘tis wonder in such plight To see this dog, of goodly form and limbs; But tell me did his fleetness match his shape, Or was he such as, reared for pride and show, Inactive at their masters’ tables feed?’ Eumæus heard, and quickly made reply: ‘To one who perished in a distant land This dog belongs. But couldst thou see him now Such as Odysseus left him, bound for Troy, Thou well might’st wonder at his strength and speed. ‘Mid the deep thickets of the forest glades, No game escaped his swift pursuing feet, Nor hound could match his prowess in the chace. But now his days are evil, since his lord Is dead, and careless women heed him not. For when the master’s hand no longer rules, Servants no longer work in order due. Full half the virtue leaves the man condemned By wide-eyed Zeus to drag the servile chain.’ Thus as he spake, he crossed the stately hall, And took his place amidst the suitors’ train. But Argus died; for dark doom ravished him, Greeting Odysseus after twenty years.[78]

Footnote 78:

_Odyssey_, xvii. 290-327 (Author’s translation).

Surely—even thus inadequately rendered—the most poignantly pathetic narrative of dog-life in literature! The hero, returning after a generation of absence, in a disguise impenetrable to son, servants, nay to the wife of his bosom, is recognised by one solitary living creature, a dog. And to this faithful animal, unforgetting in his forlorn decrepitude, whose affectionate gestures form his only welcome to the home now occupied by unscrupulous foes, ready to take his life at the first hint of his identity, he is obliged to refuse a stroke of his hand, or so much as a glance of his eye, to soothe the fatal spasm of his joy. A case that might well draw a tear, even from the much-enduring son of Laertes.

It has not escaped the acumen of Sir William Geddes[79] that the compliment of an individual name is, in the Iliad, paid exclusively amongst the brute creation to horses; in the Odyssey (setting aside the mythical coursers of the Dawn, Book xxiii. 246) to a single dog. Now this may at first sight seem to be a trifling point; but a very little consideration will suffice to show its significance. To the author of the Odyssey, at least, the imposition, or even the disclosure of a name, was a matter clothed with a certain solemn importance. He lets us know how and why his hero came to be called ‘Odysseus,’ and furnishes us, to the best of his ability, with an etymological interpretation of that ill-omened title.[80] How distinctively human a thing it is to have a name we are made to feel when Alcinous conjures his mysterious guest to reveal the designation by which he is known to his parents, fellow-citizens, and countrymen, ‘since no man, good or bad, is anonymous’![81] And the reply is couched in an earnest and exalted strain, conveying at once the extent of the trust reposed, and the momentousness of the revelation granted—

Footnote 79:

_Problem of the Homeric Poems_, p. 218.

Footnote 80:

_Odyssey_, xix. 409.

Footnote 81:

_Ib._ viii. 552.

Ulysses, from Laertes sprung, am I, Vers’d in the wiles of men, and fam’d afar.[82]

Footnote 82:

_Ib._ ix. 19, 20.

The same scene, thrown into a grotesque form, is repeated in the cave of Polyphemus, where the upshot of the adventure depends wholly upon the prudence of the storm-tossed chieftain in responding to the monster’s vinous enthusiasm with the mock disclosure of a _no-name_.

These illustrations help to make it plain that, in assigning to brutes individual appellations, we bestow upon them something essentially human, which they have not, and cannot have of themselves, but which marks their share in human interests, and their claim on human sympathy. So accurately is this true, that a table showing the relative frequency of individual nomenclature for different animals in various countries would assuredly, on the strength of that fact alone, set forth their relative position in the estimation of man.

The dog Argus belonged presumably to the famous Molossian breed, the first specimen of which was fabled to have been cast in bronze by Hephæstus,[83] and presented by Jupiter to Cephalus, the eponymous ruler of the island of Cephallenia. These animals were not more remarkable for fierceness than for fidelity. To the race were assigned creatures of such evil mythological reputation as the voracious hound of Hades, and the barking pack of Scylla; a Molossian sent to Alexander was stated to have brought down a lion; while, on the other hand, the canine detective of Montargis had a rival in the army of Pyrrhus, whose funeral pile was signalised by a desperate act of canine self-immolation; and the dog of Eupolis (likewise a Molossian), after having torn to pieces a thieving servant, died of grief and voluntary starvation on the grave of the Æginetan poet.[84] These qualities are presented and perpetuated in the four dogs of Eumæus and the neglected hound of Odysseus.

Footnote 83:

From this legend the poet not improbably derived the idea of the gold and silver watch-dogs, framed by Hephæstus for Alcinous. _Odyssey_, vii. 91-94.

Footnote 84:

Ælian, _De Natura Animalium_, vii. 10; x. 41.

The Homeric poems ignore the varieties of the species—

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or lym, Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail.

A dog is simply a dog, as a horse is a horse. But individual horses are in the Iliad distinguished by differences of colour, while no colour-epithet is anywhere applied to a dog. It is probable, however, that in the shepherd-dogs of Albania an almost perfect reproduction of the animals dear to the poet is still to be found. For in that wild and mountainous region the Chaonian or Molossian race is said to survive undegenerate, and, judging by the reports of travellers, its modern representatives preserve the same vigilance in duty and alacrity in attack which distinguished the formidable band of the Odyssean swineherd. An English explorer, who had some serious encounters with them, has described these fierce pastoral guardians as ‘varying in colour from dark-brown to bright dun, their long fur being very soft, thick, and glossy. In size they are equal to an English mastiff. They have a long nose, delicate ears finely pointed, magnificent tail, legs of a moderate length, with a body nicely rounded and compact.’[85] It is added that they still possess the strength, swiftness, sagacity, and fidelity anciently ascribed to them, showing their pedigree to be probably unimpaired.

Footnote 85:

Hughes, _Travels in Albania_, vol. i. p. 483.

The Suliot dog, or German boar-hound, comes from the same region, and has also strong claims to the honours of Molossian descent. Some of the breed were employed by the Turkish soldiery in the earlier part of this century, to guard their outposts against Austrian attacks; and one captured specimen, presented to the King of Naples, was reputed to be the largest dog in existence.[86] Measuring nearly four feet from the shoulder to the ground, he in fact rivalled the dimensions of a Shetland pony. Others were secured as regimental pets, and used to make a grand show in Brussels, marching with their respective corps to the blare of martial music. They were fierce-natured animals, rough-coated, and coarsely formed; mostly tan-coloured, but with blackish markings on the back, shoulders, and round the ears. Tan-coloured, too, was probably the immortal Argus; and we can further picture him, on the assumption that the modern races west of Pindus reproduce many features of his aspect, as a wolf-like hound, with a bushy tail, small, sensitive ears, and a glance at once eager, intelligent, and wistful. Drooping ears in dogs are, it may be remarked, a result of domestication; and varieties distinguished by them were unknown in Europe until Alexander the Great introduced from Asia some specimens of the mastiff kind. Consequently, Shakespeare’s description of the pack of Theseus—

Footnote 86:

C. Hamilton Smith, _Naturalist’s Library_, vol. v. p. 151.

With ears that sweep away the morning dew,

is one among many examples of his genial disregard for archæological detail. Argus, then, resembled ‘White-breasted Bran,’ the dog of Fingal, in his possession of ‘an ear like a leaf.’

It is not too much to say that the opposed sentiments concerning the relations of men with animals displayed in the Iliad and Odyssey suffice in themselves to establish their diversity of origin. For they render it psychologically impossible that they could have been the work of one individual. The varying _prominence_ assigned respectively to the horse and the dog might, it is true, be plausibly accounted for by the diversified conditions of the two epics; but no shifting of scene can explain a _reversal_ of sympathies. Such sentiments form part of the ingrained structure of the mind. They take root before consciousness is awake, or memory active; they live through the decades of a man’s life; are transported with him from shore to shore; survive the enthusiasm of friendship and the illusions of ambition; they can no more be eradicated from the tenor of his thoughts than the type of his features can be changed from Tartar to Caucasian, or the colour of his eyes from black to blue.

After all, the difficulty of separating the origin of these stupendous productions is considerably diminished by the reflection that they are but the surviving members of an extensive group of poems, all originally attributed without discrimination to a single author. Not the Iliad and Odyssey alone, but the ‘Cypria,’ the ‘Æthiopis,’ the ‘Lesser Iliad,’ and other voluminous metrical compositions, were, in the old, uncritical, individual sense, ‘Homeric.’ So apt is Fame to make

A testament As worldlings do, giving the sum of more To that which had too much.

The depreciatory tone of the query, ‘What’s in a name?’ should not lead us to undervalue that indispensable requisite to sustained and specialised existence. A name is, indeed, a power in itself. It serves, at the least, as a peg to hang a personality upon, and not the most ‘powerful rhyme’ can sustain a reputation apart from its humble aid. But the bard of Odysseus has long ceased to possess one. His only appellation must remain for all time that of his hero in the Cyclops’ cave. The jealous Muses have blotted him out from memory. We can only be sure that he was a man who, like the protagonist of his immortal poem, had known, and seen, and suffered many things, who had tears for the past, and hopes for the future, had roamed far and near with a ‘hungry heart,’ and had listened long and intently to the ‘many voices’ of the moaning sea; who had tried his fellow-men, and found them, not all, nor everywhere wanting; who had faith in the justice of Heaven and the constancy of woman; who had experienced and had not disdained to cherish in his heart the life-long fidelity of a dog.