Towards the end of the poem the gods have a set-to among themselves.  Minerva sends Mars sprawling, Venus comes to his assistance, but Minerva knocks her down and leaves her.  Neptune challenges Apollo, but Apollo says it is not proper for a god to fight his own uncle, and declines the contest.  His sister Diana taunts him with cowardice, so Juno grips her by the wrist and boxes her ears till she writhes again.  Latona, the mother of Apollo and Diana, then challenges Mercury, but Mercury says that he is not going to fight with any of Jove’s wives, so if she chooses to say she has beaten him she is welcome to do so.  Then Latona picks up poor Diana’s bow and arrows that have fallen from her during her encounter with Juno, and Diana meanwhile flies up to the knees of her father Jove, sobbing and sighing till her ambrosial robe trembles all around her.

“Jove drew her towards him, and smiling pleasantly exclaimed, ’My dear child, which of the heavenly beings has been wicked enough to behave in this way to you, as though you had been doing something naughty?’

“‘Your wife, Juno,’ answered Diana, ’has been ill-treating me; all our quarrels always begin with her.’”

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The above extracts must suffice as examples of the kind of divine comedy in which Homer brings the gods and goddesses upon the scene.  Among mortals the humour, what there is of it, is confined mainly to the grim taunts which the heroes fling at one another when they are fighting, and more especially to crowing over a fallen foe.  The most subtle passage is the one in which Briseis, the captive woman about whom Achilles and Agamemnon have quarrelled, is restored by Agamemnon to Achilles.  Briseis on her return to the tent of Achilles finds that while she has been with Agamemnon, Patroclus has been killed by Hector, and his dead body is now lying in state.  She flings herself upon the corpse and exclaims—­

“How one misfortune does keep falling upon me after another!  I saw the man to whom my father and mother had married me killed before my eyes, and my three own dear brothers perished along with him; but you, Patroclus, even when Achilles was sacking our city and killing my husband, told me that I was not to cry; for you said that Achilles himself should marry me, and take me back with him to Phthia, where we should have a wedding feast among the Myrmidons.  You were always kind to me, and I should never cease to grieve for you.”

This may of course be seriously intended, but Homer was an acute writer, and if we had met with such a passage in Thackeray we should have taken him to mean that so long as a woman can get a new husband, she does not much care about losing the old one—­a sentiment which I hope no one will imagine that I for one moment endorse or approve of, and which I can only explain as a piece of sarcasm aimed possibly at Mrs. Homer.

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