old bust we see in libraries, is the kind of person who I believe wrote the Odyssey.  Of course in reality the work must be written by a man, because they say so at Oxford and Cambridge, and they know everything down in Oxford and Cambridge; but I venture to say that if the Odyssey were to appear anonymously for the first time now, and to be sent round to the papers for review, there is not even a professional critic who would not see that it is a woman’s writing and not a man’s.  But letting this pass, I can hardly doubt, for reasons which I gave in yesterday’s Athenaeum, and for others that I cannot now insist upon, that the poem was written by a native of Trapani on the coast of Sicily, near Marsala.  Fancy what the position of a young, ardent, brilliant woman must have been in a small Sicilian sea-port, say some eight or nine hundred years before the birth of Christ.  It makes one shudder to think of it.  Night after night she hears the dreary blind old bard Demodocus drawl out his interminable recitals taken from our present Iliad, or from some other of the many poems now lost that dealt with the adventures of the Greeks before Troy or on their homeward journey.  Man and his doings! always the same old story, and woman always to be treated either as a toy or as a beast of burden, or at any rate as an incubus.  Why not sing of woman also as she is when she is unattached and free from the trammels and persecutions of this tiresome tyrant, this insufferably self-conceited bore and booby, man?

“I wish, my dear,” exclaims her mother Arete, after one of these little outbreaks, “that you would do it yourself.  I am sure you could do it beautifully if you would only give your mind to it.”

“Very well, mother,” she replies, “and I will bring in all about you and father, and how I go out for a washing-day with the maids,”—­and she kept her word, as I will presently show you.

I should tell you that Ulysses, having got away from the goddess Calypso, with whom he had been living for some seven or eight years on a lonely and very distant island in mid-ocean, is shipwrecked on the coast of Phaeacia, the chief town of which is Scheria.  After swimming some forty-eight hours in the water he effects a landing at the mouth of a stream, and, not having a rag of clothes on his back, covers himself up under a heap of dried leaves and goes to sleep.  I will now translate from the Odyssey itself.

“So here Ulysses slept, worn out with labour and sorrow; but Minerva went off to the chief town of the Phaeacians, a people who used to live in Hypereia near the wicked Cyclopes.  Now the Cyclopes were stronger than they and plundered them, so Nausithous settled them in Scheria far from those who would loot them.  He ran a wall round about the city, built houses and temples, and allotted the lands among his people; but he was gathered to his fathers, and the good king Alcinous was now reigning.  To his palace then Minerva hastened that she might help Ulysses to get home.