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OX F O R D S T U D I E S I N B Y Z A N T I UM

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JA Ś E L SN E R C AT H E R I N E HO L M E S
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OX F O R D S T U D I E S I N B Y Z A N T I UM
Oxford Studies in Byzantium consists of scholarly monographs and editions
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The Universal History of Step‘anos Tarōnec‘i
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Homer the Rhetorician

Eustathios of Thessalonike on the
Composition of the Iliad

BAU K J E VA N D E N B E R G
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,

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First Edition published in 2022
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To my parents
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Acknowledgements

This book is a revised version of my doctoral dissertation written at the University

of Amsterdam under the auspices of the Institute for Culture and History (later
Amsterdam School of Historical Studies). My doctoral research was funded by
the National Research School in Classical Studies in the Netherlands OIKOS,
with a grant from the Dutch Research Council (NWO). During my doctoral
studies, the Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds financially supported a research stay at
Uppsala University; the Department of Linguistics and Philology at Uppsala
University hosted me twice as a visiting doctoral student (and once again as a
guest researcher when I was revising the manuscript for publication); the
Gennadius Library and the American School of Classical Studies at Athens made
possible my participation in the Byzantine Greek Summer School, where
Alexander Alexakis and Stratis Papaioannou taught me much about Medieval
Greek and Byzantine literature; a pre-­doctoral short-­term residency at Dumbarton
Oaks allowed me to spend a month in their library during the final stages of writ-
ing my dissertation. I worked on the manuscript as a postdoctoral researcher at
the Center for Studies on the Literature and Reception of Byzantium at the
University of Silesia in Katowice and as a guest researcher at the Department of
Romance Studies and Classics at Stockholm University. I returned to Dumbarton
Oaks as a fellow in the spring of 2020, where I revised the manuscript for publica-
tion during the first waves of the COVID-­19 pandemic. I thank the Department
of Medieval Studies at Central European University for granting me a leave dur-
ing the very first year of my employment there to finish the book. CEU’s Center
for Eastern Mediterranean Studies generously offered funding for the book’s
publication. I wish to extend my gratitude to all these institutions, not only for
their financial and professional support but also for enabling me to exchange
ideas with colleagues and be part of stimulating scholarly environments, which
have shaped this book in profound ways.
Credit is due first to Remco Regtuit at the University of Groningen, whose
teaching aroused my interest in scholia and literary criticism, and under whose
mentorship I ventured to write an MA thesis on Eustathios’ Commentary on the
Iliad. It was Irene de Jong who introduced me to Eustathios—neither of us knew
in 2010 that my paper for her course on Homer would be the beginning of a by now
more than decade-­long interest in Eustathios and his scholarly work. I extend my
deepest gratitude to my supervisors at Amsterdam, Irene de Jong and Emilie van
Opstall, for their professional guidance, personal advice, and patient feedback
during my doctoral research and beyond. I am also greatly indebted to Ingela
Nilsson, whose guidance and support continue to be invaluable on both personal
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

viii Acknowledgements

and professional levels. I am very grateful for the generous friendship of Adam
Goldwyn, who has probably read more of my work than anyone else.
Many others have been involved in the journey from the inception of the
project to this published edition. At the risk of forgetting many, I wish to extend
immense gratitude to friends and colleagues who read complete or partial drafts
of my dissertation and/or its revised version, generously shared their expertise and
forthcoming work, and made writing this book possible in many different ways:
Panagiotis Agapitos, Dimiter Angelov, Susanne Borowski, Emmanuel Bourbouhakis,
Eric Cullhed, Aniek van den Eersten, Casper de Jonge, Anthony Kaldellis,
Jacqueline Klooster, Niels Koopman, Tomasz Labuk, Marc Lauxtermann,
Valeria Lovato, Divna Manolova, Przemysław Marciniak, Stratis Papaioannou,
Filippomaria Pontani, Andreas Rhoby, David Rockwell, Denis Searby, Courtney
Tomaselli, Paul van Uum, Saskia Willigers, and Nikos Zagklas, as well as the
members of my doctoral defence committee (Mathieu de Bakker, Gerard Boter,
Ingela Nilsson, Remco Regtuit, and Ineke Sluiter) and the ‘Amsterdamse
Hellenistenclub’. I would also like to thank OUP’s anonymous readers for their
valuable feedback and the commissioning editor Charlotte Loveridge for shep-
herding this book through the publication process. The glossary and indices have
been prepared by Louise Chapman of Lex Academic. Any remaining mistakes are
fully my responsibility.
I could not have written my dissertation or this book without the encourage-
ment and much-­needed distractions of friends and family in the Netherlands and
abroad. I wish to extend special thanks to my sisters, my partner Jesper, and my
oldest friends for keeping me sane during the process. My greatest debt is to my
parents for their unconditional love and support. I dedicate this book to them.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Contents

Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviationsxi

Introduction1
Eustathios of Thessalonike and Komnenian Byzantium 2
Homer in Byzantium 6
Homer the Rhetorician 9
Eustathios on the Composition of the Iliad13
1. The Proem to the Commentary on the Iliad: Eustathios’
Hermeneutic Programme 21
The Wise Homer and His Erudite Exegete 21
Homer and Eustathios as Teachers of Rhetoric 34
Eustathios on History, Myth, and Allegory in Homeric Poetry 44
Conclusion54
2. The Skilful Composition of the Iliad57
Ancient Literary and Rhetorical Theories on Skilful Composition 58
Eustathios on Homer’s Skilful Selection and Arrangement
of Subject Matter 63
Principles and Techniques of Homer’s Skilful Composition 73
Eustathios on Homer’s Skilful Composition: The Catalogue of
Ships as Case Study 95
Conclusion103
3. The Plausible Composition of the Iliad104
Plausibility in Ancient Literary Criticism and Rhetorical Theory 106
Eustathios on Homeric Techniques for Establishing Plausibility
(1): Plausible Content 111
Eustathios on Homeric Techniques for Establishing Plausibility
(2): Presentation and Formulation 123
Eustathios on Homer’s Plausible Composition: Priam’s Visit to
Achilles as Case Study 134
Conclusion140
4. The Gods and the Composition of the Iliad142
The Homeric Gods in Ancient and Byzantine Exegesis 143
Eustathios on the Gods in Bodily Form 152
The Gods as Allegories of the Poet’s Intellect 163
The Gods as Anagogical Allegories 175
Conclusion180
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

x contents

Epilogue182

Appendix I: The Proem to the Commentary on the Iliad 185

Appendix II: Eustathios on Homeric Similes 195
Appendix III: Eustathios on Invocations of the Muses 198

References 203
Glossary 229
General Index 231
Index Locorum 239
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Note on Editions, Translations,

and Abbreviations

The text of the Commentary on the Iliad follows the edition by Van der Valk (1971–87).
References to the commentary give page and line numbers of the editio princeps by Niccolò
Maiorano (Rome, 1542–9), which are included in the edition by Van der Valk as well as in
the editions of the Commentary on the Odyssey by Stallbaum (1825–6) and Cullhed (2016).
References to the Commentary on the Iliad also give the volume, page, and line numbers of
Van der Valk’s edition, which are followed in the TLG. The result is a dipartite reference of
which the first part refers to the editio princeps, the second part to Van der Valk, e.g. Eust. in
Il. 5.32 = 1.9.1. References to the first two books of the Commentary on the Odyssey are to
the edition by Cullhed; references to the remaining books of the Commentary on the
Odyssey are to the edition by Stallbaum and give both the page and line numbers of the
editio princeps and the volume, page, and line numbers of Stallbaum’s edition, which are
followed in the TLG. Translations of Eustathios are my own unless indicated otherwise.
For the Iliad and Odyssey, I have adopted, with modifications, the Loeb translations by
A. T. Murray in their revised editions (Il.: rev. W. F. Wyatt 1999; Od.: rev. G. E. Dimock
1995).1 The list below includes editions of texts quoted or referred to throughout the book.
References to other texts are to standard editions. Translations are my own unless indi-
cated otherwise.
Abbreviations of ancient authors and texts generally follow LSJ (Liddell and Scott, rev.
Jones 1996); abbreviations of patristic authors and texts follow Lampe’s Patristic Greek
Lexicon (1995); abbreviations of Byzantine authors and texts are as listed below. I have
adopted a mixed system of transliterating Greek names. Late antique and Byzantine names
are anglicized or transliterated, following the Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium (ed. Kazhdan
et al. 1991). Ancient names appear in their common Latinized or anglicized form, follow-
ing the Oxford Classical Dictionary (ed. Hornblower and Spawforth 2012).

Ael. VH Aelian, Varia Historia. Ed. M. R. Dilts. 1974. Claudius Aelianus: Varia
Historia. Leipzig: Teubner.
Alex. Aphr. in Alexander of Aphrodisias, Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics.
Arist. Metaph. Ed. M. Hayduck. 1891. Alexandri Aphrodisiensis in Aristotelis
Metaphysica commentaria. Berlin: Reimer.

1 In the few instances where I quote the Homeric text, I have followed the editions by Allen and
Monro for the Iliad and by Von der Mühll for the Odyssey rather than the more recent editions by
West (1998–2000: Iliad; 2017: Odyssey), in a bid to steer clear of the scholarly debate that surrounds
several of West’s editorial principles. For detailed reviews, see Führer and Schmidt 2001 on West’s edi-
tion of the Iliad and Graziosi and Haubold 2019 on his edition of the Odyssey.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

xii Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations

Alex. Aphr. in Alexander of Aphrodisias, Commentary on Aristotle’s Topica.

Arist. Top. Ed. M. Wallies. 1891. Alexandri Aphrodisiensis in Aristotelis
topicorum libros octo commentaria. Berlin: Reimer.
Ann. Komn. Anna Komnene, Alexiad. Ed. A. Kambylis and D. R. Reinsch. 2001.
Annae Comnenae Alexias. Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
Ann. Komn. Prol. Anna Komnene, Prologue to Her Will. Ed. P. Gautier. 1972. Michel
test. Italikos: Lettres et Discours, 105–9. Paris: Institut français d’études
byzantines.
Anon. in Hermog. Anonymous, Commentary on Hermogenes’ On Types of Style.
Id. Ed. C. Walz. 1968 [1834]. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 7.2: 861–1087.
Osnabrück: Zeller.
Anon. in Ps.- Anonymous, Commentary on Ps.-Hermogenes’ On Invention.
Hermog. Inv. Ed. C. Walz. 1968 [1834]. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 7.2: 697–860.
Osnabrück: Zeller.
Anon. Seg. Anonymous Seguerianus, The Art of Political Speech. Ed. M. R. Dilts
and G. A. Kennedy. 1997. Two Greek Rhetorical Treatises from the
Roman Empire: Introduction, Text, and Translation of the Arts of
Rhetoric Attributed to Anonymous Seguerianus and to Apsines of
Gadara, 1–73. Leiden–New York–Cologne: Brill.
Ant. fr. Antimachus, fragments. Ed. B. Wyss. 1936. Antimachi Colophonii
reliquiae. Berlin: Weidmann.
Aphth. Prog. Aphthonios, Progymnasmata. Ed. M. Patillon. 2008. Corpus
Rhetoricum, vol. 1: Anonyme: Préambule à la rhetorique; Aphthonios:
Progymnasmata; Pseudo-­Hermogène: Progymnasmata, 49–162. Paris:
Les Belles Lettres.
Ar. Av. Aristophanes, Birds. Ed. N. Dunbar. 1995. Aristophanes: Birds. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Ar. Byz. fr. Nauck Aristophanes of Byzantium, fragments. Ed. A. Nauck. 1963 [1848].
Aristophanis Byzantii grammatici alexandrini fragmenta. Hildesheim:
Olms.
Arat. Phaen. Aratus, Phaenomena. Ed. D. Kidd. 1997. Aratus: Phaenomena.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Arist. Metaph. Aristotle, Metaphysics. Ed. W. Jaeger. 1957. Aristotelis Metaphysica.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Arist. Ph. Aristotle, Physics. Ed. W. D. Ross. 1956. Aristotelis Physica. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Arist. Po. Aristotle, Poetics. Ed. R. Kassel. 1965. Aristotelis De arte poetica liber.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Aristid. Or. Aristides, Orations. Ed. F. W. Lenz and C. A. Behr. 1978. P. Aelii
Aristidis Opera quae exstant omnia. Leiden: Brill.
Bas. Leg. lib. gent. Basil the Great, Address to Young Men on Reading Greek Literature.
Ed. M. Naldini. 1984. Basilio di Cesarea: Discorso ai giovani. Florence:
Nardini Editore. See also N. Wilson. 1975. Saint Basil on the Value of
Greek Literature. London: Duckworth.
Chor. Chorikios, Orations. Ed. R. Foerster and E. Richtsteig. 1929. Choricii
Gazaei opera. Leipzig: Teubner.
Chrys. in Ev. Jo. John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of John. Ed. J.-P. Migne.
1857–66. Patrologiae cursus completus (series graeca), vol. 59: 23–482.
Paris: Migne.
Chrys. in Act. Ap. John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Acts of Apostles. Ed. J.-P. Migne.
1857–66. Patrologiae cursus completus (series graeca), vol. 60: 13–384.
Paris: Migne.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations xiii

Clearch. fr. ed. Clearchus of Soli, fragments. Ed. F. Wehrli. 1948. Die Schule des
Wehrli Aristoteles: Texte und Kommentar, vol. 3: Klearchos. Basel: Benno
Schwabe.
Clem. Al. Paed. Clement of Alexandria, Pedagogue. Ed. H.-I. Marrou, M. Harl, and
C. Mondésert. 1960–70. Clément d’Alexandrie: Le pédagogue, 3 vols.
Paris: Cerf.
Clem. Al. Strom. Clement of Alexandria, Stromata. Ed. O. Stählin, L. Früchtel, and
U. Treu. 1960–70 [1906–9]. Clemens Alexandrinus, vols. 2–3. Berlin:
Akademie-­Verlag.
Corn. ND Cornutus, Compendium of Greek Theology. Ed. C. Lang. 1881. Cornuti
theologiae Graecae compendium. Leipzig: Teubner.
Cypr. fr. Bernabé Cypria, fragments. Ed. A. Bernabé. 1996. Poetarum epicorum
graecorum testimonia et fragmenta, vol. 1: 43–64. Leipzig: Teubner.
D. Demosthenes, Orations. Ed. M. R. Dilts. 2002–9. Demosthenis
Orationes, 4 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
D. Chr. Or. Dio Chrysostom, Orations. Ed. H. von Arnim. 1893–6. Dionis
Prusaensis quem vocant Chrysostomum quae exstant omnia, 2 vols.
Berlin: Weidmann.
Demetr. Eloc. Demetrius, On Style. Ed. P. Chiron. 1993. Démétrios: Du Style. Paris:
Les Belles Lettres.
D. H. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, various rhetorical works.
Ed. L. Radermacher and H. Usener. 1899–1929. Dionysii
Halicarnasei quae exstant, vols. 5–6. Leipzig: Teubner.
Diogenian. Diogenianus, Proverbs. Ed. E. L. von Leutsch and F. G. Schneidewin.
1965 [1839]. Corpus Paroemiographorum Graecorum, vol. 1: 1–175.
Hildesheim: Olms; ed. E. L. von Leutsch. 1965 [1851]. Corpus
Paroemiographorum Graecorum, vol. 2: 1–52. Hildesheim: Olms.
Doxapatr. in John Doxapatres, Commentary on Aphthonios’ Progymnasmata. Ed.
Aphth. Prog. H. Rabe. 1931. Prolegomenon Sylloge. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 14: 80–155.
Leipzig: Teubner.
E. Euripides. Ed. J. Diggle. 1981–94. Euripidis fabulae, 3 vols. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
EM Etymologicum Magnum. Ed. T. Gaisford. 1967 [1848]. Etymologicum
magnum. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert.
Et. Gud. Etymologicum Gudianum. Ed. F. W. Sturz. 1818. Etymologicum
Graecae linguae Gudianum et alia grammaticorum scripta e codicibus
manuscriptis nunc primum edita. Leipzig: Weigel.
Eum. Makr. H&H Eumathios Makrembolites, Hysmine and Hysminias. Ed. M. Marcovich.
2001. Eustathius Macrembolites De Hysmines et Hysminiae amoribus
libri XI. Munich–Leipzig: K. G. Saur.
Eust. Capt. Eustathios, The Capture of Thessalonike. Ed. S. Kyriakidis. 1961.
Eustazio di Tessalonica: La espugnazione di Tessalonica. Palermo:
Istituto Siciliano di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici.
Eust. Emend. Eustathios, Examination of Monastic Life. Ed. K. Metzler. 2006.
vit. mon. Eustathii Thessalonicensis De emendanda vita monachica. Berlin–New
York: De Gruyter. See also K. Metzler. 2006. Eustathios von
Thessalonike und das Mönchtum: Untersuchungen und Kommentar zur
Schrift De emendanda vita monachica. Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
Eust. Ep. Eustathios, Letters. Ed. F. Kolovou. 2006. Die Briefe des Eustathios von
Thessalonike. Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
Eust. in Can. Eustathios, Exegesis of the Iambic Canon for Pentecost by John of
Jo. Dam. Damascus. Ed. P. Cesaretti and S. Ronchey. 2014. Eustathii
Thessalonicensis Exegesis in canonem iambicum pentecostalem.
Berlin–Munich–Boston: De Gruyter.
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xiv Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations

Eust. in Dion. Per. Eustathios, Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes’ Description of the

Known World. Ed. K. Müller. 1861. Geographi Graeci minores, vol. 2:
201–407. Paris: Didot.
Eust. in Il. Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad. Ed. M. H. A. L. H. van der Valk.
1971–87. Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis commentarii ad
Homeri Iliadem pertinentes ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, 4 vols.
Leiden: Brill.
Eust. in Man. Eustathios, Funeral Oration for Manuel I Komnenos.
Komn. Ed. E. C. Bourbouhakis. 2017. Not Composed in a Chance Manner:
The Epitaphios for Manuel I Komnenos by Eustathios of Thessalonike.
Uppsala: Uppsala University.
Eust. in Nik. Eustathios, Monody for Nikephoros Komnenos. Ed. E. Kurtz. 1910.
Komn. Еветаѳія Ѳѳееалоникійекаго и Конетантина Манаееи
монодіи на кончину НикиФора Комнина. Vizantiiskii
Vremennik 17: 290–302.
Eust. in Od. Eustathios, Commentary on the Odyssey. Ed. J. G. Stallbaum. 1825–6.
Eustathii Archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis Commentarii ad Homeri
Odysseam ad fidem exempli Romani editi, 2 vols. Leipzig: Weigel.
Eust. in Od. . . . ed. Eustathios, Commentary on Odyssey 1–2. Ed. E. Cullhed. 2016.
Cullhed Eustathios of Thessalonike: Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1:
On Rhapsodies A–B. Uppsala: Uppsala University.
Eust. in Pi. Eustathios, Proem to the Commentary on Pindar. Ed. A. Kambylis.
1991. Eustathios von Thessalonike, Prooimion zum Pindarkommentar:
Einleitung, kritischer Text, Indices. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
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Eust. Opusc. Eustathios, Opuscula. Ed. T. L. F. Tafel. 1832. Eustathii Metropolitae
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Eust. Quadr. Eustathios, Orations on the Great Quadragesima. Ed. S. Schönauer.
2006. Eustathios von Thessalonike, Reden auf die Große Quadragesima:
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Ed. G. Heylbut. 1892. Eustratii et Michaelis et Anonyma in Ethica
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Πατρῶν (Ὑπάτης) [δεύτερον ἥμισυ ιβʹ ἑκατ.] τὰ σωζόμενα, 78–83.
Athens: Theologikē Bibliothēkē.
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discours. Paris: Éditions du Centre national de la recherche
scientifique.
Gr. Pard. in Gregory Pardos, Commentary on Ps.-Hermogenes’ On the Method of
Ps.-Hermog. Meth. Skilfulness. Ed. C. Walz. 1968 [1834]. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 7.2:
1088–1352. Osnabrück: Zeller.
Gr. Nyss. Infant. Gregory of Nyssa, On Infants’ Early Deaths. Ed. H. Hörner. 1986.
Gregorii Nysseni opera, vol. 3.2: 67–97. Leiden: Brill.
Heraclit. All. Heraclitus, Allegories or Homeric Questions. Ed. F. Buffière. 1962.
Héraclite: Allégories d’Homère. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations xv

Herm. in Phdr. Hermias, Commentary on Plato’s Phaedrus. Ed. C. M. Lucarini and

C. Moreschini. 2012. Hermias Alexandrinus: In Platonis Phaedrum
scholia. Berlin–Boston: De Gruyter.
Hermog. Id. Hermogenes, On Types of Style. Ed. M. Patillon. 2012. Corpus
Rhetoricum, vol. 4: Prolégomènes au de ideis; Hermogène: Les
catégories stylistiques du discours (de ideis); Synopses des exposés sur
les ideai, 22–234. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Hes. Th. Hesiod, Theogony. Ed. F. Solmsen. 1990. Hesiodi Theogonia, Opera et
dies, Scutum, third edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Il. Iliad. Ed. D. B. Monro and T. W. Allen. 1920 [1902–12]. Homeri opera,
vols. 1–2, third edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Jo. Gal. All. Il. John Diakonos Galenos, Allegory of Iliad 4.1–4. Ed. H. Flach. 1970
4.1–4 [1876]. Glossen und Scholien zur hesiodischen Theogonie, 420–4.
Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag.
Jo. Gal. in Hes. Th. John Diakonos Galenos, Commentary on Hesiod’s Theogony.
Ed. H. Flach. 1970 [1876]. Glossen und Scholien zur hesiodischen
Theogonie, 295–365. Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag.
Jo. Sard. in Aphth. John of Sardis, Commentary on Aphthonios’ Progymnasmata.
Prog. Ed. H. Rabe. 1928. Ioannis Sardiani commentarium in Aphthonii
progymnasmata. Leipzig: Teubner.
Jo. Sik. Prol. in John Sikeliotes, Prolegomena to Hermogenes’ On Types of Style.
Hermog. Id. Ed. H. Rabe. 1931. Prolegomenon Sylloge. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 14:
393–420. Leipzig: Teubner.
Jo. Sik. in Hermog. John Sikeliotes, Commentary on Hermogenes’ On Types of Style.
Id. Ed. C. Walz. 1834. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 6: 56–504. Stuttgart: Cotta.
Jo. Maur. poem John Mauropous, poems. Ed. and transl. F. Bernard and C. Livanos.
2018. The Poems of Christopher of Mytilene and John Mauropous.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Longin. Longinus, On the Sublime. Ed. D. A. Russell. 1964. Longinus: On the
Sublime. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Malalas John Malalas, Chronicle. Ed. I. Thurn. 2000. Ioannis Malalae
chronographia. Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
M. Chon. Or. Michael Choniates, Orations. Ed. S. P. Lampros, 1879–80. Μιχαὴλ
Ἀκομινάτου τοῦ Χωνιάτου τὰ σωζόμενα, 2 vols. Athens: Parnassos.
M. Chon. Ep. Michael Choniates, Letters. Ed. F. Kolovou. 2001. Michaelis Choniatae
Epistulae. Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
Men. Rh. Menander Rhetor, On Epideictic Speeches. Ed. D. A. Russell and
N. G. Wilson. 1981. Menander Rhetor. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Nikol. Prog. Nikolaos the Sophist, Progymnasmata. Ed. J. Felten. 1913. Rhetores
Graeci, vol. 11: Nicolai progymnasmata. Leipzig: Teubner.
Od. Odyssey. Ed. P. von der Mühll. 1962. Homeri Odyssea. Basel: Helbing
and Lichtenhahn.
Paus. Pausanias, Atticist Lexicon. Ed. H. Erbse. 1950. Untersuchungen zu den
attizistischen Lexika. Berlin: Akademie-­Verlag.
Philostr. Her. Flavius Philostratus, On Heroes. Ed. L. de Lannoy. 1977. Flavii
Philostrati Heroicus. Leipzig: Teubner.
Phot. Bibl. Photios, Bibliotheca. Ed. R. Henry. 1959–91. Photius: Bibliothèque, 9
vols. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Pi. fr. Pindar, fragments. Ed. H. Maehler. 1989. Pindarus, Pars II: Fragmenta;
Indices. Leipzig: Teubner.
Pl. Grg. Plato, Gorgias. Ed. J. Burnet. 1963 [1903]. Platonis Opera, vol. 3.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Pl. Smp. Plato, Symposium. Ed. J. Burnet. 1957 [1901]. Platonis Opera, vol. 2.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
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xvi Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations

Pl. Tht. Plato, Theaetetus. Ed. E. A. Duke et al. 1995. Platonis Opera, vol. 1:
278–382. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Plu. Aud. poet. Plutarch, How the Young Man Should Study Poetry. Ed. W. R. Paton,
I. Wegehaupt, M. Pohlenz, H. Gärtner. 1974. Plutarchi Moralia, vol. 1:
28–75. Leipzig: Teubner.
Plu. Marc. Plutarch, Life of Marcellus. Ed. K. Ziegler. 1968. Plutarchi Vitae
parallelae, vol. 2.2: 105–51. Leipzig: Teubner.
Plu. Phoc. Plutarch, Life of Phocion. Ed. K. Ziegler. 1964. Plutarchi Vitae
parallelae, vol. 2.1: 1–31. Leipzig: Teubner.
Porph. in Il. Porphyry, Homeric Questions on the Iliad. Ed. H. Schrader. 1880–2.
Porphyrii quaestionum Homericarum ad Iliadem pertinentium
reliquias. Leipzig: Teubner. See also J. A. MacPhail Jr. 2011. Porphyry’s
Homeric Questions on the Iliad: Text, Translation, Commentary.
Berlin–New York: De Gruyter.
Porph. Antr. Porphyry, On the Cave of the Nymphs. Ed. J. M. Duffy, P. F. Sheridan,
G. Westerink, A. White. 1969. Porphyry: The Cave of the Nymphs in
the Odyssey. Buffalo: Department of Classics, State University of New
York at Buffalo.
Porph. VP Porphyry, Life of Pythagoras. Ed. E. des Places. 1982. Porphyre: Vie de
Pythagore; Lettre à Marcella. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Prodr. Carm. hist. Theodore Prodromos, Historical Poems. Ed. W. Hörandner. 1974.
Theodoros Prodromos: Historische Gedichte. Vienna: Verlag der
Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften.
Prodr. Bion Prasis Theodore Prodromos, Sale of Poetical and Political Lives.
Ed. E. Cullhed, in: P. Marciniak. 2016. Taniec w roli Tersytesa.
Katowice: University of Silesia Press, 185–203.
Prodr. R&D Theodore Prodromos, Rhodante and Dosikles. Ed. M. Marcovich.
1992. Theodori Prodromi de Rhodanthes et Dosiclis amoribus libri IX.
Stuttgart: Teubner.
Prokl. Chr. Proklos, Chrestomathia. Ed. A. Severyns. 1977. Recherches sur la
Chrestomathie de Proclos, vol. 2. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Prokl. in Pl. Alc. I Proklos, Commentary on Plato’s Alcibiades I. Ed. A. P. Segonds.
1985–6. Proclus: Sur le premier Alcibiade de Platon. Paris: Les Belles
Lettres.
Prokl. in Pl. R. Proklos, Commentary on Plato’s Republic. Ed. W. Kroll. 1965. Procli
Diadochi in Platonis Rem publicam commentarii, 2 vols. Amsterdam:
Adolf M. Hakkert.
Ps.-D. H. Rh. Ps.-Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ars Rhetorica. Ed. L. Radermacher
and H. Usener. 1904–29. Dionysii Halicarnasei quae exstant, vol. 6.
Leipzig: Teubner.
Ps.-Hdn. Fig. Ps.-Herodian, On Figures. Ed. K. Hajdú. 1998. Ps.-Herodian, De figuris:
Überlieferungsgeschichte und kritische Ausgabe, 103–38. Berlin:
De Gruyter.
Ps.-Hermog. Inv. Ps.-Hermogenes, On Invention. Ed. M. Patillon. 2012. Corpus
Rhetoricum, vol. 3.1: Pseudo-­Hermogène: L’invention; Anonyme:
Synopse des Exordes, 1–130. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Ps.-Hermog. Meth. Ps.-Hermogenes, On the Method of Skilfulness. Ed. M. Patillon. 2014.
Corpus Rhetoricum, vol. 5: Pseudo-­Hermogène: La méthode de
l’habileté; Maxime: Les objections irréfutables; Anonyme: Méthode des
discours d’adresse, 1–92. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Ps.-Hermog. Prog. Ps.-Hermogenes, Progymnasmata. Ed. M. Patillon. 2008. Corpus
Rhetoricum, vol. 1: Anonyme: Préambule à la rhetorique; Aphthonios:
Progymnasmata; Pseudo-­Hermogène: Progymnasmata, 165–206.
Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations xvii

Ps.-Plu. Vit. Hom. Ps.-Plutarch, Life and Poetry of Homer. Ed. J. F. Kindstrand. 1990.
[Plutarchi] De Homero. Leipzig: Teubner.
Psell. in. Arist. Ph. Michael Psellos, Commentary on Aristotle’s Physics. Ed. L. G. Benakis.
2008. Michael Psellos, Kommentar zur Physik des Aristoteles:
Einleitung, Text, Indices. Athens: Akadēmia Athēnōn.
Psell. Phil. min. Michael Psellos, Philosophica minora. Ed. J. M. Duffy and
D. J. O’Meara. 1989–92. Michaelis Pselli philosophica minora, 2 vols.
Leipzig: Teubner.
Psell. Synkrisis Michael Psellos, Comparison of Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius.
Ed. A. R. Dyck. 1986. Michael Psellus: The Essays on Euripides and
George of Pisidia and on Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Vienna:
Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften.
S. fr. Sophocles, fragments. Ed. S. L. Radt. 1977. Tragicorum Graecorum
fragmenta, vol. 4: Sophocles. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Sapph. fr. Sappho, fragments. Ed. E. Lobel and D. L. Page. 1955. Poetarum
Lesbiorum fragmenta. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Schol. A, bT A/bT scholia on the Iliad. Ed. H. Erbse. 1969–88. Scholia Graeca in
Homeri Iliadem, 7 vols. Berlin: De Gruyter.
Schol. Ar. Nub. scholia vetera on Aristophanes, Clouds. Ed. D. Holwerda. 1977. Scholia
in Aristophanem, vol. 1, fasc. 3.1: Scholia vetera in Nubes. Groningen:
Bouma.
Schol. D D scholia on the Iliad. Ed. H. van Thiel. 2014. Scholia D in Iliadem.
Proecdosis aucta et correctior 2014. Secundum codices manu scriptos.
Cologne: Universitäts- und Stadtbibliothek.
Schol. D. T. scholia on Dionysius Thrax, Art of Grammar. Ed. A. Hilgard. 1901.
Grammatici Graeci, vol. 3.1: Scholia in Dionysii Thracis Artem
Grammaticam. Leipzig: Teubner.
Schol. Od. scholia on the Odyssey. Ed. W. Dindorf. 1855. Scholia Graeca in
Homeri Odysseam, 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Schol. Od. ed. scholia on Odyssey 1–8. Ed. F. Pontani. 2008–20. Scholia graeca in
Pontani Odysseam, 4 vols. Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura.
Schol. Theoc. scholia on Theocritus. Ed. C. Wendel. 1914. Scholia in Theocritum
vetera. Leipzig: Teubner.
Schol. vet. Pl. Tht. scholia vetera on Plato, Theaetetus. Ed. G. C. Greene. 1938. Scholia
Platonica, 18–40. Haverford: American Philological Association.
Sophon. in Arist. Sophonias, Paraphrase of Aristotle’s On the Soul. Ed. M. Hayduck. 1883.
de An. Sophoniae in libros Aristotelis De anima paraphrasis. Berlin: Reimer.
Stesich. fr. Stesichorus, fragments. Ed. D. L. Page. 1962. Poetae melici Graeci.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Str. Strabo, Geography. Ed. S. L. Radt. Strabons Geographika, 10 vols.
2002–11. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Suda Suda lexicon. Ed. A. Adler. 1928–38. Suidae lexicon, 4 vols. Leipzig:
Teubner.
Syrian. in Hermog. Syrianos, Commentary on Hermogenes’ On Types of Style. Ed. H. Rabe.
Id. 1892. Syriani in Hermogenem commentaria, vol. 1. Leipzig: Teubner.
Theoc. Theocritus, Idylls. Ed. A. S. F. Gow. 1950. Theocritus, vol. 1. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Theon, Prog. Aelius Theon, Progymnasmata. Ed. M. Patillon and G. Bolognesi.
1997. Aelius Théon: Progymnasmata. Paris: Les Belles Lettres.
Trypho, Fig. Trypho, On Figures. Ed. L. Spengel. 1856. Rhetores Graeci, vol. 3:
191–206.
Tz. All. Il. John Tzetzes, Allegories of the Iliad. Ed. J. F. Boissonade. 1851. Tzetzae
allegoriae Iliadis. Paris: Dumont.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

xviii Note on Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations

Tz. All. Od. John Tzetzes, Allegories of the Odyssey. Ed. H. Hunger. 1955. Johannes
Tzetzes, Allegorien zur Odyssee, Buch 13–24: Kommentierte
Textausgabe. Byzantinische Zeitschrift 48.1: 4–48; H. Hunger. 1956.
Johannes Tzetzes, Allegorien zur Odyssee, Buch 1–12: Kommentierte
Textausgabe. Byzantinische Zeitschrift 49.2: 249–310.
Tz. Carm. Il. John Tzetzes, Carmina Iliaca. Ed. P. L. M. Leone. 1995. Ioannis Tzetzae
Carmina Iliaca. Catania: CULC.
Tz. Ex. John Tzetzes, Exegesis of the Iliad. Ed. M. Papathomopoulos. 2007.
Ἐξήγησις Ἰωάννου Γραμματικοῦ τοῦ Τζέτζου εἰς τὴν Ὁμήρου Ἰλιάδα.
Athens: Akadēmia Athēnōn.
Tz. in Hes. Op. John Tzetzes, Commentary on Hesiod’s Works and Days.
Ed. T. Gaisford. 1823. Poetae Minores Graeci, vol. 2: Scholia ad
Hesiodum. Leipzig: Kühn.
Tz. H. John Tzetzes, Histories. Ed. P. L. M. Leone. 2007. Ioannis Tzetzae
Historiae, second edition. Galatina: Congedo.
Tz. On Poets John Tzetzes, On Differences among Poets. Ed. W. J. W. Koster. 1975.
Scholia in Aristophanem, vol. 1, fasc. 1A: Prolegomena de comoedia;
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Tz. Verse Chronicle John Tzetzes, Allegories from the Verse Chronicle. Ed. H. Hunger. 1955.
Johannes Tzetzes, Allegorien aus der Verschronik: Kommentierte
Textausgabe. Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinischen
Gesellschaft 4: 13–49.
Vit. Pi. Life of Pindar. Ed. A. B. Drachmann. 1964 [1903]. Scholia vetera in
Pindari carmina, vol. 1. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert.
Zen. Zenobius, Proverbs. Ed. E. L. von Leutsch and F. G. Schneidewin. 1965
[1839]. Corpus Paroemiographorum Graecorum, vol. 1: 1–175.
Hildesheim: Olms.
Ps.-Zonar. Ps.-Zonaras, Lexicon. Ed. J. A. H. Tittmann. 1967 [1808]. Iohannis
Zonarae Lexicon ex tribus codicibus manuscriptis, 2 vols. Amsterdam:
Adolf M. Hakkert.
 OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/05/22, SPi

Introduction

While it is often acknowledged that the Byzantines and their scholarship were to a
large degree responsible for shaping and transmitting the modern canon of
ancient literature, what Byzantine scholarship can tell us about the cultural system
of its time has only started to be addressed during the past few decades.1
Important clues for a deeper understanding of the cultural role of ancient texts in
different Byzantine centuries can be found strewn across a range of texts of a
didactic or scholarly nature. Among these texts are the Homeric commentaries by
Eustathios of Thessalonike (c.1115–95), arguably the best-­ known Homeric
scholar of the Byzantine era. Eustathios refers to his philological project as
parekbolai (παρεκβολαί), ‘excerpts’, a term whose exact meaning has been the
subject of debate.2 Modern scholarship commonly refers to Eustathios’ work on
Homer as ‘commentaries’, thus placing it in the long tradition of commentaries on
ancient texts from antiquity to the present. Every commentary is first of all an
interpretation, a specific reading of an often authoritative text, shaped by the
commentator’s historical, intellectual, and cultural circumstances. Firmly
grounded in their socio-­cultural and intellectual context as they are, commentaries
‘may come to be studied as cultural or ideological texts in their own right, with
didactic aims of their own, steering the “primary” text in a direction intended to
answer very contemporary questions of meaning’.3 This book is a study of
Eustathios’ Commentary on the Iliad as such a cultural and ideological text. The
commentary allows us to read the Iliad from beginning to end through the eyes
of one of the most successful teachers, authors, and orators of his time; it can
therefore teach us much about the role of an authority as respected as Homer in
one of the most fertile periods in Byzantine literary history.

1 See e.g. the overview of Byzantine classical scholarship in Dickey 2017, which acknowledges the
potential of Byzantine scholarship to open a window onto Byzantine thought, while stressing their
value as transmitters of ancient texts or variant readings not otherwise available to us. Kaldellis 2009
explores the reasons for the absence of studies on Byzantine classical scholarship as a ‘cultural problem
in its own right’ (quotation from p. 5). For Byzantine commentaries on ancient texts as firmly
grounded in Byzantine culture, see most recently the papers collected in Van den Berg, Manolova, and
Marciniak 2022, with ample bibliography.
2 On the term παρεκβολαί, see Kambylis 1991: 14–17; Harlfinger 2011: 179–81; Cullhed 2014a:
24*–6* and 2016: 2*–3*.
3 C. S. Kraus 2002: 4, 6–9 (quotation from pp. 6–7). On commentaries being historically
determined and filling the needs of contemporary audiences, see also e.g. Sluiter 1999: 173 and 2013:
194; Kraus and Stray 2016: 7.

Homer the Rhetorician: Eustathios of Thessalonike on the Composition of the Iliad. Baukje van den Berg,
Oxford University Press. © Baukje van den Berg 2022. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192865434.003.0001
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
believe my right arm is broken.”
“I have some knowledge of healing,” he declared; “let me look at it.”
Before she could answer, he had ripped the sleeve away. “It is only a
sprain,” he said. “Wait.” He went inside for an amber liquid and
bandages. When he had laved the injured muscles, he bound them
round.
“How did it happen?” she asked, as he worked. He was so courteous
and professional that her alarm was gone.
“Your horse was frightened by a rattlesnake in the road. I heard it
whir.”
She shuddered. “I ought to be thankful that I didn’t come my cropper
on it,” she said, laughing nervously.
He went inside again, this time to prepare a cupful of herbs. When
he offered her the draught, she screwed up her face over its
nauseating fumes.
“If that acts as strongly as it tastes,” she said, after she had drunk it,
“I’ll be well soon.”
“It is to keep away inflammation.”
“Oh! Can I go now?”
“Yes. But to-morrow return, and I will look at the arm.” He took the
lamp away and replaced his red-buttoned cap with a black felt hat.
Then he silently preceded her down the steps to the road. Only when
the light of her home shone plainly ahead of them, did he leave her.
They had not spoken on the way. But as he bowed a good-night, she
addressed him. “I thank you,” she said. “And may I ask your name?”
“Kwa”—he began, and stopped. Emotion for an instant softened his
impassive countenance. He turned away. “Fong Wu,” he added, and
was gone.
The following afternoon the crunch of cart wheels before the square-
fronted house announced her coming. Fong Wu closed “The Book of
Virtue,” and stepped out upon the porch.
A white man was seated beside her in the vehicle. As she sprang
from it, light-footed and smiling, and mounted the steps, she
indicated him politely to the Chinese.
“This is my husband,” she said. “I have told him how kind you were
to me last night.”
Fong Wu nodded.
Barrett hastened to voice his gratitude. “I certainly am very much
obliged to you,” he said. “My wife might have been bitten by the
rattler, or she might have lain all night in pain if you hadn’t found her.
And I want to say that your treatment was splendid. Why, her arm
hasn’t swollen or hurt her. I’ll be hanged if I can see—you’re such a
good doctor—why you stay in this——”
Fong Wu interrupted him. “I will wet the bandage with medicine,” he
said, and entered the house.
They watched him with some curiosity as he treated the sprain and
studied the pulse. When he brought out her second cup of steaming
herbs, Mrs. Barrett looked up at him brightly.
“You know we’re up here for Mr. Barrett’s health,” she said. “A year
or so after we were married, he was hurt in a railway collision. Since
then, though his wounds healed nicely, he has never been quite well.
Dr. Lord, our family physician, prescribed plenty of rough work, and a
quiet place, far from the excitement of a town or city. Now, all this
morning, when I realised how wonderful it was that my arm wasn’t
aching, I’ve been urging my husband—what do you suppose?—to
come and be examined by you!”
Fong Wu, for the first time, looked fully at the white man, marking the
sallow, clayey face, with its dry, lined skin, its lustreless eyes and
drooping lids.
Barrett scowled at his wife. “Nonsense, dear,” he said crossly; “you
know very well that Lord would never forgive me.”
“But Fong Wu might help you, Anthony,” she declared.
Fong Wu’s black eyes were still fixed searchingly upon the white
man. Before their scrutiny, soul-deep, the other’s faltered and fell.
“You might help him, mightn’t you, Fong Wu?” Mrs. Barrett repeated.
An expression, curious, keen, and full of meaning, was the answer.
Then, “I might if he——” Fong Wu said, and paused.
Past Mrs. Barrett, whose back was toward her husband, the latter
had shot a warning glance. “Come, come, Edith,” he cried irritably,
“let’s get home.”
Mrs. Barrett emptied her cup bravely. “When shall we call again?”
she asked.
“You need not come again,” Fong Wu replied. “Each day you have
only to dampen the bandages from these.” He handed her a green-
flowered box containing twelve tiny compartments; in each was a
phial.
“And I sha’n’t have to take any more of this—this awful stuff?” she
demanded gaily, giving back the cup.
“No.”
“Ah! And now, I want to thank you again, with all my heart. Here”—
she reached into the pocket of her walking-skirt—“here is something
for your trouble.” Two double-eagles lay on her open palm.
Fong Wu frowned at them. “I take no money,” he said, a trifle gruffly.
And as she got into the cart, he closed the door of his home behind
him.
It was a week before Mrs. Barrett again took up her rides for the
mail. When she did, Fong Wu did not fail to be on his porch as she
passed. For each evening, as she cantered up the road, spurring the
mustang to its best paces, she reined to speak to him. And he met
her greeting with unaccustomed good humour.
Then she went by one morning before sunrise, riding like the wind. A
little later she repassed, whipping her horse at every gallop. Fong
Wu, called to his door by the clatter, saw her face was white and
drawn. At noon, going up to the post-office, he heard a bit of gossip
that seemed to bear upon her unwonted trip. Radigan was
rehearsing it excitedly to his wife, and the Chinese busied himself
with his mail and listened—apparently unconcerned.
“I c’n tell you she ain’t afraid of anythin’, that Mrs. Barrett,” the post-
master was saying; “neither th’ cayuse she rides or a critter on two
legs. An’ that fancy little drug-clerk from ’Frisco got it straight from th’
shoulder.”
“S-s-sh!” admonished his wife, from the back of the office. “Isn’t there
someone outside?”
“Naw, just th’ chink from Kennedy’s. Well, as I remarked, she did jus’
light into that dude. ‘It was criminal!’ she says, an’ her eyes snapped
like a whip; ‘it was criminal! an’ if I find out for sure that you are
guilty, I’ll put you where you’ll never do it again.’ Th’ young gent
smirked at her an’ squirmed like a worm. ‘You’re wrong, Mrs. Barrett,’
he says, lookin’ like th’ meek puppy he is, ‘an’ you’ll have t’ look
some place else for th’ person that done it.’ But she wouldn’t talk no
longer—jus’ walked out, as mad as a hornet.”
“Well, well,” mused Mrs. Radigan. “I wonder what ’twas all about.
‘Criminal,’ she said, eh? That’s funny!” She walked to the front of the
office and peeked through the wicket. But no one was loitering near
except Fong Wu, and his face was the picture of dull indifference.
That night, long after the hour for Mrs. Barrett’s regular trip, and long
past the time for his supper-song, Fong Wu heard slow, shuffling
steps approach the house. A moment afterward, the knob of his door
rattled. He put out his light and slipped a knife into his loose sleeve.
After some mumbling and moving about on the porch, a man called
out to him. He recognised the voice.
“Fong Wu! Fong Wu!” it begged. “Let me in. I want to see you; I want
to ask you for help—for something I need. Let me in; let me in.”
Fong Wu, without answering, relit his lamp, and, with the air of one
who is at the same time both relieved and a witness of the expected,
flung the door wide.
Then into the room, writhing as if in fearful agony, his hands palsied,
his face a-drip and, except for dark blotches about the mouth, green-
hued, his eyes wild and sunken, fell, rather than tottered, Anthony
Barrett.
“Fong Wu,” he pleaded, from the floor at the other’s feet, “you helped
my wife, when she was sick, now help me. I’m dying! I’m dying! Give
it to me, for God’s sake! give it to me.” He caught at the skirt of Fong
Wu’s blouse.
The Chinese retreated a little, scowling. “What do you want?” he
asked.
A paroxysm of pain seized Barrett. He half rose and stumbled
forward. “You know,” he panted, “you know. And if I don’t have some,
I’ll die. I can’t get it anywhere else. She’s found me out, and scared
the drug-clerk. Oh, just a little, old man, just a little!” He sank to the
floor again.
“I can give you nothing,” said Fong Wu bluntly. “I do not keep—what
you want.”
With a curse, Barrett was up again. “Oh, you don’t,” he screamed,
leering frenziedly. “You yellow devil! You almond-eyed pigtail! But I
know you do! And I must have it. Quick! quick!” He hung, clutching,
on the edge of Fong Wu’s wide ironing-table, an ashen wreck. Fong
Wu shook his head.
With a cry, Barrett came at him and seized his lean throat. “You
damned highbinder!” he gasped. “You saddle-nosed monkey! You’ll
get me what I want or I’ll give you away. Don’t I know why you’re up
here in these woods, with your pretty clothes and your English talk.
A-ha! You bet I do! You’re hiding, and you’re wanted;”—he dropped
his voice to a whisper—“the tongs would pay head-money for you. If
you don’t give it to me, I’ll put every fiend in ’Frisco on your trail.”
Fong Wu had caught Barrett’s wrists. Now he cast him to one side.
“Tongs!” he said with a shrug, as if they were beneath his notice. And
“Fiends!” he repeated contemptuously, a taunt in his voice.
The white man had fallen prone and was grovelling weakly. “Oh, I
won’t tell on you,” he wailed imploringly. “I won’t, I won’t, Fong Wu; I
swear it on my honour.”
Fong Wu grunted and reached to a handy shelf. “I will make a
bargain with you,” he said craftily; “first, you are to drink what I wish.”
“Anything! anything!” Barrett cried.
From a box of dry herbs, long untouched, the Chinese drew out a
handful. There was no time for brewing. Outraged nature demanded
instant relief. He dropped them into a bowl, covered them with water,
and stirred swiftly. When the stems and leaves were broken up and
well mixed, he strained a brown liquid from them and put it to the
other’s lips.
“Drink,” he commanded, steadying the shaking head.
Barrett drank, unquestioning.
Instantly the potion worked. Calmed as if by a miracle, made drowsy
to a point where speech was impossible, the white man, tortured but
a moment before, tipped sleepily into Fong Wu’s arms. The Chinese
waited until a full effect was secured, when he lifted his limp patient
to the blanket-covered ironing-table. Then he went out for fuel, built a
fire, and, humming softly—with no fear of waking the other—sat
down to watch the steeping of more herbs.

What happened next at the square-fronted house was the

unexpected. Again there was a sound of approaching footsteps,
again someone gained the porch. But this time there was no pausing
to ask for admission, there were no weak requests for aid. A swift
hand felt for the knob and found it; a strong arm pushed at the
unlocked door. And through it, bareheaded, with burning eyes and
blanched cheeks, her heavy riding-whip dangling by a thong from
her wrist, came the wife of Anthony Barrett.
Just across the sill she halted and swept the dim room. A moment,
and the burning eyes fell upon the freighted ironing-table. She gave
a piercing cry.
Fong Wu neither spoke nor moved.
After the first outburst, she was quiet—the quiet that is deliberative,
threatening. Then she slowly closed her fingers about the whip butt.
Fixing her gaze in passionate anger upon him, she advanced a few
steps.
“So it was you,” she said, and her voice was hollow.
To that he made no sign, and even his colourless face told nothing.
She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath.
“You dog of a Chinaman!” she said at last, and struck her riding-skirt.
Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed
out the figure on the ironing-table.
She sprang to her husband’s side and bent over him. Presently she
began to murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were
tears on her lashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in
whispers.
“Was I wrong?” she demanded brokenly. “I must have been. He’s not
had it; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faint
colour. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!”
A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu’s lips.
He picked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly
upon it, letting the whip fall.
“Thank God! thank God!” she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face
in her arms.
Throughout the long hours that followed, Fong Wu, from the room’s
shadowy rear, sat watching. He knew sleep did not come to her. For
now and then he saw her shake from head to heel convulsively; as
he had seen men in his own country quiver beneath the scourge of
bamboos. Now and then, too, he heard her give a stifled moan, like
the protest of a dumb creature. But in no other ways did she bare her
suffering. Quietly, lest she wake her husband, she fought out the
night.
Only once did Fong Wu look away from her. Then, in anger and
disgust his eyes shifted to the figure on the table. “The petal of a
plum blossom”—he muttered in Chinese—“the petal of a plum
blossom beneath the hoofs of a pig!” And again his eyes dwelt upon
the grief-bowed wife.
But when the dawn came stealing up from behind the purple Sierras,
and Mrs. Barrett raised her wan face, he was studiously reviewing
his rows of bottles, outwardly unaware of her presence.
“Fong Wu,” she said, in a low voice, “when will he wake?”
“When he is rested; at sunrise, maybe, or at noon.”
“And then?”
“He will be feeble. I shall give him more medicine, and he will sleep
again.”
He rose and busied himself at the fire. Soon he approached her,
bringing the gold-incrusted teapot and a small, handleless cup.
She drank thirstily, filling and emptying the cup many times. When
she was done, she made as if to go. “I shall see that everything is all
right at home,” she told him. “After that, I shall come back.” She
stooped and kissed her husband tenderly.
Fong Wu opened the door for her, and she passed out. In the road,
unhitched, but waiting, stood the mustang. She mounted and rode
away.
When she returned, not long afterward, she was a new woman. She
had bathed her face and donned a fresh waist. Her eyes were alight,
and the scarlet was again flaming in her cheeks. Almost cheerfully,
and altogether hopefully, she resumed her post at the ironing-table.
It was late in the afternoon before Barrett woke. But he made no
attempt to get up, and would not eat. Fong Wu administered another
dose of herbs, and without heeding his patient’s expostulations. The
latter, after seeking his wife’s hand, once more sank into sleep.
Just before sunset, Fong Wu, who scorned to rest, prepared supper.
Gratefully Mrs. Barrett partook of some tender chicken and rice
cakes. When darkness shut down, they took up their second long
vigil.
But it was not the vigil of the previous night. She was able to think of
other things than her husband’s condition and the doom that, of a
sudden, had menaced her happiness. Her spirits having risen, she
was correspondingly impatient of a protracted, oppressive stillness,
and looked about for an interruption, and for diversion. Across from
her, a Celestial patrician in his blouse of purple silk and his red-
buttoned cap, sat Fong Wu. Consumed with curiosity—now that she
had time to observe him closely—she longed to lift the yellow,
expressionless mask from his face—a face which might have
patterned that of an Oriental sphinx. At midnight, when he
approached the table to satisfy himself of Barrett’s progress, and to
assure her of it, she essayed a conversation.
Glancing up at his laden shelves, she said, “I have been noticing
your medicines, and how many kinds there seem to be.”
“For each ailment that is visited upon man, earth offers a cure,” he
answered. “Life would be a mock could Death, unchallenged, take
it.”
“True. Have you found in the earth, then, the cure for each ailment of
man?”
“For most, yes. They seek yet, where I learned the art of healing, an
antidote for the cobra’s bite. I know of no other they lack.”
“Where you were taught they must know more than we of this
country know.”
Fong Wu gave his shoulders a characteristic shrug.
“But,” she continued, “you speak English so perfectly. Perhaps you
were taught that in this country.”
“No—in England. But the other, I was not.”
“In England! Well!”
“I went there as a young man.”
“But these herbs, these medicines you have—they did not come
from England, did they?”
He smiled. “Some came from the hills at our back.” Then, crossing to
his shelves and reaching up, “This”—he touched a silk-covered
package—“is from Sumbawa in the Indian Sea; and this”—his finger
was upon the cork of a phial—“is from Feng-shan, Formosa; and
other roots are taken in winter from the lake of Ting-Ting-hu, which is
then dry; and still others come from the far mountains of Chamur.”
“Do you know,” Mrs. Barrett said tentatively, “I have always heard
that Chinese doctors give horrid things for medicine—sharks’ teeth,
frogs’ feet, lizards’ tails, and—and all sorts of dreadful things.”
Fong Wu proffered no enlightenment.
“I am glad,” she went on, “that I have learned better.”
After a while she began again: “Doubtless there is other wonderful
knowledge, besides that about doctoring, which Chinese gentlemen
possess.”
Fong Wu gave her a swift glance. “The followers of Laou-Tsze know
many things,” he replied, and moved into the shadows as if to close
their talk.
Toward morning, when he again gave her some tea, she spoke of
something that she had been turning over in her mind for hours.
“You would not take money for helping me when I was hurt,” she
said, “and I presume you will refuse to take it for what you are doing
now. But I should like you to know that Mr. Barrett and I will always,
always be your friends. If”—she looked across at him, no more a part
of his rude surroundings, than was she—“if ever there comes a time
when we could be of use to you, you have only to tell us. Please
remember that.”
“I will remember.”
“I cannot help but feel,” she went on, and with a sincere desire to
prove her gratitude, rather than to pry out any secret of his, “that you
do not belong here—that you are in more trouble than I am. For what
can a man of your rank have to do in a little town like this!”
He was not displeased with her. “The ancient sage,” he said slowly,
“mounted himself upon a black ox and disappeared into the western
wilderness of Thibet. Doubtless others, too, seek seclusion for much
thinking.”
“But you are not the hermit kind,” she declared boldly. “You belong to
those who stay and fight. Yet here you are, separated from your
people and your people’s graves—alone and sorrowful.”
“As for my living people, they are best without me; as for my people
dead, I neither worship their dust nor propitiate devils. The wise one
said: ‘Why talk forever on of men who are long gone?’”
“Yet——” she persisted.
He left the stove and came near her. “You are a woman, but you
know much. You are right. My heart is heavy for a thing I cannot do
—for the shattered dreams of the men of Hukwang.” He beat his
palms together noiselessly, and moved to and fro on soft sandals.
“Those dreams were of a young China that was to take the place of
the old—but that died unborn.”
She followed his words with growing interest. “I have heard of those
dreams,” she answered; “they were called ‘reform.’”
“Yes. And now all the dreamers are gone. They had voyaged to
glean at Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and in the halls of Oxford. There
were ‘five loyal and six learned,’ and they shed their blood at the
Chen Chih Gate. One there was who died the death that is meted a
slave at the court of the Son of Heaven. And one there was”—his
face shrank up, as if swiftly aging; his eyes became dark, upturning
slits; as one who fears pursuit he cast a look behind him—“and one
there was who escaped beyond the blood-bathed walls of the
Hidden City and gained the Sumatra Coast. Then, leaving Perak, in
the Straits Settlements, he finally set foot upon a shore where men,
without terror, may reach toward higher things.”
“And was he followed?” she whispered, comprehending.
“He fled quietly, quietly. For long are the claws of the she-panther
that is crouched on the throne of the Mings.”
Both fell silent. The Chinese went back to the stove, where the fire
was dying. The white woman, wide awake, and lost in the myriad of
scenes his tale had conjured, sat by the table, for once almost
forgetful of her charge.
The dragging hours of darkness past, Anthony Barrett found sane
consciousness. He was pale, yet strengthened by his long sleep,
and he was hungry. Relieved and overjoyed, Mrs. Barrett ministered
to him. When he had eaten and drunk, she helped him from the table
to the stool, and thence to his feet. Her arm about him, she led him
to the door. Fong Wu had felt his pulse and it had ticked back the
desired message, so he was going home.
“Each night you are to come,” Fong Wu said, as he bade them good-
bye. “And soon, very soon, you may go from here to the place from
which you came.”
Mrs. Barrett turned at the door. A plea for pardon in misjudging him,
thankfulness for his help, sympathy for his exile—all these shone
from her eyes. But words failed her. She held out her hand.
He seemed not to see it; he kept his arms at his sides. A “dog of a
Chinaman” had best not take a woman’s hand.
She went out, guiding her husband’s footsteps, and helped him climb
upon the mustang from the height of the narrow porch. Then, taking
the horse by the bridle, she moved away down the slope to the road.
Fong Wu did not follow, but closed the door gently and went back to
the ironing-table. A handkerchief lay beside it—a dainty linen square
that she had left. He picked it up and held it before him by two
corners. From it there wafted a faint, sweet breath.
Fong Wu let it flutter to the floor. “The perfume of a plum petal,” he
said softly, in English; “the perfume of a plum petal.”
 YEE WING, POWDER-MAN
YEE CHU, wife of Yee Wing, sank low before her husband, resting
her clasped hands upon a knee. “Surely, Kwan-yin, the Merciful, has
thought me deserving,” she said, “for she has set me down in a
place where soft winds blow unceasingly.”
The Powder-man glanced out of the one window of their little home,
past the pot of ragged chrysanthemums and the white-and-brown
pug that held the sill. “I shall burn an offering to her,” he promised
gravely.
“It is so sweetly warm,” she continued, rising and standing at his
side; “though the new year is almost upon us. See, I have put off the
band of velvet that I wear upon my head of a winter, and changed to
these flower-bouquets. Esteemed, will it always be spring-time
here?”
Yee Wing’s face lost its expression of studied indifference. He let his
look rest upon her hair, blue-black, and held at each side by a cluster
of mock jewels; let it travel down to the young face,—a clear,
polished white except for deep-carmine touches on cheeks and
eyelids and on the lower lip of the pouting mouth—to the brown
eyes, whose charm was enhanced by a curious little wrinkle just
above the darkened brows, a petulant little wrinkle that changed with
each passing thought.
“Assuredly,” he answered. “In California, it is always spring-time,
Jasmine Blossom.”
Again she sank, bracelets clinking as her fingers met. “Just so it is
for a good while each year on the hills of Hupeh, where dwell my
illustrious pocket parents. From our hut, during the sunny days, we
looked across the tea fields upon groves of bamboo, feather-topped,
and rocking gently.”
She stumped to the open door, balancing herself with partly
outstretched arms. “Am I free to go forth to-day as yesterday?” she
inquired over a shoulder. “The green invites, and there be some
beautiful plants yonder, red as the face of the god of war. I can fill the
pottery jar.”
“Go,” he bade, “but not over far, lest you tire the two lilies of gold.”
She smiled back at him tenderly. “I spend my heart upon you,” she
said in farewell, and went balancing away.
Yee Wing watched her difficult progress across the grassy level that
divided the powder-house and his own habitation from Sather, the
solitary little railway station of the near-by line. “She has brought
tranquillity,” he murmured, “Where now are the five causes of
disquietude?” And he, too, smiled tenderly.
The week that followed, which was only the second of the girl-wife’s
residence in the new land, found the two supremely happy. They had
no visitors other than the superintendent from the works at Pinole,
and an expressman from Oakland, bearing an order for a keg of
explosive. Yee Wing enjoyed abundant leisure, and he spent it with
his bride. They puttered together about the dove-cotes behind the
square, black magazines; they shared the simple cares of their
single room; in a comradeship as strange to their kind as was the
civilisation in which they had come to live; they sallied forth like two
children, gathering the fragrant peony, pursuing the first butterflies.
But one morning there arrived a man of their own race. Yee Wing
was lolling upon a bench, playing with the white-and-brown pug. Yee
Chu, in purple trousers and cherry-hued jacket, was sitting upon a
stool, the gay, tinsel rosettes over each tiny ear bobbing merrily as
she finished a careful toilet. The white paste had been put on face
and throat and carefully smoothed. Now she was dyeing her long
nails and rouging her palms. Of a sudden, a shadow fell across the
doorway. The two looked up. Outside, staring in, was a Chinese, his
round, black, highbinder hat, silk blouse and dark-blue broadcloth
breeches proclaiming him above the coolie class.
“Stay within,” cautioned the Powder-man, in a low voice. He went out
hastily, and closed the door after him.
There passed between Yee Wing and his caller none of the
elaborate greetings that mark the meeting of two equals. The
strange Chinese gave the other a proud nod of the kind that is fit for
a foreign devil, and, with no evasiveness and something of the
bluntness that characterises the despised white, at once stated his
errand.
“I come from the most worthy Bazar-man, to whom you stand in debt
to the measure of twenty-five dollars,” he began. “I have to remind
you that to-morrow is New Year’s day. And for you the sun does not
rise unless the sum be paid.”
Yee Wing drew a startled breath. True, to-morrow would be New
Year’s Day! How had it come so near without his knowing? It found
him without what was due. His very “face”—that precious thing,
appearance—was threatened!
“I am from the South of the Heavenly Empire,” he made haste to
answer, catching, as it were, at a saving device. “I am a son of Tang,
therefore. Now, with us, there is a custom——”
Without explaining further, he took hold of a wooden button upon his
cotton blouse and pulled it loose. Then, with profound courtesy, he
tendered it to the Collector of Monies.
The latter received it with a courtesy that was feigned, withdrawing a
covert glance from the partly screened window. “A son of Tang,” he
repeated. “There be rich men in the South. Now, perhaps your
honoured father—” He paused inquiringly.
Yee Wing understood. In the land of the Son of Heaven, a father is
held strictly responsible for the obligations of a son. But—the
province of Kwangtung was far.
“My poor but excellent father was only a dealer in salt,” he said
gravely. “His mound is upon a desolate stretch beside the Yang-tse.”
To save any questions concerning other male members of the family,
—who also might be held accountable—he added, “I alone survive to
feed and clothe his spirit continuously.”
A baleful light shone in the slant, searching eyes, but the words of
the Collector of Monies were gracious enough. “Filial piety,” he
observed, “has first place among the virtues.” Then, with pompous
deprecation, “My humble parent is but a kouang-fou in the Customs
Service of Shanghai.”
Yee Wing lowered his own look in becoming deference. The son of a
civil officer carries power.
The stranger now gave a second nod and moved away,—not,
however, without again peering through the window; and soon,
seated on the dummy of an electric car, he was spinning out of sight
in the direction of Fruitvale.
Yee Wing watched him go, then hastily entered the house.
Fireworks, for the frightening away of evil spirits, might not be
exploded near the powder. So he sought for a tiny gong and beat it
roundly.
“I like not that man’s countenance,” he told Yee Chu. “Did you note
how he spied upon the place? He is of the sort that would steal food
like a dog.”
Saying which, the Powder-man beat his gong more loudly than
before, and burned at the entrance to his home handful upon handful
of propitiatory paper.

Tau Lot, Bazar-man, sat behind a little counter of polished ebony. His
were the calm, unmoved—and fat—face and the quick, shifting eye
of the born speculator; his, the smooth, long-nailed hands that do no
labor, and that were now toying with one of the Nine Classics. On his
head rested a tasseled cap. His jacket was of Shang-tung silk, dyed
purple. His breeches were of dark crape, tied down upon socks
spotlessly white. The shoes that rested upon the middle rung of his
stool were of velvet and embroidered.
The Dupont street shop was small, but it held a bewildering mass of
merchandise. Silk rolls, matting, bronzes, porcelain, brass, carved
furniture, lacquered ware, Chinese fans made in Japan, imported
purses worked within a stone’s throw of the store, devil masks, dolls
and gowns—gowns of brocade; gowns of plain silk, quilted in finest
lines and herring-bone rays and bordered with figured-ribbon bands;
gowns of embroidered satin,—mulberry-red wrought with sprigs and
circles of flowers, green, with gold thread tracings, black, with silver
cranes winging across. Yet though the store was small, and choked
to the lantern-hung ceiling, the clerks were many. Some were ranged
behind the row of shining glass cases, others lounged in a group
near the rear room entrance. There were honourable younger
brothers here, and honourable cousins, but not one of a different
blood. For Tau Lot thought well of the ancient proverb: When the fire
is lighted, all the family should be kept warm.
Outside the bazar was the tall, upright beckoning-board with its
heavy gold characters on a vermilion ground. A Chinese now halted
beside it, and glanced casually up and down the street. Then he
came through the door, examining a box of sandalwood just within
the entrance, leaning over some silk handkerchiefs at the counter-
end. Presently he advanced to the ebony counter.
“Your trifling servant salutes you, Illustrious,” he said.
The Bazar-man scowled. Two hours had he given up to business—
two hours of the three spent so daily. Soon he would return to the
dreams and sleep of the enslaving pipe. And what babble had Chow
Loo to say?
“Welcome,” he returned. “Too long you have deprived me of your
instructive speech.”
“My speech is but a breath in my neighbour’s face. Will the Most
Noble not lighten the hour with his voice?”
A party of women tourists came crowding in at that moment, picking
at everything not under cover, pulling at the hanging gowns on the
wall, stretching to see what was behind the cases. Tau Lot looked
them over,—there were five—mentally tagging them with price-
marks. The old woman was not worth her keep, the next younger
little more, the two thin ones perhaps four hundred——.
“But the round one,” said Chow Loo, keen to see what the Bazar-
man was thinking.
“Eight hundred, truly,” and the tasselled cap was gravely wagged.
“So I think, though her feet be as big as the feet of a Tartar woman.”
They surveyed the attractive young lady with the judgment of
merchants both.
“It nears the time for my going,” said Tau Lot, his Oriental dislike of
coming to the point in business overweighed by the dread of wasting
time that belonged to the pipe. “So what of the collect to-day?”
Chow Loo ran a hand into the pocket of his blue broadcloth
breeches. “From Berkeley, where I led my contemptible way,
eighteen dollars,—so much owed the washer of clothes. From
Oakland, six, and the vender of vegetables sends his lowly greeting.
But the Powder-man at Sather was as naked of coin as a robber.
See—here is only a button from his coat!”
“The debt is owed since the Ninth Moon.”
“So I said—Yes, the round one would be worth fully eight hundred.”
The attractive young lady had come closer, anxious for a near view
of the Bazar-man. A clerk accompanied her, advancing at the farther
side of the counter as she advanced, but taking no trouble to display
his wares.
“So I said,” repeated the Collector of Monies. Then, with a meaning
glance at the Bazar-man, for an honourable younger brother was at
the latter’s elbow. “But though he is so miserably poor, he grows a
rose,—one more beautiful than a man of his rank should have. In
your crowded garden is there room for another such?”
Instantly, Tau Lot’s slant eyes narrowed in their slits, his ponderous
body lost its attitude of indolence. He stepped down from his stool
with alacrity. “You will have a taste of steamed rice,” he said, “—rice
savoured with salt fish—and a cup of hot samschu at my despicable
board.” And he led the way to the rear room.
The Collector of Monies followed, and the two seated themselves at
a table, where a servant brought food and rice-wine. And here, nose
to nose, they chattered low, gesticulated, haggled.
“How far is it to Sather?” asked the Bazar-man.
“Near to thirty li. One can reach there in an hour.” The Collector of
Monies proudly displayed a large, nickel-plated watch.
“But still—the price is too high.”
“O Magnificent One! for a little-foot woman? Her dowry was at the
lowest fifty taels. Doubtless, that was what beggared him. She is
truly a picked beauty, a very pearl.”
“It is settled then. The half will be paid when the rose is plucked, the
second half when the filthy foreign police accept a commission and
promise no interference.”

At sundown, a few days later, the superintendent at Pinole heard the

bell of his telephone summoning him. The receiver at his ear, he
caught the petulant “Well, wait a minnit, can’t y’?” of the operator
and, punctuating it, a weak gasping, as if some one in agony were at
the distant transmitter.
“What is it?” demanded the superintendent. “This is Bingham.”
The gasping ceased. A choking voice answered him: “Yee Wing,
Mista Bingham. Say, my hab got sick bludder—oh, velly sick. Must
go San Flancisco heap quick. S’pose you likee, my can tell olo
Chinaman flom Flootvale. He come all light.”
“Yes, old Wah Lee, you mean.” The superintendent knew it would be
useless to try to learn the real cause of Yee Wing’s sudden going or
to attempt to stop him.
“Olo Wah Lee,” returned the Powder-man, eagerly. “Say, Mista
Bingham, I come back plitty soon. Jessie now, I wanchee know, I no
lose my job?”
“No, Wing, your job’s safe. You attend to that sick brother and get
back as soon as you can.”
“All light. Good-bye,” and the receiver was hung up.
In the morning, when the superintendent reached Sather, he found
Wah Lee on guard. The old Chinese substitute was stretched upon
an army cot by the dove-cotes, the white-and-brown pug beside him.
Yee Wing’s little home was locked. Bingham shaded his eyes and
looked in—upon the kitchen, dining and sleeping room in one. Cups
and bowls littered the table. Clothing was tossed here and there
upon the benches and floor. Each drawer of a high case against the
farthest wall had been jerked out and not replaced.
“Something’s up,” muttered the superintendent. “Well, I knew there’d
be trouble when that pretty little wife came. Wah Lee, what’s the
matter with Yee Wing?”
“No sabe,” declared the old man, and to every suggestion returned
the same reply.
That day, and the six that followed, found Yee Wing in San
Francisco, where he walked Chinatown continuously,—watching,
watching, watching. And as he travelled, he kept his right hand
tucked in his wide left sleeve, his left hand tucked in the right one.
His way led him always through squalid alleys; narrow, dark alleys,
where there were no shops, and no coolies going by with heavy
baskets swinging from their carrying-poles; but where, from tiny,
barred windows, the faces of young Chinese girls looked out—ivory-
yellow faces, wondering, wistful.
Before them, passing and repassing, his own face upturned, went
Yee Wing.
The slave women gazed down at him with little interest, their dull
eyes, their sullen mouths, bespeaking the spirit that is broken but still
resentful. He could not call to them, could not question, for among
them was surely a spy. He could only pass and repass. Then, to
another dark alley, with the same barred windows, the same wistful
faces. Enter one of these places, he dared not, if he hoped to live to
save her. The Sam Sings guarding the slave trade—those quick-
working knife-men who are as quick to get away from the “foreign