ONE day, when Turner was long past the meridian of life, and was visiting his old friend, the Rev. Mr. Trimmer, of Heston, near Brentford, it was suddenly agreed between them that the old clergyman should teach the old artist Greek. Perhaps it was a wet day, and Turner could neither sketch nor fish; perhaps the project was the result of long thought and steadily growing intentions. Cato learned Greek at seventy-why not Turner at fifty? At all events, so the alliance agreed. The old clergyman chuckled and joked. Turner, too, joked and chuckled. Turner is to teach Trimmer painting; Trimmer is to teach Turner Greek. The old Greek books, long undusted, are brought out. The two old grey heads nod together over them. Slowly and with pain Turner masters the Greek letters, and passes on to laborious efforts at pronunciation. The tremendous ó, ǹ, rò, is mastered; the awful primary verbs eimai and tupto are slowly digested. It is admirable to see Turner's energy and perseverance in his new character of schoolboy: his eyebrows contract, his great curved Pan-like mouth opens and shuts menacingly. He suffers agonies

with the first declension, and gets entangled in the difficulties of the dual. Days pass; still he masters his allotted task, but the task grows shorter and the labour greater. He is too old, his brain does not retain with the sure grip it once did; he throws down the Greek "Delectus" with a sigh, for the Doctor is painting away at a ship with taste and success.

"Trimmer," he says, "I fear I must give it up; you get on better with your painting than I do with my Greek."

So ended Turner's dreams of drawing his inspirations from the pure undefiled source of Greek poetry— Homer. Like Shakspeare, in this respect, Turner had learnt at his school at Brentford Butts "little Latin and less Greek," as Ben Jonson has it.

It was then, as this story proves, if we needed any proof, from Pope's translation of the ninth book of the "Odyssey" that Turner selected his subject.

Why the painter selected this subject it is difficult to say. The picture may have been merely the framework for a magnificent sunrise, or it may be that Turner desired to write his name on Homer's tomb, to "share his triumph and partake his gale;" or it may be that something in the story of Ulysses interested one who was also a traveller-wily, silent when need be, and vigilant. He felt that here he was doing something timid Claude would not have dared to do, that would have half blinded sombre Poussin, and have been to Vandervelde a sheer impossibility. There was room here for imagination and for truth. He would associate all the hope and splendour and joy of the morning with thoughts of human bravery and free

dom; and invest it all, according to honoured precewith classic interest. It was a virgin subject.

Let us consider the antecedents of the Homeric story, and see what happened before the event of the picture.

At sunset Ulysses and his vassals approached the land of the Cyclops. They hear the voices of the goats and sheep, and see smoke rising here and there upon the mountains, as the sun sinks.

At daybreak Ulysses addresses his fellows, and announces his determination to explore the land, to see if the people were a pious and hospitable race, or mere savages, hostile to strangers.

Close to the shore the brave explorer discovers a cave half hid by laurels, surrounded by slumbering flocks, who are fenced in by blocks of rough marble, that are overgrown with shadowy pine and oak. With twelve men who carry with them a jar of wine, and another jar of provisions, Ulysses enters the cave of the giant shepherd. They find the cavern-palace echoing with the cries of kids and lambs, waiting eager to be fed. The shelves bend with pressed cheeses, and all around lie bowls and huge milking pails. The men urge Ulysses to drive a flock of goats to the ships, and put off at once to sea. But the Greek, curious to see the giant, rejects the wise counsel.

They light a fire, sup, and prepare for sacrifice and prayer. The giant comes, and throws down with the sound of thunder at the door half a forest of wood that he has brought home for fuel. Then Ulysses and his men hide themselves in fear, as the big-uddered

THE GIANT'S RETURN.

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flocks, driven before him, pour into the cave. giant first closes the entrance with a rock that scarcely twenty four-wheeled cars could move, and then proceeds to make his cheese and milk his flocks-putting by the curd for his nightly feast.

The blaze of the fire that the giant kindles lightens all the cave, and discovers the hiding Greeks. He asks their names. Ulysses tells him they are errant Greeks, and implores hospitality in the name of the gods who protect and avenge the wrongs of the poor.

In a storm of rage the giant declares that the Cyclops are a race superior to Jove the goat-nursed. Polyphemus, failing through the lying craft of Ulysses to discover where his ship is moored, dashes out the brains of two Greeks, and devours them, flesh and bone; he then drains a hundred gallons or so of milk, and falls asleep among his flock, careless of the angry atoms who were his prisoners. Ulysses, half resolving to slay him as he slept, refrains, because he knew no mortal force could remove the rock that bars their flight.

Day comes, the giant arises, lights his fire, milks his goats, and feeds his lambs. He devours two more Greeks in the coolest manner possible, and goes off whistling to the mountains, driving his flocks before him. The unhappy Greeks he leaves imprisoned in the re-closed cave.

All that dreadful day of suspense the Greeks hold counsel, and at last decide to shape a tree (large as any mast) that is in the cave into a huge spear or auger, and bore out the monster's eye as he sleeps.

They have completed their task, and hidden the fire-sharpened tree in the dust of the cave, when the giant returns. Again he milks his flocks, makes his cheese with farmery care, and devours two more of the cowering Greeks.

Then Ulysses advances, and praying for release, offers the gluttonous cannibal some of the celebrated wine that the priests of Apollo had given him. The Cyclops drains three bowls, and graciously promises to devour No-man (outis) last. Truly Homer knew that the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.

The giant falls asleep-now is the moment for vengeance. The men chosen by lot set the spear-tree on fire, and drive it into the wretch's eye, as shipwrights work a wimble to bore some vast beam.

Says Homer-Ulysses stands above on higher ground, and directs their efforts. His roars bring the Cyclops crowding to the mouth of the barred-up cave, to ask what ails their kinsman. Polyphemus, remembering the name Ulysses told him, roars, "That No-man hurts him!"

Then say the selfish kinsfolk, "If it is only a visitation from Jove, bear it, O Polyphemus!" And away they go to their teams, and to their merchandize.

Now the Cyclops rolls back the rock from the cave's mouth, and sits there with extended arms, searching each sheep and goat as it passes, for fear it should be an escaping Greek.

But Ulysses is too much for him. For the Cyclops, like our mediæval giant, is, after all, rather a fool; as