ing into the bowl the magic herb
of Egypt, "which brings forgetfulness of sorrow." The wandering son of
Odysseus departs with a gift for his bride, "to wear upon the day of her
desire, a memorial of the hands of Helen," the beautiful hands, that in
Troy or Argos were never idle.

Of Helen, from Homer, we know no more. Grace, penitence in exile, peace
at home, these are the portion of her who set East and West at war and
ruined the city of Priam of the ashen spear. As in the strange legend
preserved by Servius, the commentator on Virgil, who tells us that Helen
wore a red "star-stone," whence fell gouts of blood that vanished ere
they touched her swan's neck; so all the blood shed for her sake leaves
Helen stainless. Of Homer's Helen we know no more.

The later Greek fancy, playing about this form of beauty, wove a myriad
of new fancies, or disinterred from legend old beliefs untouched by
Homer. Helen was the daughter of the Swan--that is, as was later
explained, of Zeus in the shape of a swan. Her loveliness, even in
childhood, plunged her in many adventures. Theseus carried her off; her
brothers rescued her. All the princes of Achaea competed for her hand,
having first taken an oath to avenge whomsoever she might choose for her
husband. The choice fell on the correct and honourable, but rather
inconspicuous, Menelaus, and they dwelt in Sparta, beside the Eurotas,
"in a hollow of the rifted hills." Then, from across the sea, came the
beautiful and fatal Paris, son of Priam, King of Troy. As a child, Paris
had been exposed on the mountains, because his mother dreamed that she
brought forth a firebrand. He was rescued and fostered by a shepherd; he
tended the flocks; he loved the daughter of a river god, OEnone. Then
came the naked Goddesses, to seek at the hand of the most beautiful of
mortals the prize of beauty. Aphrodite won the golden apple from the
queen of heaven, Hera, and from the Goddess of war and wisdom, Athena,
bribing the judge by the promise of the fairest wife in the world. No
incident is more frequently celebrated in poetry and art, to which it
lends such gracious opportunities. Paris was later recognised as of the
royal blood of Troy. He came to Lacedaemon on an embassy, he saw Helen,
and destiny had its way.

Concerning the details in this most ancient love-story, we learn nothing
from Homer, who merely makes Paris remind Helen of their bridal night in
the isle of Cranae. But from Ho