t
him.

When he returned home the Hoggethan doctrine prevailed, and he
prepared to copy his letter. But before he commenced his task, he
sat down with his youngest daughter, and read,--or made her read
to him,--a passage out of a Greek poem, in which are described the
troubles and agonies of a blind giant. No giant would have been
more powerful,--only that he was blind, and could not see to avenge
himself on those who had injured him. "The same story is always
coming up," he said, stopping the girl in her reading. "We have it in
various versions, because it is so true to life.

Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves.

It is the same story. Great power reduced to impotence, great glory
to misery, by the hand of Fate,--Necessity, as the Greeks called
her; the goddess that will not be shunned! At the mill with slaves!
People, when they read it, do not appreciate the horror of the
picture. Go on my dear. It may be a question whether Polyphemus
had mind enough to suffer; but, from the description of his power,
I should think that he had. 'At the mill with slaves!' Can any
picture be more dreadful than that? Go on, my dear. Of course you
remember Milton's Samson Agonistes. Agonistes indeed!" His wife was
sitting stitching at the other side of the room; but she heard his
words,--heard and understood them; and before Jane could again get
herself into the swing of the Greek verse, she was over at her
husband's side, with her arms round his neck. "My love!" she said.
"My love!"

He turned to her, and smiled as he spoke to her. "These are old
thoughts with me. Polyphemus and Belisarius, and Samson and Milton,
have always been pets of mine. The mind of the strong blind creature
must be so sensible of the injury that has been done to him! The
impotency, combined with his strength, or rather the impotency
with the memory of former strength and former aspirations, is so
essentially tragic!"

She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and there was something of
the flash of old days, when the world was young to them, and when
he would tell her of his hopes, and repeat to her long passages
of poetry, and would criticise for her advantage the works of old
writers. "Thank God," she said, "that you are not blind. It may yet
be all right with you."

"Yes,--it may be," he said.

"And you shall not be at the mill with slaves."

"Or, at any rate, not eyeless in Gaza, if the Lor