the function of the Greeks to rescue her from such a
condition, which was that of Helen in Troy.
Already the heart of Menelaus is full at the thought of his friend
Ulysses, and he warms toward the latter's son now present. He again
utters words of sympathetic sorrow. All are touched; all have lost some
dear relative at Troy; it is a moment of overpowering emotion. The four
people weep in common; it is but an outburst; they rally from their
sorrow, Menelaus commands: "Let us cease from mourning and think of the
feast."
It is at this point that Helen again interposes. Her experience of life
has been the deepest, saddest, most complete of all, she has mastered
her conflicts, inner and outer, and reached the haven of serenity; she
can point out the way of consolation. In fact it is her supreme
function to show to others what she has gone through, and thereby save
them, in part at least, the arduous way. For is not the career of every
true hero or heroine vicarious to a certain degree? Assuredly, if they
mean any thing to the sons and daughters of men. Helen can bring the
relief, and does so in the present instance.
She fetches forth that famous drug, the grand antidote for grief and
passion, and all life's ills, the true solacer in life's journey. It
had been given her by an Egyptian woman, Polydamna, whom she had met in
her wanderings, and it had evidently helped to cure her lacerated soul.
Again Egypt lies in the background, as it does everywhere in this Book,
the veritable wonderland, from which many miraculous blessings are
sent. Moreover it is the land of potent drugs, "some beneficial and
some baneful;" its physicians too, are celebrated as excelling all men.
Still more curious is the fact that women possess the secret of
medicine as well as men, and Polydamna may be set down as the first
female doctor--she who gave the wonderful drug to Helen. Surely there
is nothing new under the sun.
This marvelous drug, often called Nepenthe from one of its attributes,
has naturally aroused much curiosity among the many-minded readers of
Homer down the ages. Some have held that it was an herb, which they
have pointed out in the valley of the Nile. Others hold it to be opium
literally, though it does not here put to sleep or silence the company.
On the other hand allegory has tried its hand at the word. Certain
ancients including Plutarch found in it an emblem hinting the charm of
pleasing narrative. As Helen at once passes
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